How do you get from grandma's house?

A small home printed sign for Indian Cooking Classes was always going to attract my attention.  There it was stuck on the wall as we walked along the narrow path, keeping company with cows, motorbikes and other pedestrians.  Finding the sign again was only part the mission.  Armed with a photograph, I GoogleMapped the address.  Nothing.  I checked the local map under the glass topped reception desk.  No.  I asked the manager.  He was new, but the cook would know.  Not promising on either front.  Deciding that the spelling on the sign was a close match to some spelling on the map, I went for a roundabout walk in the general direction of, well, the arrow.
Left turn at the drain, after the cows, through the gate, ask for directions, back through the gate, left turn again, following the diminishing path and more signs,  more frequent and there it was.  At the end of the lane stood a little concrete house, painted lime green and proudly announcing 'Indian Cooking Class' in bright red letters.  A scurry of activity greeted my approach and a young lady was summonsed to attend to me.
... and that's how I met Madhuri and her dad, Subol.  Madhuri, in her final year at the International School in Haridwar, and aspiring to study medicine at university, acts as interpreter in tne cooking classes, for her dad.  Subol was an international chef, and then a wedding party caterer.  Together they support the family running cooking classes from the converted top room of the family home.
Between us we decided on a menu and determined that Brian could come along later for the eating. 
"I'm so glad I found you.  I saw your sign near the guesthouse we're staying in."
"Yes.  That's the one on the wall of my grandma's house."
The rest is cooking.
Masoor Dal
150gm Malka (pink) dal (washed)
600ml water
1 tspn tumeric powder (haldi)
1 tspn salt (namak)
Place in pressure cooker and cook for 4 minutes and take off heat.
Tadka:
In a ladle of ghee, fry off 1 tblspn of cumin seeds (jeera).  Add to pressure cooker and close lid.  Mix through to serve.
Aloo Ghobi
500gm potatoes, cut into 2cm cubes
500gm cauliflower, cut into 2 cm pieces
Cook* potatoes then cauliflower and add to masala mix when done.
(* Subol deep fried the vegetables.  I would steam them, then pan fry to crisp and slightly colour, then add to the mix.)
50gm oil
1 tspn jeera
1 purple onion finely diced
1 tspn grated ginger
Fry off until onion is browned.
Blend:
4 tomatoes and add to onion mix and continue cooking with a little water as needed.
Add:
1 tspn tumeric
1 tspn salt
1 tspn coriander
1/2 tspn chilli
(Note:  These four spices, plus the jeera above, are the base for any curry.  The addition of green and black cardamom, cinnamon, back pepper and cloves, makes garam masala.)
Garnish with fresh coriander to serve.
Chapatis
200gm wholewheat plain flour
Water
(Truly that's it!)
Form into dough and roll into balls.
This amount will make 8 chapatis.
Using a rolling pin, flour and roll out to an even thickness of 2-3mm and about 18cm in diameter. (This is the size of the concave griddle used on the gas stove.)
Cook chapatis directly on the griddle with no ghee or oil.
When starting to bubble, but not bursting, turn over.
Again when starting to bubble, turn over.
This time the chapatis will puff, and they're ready to serve immediately.
Note:  Chapatis, along with naans, rotis, are eaten with dry curries.  Rice is served with wet curries.
Gulab Jamun
These small balls of melt in your mouth bliss translate as 'rose coloured' referring to the honey pink colour you cook them to.  However, I think the name may have morphed into rose water flavouring in the syrup.  This recipe from Subol is the authentic version.
1kg dry milk (mawa*)
100gm plain white flour
1/4 tspn baking soda
5 tspns ghee (substitute a light oil)
Syrup
1kg white sugar
100ml water
Place sugar and water in a large saucepan and heat, stirring occasionally until the sugar has dissolved, then allow to gently boil until it starts to turn a light honey colour.  Take off heat and set aside.
In the meantime, combine dry milk, flour, baking powder and ghee, to form a soft dough.  Roll large teaspoonfuls into small balls.
Deep fry batches of about a dozen at a time, moving with a mesh ladel, til just golden brown, then remove with ladel, drain and place directly into warm syrup.
Keep warm, or rewarm over very low heat, to serve.
This recipe makes dozens of balls and they can be kept in the fridge til needed. Madhuri told me she likes them better cold anyway, and I think the sponginess soaks up the syrup more if you can resist eating them all straight away.  In the afternoons, you can often buy them from street vendors.  They have large wok style pans of them, kept warm over a flame.  At Rs 20/- for 15 balls in a small saucer with a tiny spoon, this is a great way to keep your intake down, or maybe indulge because they are so cheap.
*Dry milk is reduced milk.  It's not actually dry and it's not like condensed milk.  It's made by boiling milk for a very long time til it reduces to one tenth (10 litres of milk produces 1kg of dried milk).  It has the texture of a drier and slightly gritty version of ricotta cheese.  In India you can buy it loose in the dairy section of the market.  Sometimes baking powder has already been added, and this will make your balls crack and explode during frying.  For this reason, when using prepared dried milk, do a test batch of 5 or 6.  If they crack, re roll your mixture with some more plain flour.  As for the cracked ones?  Well, disgard for presentation, but I personally would eat them as test ones as I went; much like the first pikelets of the batch, or the broken biccies.
Then there was the eating.
Brian had arrived, to the delight of Subol.  "Sir, please sit. Are you liking Indian food?" His English was much better than he originally let on, and once he got the measure of us, was quite happy to initiate conversation.  I've found that my willingness to flex my food Hindi is the best way to get involved.  It's my introduction and my window into the hearts of all the passionate cooks I'm meeting.
Of course we ate two servings of everything; me sitting crossed legged on the table and next to the stove and pantry, Brian reclining in the esteemed visitor's chair.
"Is the food good?"
"Oh, very good!"
"More chapatis?"  As they are already arriving on the plate.
"More gulab jamun?" I asked.
"Yes, yes!  Would you like to take some with you?"
Madhuri offered her lunch box for the transport of the prized rose coloured balls. "You can bring it back tomorrow."
We arranged for me to come back at 9am and walk with her to our guesthouse for an introduction the manager.  (He shared some of the gulab jamun as advertising.)  I arrived the next morning to a beaming Madhuri and excited Subol.  On our short walk we chatted about recipes and how the dishes we had cooked the day before formed the base of all Indian dals, vegetable dishes and sweets, so easily doable for me in my soon to come Indian kitchen.
Coming up to the place I saw the sign, I asked, "Your grandma's house is just up there?"
"Yes.  I took her some gulab jamun yesterday.  She said a lady had taken a photo of the cooking class sign, and I told her that it was you and you'd made these."
And that's where you go from grandma's house.

