Hi, Holy Days

The last book party I have semi-clear memories of attending was for Nick Hornby's How to Be Good, a swank affair at (the perhaps erstwhile) Serena's at The Hotel Chelsea. Longtime confidants may remember stories of this night for I got terribly, hideously liquored up there and then at Melissa's birthday hurrah, and then at Motor City, where I whispered sweet company nothings into another company's cofounder's ear (oops!) and then stumbled into Max Fish to yell across the room to an unsuspecting sortafriend, "I KNOW YOU! YOU WENT TO COLUMBIA!" Yeah, I am a class act.

Anyway, so with that image in mind, we attended a book fete last night at the Mandiram. Could two events be more vastly different? I reckon no. The guest of honor was another Very Important Spiritual Type, Jagadguru Sri Jayenda Saraswathi Sankaracharya Swamigal. I am not entirely sure what transpired during the evening, as English is not his native tongue, but I did like that he had a holy stick, and a whole VIST posse of bare-chested men with special holy markings who nodded at his every word. And, there was a literal book release--he unwrapped it from a piece of silk before flipping through it with a befuddled look on his face. I wanted desperately to whisper to Anna that it would've been so priceless if he'd looked up and said, "I never said that," but then I would've started laughing hysterically, and that sort of thing is frowned upon at Very Important Spiritual Book Release Parties.

On the positive side, I did not end the evening at Max Fish.

The Un-Guru

We have T.K.V. Desikachar sightings around the Mandiram, and we totally act like nervous groupies. The first time, Priya, with total mock-seriousness, cocked her head towards him as we walked away from the building and said, "That's the dude!" in a whisper. It's true, he is the dude, but you know he doesn't want to be overwhelmed by his dudeness. Sometimes he'll sit quietly in the back of the classroom and listen to our discussion for a bit before slipping back out. Once, he came into our philosophy teacher (and his wife) Menaka's class and they carried on in the totally cute way that couples who've been together forever do, and we were all, "Omigod! They are so cute!"

I was in a rickshaw with Anna the other night and Desikachar was walking by; he said hello to Anna (they are totally down, yo) and then said in his booming voice, "And who is this person you are with?" I tried to be cool, but you know how I get in these situations. It's like I've moved on from stalking Thurston Moore (no wait, I still do that)...

So, a couple days ago, Desikachar shows up in our morning theory class with this wild-haired man all in white. He tells us that we are in the presence of a true yogi, and introduces U.G. Krishnamurti. After they left, Mark said, "Do you know who that was?" and of course, the answer was "No, I've never heard of him." Mark filled me in: UGK, as those in the know call him, is an unwilling guru. He travels around the world with only what he can fit into a small suitcase, often turns down requests for an audience, and is, as this site describes, "the Howard Hughes of the guru set: enigmatic, brilliant, charismatic, reclusive and publicity-shy," which, if you're going to be a guru, sounds like the way to go, no? It's all of the fun of being a spiritual leader but none of the bummer responsibilities.

Nice work, if you can get it.

My New Friends

I'd been wanting to take an embroidery class here, but hadn't made much headway when Padmini came to our yoga therapy class as a case study. Guess what Padmini does. Teaches embroidery at a nearby fashion school! I asked her after class if she'd be willing to teach me privately; when I told her I thought it was fate that she'd come to our class, she said, "I believe in things like that too!"

So Sunday night I showed up Chez Padmini and had a ball. We didn't embroider, but discussed a variety of topics with her family: the differences between practicing medicine in the States and in India (her husband is a pediatrician and her son is too); American foreign policy (I had to persuade them that not all Americans support W); Indian weddings (she and Vijaya, her daughter-in-law, showed me wedding photos--1,000 people came to their wedding last year!) I was plied with Indian sweets and coffee, advised where to go in Kerala and before I left, Padmini showed me a sari she'd been working on that was simply stunning.

So I've been over there twice since to learn more stitches; Vijaya has joined us because she'd like a refresher course (embroidery is taught in the schools! how cool is that?) and I feel so incredibly lucky (oh jeez, I'm sounding like GWLE) to be in someone's home, learning a skill--and so much more about day-to-day life. Yesterday I learned how to eat thali (South Indian meal comprised of many little dishes) with my hands, something I've been too afraid to try in restaurants. I've told Padmini to start thinking of crafty goods she'd like from the States; it's the least I can do to repay their kindness.

