Mamallapuram

A few weeks ago, I traveled to the ancient city of Mamallapuram. And what luck, I ran into my fan club and a goat. On the way home Karthik was kind enough to let me drive his motorcycle back to Chennai! Don't worry mom; I purchased a helmet - although I am not sure if it is DOT approved. 

Traffic Excercise (for Rama)

If you have ever complained about traffic and you have not been to India, please try this exercise. You'll need to find a partner and a dog.

1. Tell your friend that starting today all of his household trash must be thrown into your garage. No bags, just toss it in the corners or wherever she or he feels like throwing it. 
2. Let the dog into your garage only to go potty. 
3. Turn the heat on in your garage so that as soon as you walk into it you begin to sweat. 
   
4. Wait one week for best results.
   
5. Go into the garage with your friend and have him start your car. Be sure to run the car for at least 15 minutes so that your garage fills with exhaust. For safety reasons you may crack the man door, but the big garage doors should remain closed.
   
6. Stand directly in front of your car and have your friend start honking. How long should you do this? Do this as long as you can. When you start to think to yourself that just one more minute of this would make your head explode, that means you only have 1 hour to go.
7. Switch with your partner and repeat.

After this you will find yourself much more relaxed in typical driving situations and other potentially frustrating situations. If you think I am exaggerating, I only have this to say. Today my auto rickshaw driver told me that all the honking here was starting to drive him nuts. Me too, Rama. Me too.

Concept: Urination Marketing

So I'm walking down the road today and I see and unmanned auto rickshaw. I glance around and notice the driver of the vehicle standing near the sidewalk with his back to the road, a stream of urine coming from his... uh... I dropped out of anatomy.

The shuffling of my feet generated enough noise that he turns around and glances over his shoulder. Oh god, we made eye contact. As urine splashed gracefully around his bare feet, and as I tried desperately to focus on the ground beneath my feet, I heard him call: "Auto, sir?" 

"Urination Marketing", a phrase coined by me a few hours ago, is the concept of marketing to someone whose business you really do not want. And I mean, really do not want. There is no need to spend too much time explaining why you wouldn't want someone's business. Anyone who has worked at a restaurant knows that sometimes you just have to ask people to leave. Unfortunately for servers, even if you know in advance that the cigar smoking jack-ass in a tank-top and jeans is going to be trouble, you can't actually kick him out until he lights the table cloth on fire and starts bragging to people about his one testicle.

Now, in some circles, it might be considered rude to avoid marketing to certain people groups. You might not want to go knock on tank-top man's door in order to sell him a new vacuum cleaner, but your boss insists that you "go to every door on the block!". Heaven forbid the pyro actually buys a vacuum cleaner, then you are stuck with a customer service nightmare and nightly phone calls asking if you want to join him at Red Lobster. And for what? So you're boss can take his wife out to a five-star dinner while you eat leftover pizza and watch re-runs of MASH. 

"Urination Marketing" solves this problem by allowing you to freely advertise your product without the fear of actually selling it. By incorporating your product with the simple concept of urination, you can predetermine who you want to do business with. Even tank-top man is going to think twice about buying a vacuum from a man (or women) urinating on his front door. Think about it. I haven't.

Monsoon? What the Hell?

If you ever come to India during monsoon season, here's a little tip: If you start to go for a run one day and you don't see anybody else on the street, turn around and go back inside. Once inside, grab a cup of tea and wait by the window. It will start off with a few drips, but in moments you will be witnessing the hardest rainfall you have ever seen. I must have missed this section in the Lonely Planet. 

Of course, the alternative isn't really that bad. You just have to slow your pace down and do a little zig zag action, because you DO NOT want to splash though the giant brown puddles that form along the roadside. Also, the hotel guys might laugh at you when you come back looking like a giant wet rat - that wears clothes - and is not a rat - and is just me - wet - from the rain. And if you are thinking that it is lame of me to take a picture of my wet self before showering purely for the sake of this blog, ehh.. what can I say?

Isha Yoga (or I Stand with Bultmann)

How could I come to India and resist the temptation to explore its wonderful mystic and spiritual traditions? Especially since I, like so many others before me, have become greatly dissastisfied with my own religious tradition. And to paraphase the great Max Müller (who barrowed the idea from Goethe), religions are like languages: if you only know one, you know none. So I set out to see what the world had to offer.

I began my journey how I can only assume most mystics and sages of old began their journeys, by booking a three day retreat-course at the Isha Yoga Center for 8,000 Rupees - a small price for enlightenment. Of course, it wasn't until sometime later that I discovered enlighten only comes after you register for the Level II course.

The retreat was located near the base of the beautiful Valliangiri Foothills outside of Coimbatore, an eight hour train journey. All aboard the Cheran Express (a little bit like The Darjeeling Limited). 

