Inside the Rainbow

Time to appreciate the beauty of shadows at sunset...: )
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The plane touches down and I'm in love. Hopeless, helpless, shout it from the rooftop love. The colours of India besot. Elegant reds and gold, maroon set against beige, every orange and ochre and rouge of the sub continental sunset strides around me smiling with brilliant white teeth shining forth from a face like a chiselled moon surrounded by thick black clouds of hair, and that's just the men. The saried women are a swish of passionate pinks, ludicrous yellows, tantalizing turquoise coy crimsons all tickled with sequins and nose studs and golden ornamentation. I positively beam at the scene and think to myself, “I'm in a rainbow, I'm actually inside a living breathing rainbow!” Actually, I am still in Trivandrum arrivals hall but I don't care I'm in love with every single Indian in this country. Is it possible to love a nation of 1.4 billion people? I defy anyone who says it is not!

Energy of the Spine dancers
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Public bus to town is fun, I have three saried bottoms gently pressing against my face (soft landing or what) and a school girl's satchel that I offered to hold whilst she fiddled about looking for her fare. To accept my offer and thank me she used the omnipresent non verbal communication that is crucial to integrate and communicate with all regions and dialects across India. The wonderful, quintessentially Indian head wiggle. A vertical wave of the head which runs a whole language in its execution depending on speed, vigour and accompanying smile, frown, grimace or eyebrow raise. In this instance “Oh really” and me in reply “yes really” and she “thank you” followed by a smiling wiggle “don't mention it”. I'm glad I picked this up so easily as it is really useful for assimilating and haggling, two of my favourite things to do in a new place. To be fair I was warned, by a phenomenal book called Shantaram. This amazingly descriptive novel based on a true story of a Kiwi who comes to India to reinvent himself and experiences every strata of Bombay (as it was then called) life from the slum dwelling to high ranking mafia dons, paints very vivid images of Indian life, and Mumbai in particular with lucidity and in all its gritty glory. Through this book, I was prepared for the head wiggling.

near Kannikayamuri - southern most tip of India where 3 seas converge.
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My first walk though a bustling, sweltering town in Kerala during the midday heat is like floating through the foamy crest of a sea wave. A truck slides by with six enormous flower strewn sub wafers strapped to its back blasting our Hindi tunes so loud they become distorted. It is duly overtaken by a family of five on a motorbike and street sellers whistle and chime their wares at me, spices, watch straps, sweets, hair combs, and incense. A river of sweat brims from my brow but I do not feel the heat, or the 20 kilos of backpack I carry, I am as light as a feather, skipping along to the bus station with love popping out of my pores. It's all I can do to stop myself clapping or crying with joy at being here at last.

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I finally get to the transport hub that is Trivandrum bus depot and wait at an unmarked platform for an unmarked bus to arrive. Such is the magic of this land that figures become figurative! The windowless tank of metal finally arrives and carries me away into the countryside of Kerala to Neyyar Dam where I will be practicing a strict regime of yoga, meditation, and purifying sattic vegetarian food for the next 10 days, as well as attending the Ayurvedic cultural programme (a series of lectures and performances around the subject of the ancient health system, mathematics, cooking, and massage as well as local music and dance) over Christmas and new year. Anna going to be a good girl...

Elephant in a sari!
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Meal one and I meet my partner in crime. Signe (pronounced Cineh, which rhymes with Dina) sits cross legged next to me with a virtuously straight back. As I look at my canteen style metal dish strewn with rice, veg curry, dahl and a roti pancake, but no knife, fork or spoon in sight, and wonder how to attempt this new eating with the hands malarky. Shovelling in food any which way I can get hold of it is far from dainty so I turn my head to observe her who seemed to have the hang of it. Meal times in an ashram are in silence and appreciation of the bland offerings of the day but she sees my plight and whispers, “Use the thumb” and shows me how she rounds up a mouthful worth with the fingers and smoothly pushes it into the mouth with the thumb in a nice fluid movement. “I used to live in Sri Lanka and spent ages looking like a right pig before I figured it out” she says with a nothern european accent smiling with a twinkle in her eye. There is something about that smile and glint in the eye that I recognise, and like, what is it? Mischief, that's what. The belly dancing, food loving, reiki healing, Danish, philosophical intellectual who works for the UN in Syria, immediately becomes my buddy for the duration of our stay at the ashram.

