Kirtan with Upahar at Shekinashram

Butterfly Barn, Sve Dame community, Auroville

 

I am very pleased to tell you about a great evening kirtan taking place the auspicious night of the Venus Transit with Upahar Anand

Upahar, originally from the UK, now divides the year between Italy and Tiruvannamalai in south India, site of Ramana Maharshi ashram, sacred mount Arunachala and a town of spiritual pilgrimage where the transformational energies are strong.

 

I was blessed to attend his kirtan several times during my recent trip and always achieved a wonderful feeling of connection and love. 

Our paths kept crossing. We first met over idlis at the Sheshadri Bhavan in Tiruvannamalai, introduced by Lillah,  friend and fellow Glastonbury yogini who I was visiting.  Then I attended two evenings with Upahar in Auroville where I was a long term guest. 

Sea of souls - Tiruvannamalai

Upahar was excited to know that I was from Glastonbury as he had played the ashram in 2010 and was keen to return, Would I hook him up? Of course!

I hold such strong and positive memories of Sunday morning kirtan, sitting cross legged in Upahar's house, knees touching my neighbours as the room was so full of people, including several familiar faces from Glastonbury.  

 

 

Many people I did not know, nonetheless we were sharing a powerful experience. One morning in late January felt particularly strong, I witnessed an ecstatic sensation something like being part of an ocean, the congregation of singers rising and swelling as a single entity as my heart surged in my chest, carried by the sacred songs. Utterly moved, to tears, several times and I looked around the room and saw that I was not alone.

Fortune also gifted me the blessing of an afternoon session in a temple, the day of my birthday, when I had travelled to Tiruvannamalai, having left Auroville after two months, I surrendered to the lure of the town.

 

Upahar is an accomplished and experienced multi-instrumentalist, adept on harmonium, guitar, drum, vocals and flute.

He has an extensive repertoire of chants and songs; well known bhajans and some interesting less familiar material. Upahar is strong on Shiva and Shiva energies and also weaves sufi influences and poetry into his sessions.

 

Unmissable! Come, share and participate in a field of divine love at a time of amplified celestial vibrations.

Kirtan with Upahar, Shekinashram, Glastonbury Weds 6th June 2012  7pm

Hope to see you there!

Peace and blessings

Jennifer

 

Cyclone in Auroville

The first rains

Thursday 29^th December 2011: there was talk of a cyclone all over Auroville and it was in the air. At Pour Tous co-operative food store a French Aurovillian joked with his friend, in the produce queue; 

Tu te provisionnes avant le cyclone?

Actually, there was no sense of panic buying amongst the shoppers. I doubled my apple and curd rations nonetheless.   

Later that morning, I cycled to La Piscine as usual for my daily swim. I was disappointed to find the gates closed and locked and rattled them pointlessly, in annoyance. 

The sky above was grey as it had been in recent days and true, there was a discernable breeze, but everything seemed as normal. So I continued on, to use Aurelec’s,  wi-fi hotspot. I took an outside table. A fierce swirl of wind loosened dry leaves from an overhanging jackfruit tree, they clattered and skittered across the ground. I thought it prudent to leave to protect my techonology.

As I cycled back to my guesthouse, the sky darkened and fat plops of warm rain began to fall. Inconvenient but unremarkable, the north east monsoon which started at the end of October had persisted through December with several days of downpours.

As dusk fell, I donned my waterproofs to fetch a tiffin dinner from the Solar Kitchen. Rajaveni, my hostess kindly suggested we go together on her scooter. There was a light rain, nothing remarkable.

Back at Douceur, we feasted on salad, soup, pancakes and tomato sauce, we could not have known then that this would be our last hot meal for a few days.

The electricity was cut later that evening, an official decision, with health and safety in mind. So after some reading by torchlight, I closed my eyes to sleep early, around eight pm. 

The cyclone winds arrived that night and persisted through much of Friday. I was quite safe in my room, all I could do was lay I bed and listen to the extraordinary sounds of the storm.  The unrelenting rain, gushing from the skies, the fierce wind ripping through trees and structures, I could only guess at the damage being caused.

As dawn arrived, the rain and winds continued well into the afternoon. I sat with others in the guest house, watching the extreme movement of trees as trunks and branches thrashed and fell.  We were fortunate enough to be housed in a very secure building with brick walls, a tiled roof and double screened windows.