Where's The Taj? Part Two.

The Taj did finally appear through the dust and smoke, mid morning, and even veiled in sepia it was indeed beautiful. Much like The Eiffel Tower, because there are no other tall buildings in the city, it is the core of everything in Agra.
Approaching from the south gate, the non tourist drop off gate, winds you through the real city as ordinary people go about their ordinary lives. Here there is no dawn opening time strip lined with souvenir stalls, few touts for guides, and the best straight ahead view of the gateway and forecourt.
As with everywhere in India, there's the foreigner price, here R/- 750, and the local price, R/- 20. But this does avail you of a 500ml bottle of water, shoe covers, and the left hand stairs (no rhyme or reason discernible here) ... plus free use of the toilet, paper included.
There is no question that The Taj Mahal exudes a mystical energy: it's a tomb of love, an edifice of perfection, a work of art. Perhaps it's my western vintage, but I found myself thinking of Princess Di in a sort of melancholy way. In a confluence of events of course we'd had our royal brush with Charles and Camilla just days before.
Even amidst the crowds it was ... something ...
But outside the precincts, tourist India hits you like a tonne of the ubiquitous red clay bricks. These are the ones baked in the kilns, chimneys numbering many more than trees, in the countryside. Puffing out gritty smoke from the fires of cow dung pats. Responsible for much of the pollution.
The smog seeps through the camel carts and electric autos. It embraces the Taj Snow Globe sellers and the 'best quality' whip vendor. It settles on and around you and dulls the senses and the sensitivity,
On another government bus we see sanitised tourists smiling and taking pictures of the locals, us among them, from their 'glasshouse' bus. For all the exhaustion and sheer overwhelming journey this is, there's no way I'd want that instead.
But maybe, just for a moment I think, 'Where's The Taj? Who cares?'

Surf 2X

Laundry, yes or no?  Count the shirts, socks, pants, jeans.  Rs 10/- per item wash, iron extra, is the going rate.  But always an opportunity to make a few more rupiahs on the side, the wash, iron, fold rates can vary enormously.  Keep a count and check on return, usually the next day.  It's another ritual that has to be embraced while travelling.  Unless it's DIY in the bathroom bucket. 
Detergent packs at Rs 10/-, at the ready, if you don't mind a quick colour, not fast, result.  Find a string, rope, wire, anything on the rooftop for drying.  Usually quick in the baking sun, but watch out for thieving monkeys.  I mean the long tailed kind.
"Get some laundry 'liquid'!" was the instruction in Rishikesh.  "Sachets for easy travel."
Easier said than done, but after some triangulation, or octagonalation, the goods are found.  Phew!
Running low on essential supplies, I find myself in Delhi at Om Villa Guesthouse enjoying reasonable rates and good laundry service.  But the road beckons.  All I can find is a 200ml Surf 2X liquid in the 'western style' supermarket at MGF Mall. Rs 60/-, that will have to do.
But here's the rub.  I reckon the laundry service uses 'dustatech', the washing equivalent of Castrol Oil (with Magnatech for the uninitiated).  One wearing later the freshly laundered jeans look like they've done a week of back paddock work down on the farm.  'Dustatech' surely allows the dirt to 'cling to the cotton' for that seriously soiled traveller look.
Surf 2X might be superior ... but that's a story for another time and place.

Where's The Taj?

Six weeks into our trip in India and we were seamlessly on our way to Agra, waiting at the Sarai Kale Kahn bus station for the Volvo Deluxe bus.
"That was all pretty straightforward," from my optimistic newly Indian boy.
Looking very pleased with himself, he had returned from the bus stand kiosk carrying two tiny takeaway teas on a piece of cardboard, and something wrapped up in newspaper.
"I don't know about the sugar in the tea, but look what I got for you!"
He proudly unrolled two rotis and handed me one ... the inside one.
"And our best yet.  Only Rs 3 each!  You know what would go well with these? Some honey."
No honey, but I produced some green mango jam out of my backpack. 
"Don't you just love a good bus stand?"
Backpacks stowed under the bus.  Air conditioning and seats fully functional.  Sure we left 15 minutes late because some of the local passengers didn't allow time to get through the Delhi traffic, but complimentary water and a tollway, should have been a breeze for the 3 hour trip.  But this is India.  Just 20 kilometres before Agra, we stop for a rest break for half an hour!  Seriously?  We could have been there by the time we got moving again.
The closer we got to Agra, the more dust and smoke.  I've experienced that everything and everyone here coasts along in cruise control until the last minute, then it's a frenzied crush to get on or off, arrive or leave.  As we came into the city, the conductor started calling out stop names. 
"Fatehabad. Fatehabad."
"That's us. There's the sign."
'Taj Mahal - 3.5 km'  Left arrow.
Indecision, negotiation, miscommunication?  We were still on the bus and off again.
What seemed like a long way later we get the chance to escape.  Now it was the auto tango.
"You want auto?"
"Where you go?"
"Rs 200!"
It's always Rs 200 for foreigners!  Weariness or hardening up, I just walk away.
"Come on, honey! Rs 150. Put your bag in.  We're going."
It's getting dark.  It's almost impossible to tell though because the air is thick with dust.
"I can't do this anymore," with tears.
We bump and zigzag through the back alleys.  Come out at the river.  Follow Taj Mahal signs.  Pass the Western Gate.  Peer anxiously along Fatehabad Road for 'Love Kush Hotel'. 
"It must be here somewhere.  You're supposed to be able to see The Taj.  We must have gone too far."  Stifled without access to GoogleMaps!
"There it is!"  Relief from Brian, and I suspect our auto driver.
Brian tips the driver anyway, and we walk through the guard-opened door into the cleanest place I've been in since I left home.
"You can get up onto the roof.  I saw someone up there as we came in. I think you can eat up there on the rooftop terrace."  I'm optomistic.
"How about we eat in the room and breathe, and go up and check it out after dinner?" Brian coughs.
On the roof we find the kitchen through the haze.  The cook, who'd come to our room to take our order, easier than on the phone, is excited to see us.
"Where's The Taj?" Brian is always happy for the opportunity to talk to the locals.
"Yes. Yes. Best view. Morning 6am!". Pointing vaguely across the road.
We could barely see across the road.  Deciding to flag the sunrise Taj visit and check from the roof in the morning, Brian sets his alarm.
At 6.30am I consider yoga on the roof and climb the stairs.  I point my camera across the road and take a picture.  Back downstairs, Brian asks about the view.  I show him the photo of dust and smoke haze.
"Where's The Taj?"  