I was born to wear this stuff, surely!
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When, after 5 days of austere silent meals, fours hours of yoga and the same again spent in meditation a day, they announce there is to be a talent show on Christmas day, there wasn't a single fibre in my body that could resist a little dance. My accomplice, Signe, was well equipped with loads of good Arabic music on her laptop and we decided it was high time to bring some vibrant hip shaking energy into the rather static vibe of the ashram life including so many hours of cross legged sitting with ramrod straight backs.

When the mother Teresa lookalike assistant director gave a most disapproving look at our suggestion of a belly dance contribution to the show, we decided to rebrand. ‘Energy of the Spine’ dance was born. Opening with a speech on the aweful banning of yoga in Saudi Arabia (due to the multi deity Hindu roots), we introduced the idea of blending the prana (life force) of yoga and energy of dance to put some good karma into the international situation. We opened with an easy to follow join in warm up and then performed a dance we had choreographed which was toned down and incorporated yogic stretches instead of sensual body waves. The crowd was with us all the way and the huge Siva hall was transformed into a sea of two hundered hip dropping men and women from around the globe, four hundred free-me snake arms, and eight hundred graceful hands and feet delighting in the chance to move expressively. It was a beautiful sight and I told them so over the microphone, a thousand smiling teeth shone back at me.

Accolade came thick and fast for the next few days and I was henceforth known as 'the dancer'. A week later I was asked to mc for the new year’s day talent show. I gave a moment's thought as a show of humility and then grabbed the opportunity before you could say namaste. I even had to announce my own performance “Back, by popular demand, Dina and Signe's Energy of the Spine dance". Sucess again. I have taken the decision to do tthe eacher training course I have been thinking about when I get back. Another beautiful teacher, poet and children's writer told me 'Your energy is amazing, the classes would be FULL' (Anna beaming right now).

New years eve was incredible, dancing to ecstatic drums by a lake, bonfire and Sanskrit chanting for world peace! Not a drink in sight and I had a great time. Although to be fair, a nice little glass of champagne wouldn't have gone amiss.

Next it was time for sari saga. After leaving the secure zone of the ashram and entering ‘real Inida’ I made my way to the Keralan beach resort, Varkala and into the dazzling spectrum of silks, patterns, and colour that is a sari shop. I caused quite some amusement sifting through one more beautiful fabric after another and had an entourage of 7 giggling girlies in the fitting room with me wrapping swathes of pink silk around my body. When they asked me my name, a fit of laughter filled the space around us. I had aroused this reaction before but didn’t think much of it. One of my 7 ladies in waiting, however, informed me that Anna in Malayalam means ‘elephant’. When the robe was fitted and I at last emerged into the shop like a Bollywood star, shaking about making dramatic gestures to the heart and head “Oh my love” they were nearly keeled over. I don’t think they could find anything more amusing than an elephant, wrapped in a pink sari dancing inside their shop.

I left with a beautiful chiffon punjabi number left at the tailors and sauntered back to the beach resort for a few more days reading, lounging, eating amaaaaaaaazing fresh fish and doing yoga before heading north to Kollam to visit a hugging female Guru, the fishing town of Fort Cochin, climb the highest peak of southern India (near Munar) and onto my first Indian train ride across to the eastern coast where Auroville awaits, with its promise of hard graft instating irrigation systems in the forest, meeting my travel buddy and fellow writer (I have found another truth seeking soul crazy enough to attempt Everest with me) massage courses, rumours of a visit from the Dalai Lama (ohmigod omhmigod let it be treu) and possibly presenting on the newly formed Auroville tv station…so namaste for now folks!