At around four pm, the worst of the weather had abated. I waited a while to be sure and then put on my waterproofs and walking sandals, I needed to survey the scene and take in what had happened as the experience thus far had a very unreal quality.

Trees and branches everywhere

I stepped out of the guesthouse and gaped; the landscape was completely unrecognisable. So many of the large trees that created privacy had fallen, exposing neighbouring houses. 

The paths and roads had disappeared entirely, as the ground was now covered in a carpet of greenery; leaves and branches everywhere. 

As I tentatively picked my way along, I had to keep checking where I was, everything was unrecognisable. 

I crawled through a tunnel of fallen bamboo to reach the main road, which was criss-crossed by tree trunks, huge root balls caked in red earth exposed to the air.  The roads were completely impassable and I noted other damage; collapsed roofs, fallen power cables. 

It was eery and still, no traffic, and just a few people such as myself tip-toeing around, exploring.  Softly, the rain began again, it would continue into the next day. Back at the guesthouse I described my findings and we began to speculate on what was happening in the rest of Auroville. 

I felt a particular concern for low impact communities such as Sadhana Forest, that I had visited the previous week. Surely their keet (coconut frond) and bamboo dwellings would have been completely destroyed, I wondered whether or not they had got away in time. Equally the beach community of Repos, metres from the shoreline would have suffered the full impact of the cyclone.

That evening we shared a quiet supper by candlelight, not much was said, there was so much to be absorbed. During the coming days, the scale of what had happened would reveal itself and we would all have our personal interpretations and conclusions. For now, I knew enough to be thoroughly grateful that I was safe, well and had suffered no physical injury to myself or my possessions.

OM

Jennifer

Further information and updates from the official Auroville website
www.auroville.org/cyclone/

Arrival in Auroville

I’m riding the bus back from town, Pondicherry. The driver deftly navigates the heavy traffic on the East Coast Road, a major highway. 

A merry dance of all kinds of transport happens noisily outside: pedestrians, handcarts, cycle rickshaws, autos, mopeds, motorcycles, taxis, private cars, trucks, buses and coaches. Cows, dogs and chickens take their chances too.

Inside, I feel snug and happy and safe. I turn to the open window and catch the breeze on my face, the air flows fast and cool. Closing my eyes I take in the familiar smells of India: vehicle fumes, jasmine flowers, street snacks frying in hot oil, cow dung, incense. 

It’s not a regular bus.  AUROVILLE proclaims the permanent lettering on the windscreen. Aurovillians and guests, such as myself can be conveniently shuttled into Pondy and back, a daily service with drop off points across the township. I boarded at the Solar Kitchen, which looked to be the most popular stop. 

I took the bus today out of curiosity, to spend a couple of hours in Pondicherry would be useful, sure, but mostly for the feeling of being on the Auroville bus. Last Saturday I was enjoying an early coconut at the busy crossroads by the State Bank of India ATM. The bus whooshed past with a loud parp!  I caught a glimpse of the travellers, cool and relaxed in colourful cotton separates, shopping baskets on knees, smiling and chattering. It looked enticing; I wanted to be on that bus!

The Matrimandir- iconic symbol of Auroville

It’s a typical Auroville experience: decades and now generations of ex-pat Europeans and Indians working together to provide a living experience that is clean, safe, comfortable and communal. 

Here in Auroville you can buy chic clothing from fair trade boutiques. Select your favourite blend of organic coffee beans and have them ground to order. Choose golden, buttery croissants as well as chappatis. 

Most days I get asked Are you working?  Auroville is a serious place, peopled by serious individuals with a serious collective agenda:

The purpose of Auroville is to realise human unity. Auroville wants to be a universal township where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony.

To which end innumerable communities, projects, collaborations and businesses have been conceived and realised, spanning all realms of human endeavour: food and farming, transport, architecture, education, health, the arts, spiritual development. The scale and breadth of the vision is impressive and I like what I see. The sense of a structured, dynamic, international enterprise that takes its relationship with the local communities very seriously too.