Vata Pitta Kapha

The doshas.  Through pulse diagnosis the Ayurvedic doctor evaluates your prakriti/strength and vikriti/weak doshas:  Vata (air and space), pitta (fire and water) or kapha (water and earth). 
My experience with Ayurveda had been limited to two shirodhara treatments where oil is poured in a continuous steam from a suspended clay pot, onto the forehead.  Neither of them had been memorable for good reasons.  The first was disorienting and weird followed by a nauseating headache, which may have been a combined effect of a liver detox yoga retreat.  The second began well with a choice of peppermint essential oil, but was followed by a broken ankle when I stepped backwards into a rice paddy drain.  Again this may have been something other than the treatment, but you can see why I perhaps wasn't keen to go for number three.  Brian, however, was more than ready, presenting me with the three clinics he'd investigated, explaining the costs, benefits and timetable, and how this was going to fit in with my yoga ashram schedule.  And so it was that my Ayurvedic journey began anew. 
Visit number 1 began with the consultation and a fairly standard case history.  This is strange in itself, as Ayurvedic is not about illness, but wellness.  Presenting with no problem is no problem.  The Ayervedic doctor is not looking to find a reason to prescribe drugs, but rather to identify your predominant dosha nature and provide strategies for health maintenance.
So let's talk about women's health ... yes, menopause.  Not something I really want to think about, but it's inevitable.  To my surprise this was the subject and tone of my conversation with the doctor.  It was the first thing he zeroed in on while taking my pulse (in three places) and asking my age!  Far from being all doom and gloom, drugs and demise, he offered information, strategies and explanation for whole of body health as we women age.  Yes, he made a recommendation, Shatavari, one of the most powerful rejuvenating herbs in Ayurvedic medicine.  Commonly used for conditions affecting the female reproductive system, mood swings, irritation and hot flushes, it has nourishing, soothing and cooling properties that help in many conditions.  Conditions where the body and mind are overheated, depleted or out of balance.  In conjunction with this he was also able to tell me how my vata dosha nature was travelling and where and how I could work with it.  For me this involved preventing drying out!  Sounds gruesome, but translated into:
* a fortnightly sesame oil massage (I think I could manage that.),
* yoga, very specifically 11 sun salutations a day (Well, need I say more?),
* my diet was given the tick, and then
* 1 teaspoon of ghee per day for the nervous system (The best I can find is it is an equivalent to fish oil.  Also for joint health.  It is taken poured over dal, rice, porridge...  Really? That's why they were offering it from a bucket at the ashram. Putting aside, almost, my fat beliefs, I gave it a try, even two, on rice.  Won't be doing that again.)
He outlined three treatments for starting me off, giving me a cleansed and prepared body to gain maximum Ayurvedic benefits.
Treatment 1- Himalayan Abhayanga Massage with Ayurvedic oil, presumably something that matched my dosha, although it just smelled like the base of sesame oil.  I skipped the shirodhara, claiming limited time (We had to be back at the ashram for lunch at 12.30pm!), and went straight to the steam bath, which is a one person sized timber box that steam is pumped into, while you sit sealed inside, with just your head sticking out.  Not for the claustrophobic!
Treatment 2 - Pind Swedana was described on the treatment menu as dry/fresh.  Dry what and fresh what I had no idea but my therapist assured it was a full body massage.  It turned out to be hot compresses of herbs, patted sometimes firmly over and over my whole body.  A word here, that 'hot' was at times uncomfortably so, but patting never became too severe, and there was in fact the full body massage, again with lashings of sesame oil, in and around the compresses.  I imagine the patting stimulates the blood flow to the surface of the skin, and the mystery herbs aid in extracting toxins with the heat.  Next it was the shirodhara pot tracing neverending figure eights across my forehead to perhaps open my third eye, or just to relax my vata disposition.  Either way, the copious amounts of oil that ended up in my hair, plus what was already on my body,had me smelling like a dressed salad.  Even the steam bath and towel off didn't shift much of it, and my hair literally dripped oil for the next two days.
Treatment 3 - This one started out well, offering an Himalayan Aroma Massage.  The only aroma I could discern was lemongrass.  I now smelled like a Thai salad. Again the steam bath and I was just about at the finish line and feeling relieved, until ... the Senses Cleanse; nasayam, karna pooran and kawala.  Perhaps best not to be forewarned about this, but in the interest of full disclosure ...  Nasayam is nose clean and inhalation.  I expected it to be something akin to a neti pot or nasal flush, so was starting to panic and fear drowning when my therapist, Shikha, had me lie face up.  Just a couple of drops of some foul smelling liquid were administered into each of my nostrils, and I could still breathe, but didn't know if I wanted to.  I could feel the fumes burning down the back of my throat.  Shikha, gave me a couple of paper napkins, but instructed me not to blow. Instead she kept insisting I should be spitting in the basin of water she'd placed beside my head.  The whole Indian back snorting, throat clearing, projectile spitting is not a practice I intend adopting, so to her dismay, I passed.  Next came karna pooran where my ears were filled with warm oil and plugged with cotton wool.  By now I was feeling this treatment was more sense deprivation than sense cleanse, but it wasn't over yet.  Next was Kawala, a procedure where a glob of brown mush is given to you with instuctions to chew, but not swallow, for a minute.  All I need to say here is that it is a very long minute.  Treatment number three over and Shikta produced sweet herbal tea.  At this point anything would have been welcome but two cups later I was sure my tastebuds had suffered permanent damage.  The best of part the treatment was watching a similarly unsuspecting Brian experience the same joy.
Walking back after this final treatment, just glad it was over, Brian tells me he feels great and will make the two week program an annual event.  Me? I'll stick with the recommendation of a fortnightly massage with sesame oil, for my dry vata self ... but I will be mixing in my Reiki essential oils of cypress, lime, peppermint and frankincense.  My decision is still hanging about the supplements.  Three were recommended. The first, Ashwagandha, Brian bought, but googling told me it would ensure a 3-5kg weight gain in a month, so I'm unlikely to be taking that!  I'm definitely going to go with the Shatawari, for women's hormonal balance.  The third, Jeevan Kalp Rasayan, is just a general immunity boost -  not sure on that one.
Vata - Part 2
At Bahadrabad near Haridwar, we visited Patanjali Yogpeeth, an Institute of Medical Science and Research in Yoga and Ayurveda.  Patanjali wrote his treatise, The Yog Sutra to impart practical knowledge of the eight fold path - Ashtanga - yoga to the world.  K. Pattabhi Jois derived and founded Vinyasa yoga, the modern day form of the classic Ashtanga.  Total 'yoga groupie' experience for me.  Every hour free yoga classes and free Ayurvedic consultations.
But remember this is India so the yoga was all about Pranayam, to support the Ayurvedic diagnoses.  Brian was interested to triangulate with a second opinion, so we duly registered and waited at door number 24.  This time we had a joint consultation, which was confronting in itself.  Brian went first to give me time to get my vata energy amping up to provide borderline high blood pressure.  This was in contrast to my pulse, diet and exercise but it was hard to explain 'white coat syndrome' here.  Recommended treatment was perhaps not surprising; the same Ashwagandha, which I think is the standard vata balancing herb, which is stress relieving, calming and rejuvenating, good for strength and vigour. 
Pranayam is integral to the diagnosis and treatment. Brian had been sent to Room 8 to learn nearly all the breathing techniques on the list; Bhastriki, Kapalbhati, Bahya, Bhramari (his favourite 'humming bee) - all good chest clearing practices. To his amusement or envy I was given ones not even on the list: Yoga Nidra and Savasana.
"Obviously!" he says.