Gas Food Lodging

It sounds like an Ugly American sort of thing to do, but hanging out in fancy hotels is my new favorite pastime. Posh hotels always blast the air conditioning, which is a treat when you spend most of your day in the sun or in a thatched-roof covered classroom, and the food is a nice break from the usual Indian delicacies, and sometimes there is shopping, and we all know how I enjoy the shopping. It's sort of a nice break from the yogayogayoga focus of my days.

The Sheraton is our oasis, a quick ride from the Mandiram and full of business travelers. They are the not-so-oasis (oastic? is that a word?) part of the Sheraton. I heard an American woman last week explaining to the waiter that "In the West, green peppers aren't usually in lasagna."

Over the weekend, Anna and Rebecca and I checked out the Taj Coromandel, which was all plush and quietly luxurious inside. We had a snack in their cafe and I savored an Andres-quality mocha pastry and we discussed how, if we were a reality show, we would only be talking about eating and shopping. Okay, and yoga.

We ate an amazing dinner at Chennai's equivalent of the W, The Park. My share of the most expensive meal I've had here? $14. The lobby was full of young Indian hipsters dressed in Western clothes, chatting on cell phones, and we, suddenly a wee bit jealous of modern surroundings with really good food, asked if someone could show us a room. Just in case we won the lottery and decided to pay ten times what we pay at the Hotel California, I mean President.

Holy Jesus was what we were all thinking when our new friend Sharon showed us the room. A room, I'd like to add, totally free of mosquitos and other many-legged friends (which reminds me: there was something on my floor last night that looked just like Cootie--yay!). I think we all cried a little bit inside when we left the front drive--with many Mercedes, not just one--and returned back to collect our keys from The Man Who Can Only Do One Thing At A Time.

Hotel Sweet Hotel

My home away from home, The President Hotel, has fallen on hard times. It's not immediately apparent from the outside, as there's a white Mercedes always in the front drive, and a pride of long-lashed, barely legal doormen who always shyly smile at you if you make eye contact while they hold the door.

The brochure, which may have been printed in the early '80s, judging from the dress-for-success suits sported by the businesswomen in the photos, boasts copywriting gems like this one: A pleasant surprise, the swimming pool is ingeniously suspended on the 2nd floor with crystal clear water tempting you to loll & laze and have fun & frolic to your heart's content.

I could go on, listing the promises of top service and gourmet delights, but it would be cruel. The food's fine, but there is a mouse who lives in the restaurant. To be honest, I haven't seen much evidence to contradict the theory that we are the only three guests in the place.

The Man Who Can Only Do One Thing At A Time works the front desk. He'll have lengthy phone conversations before deigning to give you your room key. If asked for directions, he'll hand you a book and tell you to keep it, even though your destination is not in the book. Sometimes he refuses to give change for Rs 500 notes, even though we swear that we saw a full drawer earlier.

The cleaning staff alternately pampers and punishes me. I often leave a towel on the floor to soak up some of the shower water that inevitably pools in the corner of the room, making a tiny pond that the Hotel President could boast about should they ever reprint the brochure (Deluxe rooms with tiny ponds for your pleasure of maintaining sea monkeys or other organic beings! Nature retreat to relax the mind!). Sometimes they leave me two towels, sometimes they chide me for my sloppiness with just one. I go for days without replacement toilet paper, but several extra bars of soap arrive daily without fail. My bedspread (a recent purchase) often gets folded and stacked on the other bed in my room, as if to warn me that messing around with the furnishings is not a good idea.

Then again, maybe whoever cleans the room is just having a good time. On the nightstand, I have both an itty bitty Babe doll (a Happy Meal toy, which is another post for another day, but how crazy is it to go order a farm animal to eat and then get one as a plaything? Is McDonald's trying to turn a nation of kids vegan?) and a marble Ganesh that's a little less than an inch tall. I came home Sunday night to find Ganesh sitting on top of Babe. The path of logic that led to this, I have no idea, but I so love that a singing pig is escorting the remover of obstacles around my shabbily furnished room.

Saturday night, when we came home from dinner, we said our goodnights in the hall before heading to our rooms. A man came out, dressed in a tank top and a leopard print towel, looked at all of us, and then walked down to the end of the hall to the open window, where he proceeded to smoke and scowl at us. These are the sorts of things that seem entirely natural at the Hotel President. For $14 a night, complaining would be excessive.

Drinking Coffee Elsewhere

Coffee and I broke up back in January. I was sick of the way he treated me, and I knew we'd never work it out. I felt stronger and better without him.

