Bharathanatyam Dance Performance

On Oct 26, 2006, two months of learning Bharathanatyam dance, the traditional dance style of South India, culminated in a performance. Some pictures, for your viewing pleasure:

Raksha, Rachel, Me, Nate, Guru Kripa, Roslyn, and Ashley


Me in traditional costume, jewelry, and make-up.


Kripa and me, only minutes after Raksha told me to "sit" more, and I only succeeded in ripping my pants.


Hand and foot paint.


Mid-dance. Ros looks angry. I look uninterested. Only Ashley is smiling like we should be.


We're head-bobbing and shoulder-jerking here, all in the symbollic attempt to encourage our audience to sit down a good hour after they already have.


Final formation in the lamp dance. I was fighting for balance the entire time, hence the strained smile.


Me and Ros, post-dance.


Stage make-up. My eyes are supposed to look wide and shiny.


Yar! Angry-Demon-Face! (Believe it or not, this face is actually made in association with one of the dance mudras.)


Dramatic. Note my hand paint: better to see mudras (hand gestures) from far away.


I wasn't allowed to wear my glasses during the performance, but if you ask me they go fabulously with my red bindi.

Diwali: The Fesitival of Lights & High Anxiety

For the past few days, Mysore has been a war zone. The air has been filled with a barrage of shots loud enough to rattle your ribcage and echo in your eardrums for several minutes following; even the silence is wrought with an electric anxiety of the next crashing boom. The roadsides are piled so high with debris they look like city dumps. A few people, including children, have been seriously injured. Many others have suffered mild burns. Yes, it’s that time of the year again: Happy Diwali, India!

As I sit at my desk, pleading cooperation from an Internet connection as staccato as the festival soundtrack outside my window, scratching maniacally at random mosquito-chewed appendages, jumping sporadically at gunshot firecracker bursts and quivering in the intermissions in anticipation of my ears’ next punishment, I am quite happy there are no video cameras around. If this instance was replayed without the sound, I think I could cameo as some evil villain’s slobbering, dim-witted minion.

Just days before the festival weekend started, a group of schoolchildren on bikes shoved pink fliers into my hand as they flew by. “No crackers on Deepavali!” the papers beseeched me. It took me a good minute to realize that the “crackers” were not of the Ritz or Keebler Elf variety, but actually referred to fireworks (a fact which surely only encouraged my flippant treatment of the issue). Crackers, according to the sheet, can cause all sorts of damage to the welfare of the environment and Mysore citizens. The smoke gets stuck on trees and limits their abilities to photosynthesize, as well as causing flare-ups of asthma, bronchitis, and eye troubles. The litter fills up drains and contaminates water supplies. The sound inspires headaches and fear.

The American in me scoffed, my mind summoning serene Fourth of July scenes involving sparklers protruding from sandcastles. Oh, India. How ridiculous! How could an innocent sparkler stand between a tree and its sunlight? And perhaps those party poppers filled with confetti or the round white snappers you throw against the ground could cause some litter, but certainly not enough to damage drainage systems!

I chuckled at the fliers, passed them onto one of the workers here at the Dhvanyaloka Centre for Indian Studies, and liberally made fun of them. I can only say that I was naïve; the American in me had a lot to learn about Diwali.

In America, fireworks are a restricted and government-regulated item. In India, there is no such thing as an illegal cracker. It’s every man for himself, as it seems civilians can purchase and set off even the grand-daddy incendiaries of extravagant Fourth of July shows. Indians really don’t seem to understand that they’re wielding explosive devices: they release screamers horizontally across busy roads with no regard to the cars passing by, and children deposit burning sticks of cracker-dynamite onto the end of their driveways just as jumpy pedestrians approach. You take your life in your hands when you go walking on Diwali. I can’t even imagine trying to drive with fire soaring through the air around me and unexpected, decibel-heavy bangs startling me every few minutes.