Bara Bazar

Arriving Haridwar, the share auto driver drops us at a busy intersection. Near the railway station, lightens our load by Rs 300/-, and points "That way," to Upper Road, "3 or 4 minutes to Har Ki Pauri Hotel."
Twenty minutes later we're still walking.  GoogleMaps has shown the slow progress towards our destination.  We pass endess same-but-different stores and stalls hawking plastic bangles, joss sticks, toe rings, malas and other assorted brass and copperware for puja salvation.  The road is thick with tourists of the indigenous kind, all keen to be immersed in the spirit which calls from the mighty Ganga.
Here the ghats remind me of stepped seats at the stadium, the river the praying field, access steps lined with beggars, sadhus and visiting pilgrims.  There are more disabled and distressed persons per head of population in Haridwar at Hai Ki Paura, when the Ganges merges with seven other tributaries, than so far enountered.
Safely we make it to our hotel, check in, settle in, but then are relocated to the 'flight deck' Room 303 (thankfully there's a lift), because it's easier to change rooms than get the shower fixed. Guess the place is not full, despite the big crowd crush on the riverbank nearby.  Must be the rates.  Great room with 'water views' for Rs 800/- per night no service charge for cash and no Form C filling required!  Lucked in so took the room upgrade with the extra 2 square metres for Rs 1000/- per night.
But I digress. Bara Bazar.  Food is needed. I mean one can only survive on yellow dahl and dates for breakfast for so long.  Need some proper stuff.  Oats!!!! Back down to Upper Road, checking out more malas and sandalwood samples.  Endless enquiries.  No luck.
A helpful local directs us to a side lane.  We drop down into more familiar territory; fruit sellers and tea shops.  Strike One:  Bananas, dates, tomatoes and a cucumber.  Red carrots appear to be in season but the offer is declined.  No oats.  We reach a T junction and spot an opening in the wall.  The long haired purveyor of nuts, dried fruits and assorted packaged goods, beckons us to enter.  Scanning the shelves we find 'coco puffs' but no oats.  'Porridge' I scrawl on a scruffy white note pad. Nahi!
"Do you want some almonds?" says DG.
"Did you see that rat?" my response.
They match the colour of the long tailed rodent that seemed to drop out of the sky onto them and scurry to the end of the pile.  Maybe we'll pass.
Down deeper into Bara Bazar, the shopping list still deficient of oats, dahi and 'Brittainia' biscuits.
"Over there," a shopkeeper points.
"What?  Where the mirrors are?"
"Yes."
Sure enough, mirrors and medicals to the left, general provisions to the right.
"Britainnia?"
"Yes.  Marie!"
"Nahi.  Chinni nahi!"
Shopkeeper, 2IC and four boys ar soon all actively engaged in the great salted cracker biscuit hunt.  How many Indians does it take to produce a pack of 'Zig Zag' snacks?
"Rs 10/-and you get 20% extra," he exclaims.  Shopping for even the simplest of things is a real social experiment here.
Only two items to go.  DG is about to give up on oats when I spot the 'Last Chance Texaco'.  Lucks in.  English preferred here.
"Oats?"  I emplore.
"No problem sir.  Only large packet," he says.
I gesticulate and suggest it may be 20kg, but discover it's only ek (one)!
Rummaging behind tins and jars we find the hidden treasure.  Australian oats of course, 1kg Lion brand from Victoria.  But wait, there's more, 30% more.  Free 150g with this pack.  Use by date not expired and still only Rs 77/-.  And the coup de gras, DG notes it's got a zip lock bag.  Sweet!
Dahi, dahi?  Only lassi curd so far until we hit the enormous vat of warm buttermilk.  Got to try this.  Rs 15/-, in an earthenware pot.
"Drink and then throw it away."
More eco friendly than plastic, I chuck the empty drinking vessel into the upturned milk can, the solitary disposal vehicle.  'Drains to the river?'  I wonder.
Dahi as well.  Fresh.  Plastic bagged.  We're on our way.  Celebration.  Time for chai?  Dudh wali chai chinni nahi- of course!

