GOA

St Francis Xavier's preserved foot
The third component arrives in the shape of one Hannah Williams, and finally our journey and plans of almost two years are complete.

We plunge head first into the tourist trail by holidaying on a Goan beach. Ibethan style tourism at its worst, but still we enjoy the forgotton pleasures of cocktails, beach lazing and dolphin boat rides. The great mystery of the moral landscape of beaches means we are free to expose more skin to the sun without unwanted attention.

Inside though, we are a little confused-is this real India? Are we just escaping to a tourist bubble land? Or is there no such thing as 'real' India? Maybe the search for the 'authentic' is a negation of a modern India where the tourist trade is every bit just as 'real' as village life...For many tourist touts, rickshaw drivers and shop owners, the tourist trade is a life line, but one that only exists for a few months each year as the monsoon drives most people away. In four months enough money must be made to last the year...I try to allow this sympathy to curb my frustrated anger the next time we are hassled by tourist touts or fleeced by a rickshaw driver...

Panaji, the Goan capital is India flavoured by its colonial Porteugeuse past.

Hispanic sounds amidst cobbled quarters and Catholic culture. But it is an Indianised Catholicism, shoes are taken off to enter churches, historically Dalits (the 'Untouchable' caste) were built separate churches, and Jesus is often found on street corners-little icons covered in the same flower wreaths as used in Hindu worship. Paper stars abound-hanging from every window for the Christmas season we had forgotton. We take a walking tour of the town and see an affluence and Mediterranean architecture unknown to other parts of India.

Only with the arrival of Hannah do we realise how far a journey our eating habbits have been on too. The space we have covered on land, is reflected in the subtle distance we have lost to our food.

Cutlery are tools of seperation from food- we are able to sit back, cutting from afar with long sterile implements. In China we were suddenly made accutely aware of this distance-chopsticks cannot be used whilst sitting back from the table. Despite its long elegance, the chopstick demands a closeness to food. You have to lean your face over your food and use it as a kind of shovelling tool. It wasn't long before we joined in with the added slurps and smacks that complete the Chinese eating experience. Then in Pakistan, we edged even closer to our food...implements gone, replaced by the chappatti. At every meal a chappatti is used to pick up the rice or vegetables, it becomes an edible spoon. And then in India, all pretense of separation was gone. Our hands become our eating tools as rice is mashed in with Dal or sauce with our fingers. Scooping up a small clump on the edge of your fingers, the thumb is used to push the rice mix into your mouth. And at all times,the left hand (normally used for less hygienic acts like washing your bottom after the toilet instead of using toilet roll) remains firmly out of sight on your lap. This intimacy with food actually makes it taste better for some unknown reason and is a more humble way of eating-no pretensions of 'civilsation'. But sometimes, in more expensive restaurants, we found ourselves the only ones eating with our fingers amongst Indians. It seems there is a class system at work amidst food, the higher castes do not generally eat with their fingers. Whatever the setting though, our eating habbits come under close scrutiny no matter where we are, sometimes attracting unabashed staring groups of people, bemused, amused, confused or dissaproving of our finger techniques. Our refusal to eat the chappatti first on its own, and instead subverting tradition by eating it rolled up with rice, has often caused direct intervention on trains...'No madam...chappatti, chappatti!". But we are free to laugh and turn this confusion and inept cultural behaviour into a source of amusement for ourselves and those around us. Yet when Ghandi, and countless other young Indian's came to England to study, their cultural experience of food was one filled with terror and shame. Unable to use cutlery, and too mortifyingly embarressed to ask, Gandi remained locked his room, eating only crackers.

Old Goa is a riverside graveyard of forgotton churches....the ghosts of colonialism past now filled with foreign faces, but this time as curious tourists.

The churches are huge and filled with an eerie sense of abandonment. The battle against termites and the inevitable crumbling of time feels rather futile and limited, giving once imposing buildings an ephemeral and almost ridiculous presence.

In the 'Basilica de Bom Jesus' are the preserved remains of St Francis Xavier, displayed for pilgrims to worship in a glass casket. The story of the body is rather bizarre and grizzly...first buried on an island off the mainland of China, it was dug up a year later and found to be miraculously preserved. It was then moved to Malacca, before dug up again and shipped to Goa. His right forearm was later detached and is now displayed in a church in Rome. Once a year it is paraded through the streets for a festival.

Down by the river we find an empty old church, sunlight drifting through windows high, silent stone cool against the day's heat.