It’s my second visit to Auroville, I spent a month here in 2007. A hot and humid March, a two hour daily session of ashtanga vinyasa yoga, supervised by Monica Marinoni and Chad Herst (who has since left to establish the Mission Ashtanga studio in San Francisco).  We practiced outside on a rooftop at Quiet, Auroville’s beach side natural therapy centre. Afterwards I would snooze in a hammock until lunchtime, enjoying the sound and movement of ocean air through coconut palms.

Guest capsules - Aspiration Community

Then I had little time or energy for anything outside the practice, Auroville was the final stage of my South Indian ashtanga yoga odyssey that had carried me from Mysore to Kerala to Goa. 

I couldn’t handle the climbing temperatures and spent most afternoons sprawled in a star shape under the whirling fan in my room at Gaia’s Garden guest house (extremely comfortable with a great communal kitchen). 

I had barely touched the surface of Auroville and knew that there was so much more to explore and hoped I would one day return. Through grace, this has been possible.

Two months into my current trip, I had settled in Gokarna but was feeling dissatisfied. One morning as I practised yoga on my verandah, overlooking a small farming plot I understood what was missing. I watched the villagers breaking the soil with heavy hand made tools, sweating under the sun. It was back breaking work, but they were engaged in something purposeful, which was what I needed. And I wanted to be in an environment where people had come together expressly to live and work together, a shared intention – a community.

Being early December, this was the start of the guest season at Auroville. It was likely that most guest houses would be fully booked. Nonetheless I logged onto my email with the intention of fielding some enquiries. I gasped, there blinking on the screen was a message from Aspiration Community, whom I had tentatively contacted back in September before leaving the UK.

Capsule interior

Incredibly, they were holding a place for me for and wanted to know if I was coming. Was I coming? Such a powerful synchroncity could not be ignored, I was coming! I made my way via the overnight train from Mangalore.

Since then I am exploring with delight some of the many activities on offer. I have membership of La Piscine and am enjoying daily dips. I have joined the Om Choir which I am finding profound and transformative. 

I have sung Earth songs by firelight under the full moon, discussed the metaphysical philosophies of Sri Aurobindo in French, cycled to the Solar Kitchen during a monsoon downpour and begun to read the works of the Mother, the spiritual creatrix who birthed Auroville as a model of social evolution.

My excitement and enthusiasm for Auroville sits alongside a growing sense of homesickness which is difficult to ignore, I am missing Glastonbury, my friends, my cat, my home and my community.

So as the days and weeks unfold I look forward to an active participation, journeying deeper into the Auroville experience, whilst holding loved ones in the UK in my heart, knowing that I will be with them again soon.

Blessings of light from the City of the Dawn

Jennifer

www.auroville.org

Gokarna highlights

Flower sellers outside the Mahaganapati temple

Leading bhajans at a friend's housewarming gathering, with an all Indian school girl percussion section.

A new sari: choosing in Metro Fashions, being measured for the blouse by a lady tailor with a treadle Singer sewing machine, being dressed by three Indian women, wearing it and feeling amazing; demure, exotic and very feminine.

One of two enormous wooden chariots

Being lulled to sleep nightly by the luscious, rythmic mantra of ocean waves rolling onto the shore, yards from my room.

Witnessing brahmin priests, Indian tourists, school children and amassed others taking a morning bath in the sea as the sun rises red on Gokarna main beach. Cows, dogs and crows joining in.

Mud hut for rent on Kudle beach

Yoga self-practice on my concrete verandah, overlooking fields. Cool, shady and undisturbed and exactly the right amount of space for my mat.

Spending time with Kate, a hardy New Zealander, travelling India for the first time. Straight talking and practical; also tender and compassionate.

Bathing tank at Shree Ramana temple

Cycling -  everywhere! Especially enjoying the dusty, bumpy village back roads as local children wave from their homes or run behind calling School pen!

Taking the long walk from town to Kudle beach and onwards to Om beach and back again as the sun sets, bathing the landscape in mellow light.

Light fades on the path from Kudle to Gokarna

Walking past the homes of priests and hearing the vedas read aloud. Glimpsing inside temples to see young scholars prostrating before statues of hindu deities whilst agni hotra sacred fire ceremonies are performed.

Taking a daily young green coconut, costing only fifteen rupees from stall all over town. First the delicious, nourishing water through a straw, then the husk is hacked open with a machete, scooping the tender white flesh into my mouth.