Tourists? Don't you just luv 'em?

Having read the student version of The Mahararbarata, and turned completely Indian, I'm in Laxman Jhula square taking photos of the archaic equipment being used to spray bitumen to repave the road.  I'm also admiring the larger than life white marble statue of an ancient Indian archer, fully enclosed in a glass box in the centre of the square
'Mmm,' I think, 'that might be Arjuna.'
I see a portly little storeholder, sitting on a low slung stool guarding his display of brass artefacts, sandalwood pieces and clay chillums.  Better check!
"Is that Arjuna?" I ask, pointing to said edifice.
"No.  It's Laxman.  You want smoke?"
"No," I reply.  "I think I'm already gone."

My Personal Ashram: The 'Other' View

Rishikesh, the yoga capital of the world, where the Ganga meets the plains, and prana carried on the Himalayan winds invigorates the land. Every building seems to be an ashram. Every advertising poster is for yoga classes, teacher training, or meditation.
I chose Anand Prakash Yoga Ashram (www.anandprakashashram.com) for a number of reasons. It's a smaller ashram and not in the centre of town, but easy walking distance. Akhanda (indivisible) yoga taught at the ashram, is an holistic blend of asana, pranayama, relaxation and meditation, and aligns with my Vinyasa practice.  Reviewing the many available, Anand Prakash offered what I was looking for; because it's all about the yoga, and it would work for both of us.  It's also a registered charitable trust focusing on education.
I booked us in for a week, actually sneaking in an extra night, and four weeks into our eight week travel plan, it was exactly the right time to have a break and stay in one place for a while.  When the ashram is full, extra rooms in The Hermitage Guesthouse next door are used.  We stayed there and could see the yoga hall from our room, plus hear the kirtan and the dinner bell.  As for the food; three healthy, sattvic meals a day, served talli style on the floor.  A yogi's delight.  The only things I needed to know were, when is the next yoga class, what time do we eat and where do I go for massages and cooking classes.  With those things taken care of my schedule was complete and I settled into ashram life, for my own quiet experience.  First class was at 4 pm ...
Afternoon classes were taken by one of the resident yoga teachers in the downstairs yoga room.  These were generally restorative and yin classes, structured in a loosely Vinyasa way.  Yogrishi Vishvketu ji teaches in the ashram through the winter, so was in residence for our stay.  He made his appearance for the morning classes upstairs, and the Saturday afternoon flash mob style 'Yoga at the Beach' on a white sand bend of the Ganges. 
All the classes were breath centred; ujjayi and bhramari (The humming bee, Brian was so fond of.).  Definitely more mantra and less asana than classes in Australia, but yoga is union and diversity is for experiencing and embracing.  Yes, it's all about the yoga, but all eight limbs of Ashtanga yoga, and this week gave me a chance to delve into some of the less explored.  It was also an invitation into the style and delivery of yoga in India, and a window into the yogic practice of the many cultures represented by the ashram guests. And how privileged I feel to be a Being Yoga trained teacher.  The value of my life with yoga has been so enhanced and informed, through the power of 'awaken, align, enhance, observe'.
The yoga, the food, the spirit, the world outside the cloistered yoga space, all added to an experience familiar enough for comfort, yet different enough to make my Rishikesh ashram stay everything I could have wanted.  All I needed to do was to be in the moment with authentic presence. Nothing to do.  Nowhere to go. Noone to please.
Om. Shanti, shanti, shanti.
Namaste.

My Personal Ashram

Yoga class:  "As long as we're there by 4pm for my first yoga class, " is the non-negotiable from DG, 24 hours before lift off from Mindrolling to Rishikesh.  Mmm, 25 kms, leaving 10am.  Should be doable!
Arriving and checked in at the nearby guest house, I pass on Class 1 but front for the next morning class gig at 6am with the Guru, and discover how ujjayi breath really works in yoga practice.  DG gets excited by my revelation and ventures into a Vinyasa Flow explanation of how continued practice will see me live to at least 100!  That's promising.
Day 2.  "Do you want an easy or a hard class?" is the Guru's query.  Guess what?
"Okay, let's do easy humming bee yoga."  This should be interesting.
Half way through, then it hits me.  Here I am in the NFZ (No Fart Zone in yogic terminology) amongst about 50 aspiring yogis and yoginis, all westerners of course, dreadlocks, Lululemon tops, special stainless steel waterbottles, iPhones and harem pants, all at the ready, standing on one leg, other knee up, hands above my head, thumb and forefinger in a mudra, humming like a bee on out breath.
"Keep happy feet!  Louder.  Smiling honey bee.  Mmmmmmmm," exhorts Guru.
Next we're on our backs.  "Three long out breaths.  Ahhh.  Ohhh.  Eeee.  Then you make sound as you like," is the instruction.
Okay, let's go.  Aaaargh - let it all out.   Mostly gentle sweet synchronised sounds from the yogic sheeple.  They're either purged of all their bad karma or are not yet ready to start.
I'm questioning whether ashram living could be an elitist, western indulgence.  Or maybe it's just me.  Compassion.  Acceptance.
Hari om, santih, santih, santih.
It's time for breakfast!