The grounds of the Isha Yoga were beautifully green and the food was outstanding. I met some wonderful people, most of whom I will not see again, but it does not detract from the enjoyable times we shared.

The Yoga itself, however, was a little disappointing. The entire place seemed to follow a little too closely the words and teachings of a certain Sadhguru. And there were too many philosophical and theological assertions for me to whole hearted accept the experience, despite my best efforts to do so. Not that I don't want to be god, it is just that if I was, I think I would know it without someone telling me. But then again, I didn't know I was a male until the 7th grade.

All in all, Isha Yoga was like not so unlike my Christian experience. There is a lot of good mixed in with a lot that is simply unnacceptable to modern man. If we could just strip away the myth and reconstruct the essence of the teaching! So for now, I stand with Bultmann.

Reflection

My memories often bring more joy than do the real experiences. Why?

One Wedding and More than Four Colours

This past Friday I received an 8" x 8" envelope (all measurements are approximate). Inside the envelope was an orange-ish, red-ish card with an elephant-man printed on the cover. Below the elephant-man was a procession, a celebration of some sort led by a man-man with a trumpet (all nomenclatures for bronze instruments are approximate). Last in the procession was a carriage, a marvelous carriage. Eagerly I opened the card to see what all the fuss was about. A voice of one (Partha) called out: "You cannot read it. It is my mother tongue. An invitation to my brother's wedding. Prepare the way of the lord." (direct quotations are approximate or the result of plagiarizing god).

My colleague Lawrence and my very wise and pleasant on the eye superior, Jason, had attended a wedding on a prior visit and from what they said it seemed like a great opportunity to witness this most holy of events in a new forum. I have always found weddings in the US to be fascinatingly boring and, statistically speaking, 50% meaningless. Kathy and Joey, are you listening? I want to see some colour! Throw down. Get your friends a little tipsy. Celebrate. Walk out to Tom Waits. Joey, don't be afraid to sing at your own ceremony. You have a wonderful voice and new acquaintances will bring you new opportunities (your a Libra, right?).

Karthic, Ram, and Shahol came to pick me up at 7:30pm with two motorcycles and enough helmets for half of us. I asked if they had any extra helmets, since I had nearly killed myself in a motorcycle (read: Vespa, but it was powerful) accident 18 months ago. They told me that it was not necessary for me to have one; only the driver needed one. This is technically the "law", but not everything that is permissible is beneficial...

We agreed to bike just down the street and get an auto (rickshaw). However, as we road through the night and the breeze splashed across my face in a pleasant mixture oxygen, dirt, and the ghosts of those who had died before us, I realized that a rickshaw isn't really any safer (more safe?). The only difference is that you are surrounded by a very thing shell, which would not do much if you were sideswiped by a jeep. No, the death bucket, as I have come to call them, would not ensnare me tonight. Screw it, me thinks, this is India! And so I succumbed to my lemming-like instincts.

We rode for six hours before we hit the spot, the beat was thumpin' and the girlies.... er, it took twenty minutes, but the beat was thumpin'. On the center stage was the bride and groom, or the "garminitoadstool" and the "antipastitelipsidoz" in Tamil (foreign language entries are estimations of what I think they said). Every few minutes one group of people would go up on the stage and have their photograph taken with the bride and groom, which, from what they tell me, symbolizes photography. This was, in fact, only the reception; the wedding would take place early the next morning.

After the photograph was taken, most of them seemed to be disappearing somewhere. Feeling my stomach give a twicth, I remembered that I had not eaten yet. Of course, they must be heading off to eat! Hurray! But I did not see any food. And at any rate, I was now being filmed by this guy.

There were several camera's set up around the building where live video feeds of the event were being broadcast (you can see one of them in the corner above). There was also a giant projection screen set up outside. I've seen this high-tech commodity in American weddings as well. I guess humans just need to use what they invent. Now, I'm normally not too shy in front of a camera, but I think he filmed me for an unnecessary long time. After the camera man left, Vishnu, another co-worker, said it was my turn. My turn for what? "We'll go up there and get then get food." "Up where? Upstairs?" "No, the stage". I thought being filmed was awkward, but posing with the bride and groom in front of a auditorium full of Indians and having my picture taken like a celebrity, yeah, that was a little awkward. It was, however, an honour. And it meant we could eat. The meal was traditional southern Indian food served a giant leaf.

After dinner came the real fun. Dancing! A few brave/crazy guys got us started and before long there was pretty big crowd.

My heart sank as I knew it was only a matter of time before they got my sorry ass up there. And I was right. And I loved it.

I only lasted a few songs, but what great time. I realized when I walked outside to big grins that my dance routine had been broadcast on the projector. Silly white man. Back on the bikes and back home. That is actually where I live...

Original Post: Anthony in Wonderland