Bicycles are widely available

Playing with a family of young, sandy coloured puppies at the side of the road. Feeding them biscuits as they, wriggle, chew my toes and try to climb inside my trousers.

Collecting mineral rich, high vibrational spring water which gushes in abundance from the Shree Ramana temple.

Lord Hanuman depicted at Namaste Yoga Farm

Blessings

Jennifer

Custard and kindness

Typical music stall Gokarna town

My much loved travel guitar had a broken tuning peg, the damage likely happened on the journey from Kerala to Goa. It was unplayable and needed attention.  

I took it to one of the music stalls in Gokarna town, where you can buy drums, assorted percussion and Indian made guitars of questionable quality at very high prices. 

The stallholder examined it at length. Turning it over in his hands, squinting at the damaged peg through one eye, strumming the strings. He then rummaged in a plastic bag of assorted fixings, produced a dodgy looking substitute and assured me that his brother could fix it, for a fee of sixteen hundred rupees. 

I got the impression that he had never undertaken such a repair before but was bold enough to attempt it and wanted to score a high fee. So despite the guy’s noisy blustering and indignation I walked away.

It didn’t take long to locate an alternative, a skilled guitar technician at Furtado’s Music Store in Margao, Goa’s second city. A two hour train ride from Gokarna - neat. I packed an overnight bag and took the early morning Konkan Express.

Furtado's music store

The staff at Furtado’s were polite, knowledgeable and reassuring. I sighed as I told the assistant that it had most probably got damaged during travel and that I had been thinking I needed a hard case.  He smiled warmly at me, there was kindness in his eyes,

 

This just happens you know, things get broken.

Wow, in a flash of insight I realised that I had coloured the situation with negativity and self-judgement. So insidious I couldn’t see it.

I was blaming myself for the damage, telling myself that it was preventable and I should have taken steps to prevent it. This gentle man’s generosity had enabled me to see it and I preferred his perspective: things break, it happens, it’s ok.
 

The compassion of others has become something of a theme on this trip. The acceptance of others opens the space for me to accept myself and their kindness a reminder to be tender and gentle with myself.

I sat in an air conditionned sound booth, surrounded by beautiful guitars from the finest international brands, Taylor, Martin, Gibson, Fender. From the showroom on the upper floor came the calming sound of piano music, a schoolgirl practising Chopin for her grade exam. 

In this refined, exquisite environment I felt safe and relaxed and marvelled at my good fortune that this place existed, it was exactly what was needed. 

The technician wanted to change all six tuning pegs. 

All of them? Only one is broken 

I felt wobbly and tearful. How much was this going to cost??
 

It’s a better set, higher quality. Cost will be nine hundred and seventy five rupees to supply and one hundred for the work. 

I gaped. My guitar would be getting an upgrade for around fifteen pounds. An absolute bargain and a totally positive outcome.  It would be ready the following day so I checked into a hotel, conveniently inside the shopping complex. Clean white sheets, plump pillows, room service and cable ­television: I was going to enjoy myself. A copy of Indian OK! magazine sat invitingly on the nightstand, my set of guilty pleasures was complete!

The next morning I attempted to order my preferred healthy breakfast: fruit salad. The telephone in the room didn’t work so I shuffled to reception in my bath robe. 

No madam, fruit salad not possible morning time. You take toast and butter or Indian breakfast. 

I love south Indian breakfasts, but they don’t agree with me. At Anandashram in Kerala I had eaten so many I began to resemble an idli : white, spongy and round. I needed my fruit!

I dressed, slipped out of the hotel and took a seat in a very good restaurant just around the corner. Fruit salad on the menu, as a dessert Yes!  I hoped that they could prepare it as a breakfast dish for me.

Fruit salad possible now? 

Yes, now is possible. With ice cream?

No ice cream. Fruit salad only. And one masala tea without sugar.

The waiter wrote my order on a pad and sent it to the kitchen. I was quite hungry and imagining how great my breakfast was going to taste, sweet chunks of pineapple, juicy papaya, creamy banana and maybe some grainy chickoo too...

Ten minutes later a small bowl was set in front of me. Cubes of fruit swimming in a pool of rich, creamy goo. I went in with my spoon. A very sweet, milky custard. Quelle horreur!

I gestured to the waiter.

I asked for fruit salad only, what is this?

Fruit salad, madam.

There is some custard also?