And only in this empty silence can a taste of that mysterious 'something else' be savoured...and we sit to savour that presence that is too often absent. We sit and we sing, our voices curving into the echoeing high ceilings. A local woman in old, tired sari stops to sit and listen. And together we all hold a moments breath for that silence after singing, the presence of a deeper, richer sound...

Stop your singing!

Stop, because,

as I heard it,

I heard also

another voice

coming from the interstices

of the gentle enchantment

which your singing

brought unto us.

I heard you,

and I heard it,

at the same time

and different,

singing together.

And the melody

which was not there,

if I well remember

makes me cry.

Your voice:

was it an enchantment which,

unwillingly,

in this vague moment

woke up

a certain being,

to us a stranger,

which spoke to us?

I don't know.

Don't sing.

Let me hear

the silence

that there is

after your singing.

Oh! Nothing, nothing!

Only the sorrow

for having heard,

for having wished to hear,

beyond the meaning a voice has.

Which angel, as you spoke,

without your knowledge

came down to earth

where the soul wanders

and with his wings

blew the embers

of an unknown home?

Stop your singing!

I wish the silence

to put to sleep

the memory

of the voice I heard,

misunderstood,

which was lost

as I heard it

(Fernando Pessoa)

PERIYARMUDALIARCHAVADI (try saying that quickly when a bus is about to depart and you need to check if it stops at your village!!)

Roof-top New Years Eve gathering...

For a month, we swap our forest life for a local street two minutes walk from the beach, and rent a house amidst the village. From our balcony we become voyeurs on the life of Indian village street life, whilst we often find ourselves the subject of another's voyeuristic imaginings...how do we dress, what do we eat, how do we behave...all are sources of endless wonderings.

Many Indian houses have their own room for Puja's (prayers)....Christmas Day lunch

Frequeting the local Thali pitstop cafe. Thali is a pile of rice on a banana leaf with a selection of hot sauces, all to be eaten with the hands. You can ask for more as many times as your belly can handle, all for the bargain price of 15p.

And although our thick walls often provided a sense of much needed privacy, sadly it is not a boundary the local temple respects. At 4.30am each morning we are kindly greeted with the blaring sounds of temple music-a mixture of Bollywood sounding pop and traditional Indian music. It is the call for life to begin, for the roosters to crow, the engines to start revving and tooting on the roads, the women to call to their children in the streets and the men to begin the great mysterious act of looking like they never do any work...

Each morning, our little street was a riot of colourful patterns and designs with the morning ritual of 'Kolums'-intricate patterns drawn on the ground. On Christmas Day and New Years Day we were greeted with festive wishes written in English along the streets. It is the job of the women to create this auspicious art work whilst later children, wheels, feet and wind of every day slowly rub them away...apparently a sign of the fragility of life.
Some say it was traditionally started to invite birds and small insects into the home (as rice flour was used) and thus served as a reminder of the co-existence of all beings. Other say it is to intice Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, across the house threshold whilst others maintain it is to ward off evil spirits...Either way, it is interesting reminder of the auspiciousness of the home's threshold-the symbol of one's relationship with the outer world....

Throughout the month, we bike back and forth to Auroville and Pondicherry, cycling through the life of the surrounding villages. I pass a funeral one day where crowds of women weep and wail outside the house. I pass the next day as the men wheel the flower bedecked corpse on a platform whilst eunochs dance to music and drums. Behind, the street is strewn with flowers...even in death, India is alive with colour, fragrance and life.

The Monkey god Hanuman popped round on Christmas Day to sing a song for a ruppee...

One morning, I wash my clothes outside- scrub, rinse and beat it on the ground to better absorb the soap bubbles. Below me I hear a similar echoe of rhythmic beats and look down to see a local woman, sari tucked up around her waist, washing her clothes too. For a moment we just stand staring at each other, each projecting ourselves into the other in idle contemplation of all the selves that could have been. And, for a moment, we each smile, life isn't really that different sometimes, a sea of cultural difference sailed over with soapy washing water. For a moment, two women washing are nothing more than that....just two women washing.

MORATTANDI CHILDREN'S GROUP

I met a man who told me that he taught in a night school in a small village outside Auroville. The school itself was just a roughly thatched cottage with a concrete floor and a strip bulb, about the size of my bedroom at home. Every evening 50 children crammed in for help with their homework and lessons in English and Maths. There were only two teachers and children aged between four and perhaps 14, so things were rather chaotic inside. The children were so excited to see us, chorusing 'Hello! Vanakam!'. The extent of their excitement over small things- balloons, glitter, biscuits, was humbling and touching.