Chuckie and Camilla are in Town

"After dinner let's go for a walk. I want to get an icecream, " says DG.
We head up the hill to the main street.  Turn left. All is quiet but there's a strong police and military presence.  Mmm?
Arriving at the T junction, we see a crowd has gathered.
"What's up?" I enquire.
"Prince Charles and Missus will be coming soon."
"Oh!"  We continue on in search of dairy delights but are herded to the road side by the local constabulary.  The road is quiet.  Unusually so.  Not a vehicle in sight. 
Stopping at one of the more western style general stores, the management and staff have abandoned posts to take up prime positions in the Indian eqivalent of the 'bleacher', or 'hill' if you prefer,rocking back and forth on plastic chairs.
"I'm surprised you inventive Indians have spotted the opportunity to cash in on mini British flags."
"Acha. Acha."
Narry a flag in sight.
"What car will Charles be in?" I prompt, suggesting he might not be in an Alto 800 with AC, but before we can agree, the calvacade appears from the direction Laxman Jhula - the lead vehicle, then Charles and Camilla following in a pristine Mercedes; Camilla in the front.  I spot the glance, give a wave, check Charles in the rear, and immediately complete my application for the Australian Monarchist Party.
Disappearing into the night, the entourage follow in the plume of exhaust fumes and dust; blaring horns, lights flashing, a minibus of minders.  I give a thumbs up!  Ambulances, army jeeps, police cars, various Ambassadors filled with smiling bueaucrats and colourful locals.  The circus is in town.
But then it's over.  The royal moment has passed. Too quick for a memorable moment pic.  The 'main road' returns to normal - chaos, cows and chapattis!
No icecream either.  You should have been here yesterday!

How much to Tapovan?

How much to Tapovan?
"How much to Tapovan?" I ask the tout at the Rishikesh bus stand.
"Rs 250, or 70 if you share."
The going rate is about Rs 10, but the price is fixed.  Welcome to India.
"You'll have to wait to fill the share cab."
We load in the back and I wander off looking for packs of salted peanuts.
Returning to wait, time passes.  But how long remains a mystery as the $500 gold Longines is long gone.  Ripped from my arm, an undetected loss, as we clamber off the share cab from Clement Town to the Interstate Bus Terminal, in Dehradun.  Oh well. What's time anyway!
Tout suggests we go ahead.  "The are no buses.  Next one maybe half hour.  Sixty minutes.  You go for Rs 200?"
"We'll wait."
We wait.
"Okay. You go or Rs 180."
"Okay."  Done deal.  We're off. Ripped off?
Arriving at the Laxman Jhula auto drop off, DG engages with the ever-present iPhone Google Map, previously downloaded, frozen in time, to show the way.  Confused as to which way is up, down or around, we find the chap at the German Bakery is unable to sell us an espresso, but suggests back to the main road, right to somewhere, down again.  Okay so back up the hill, for a quick 1km plus stroll, back packs fully laden.  I remind myself I'm in training or the Mt Kailash yatra.  We hit the end of town.  Too far?  Triangulate again and back 500 metres.  Should be fine.  Thank goodness for Google Maps. Yeah, right!
So after finally having turned Indian, I've arrived at the 'something or another' ashram, carefully selected by DG, and guess what?  No Indians.  Well apart from the management and kitchen staff!
Up bright and early next morning, I'm out on my errands (having been given the designated role as 'walla' for everything) with the shopping list; laundry liquid in sachets, chocolate biscuits.  Important stuff!
Breakfast, lunch and dinner, dahl, rice and chapattis.  The German couple have been here 4 weeks. 
"I'm craving some meat and fish," the woman says.  "We're heading to Goa."
'Oms to you,'  I think.
After dinner, it's out of the ashram guesthouse, for our evening constitutional walk down to the South Indian restaurants in Laxman Jhula -at the bottom of the hill - to savour local chai at Rs 10 a pop.  On returning, I notice the chocolate biscuit pack is still unopened.  We must have settled in to ashram life is all I can say.

Equivalencies

Some observations and helpful information for travelling, understanding, living and being in India:
Monkeys = Kangaroos
Squirrels = Possums
Camphor = Eucalyptus
Tourist vehicle = Taxi
Anything with wheels = Transport: auto rickshaw, cycle rickshaw, private vehicle.
Fee for service = 'I'll find out where it is after I've told you it's Rs 200 to get there.'
Expresso = Cappucino
Cappucino = Latte
Latte = Flat white
Coffee = Nescafe
Coffee or tea = plus milk and sugar (lots)
Half set = A 2 1/2 cup pot of tea or coffee with sugar and hot milk on the side.
Full set = Is probably 2 pots.
(Caution:  This works well until you order tea in a Tibetan community, where tea no sugar gets you salted tea, and if you get that sorted, tea with no sugar or salt, is black.)
Mineral water = Bottled water.
Water = Stainless steel jug, brought to the table with glasses.  Generally filtered and quite okay to drink, just use your best judgement depending on where you are.
Butter toast = Very lightly toasted, that is warm, bread with butter in a spoon.
Curd = Yoghurt
Toned milk = Pasteurised milk with the cream skimmed off.  Water and skim milk added to prevent separating.  Low fat and not homogenised.
Full Boiled = Hard boiled.
Half Boiled = Soft boiled.
Boiled Egg = Confusion. Best to just be surprised.
2 pieces = 2 eggs
Cutlery = Numerous spoons per person, per dish, various sizes. Often wiped clean with a thumb prior to table setting.
Parantha = Bread
Chipatti = Bread
Roti = Bread
Naan = Bread
Kulcha = Bread
Bhatura = Fried bread
Puri = Fried Bread
Dosa = Crepe
Appam = Crumpet
Uttapam = Pancake
Idli = Dumpling
Dahl = Dahl
Dahl fry = Dahl, but swimming in a bucket load of ghee.
Party Crackers = Jatz.  Beware of brands containing sugar, jeera, masala etc.
Jeera = Cumin.  (It's in everything.)
For food in general, if you see something you want on another table, point and order it there and then.  Don't try to order it later by describing ... or order at your own peril.
For example, what started off as one chipatti, with a fried egg on top, and spiced potatoes on the side, with tea no sugar, ended up as a masala omelet between two chipattis, and salted milky tea.  The omelet was excellent. We gave the extra chipattis to one of the beggar children along the road, and the tea ... well Brian valiantly tried to acquire a taste for it, this being his second encounter. Me? No.
Opening hours = 10 am 'ish til 9 or 10 pm
Closed for Lunch = 2 pm til 3.30pm
Geyser = Hot water system inside the bathroom, with or without a shower.
Deluxe = Standard (as for hotels and buses)
Semi-Deluxe = Marginal
Standard = Go with the masses and take your life in your own hands.
Head wobble = Yes or no, and often 'I don't know, but I'll tell you something anyway.'
Self service = Order at the counter and often pick up from the counter.
Fix price no tension = No bargaining
Fixed price = maybe or maybe not, but assume yes, and often you're offered up to 15% off anyway.
This list is a work in progress.