Yes, this is how it is coming.

I can’t eat this, it has sugar inside.

This is how it is coming.

He left to attend to other customers. I was fuming with indignation and self-righteousness - I was so clearly in the right and the waiter was at fault for misintepreting my order. I contemplated dropping a twenty rupee note for my tea and walking out. But at the same time, I knew there was another angle, a higher perspective. There was no right or wrong, it was a genuine, mutual misunderstanding, a culture clash.

To my western mind, fruit salad means fruit and nothing else. But Indians love the sweet taste and use sugar liberally. The fruit salad was listed as a dessert. I remembered that I was paying an extra five rupees to have my tea without sugar. 

Still hungry, and feeling more peaceful, I waved the waiter over again.

I cannot eat this, what to do?

He swiped the bowl away, clearly annoyed, but with a professional demeanour.

Next time you ask for plain.

Thank you. How very gracious of him, I thought.

He resubmitted my order to the kitchen, I could hear him discussing the matter with the other waiters, they were staring at me through the serving hatch. I felt vulnerable and a little embarrassed. 

Everything is ok I told myself If the waiter is annoyed that is his business and he has a right to feel as he feels, I can be present with his annoyance and still feel safe in myself. 

My second, tiny portion appeared, I ate it gratefully and left a generous tip.

Back at Furtado’s my guitar now looked magnificent! Furnished with a full set of gleaming gold tuning pegs. I felt pleased and satisfied that it was now partly Indian! I enthused my gratitude to the staff, who told me I must come back and visit them again. I would indeed, I had my eye on an electronic shruti box and a pair of reasonably priced ankle bells.

This morning, back in Gokarna, I breakfasted as usual at the MahaLaxmi cafe at the main beach. A large bowl arrived, containing boulders of fruit, some grated coconut and a sprinkling of raisins. Even more delicious than usual!  I felt an enhanced sense of appreciation that I can have this every day, just the way I like it.

Blessings

Jennifer

www.furtadosonline.com

Scenes from the Indian railway

Ever friendly and welcoming: Indian Railways

As I prepared to pack my belongings again, I felt the now familiar rise of excitement as I contemplated the train journey ahead, my fifth since arriving eight weeks ago. I had to ask myself; 

Was I an Indian railway junkie?

The entire experience fascinates, from start to finish, including pre-travel preparations. Will buying a ticket be a drama or simple and straightforward? 

Happily on this occasion, the latter. Bus from ashram to town, a short walk to the railway station and no queueing at the ticket counter. The female clerk organised my connections and upgraded me to aircondtionned carriages. Very smooth.

The day of travel, I arrived at the station in plenty of time. I received a helping hand  from Sagar, a local in his late thirties.  In a chivalrous act he conveyed my Samsonite hard shell up a set of stairs, across a bridge and down to the next platform, heavy suitcase balanced on his left shoulder causing him to perspire and puff. 

Rickshaw drivers outside Mangalore Central

Sagar was super polite, enquiring into my schedule to ensure I was on the correct platform and stopping short of asking personal questions: the perfect balance!  Sagar was attempting a last minute trip to Mumbai and hoping that his waitlisted ticket would be upgraded for travel.

The first leg of the journey was an hour’s ride to Mangalore Central, a significant commercial centre and transport hub. 


Mid-morning, the air conditionned carriage was virtually empty and so I extended my legs onto the seat opposite, enjoying the space and privacy. I bought vada and chutney from the chai wallah, the vada were stale and chewy so I threw them out of the door and looked forward to lunch instead.

At Mangalore, I had a couple of hours to wait before my connection. I decided against a trip into town: it was midday ie very hot, the road to town was busy and I didn't want to exhaust myself. Besides, I could amuse myself very easily without leaving the station. I would hang out, enjoy the buzz, observe the people, the trains and poke around.

First ritual - depositing luggage. Most stations have baggage facilities, often signed cloakroom. Here, the attendant sat at a large wooden desk and recorded my items in a ledger, pinning hand written chits to each. I rather pointlessly tried to persuade him to accept my guitar, 

No madam, here we are not taking musical instruments and electricals. Not possible. Ah well.

Veg rice meal

It was time for lunch. The restaurants were segregated as pure veg and non-veg. I made my way into the bustling pure veg canteen. One selects from the menu and pre-pays. 