We visited at the weekends to play games and sing songs which got in as many English words as possible. On Christmas eve we made lanterns with empty plastic bottles. As we began cutting the tops off them the children looked worried. They'd borrowed the bottles from people around the village, but had promised to take them back. I realised the difference in the boundaries of what was considered waste- plastic bottles are a valuable and useful commodity to the people in the village.

We took paper and paints, glitter and cotton wool for snowmen, all of which the children excitedly transformed into a collection of pictures that covered the road outside. They were beautiful; houses, butterflies, christmas trees, snowmen (which they knew all about from the television). Local women gathered to examine them and eye us suspiciously. I wondered how they felt about what we were doing with the children and was aware of the huge gap in cultural understanding between us. Did they mind that some of the children went home with paint on their clothes? In a community where so much energy is focussed on making a living, doing creative things just for the sake of it isn't necessarily considered valuable.

SADHANA FOREST- AUROVILLE

The rich brown red of soil freshly broken, clumps under my bare toes, squelching warm against my skin.

Sadhana Forest is a reforestation project and part of the Auroville international community outside Pondicherry. The aim is to reforest the landscape with native trees and develop water conservation, soil erosion control and vegan organic gardening. We stayed for two weeks-sleeping in large communal bamboo huts, planting trees, cooking vegan food, riding bicycles down dirt tracks with no lights, bonfires by the edge of the mud pool, making close friendships, sun heated water showers from buckets, compost toilets (a profound realisation of the usefulness of our waste and how uncivilised it is to pump it into the sea as 'waste' when its the soil that needs it and can use it) and, of course, trying to find a way to live in harmony with the mosquitoes....and inevitably trying to squash the mothers whenever we could.

I planted my first ever tree and sang quietly to it...a song for growth. Tree planting seems such a powerful act yet sometimes we do it with no sense of wonder. Sometimes the heat, the sweat, the hard digging under the hot sun distracts my mind from the sanctity of planting and growing life. I step back, and see in the recently disturbed red gash below me, a small, fragile branch of green. Almost lost beneath my soil encrusted boots, this small, insignificant and fragile green is what I depend on. I thought I was here to 'help' nature, to look after these trees....only now do I see how they help us, how they look after us. This green, almost irrelevant in its smallness, has the power to grant life with its oxygen and soil nutrients. This work of digging and planting grows trees, but it is also nurtures us.

Auroville http://www.auroville.org/ (make your own mind up)
...a place of unsettling contradictions....they say we are united as they build their walls to keep the locals out, they say we are all equal as they make rules for special treatment....all these thoughts course through my mind as I look on the great ball of gold before me-the Matrimandir.

I have been here for a month, and still I do not understand this international community. Instead of community, I feel clear divisions between insiders and outsiders. Instead of a new humanity I see disturbing snippets of class and race divisions, the same story that has plagued humanity throughout the ages. But on this day, I finally arrange a tour to the Matrimandir...I finally make the effort to learn more about the foundations of this place. Amidst the cold-war world of paranoia and national divisions, Auroville was founded in 1968 as a "universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony above all creeds, all politics and all nationalities. The purpose of Auroville is to realise human unity." With their own hands and money, people from all over the world came to build this city, founded on unity in diversity rather than national conformity, and live a life focused on developing human consciousness. The 'heart' of the community is the Matrimandir-a space for the meditation needed in order to sustain this search for a new human consciousness.

And so I walk slowly and silently up the stairs, into the open mouth of this golden globe. Inside the soft white carpets, white walls and soft green and red lighting create a sense of a cocoon, the womb, a sense of the source of life...and I try not to think of all the dodgy B-class sci-fi movies from the 1960's! We walk up in spirals and enter the inner meditation chamber...a circular room of white. At it's centre the world's largest crystal in spherical form reflects our inverted image back to us. No religious icons, no visual stimulants other than our own reflection. Just us, the deafening silence, and a solitary shaft of light streaming from the high ceiling onto the crystal. And so we sit, in the deepest silence I have ever heard, we sit, cut off from the world and life, we sit and we settle into the silence and all that it has to say...

"No fixed meditations, none of all that, but they should stay there in silence, in silence and concentration. A place for trying to find one's consciousness" (The Mother)

Stepping out into the day's sunshine later, it takes me a long time to fully return. I sit under an ancient Banyan tree and allow my mind to listen and absorb life again after the darkness and silence. I watch humans moving, breathing, sitting, laughing....I watch humans watching humans watching life...and I realise sometimes we need both the spaces of life and no-life in order to reflect. We have caves in which to cut off from life and enter the dark of our minds. And we have trees and sunsets and sea shores to sit by and reflect on the beauty of life and our place in it. And despite my positive experience inside the Matrimandir, I still cannot reconcile the doctrine of a new humanity to the globe before me- built in gold in one of the world's poorest countries. We have all this God made nature yet we seek to build our own spaces of worship....it leaves me wondering if it is God we are seeking to worship in these spaces or is it ourselves? Is it merely a temple to our own strength and ability we come to worship?