Mindrolling with the Mindrolling (MINH-droh-lyng) Monks

Older monks shuffle
Younger ones scurry
Circumnambulating The Monastry, The Devaloka Stoopa
... or the village of Clement Town
Predawn clusters and sunrise parasols
Anytime spinning prayer wheels

Pujas called by conch
Mornings at 6am and afternoons at 4pm
Sitting, fidgetting, whispering, laughing
Mantras, mudras, oms
Bells, drums, gongs and horns
Not noise but pulsing energy

Rice brought to the altar
Rice taken away
Water filled
Water emptied
High fives all round
Wrap up and run
More 'dallying' than Dalia Lama
These monks are just getting on with it
Happy, even jolly
Quiet but present
Plugged in to the world
iPods, Smartphones and cappucinos
Step through the portal into mini Tibet
Outside exists as only aware
The air smells different
The streets are clear
The people are gentle
The way is soft
Fall into the rhythm
The hum of meditation
Thoughts without thinkers
Time cannot exist
Just the mindfulness of each moment
Mindrolling with the Mindrolling Monks

Rishi is 8, not 6, years old.

Meditation is at 4 pm and 6 am daily, so there's time to settle in, enquire unsuccessfully about 'doing service', and check out the small shops on the ground floor of the Devaloka Guest House.  Plenty of Tibetan Potalo Incense and a few interesting books, plus an ample stock of toilet paper.  Dinner finishes at 6.30, so by 6 we're exploring a cheap and cheerful looking menu dominated by noodle dishes, vegetables and soup.  Not a dal makhani or pakora in sight.
Tables are filling with Buddhist monks.  Must be their boys' night out.  A young boy at the table opposite, seated alone except for his school books, receives a hot hearty looking meal of crips noodles and vegetables.  He begins to devour it in huge mouthfuls.  I venture to ask what it is, to refrain from my Indian cuisine mindset to something a bit more oriental.
"Vegetable chow mein," he offers through a full mouth.
Paneer, mushrooms ... looks good.  We take a chance and order stir fry vegetable noodles, mixed vegetables, and settle for vegetale fried rice in tbe absence of plain steamed. Food service is prompt.  Just add the hot chilli sauce and get eating.
"See this airplane here has no wings, " comes at me out of left field.  We're suddenly engaged with our vegetable chow mein boy, who we discover is 6, no wait 8, years oldand named Rishi.  He is proudly on a learning crusade involving transport, communication, geography and the student edition of the Mahabharata.
I think this will be a good introduction to this famous, although long-winded, Indian tale, so arrange to borrow said text for a few days.  His mother arrives and after rapid fire conversation about banking, Australia, and mispronunciation of the 'Mahabharata, he sneaks in a possible invitation by his parents for us to share Diwali celebrations with him.  Let's see!

Mini Tibet

The phone rings.  It is Nanch from Mindrolling Monastry.
"What time you coming?  Where are you?"
"We're on our way."
We're in an auto on the road to the Interstate Bus Terminal (ISBT).  It's howlin a gale, blowing dust and rubbish into the air, as we make our way south from Dehradun to Clement Town.  It starts to rain, making travelling conditions difficult for the short journey to our next destination.
"Okay. We'll be there about 12.30."
"Don't mention you'll be staying at the Guest House.  Only say you're visiting.  Very big problem with the Indians.  We're in a military zone."
"Okay.  We'll be discreet."
I'm bemused by the apparent need for dishonesty given that we're staying at a Tibetan Monastry for four days, but park the thought to one side to focus on more immediate issues.  The air is swirking in mini tornedoes as we hit the traffic jam which accompanies the bus stand.  Sunder, the auto cab driver fiddles with velcro and drops the side awning to afford some protection from the elements. 
We press on, left off the main road, delving into the extended suburbs of Dehradun.  Or was this Clement Town? 'Wouldn't have found this place on our own,' I thought, as we whistle past the ever present shops selling Frito Lays, Pepsi, snacks, nuts and pan.  We reach an arched gate on our right, and pass under to a different world.
Neat and tidy streetscape.  Faces more familiarly Tibetan than Indian.  Right again and through another gate to  complete our journey.  Ahead is the large stupa with welcoming Buddha.  Sunder, points to a building down the road.
"Guest house," he mutters, but I have my doubts.
Backpacks out and relieved of Rs 450, we head in the indicated direction.  Inside a courtyard we can see the doord to the meditation hall, closed for now.  Office to the left, also closed.  An old monk shuffles along the verandah towards us.  He speaks in broken English, but understands enougn to know he needs to take us elsewhere.  We're passed on to a young monk, Gompo, who seems to know Nanch.
We at last discover Nanch behind the counter in Norjin, the vegetarian restaurant at the right hand end of a two storey semi-circular building, facing the gompa.  This muxt be the guest house. 
"Rs 350," he says, jiggling the large tag attached to the key to Room 307.
"A day?"
Meals not included.