I found myself sharing a table with a young married couple with an affluent air; she in a fancy sari with good gold jewellery, he with a well pressed shirt, grey slacks and polished black lace-ups.

People don’t linger over lunch. You sit, are served, eat and leave. My companions worked their way through their meals in under ten minutes, pouring a selection of individual sauces onto mound of rice, working it into balls with fingers and swallowing rapidly, repeat until the tray is empty. Or do as I do, bring a spoon. Delicious food, freshly prepared, light and plentiful. One of the best railway meals I have had; and costing just thirty five rupees.

After lunch I walked the length of the platform a few times, partly to exercise, partly to revel in the detail of the activity taking place around me. Families feasting on picnics from stainless steel tiffins, coolies moving unfeasible volumes of cargo and luggage, businessmen surveying newspapers and making phonecalls. The rush and roar of trains arriving and departing.

Does she have a ticket?

I sat for a while in the ladies waiting room, always a safe refuge. Too excited to snooze, I struck up a conversation with Priya, a pretty young student of economics who was travelling with eleven of her extended family (aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews) to Murudeshwar where the infants would receive a special blessing at the temple and be given rice to eat for the first time.

Soon enough it was time for me to reclaim my luggage and take my seat on the Matsyagandha Express. Just before boarding, I noticed Sagar from Kanhangad waving vigorously at me. His broad smile told me that his ticket had been upgraded. I waved and nodded back, acknowledging his good fortune. He stepped into sleeper class, I was in 3AC.

The afternoon sun blazed into the carriage and I gazed out across acres of coconut groves, fertile pastureland and the glorious shimmering backwaters of Kerala. I relaxed as the train carried me into the neighbouring state of Karnataka and shortly after dusk fell I had reached my latest destination: the temple town of Gokarna, somewhere I had longed to visit for years.

Healthy snacks and drinks

In a splendid coup de grace a local bus was waiting in the station forecourt and would take me into town for twenty five rupees thwarting the rickshaw drivers who were demanding an exhorbitant one hundred and fifty rupees. Somehow my luggage was squeezed in and I found myself on the back seat, chatting to a local. 

Welcome to Gokarna! First time coming? How long you stay? One month? Two month? Three month?


I ....don't know 

Was my honest response. I had seriously deviated from my intended itinerary for this trip (two months Rishikesh, two months Auroville). Planning and imagining anything seemed pointless, I would play it day by day and just see how I felt. Gokarna town with it's brahmin culture and five beaches has a reputation as a traveller's nirvana and I was open to anything it had to offer... 

Blessings

Jennifer

Notes from Anandashram

Om sri ram jai ram jai jai ram, sri ram jai ram jai jai ram

Approaching the shrine of Papaji

This morning I was roused from sleep by a devotional male chorus, chanting the mantra that is the core spiritual practice here at Anandashram. 

The ashram's beloved founder, Swami Ramdas, (affectionately referred to as Papaji - dear father) is reputed to have achieved enlightenment through this method and accordingly devotees uphold the practice.

The ram nam is sung continuously from dawn 'til dusk alternately by male and female bhaktas. The practice is rotated daily between the three mahasamadhi shrines of Papaji, Mataji and Swami Satchidanda.* Such a beautiful way to meet the day; I lie in bed, eyes still closed and smiling inside. 

I might equally be stirred awake by the lowing of the ashram cows - also lovely. With names such as Bhavani (consort of Shiva), Bhagavati ( enlightened teacher), Vidya (knowledge), Mala (garland) these ladies are well cared for. 

I visited the goshala (cowshed) during my first days here, observing tidy bales of straw, rubber boots organised neatly in pairs and a mother tending to her newborn calf.

Goshala

I am housed in a concrete block, six rooms in a row sharing two bathrooms. Rooms are clean, light and basic: narrow wooden beds, a desk, a chair.

As the only foreigner I get to bear close witness to the daily habits and rituals of the Indians. In the absence of western comforts and conveniences it can be helpful to watch and learn how to get things done.

For example, there is no laundry service, very much a personal challenge! The common practice is to soak one's clothing in a bucket filled to the brim with water and to leave this overnight in the hallway.  Items are rinsed through the following morning and hung on the indoor clothes line in the common area. Larger items such as saris and bed linen are spread flat on the gravel outside in the strong, bright sunlight. 