Spring rolled around and so did the desire for Coffee, chilling with his good friend Ice. We started talking again, getting together on the sly. I missed him, but I didn't want to fall into his trap. Our breakup and reunion went on and on. We'd spend a week apart and then I'd smell him in a bookstore and go running back.

I convinced myself it wasn't him who kicked me around, it was that guy he was always with, Dairy. When I met his new friend Soy Milk, I thought he'd changed. Our relationship was on my terms for once--that pull he had was gone. We'd see each other a few times a week, usually only in the afternoons, and I felt free.

Then I got to Chennai, where coffee is sweet and milky and nearly perfect (ah, you were thinking this was a tea town, but you're wrong! North India is known for the tea) and the only consolation is that it's served in teeny tiny cups. Which makes me feel better about drinking four or so every day.

Since I'm already going to hell in a handbasket, I've been drinking 7-UP to settle my stomach, which is another relationship I don't need since Soda and I parted ways back around the time Coffee and I originally broke up. And I often skip lunch, which means it's okay that I replace those nutrients with ones from Cadbury bars. Did I mention that my pale freckled face has been facing the sun sans SPF most days?

I know deep down that none of these transgressions have me headed to Promises straight from Chennai, but why is it so hard to be balanced? If my practice is regular and strong, I'm eating crap. If I'm eating well, I'm severely depressed. A few years back, smoking, drinking and doing more than my fair share of other not-so-healthy activities, I was in great shape, practicing yoga consistently and walking back and forth to work, rain or shine.

So if anyone wants to send me a case of American Spirits, please do so care of the Hotel President. I probably would've started smoking again but I never see anything besides Marlboro Reds here.

The Trouble With This

Every once in a while, I get a hankering to post something that isn't exactly kind. While this is unsurprising given my mild misanthropic tendencies, I've recently gotten a little paranoid about who may stumble across this and whether or not I should change names, or refer to others only by aliases a la Mr. METY (who, I have to confess, despite his total assness in the classroom, can be very sweet).

Maybe I'm giving you the wrong idea. The majority of people here are interesting, witty, intelligent yogis with whom I feel honored to spend huge chunks of time. There are just a few I've been dying to write about. Like The Girl Who Loves Everything. She prefaces every statement with another about how grateful she is, and how her intent for every moment is to love others, and the fact that I spend even mere seconds envisioning kicking her makes me feel like I've become the Grinch Who Stole Loving Kindness.

Well, whatever. GWLE, if you're reading this, I'm sure you're oh so grateful for the mention.

Shut Up, Mind

My meditation sessions have been, at best, an exercise in futility. Sticky from the day's heat, uncomfortable from sitting on the floor, I am usually more than a little bit cranky and craving a shower, and I tend to lie there, ignoring Geetha's question for the day, pondering the beyond vapid: If I had to sleep with someone in this room, who would it be? I really like Lynn's kurta, I wonder where she got it? Is that another mosquito bite on my ankle, or is an ant crawling up my pant leg? Would my hair look weird if I got three or four inches cut off? When does the new Death Cab for Cutie record come out?

All of this occurs against a backdrop of city noise (which I quite like, because it makes you apply concentration to the craziness of modern life, instead of meditating only in hillside monasteries without electricity) that, on Friday evening, involved a cell phone playing that heinous Celine Dion "Titanic" song (could there be a worse ringtone?), a parade or procession involving chanting and a steady drumbeat plus the unending cacophony of rickshaw horns.

After our pranayama (breathing practice), Geetha asked, "What did you leave behind to come to India? Why are you here? Was it svadharma--or was it your senses?" After mentally kicking myself to stop envisioning dinner and a shower, I started thinking about the old Reese's peanut butter cups commercials. Remember, where the two people walk into each other and the whole "You put my peanut butter on my chocolate! You put your chocolate in my peanut butter!" throwdown ensues, but then they realize fate has brought them together and they've created this fantastic new candy? Okay. Well, I am constantly waiting for my chocolate and peanut butter to unite (ew, not like that); I never feel 100% sure about what I'm doing. I need signs, I need reassurance from the universe. I need direction. More now than ever--should I go back to New York? What should I do there? Do I want to be there?

Deciding to come to India was, in part, an attempt to get closer to the Reese's moment. Has it happened yet? Of course not. Will it? I guess I don't know. But using my meditation a little more productively--instead internally whining about how the orange carpets we all sit on leave a Muppet-like layer of orange fuzz on my pants--left me feeling refreshed instead of weakened as I walked out and into the night.