Turning Indian

I know Brian has been here longer than me, but when he looked at himself in the mirror, at our guest house in Dehradun, and announced,  "I think I'm turning Indian, honey", I really started to doubt his sanity.  Here was my lighter shade of pale, buzz cut greyed strawberry blonde haired, sunburned boy, believing that because he was eating lots of dahl and wearing his Rs 30/- 'authentic, hand crafted Kulla hat', he was now indistinguishable from the 1.2 billion locals. 
Completing the look with his yak wool scarf, we set off for our evening constitutional, out of the relative calm of our side street location, towards the still bustling bazaar, that is Kanwali Road.
"We won't need any money will we?" as we turned out of the gated driveway.  He answered himself, in my hesitation, "No. We'll be alright."
Not even as far as the end of the street, he spotted the peanut seller.  Stopping, and turning to me, "Oh, but I'd love a bag of hot peanuts."
"Do you want to go back? I'll wait on the corner.  Actually I'd probably make more money than you.  Maybe I should go back? "
I left him with, "I'm sure you'll find someone to talk to while I'm gone."
And of course not ten minutes later I return to find him standing next to the peanut seller, surrounded by boys, bikes and other bemused bystanders, tasting the produce;  a mountain of nuts in their shells, roasting over coals.  Now cashed up, he received his Rs 15/- bag of nuts. Finishing his free handful, he was cheered by a passing group of boys on bikes, "Grandfather!" laughing and coming around for another lap.  Taking this as further confirmation of his burgeoning Indian-ness, not the age gap, "See. Indian.  It's in my blood."
Continuing on along the street, feeling more Indian with each step, our next stop is a chemist, where the proprietor is sitting watching the cricket more than the shop.  Always up for a chat with the locals, my boy fronts up to ask the state of play.  I think Australia were chasing an exciting finish type total, but this was relegated to less important when the owner asks, "Are you Indian?"
'What?  Are these people blind?'
The boy of course is chuffed.  Smirks at me, and replies, "What do you think?"
"Well, you're wearing a Kulla hat, so you must be from Himachal Pradesh."
Choosing to see this as definitive proof of his new birthright, he is puffed out with, 'I told you so!' pride for at least a few more overs, until the Australian batsmen ramp up the run rate and look like retrieving a win.
Oh, the nationalistic dilemma.  A newly minted Indian showing his true colours and cheering for the other side.

The Equipment

It's our final night in Dehradun, walking from Lakshmi Guesthouse down Kanwali Road, looking for toilet paper, we find only the peanut seller on the corner. Got any spare cash I ask? Scoot back to the room for a few roops. At 20 cents a bag for hot monkey nuts it's a bit hard to pass up, even after a fine dinner.  In and out of successive stores, owners scurrying into back rooms, or nodding heads signalling no stock of the rolling stuff.  We chance upon a store with a group of locals at the counter transfixed on the TV inside blasting out the last 12 balls of the 4th One Day cricket match between Australia and India; the local side chasing an impressive 350 from Australia, 20 needed to win.  Joining the audience, we note numerous street dogs inside the shop, luxuriating on plastic chairs.  The owner secure in his role, a plump jolly man with a significant forehead cyst, holding court to the locals, now joined by two intrepid foreigners.  We're quickly engaged with the crowd, discussing the merits of cricket, one-dayers and the like.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Australia."
"Oh. Very fine."
Noting this is actually a medical store, I venture to enquire about toilet paper.
"Oh!  We don't have much demand for that." A smiling response.
I ask whether the locals need to hold on for 50 years, providing a suitably animated demonstration. Laughter and Hindi all round.....we're in!
This is the way it is in India he says. No medical sales but customer loyalty generated by the generosity of a shared TV and lively banter.  The game over, cheers all round, India chased down the Aussies to tie the series. Namaste, we venture further in search of the elusive bog roll.  No luck!
We make the return journey to the guest house, passing a late night purveyor of various fried snacks, samosas and tikki, only to see the 'Medicine Man' astride his scooter, store now closed for the evening.  The glance of an eye, a smile greets us.
"Did you get your equipment?" he asks.
"No!" I reply. "There doesn't seem to be much demand for it here."
Epilogue.
Returning to the guest house, Dinesh, the magnificent manager and cook, magically produces two half rolls on request; Babool, fine silky toilet tissue. Confirming there's not much demand (perhaps except from foreigners), the manufacture date reads November 2011.

The Road to Rhotang Pass

What's to do in Manali?
Old Manali for the drop outs, Vishasht for the hot springs and Rohtang Pass.  We never got to Old Manali.  The bus tip to Mandi put paid to that.  But Vishasht hot springs were a treat.  Conversations with mad Delhians and local bathers, lobster red or the vegetarian equivalent after immersion. We decamp to the German bakery discovered by DG, swatting away a blanket of flies from every surface we order what is supposed to be Espresso coffee, cinnamon swirl, yak cheese and crusty baked brown bread rolls.  Aah, luxury, but I digress.
Neraj picks us up at 9 am sharp in a well maintained Suzuki Swift.  Piling in the back seat, we're off up the treacherous winding road at breakneck speed, heading to Rohtang Pass.  Even at 2500 metres we pass scores of hire shops.  Need to get the full bear suit for Rs 50/- per day, we're heading for 6000 metres.
'No thanks.'  Press on.
A head on smash blocks the road.  Hit the horn hard and just keep going.
'How fast?'  Don't ask.
The main highway to Leh soon appreciates into a series of one car width, dirt potholes.  We make it to Mahli, half way.  There's a monastry - well a temple suitable for yoga postures and a brief respite.  I'm thinking this road would make a great segment for 'Top Gear'.  Hammond in a Suzuki Alto 800, 3 cylinders, the most popular, cheapest car in India, fully charged at 47bhp!  Clarkson in an equivalent vintage Ambassador (also known as a 1956 Morris Oxford), and James May in something akin to the best of British - perhaps an old Jag.  First to the top of Rohtang pass or perhaps all the way to the Tibetan border.
Reaching the Pass we press on past the pony rides, paragliders and Indian portaloos, to reach the snow line.  It's colder here, but only to the point of brisk mountain air.  Enough time for a top of the mountain warrior pose and admiring Indian tourist snaps before the even more rapid descent down the switchbacks.
It's almost impossible to describe Indian motoring prowess.  White knuckles are a distant second best on this type of 'road'.  'How fast are we going?'  'He's not really going to overtake on this blind hairpin is he?'  Top speed was 70 kph, but we made it back in one piece ... or should I say two pieces?
Priceless. Not on Mastercard, but a car, driver, eight hours and a never to be repeated experience - Rs 1800, about $30 cash, door to door.  Whew!