Naturally enough the toilets are Indian squat style and the bathing facilities are equally straightforward: cold tap, bucket and jug. This suits me well although I am careful to time my sessions, scurrying along the corridor wrapped in a sheet (no bathrobe!) to avoid encountering and embarrassing any of the men.  In the warm humidity of Kerala morning and evening baths feel necessary; it gets quite dusty on the roads and paths.

Peeping into the bhajan hall

It surprises me that the accommodation is mixed as so many of the ashram activities are segregated by sex. Separate queues and seating in the canteen, and also in the main bhajan hall. 

I am thrilled to find myself belonging to a community of women. Eating together, singing together and sitting out together in the warm evenings after dusk. 

It doesn’t matter that I don't understand their conversations. It is enough to be with them. Absorbing with delight the details of their dress, their handwritten prayer books, the way they conduct themselves. 

We sit close together, cross legged on the floor, elbows and knees touching, I don’t mind the lack of personal space: spending intimate time with Indian women is a rare blessing.  

I have learned some gentle feminine etiquettes, such as dressing my hair with fresh jasmine flowers.  It looks delightful and acts as a natural air freshener, gently perfuming one’s environment with every turn of the head.  I have also acquired the habit of carrying a cotton handkerchief, folded and tucked into my churidar(wide cotton trousers). 

These are mainly ladies of a certain age, in their fifties, sixties and seventies. At this stage of life freedom from raising children and/or work permits them to undertake yatra (spiritual pilgrimage) and visit ashrams. 

There is plenty of smiling and nodding as we acknowledge each other. Any conversation is dependent on their level of English. As, alas, I have no Hindi. Typically the questions come Which country?  or Coming from? Followed closely by Your good name? Married? First visit to India?

Prema and Nirmala introduce themselves

Most of ladies I spoke with had been visiting Anandashram regularly, many for decades as disciples of the original guru.  

In the tranquility of mataji’s peace garden, sisters Prema and Nirmala ignored the signs requesting silence and told me of their annual eight day visit from Coimbatore. 

Every year we are coming, it is most important to visit ashram, stay at least one week. This very calm place, life so busy, no?

Jyoti, a plump and chatty retired school teacher from Hyderabad likes to sit next to me during the evening meal. She scours the dining hall looking for me and settles happily by my side, usually bringing extras that she has mysteriously acquired, carried in a stainless steel tiffin. Chapattis, bananas and sweet treats such as ladoo and pak .

Mealtimes are announced by the clanging of a large bell outside the canteen. Guests and residents dutifully form lines: men to the left, women to the right and file in. As we are in South India, rice is the basis of every meal prepared in the endless creative variations: idlis, dosa, upma for breakfast and huge avalanches of plain rice served with vegetable sauces at lunch and dinner, supplemented by milk and curd from the dairy. 

Communal canteen

The schedule at Anandashram is full with chanting and singing of all kinds. There is no obligation to attend but I pretty much love it all! I have joined in the chanting of ram nam, slowly pacing the shrine rooms of the departed gurus and clapping a steady rhythm. 

Yesterday morning I sat in on Om namaha shivayah, a favourite chant of mine, sung unaccompanied by a petite lady in her seventies, her solo voice was raw, wavering and deeply soulful. Definitely the most powerful and memorable rendition I have heard so far.

Possibly my personal highlight has been listening to the Hanuman chalisa, sung by the women, accompanied by harmonium. I am keen to learn this epic poem for myself and twice I took a copy of the words along but found the singing so blissful and enjoyable that I chose to simply relax and absorb the vibrations.

I’ve drawn a few tentative conclusions about my time here:

Simplicity in practice. Bhajan and mantra sound very good sung solo, unaccompanied – or minimally accompanied: musicality comes second.

Letting go of learning I didn’t have a chant sheet or song book and the bhajans were complex, I had to forget about trying to learn them. This focused me in the present moment and enabled me to receive, receive, receive.

Singing with women This is quite personal to me, I feel so safe and nourished in an all female setting. I am keen to explore this further.

Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram (Ram Dhun) Anandashram by divine yoga

Blessings and pranams

Jennifer 

*Further information on the spiritual lineage at Anandashram

www.anandashram.org/divinemasters