PONDICHERRY

Colourful markets and scavenging cows, ladies in motorbikes with free-floating saris behind, all interspersed with Western cafes and book shops. From the forest we would cycle, the caffeine craving pumping our legs on the 10 KM route through traffic crazed. It was our source of escape, cheap internet, a new book ,perusing pretty fabrics in the market, coffee, coffee, coffee. But also a good re-engagement with Indian life we had forgotten in the foreigner filled forest. We came to wander in the old graveyard, still full of life with women washing and children playing cricket. We came to wander through the streets, alongside the roaming cows eternally munching, rickshaws overflowing with children on their way home from school. We came to wander through the market, embracing the smells of heavy incense mingled with fresh flowers and rotten vegetables. We came to wander through the alladin's cave of material shops, touching longingly the beautiful intricate sari's we could not afford.

We were invited to the 'Maturation Ceremony' of a friends daughter. This event marks the passage of a girl into womanhood and is celebrated at the time of her first period. The new woman, dressed in a sari and decorated with jewels and flowers stood on a stage before the audience to be photographed and admired. Musicians played while people filed up to present her with gifts and shower her with rice. Later everyone was invited to a feast of traditional South Indian food, sitting in rows and eating from banana leaves, before leaving and being given the gift of a coconut.

According to some, the event seems to be a way for the family to formally announce the girls womanhood and put her on display for proposals of marriage. The stage was filled with mysterious symbols; a coconut, broken in two to display its pristine interior, flowers strewn amidst grains of rice and coloured powder, small bells and bowls of liquid. Someone explained to me that the coconut symbolised the girls future as a wife; two parts of a whole. It seemed potent to me as a symbol associated with the loss of virginity, its incredibly white flesh opened and on display, soon to begin to decay...


The Indian photographer...has the power to command all. I have seen him bully his way around auspicious moments, stopping time, forcing his subjects into unnatural positions only to blind them with his merciless, never-ending flash in a preserved moment of rabbit-in-headlights terror. He is not the artist my mind evokes with that sacred word I aspire to- ''photographer". Yet in the desperate climb to modernity, he is bestowed with a power and authority, above even the priest in a wedding ceremony. For he, unlike the simple priest, can stop time, he can make magic-preserving the stalked and stunned image of Granny forever more.

He came limping along, bare foot, body hunched, a look of desperate pleading on his young face. He signalled his hands to his mouth, begging for food. In an India where the population struggles to communicate over the myriad of different languages and cultures, the language of the street beggars is surprisingly uniform. I couldn't say no. At times I have walked past shrunken girls forcing themselves through circus hoops, their brother a painted clown drumming tiredly with his face a mask of childhood lost no make-up can hide. And I have given money to old ladies, tiredness etched into their deep wrinkles. And I have refused money and offered only food to people with limbs lost, limbs deformed trailing behind them....

But today I felt I would offer him any food he wanted... dinner, fruit, water-anything his tiny body craved.....

'Ice-Cream!'came the delighted response to my surprised ears. Are you sure you don't want something more healthy? Some rice? A substantial meal?

Íce-cream! Ice-cream!'

The promise of sugar already pumping through his body-gone was the decrepit stance and burdened shuffle. Instead, I found before me a boy, a child as all children should be, a look of excited glee spread wide across his cheeky face, his legs already skipping him ahead to the ice-cream parlour.

And as we talked (with the helpful translation of the ice-cream vendor) over the tutti-frutti colours fast disappearing, he told me how he slept with his mother outside the church on the street by the open gutters. His father had died long ago. His brother, a rickshaw driver, slept in the back of his auto. He says he went to school, but I don't know if he knew that is what I wanted to hear. His arms were covered with old scars....tales and tears I would never hear. As quickly as the melting ice-cream in the hot night, he was up and out of the parlour with sugar happy smile and a ''thank-you madam''. I gave him some money for his mother. I watched him half-skip, half-run back out into the dark, hot night, running back to find his friends and boast of his luxury. And my wallet, a little lighter now, felt useless, my money worthless. What good is this paper? Will it really change anything for him? For the countless myriad of nameless faces that I walk by every day? And I try to console myself that maybe treating him as human being was worth something. I try to reassure my troubled conscience that taking the time to make him feel special, giving him the chance to enjoy a childhood pleasure, had some meaning for him too....and not just me....