I am not exactly sure what is being celebrated on this weekend in October. I have heard rumors that Diwali marks the end of the rainy season and the start of a stretch of time during which it becomes socially acceptable for husband and wife to resume the baby-making efforts (makes sense, in that case, why such an event would be welcomed with riotous explosions). The holiday’s subtitle is “the Festival of Lights,” which is definitely no hyperbole. Indians seem united in the effort to keep a steady glow going. Crackers are set off intermittently throughout the day, although I can’t say I see the use of making white fire in the daylight. As night falls, however, it’s a constant soundtrack of booms, bangs, crackles, and pops for hours. Dusk happens around 6:30pm here, and Mysore hasn’t let up until well past 11 for each of the four festival days. My nerves were as shattered as the drain-clogging cracker debris long ago.

I once commented that Indians, like American college students, knew how to party. In light of Diwali (no pun intended), I rescind that statement. Compared to Indians, Americans celebrate like crotchety and fragile-boned misers in rocking chairs. I think one Diwali is plenty enough for my eardrums and mental stability, but I must give Indians their props. We’ve experienced a procession of elephants for Dasara, melting clay statues for Ganesha, premature deafness and temporary anxiety disorders for Diwali, plus days off galore for all. The States may commercialize at will; it’s definitely India who gets the most out of their unforgettably unique holidays.

Vacay

If you like traveling and think a semester’s worth of classes is just too long of a time commitment, I strongly suggesting planning South India into your collegiate future. Our classes last two months, lack Fridays, and are interspersed with long weekends to entire weeks of “cultural excursions” (read: vacays thinly veiled as education). At the end of the two months, we’re given three weeks to go off and be tourists free of scholastic obligation (although Syracuse students spend two of those three weeks in a three-credit traveling seminar—not such a bad deal). The final month is reserved for independent projects of the students’ choosing, which can be anything from intensive sitar to creative writing to an internship at a tribal school. Basically, coming to India is an open-ended question with a nice view and a lot of accredited time off. We’re always on the verge of some new trip, even when we’ve just returned from one.

Mysore, our home and base of operations in South India, is located in Karnataka. Dr. Rao, the program director, is somewhat of a celebrity as a result of his archeological and restorative exploits. Together, these two facts mean an intimate and cushy exploration of the southern state, brought to us courtesy our student fee and the Archeological Society of India. For the equivalent of about three weeks altogether, Dr. Rao and Bharanath Travels loaded all thirteen of us into a van and shuttled us from site to site, city to city, giving us a preview of what’s it’s like to be Kannada and closet temple-ophiles.

Now that all of our cultural excursions are finished, I can only say that I’ve had my fill and then some of Hindu and Buddhist religious architecture. I never need to see another carving of a yarla (a combination between an elephant, crocodile, and lion that really just looks like a tapir having digestive problems from both ends) or a dancing woman so awkwardly proportioned that she’d make Barbie jealous. All of the temples pretty much looked the same to me—and smelled the same too. I’m sure Axe and Tag and Bodman would be fighting over the rights to ‘Temple’ if they only knew of its existence. What woman, after all, can resist the pungent fragrance of soapstone washed with years of stale urine?

Ah, but the author doth protest too much. The excursions were not all temples, and the temples were not all bad. One, for example, came complete with its own secret identity. In Hampi, the Vithala leads a double life: mind-mannered worship site by day, entire symphonic orchestra by night. Once a famous musical hall, the pillars of the temple can be played like musical instruments. A mere tap on one of the stone columns summons drums, string instruments, bells, clay pots, and more. Each of the columns corresponds to a different instrument and each sounds like a different instrument, even though (to my untrained eye at least) they look as though they’re all carved in the same shape. I imagine any music major would be jealous of such digs. I know I certainly wouldn’t mind having a Vithala in my backyard.

Near the Vithala, the Virupaksha boasted a personal temple elephant which made rounds twice a day to bless the present visitors and help in the religious ceremonies. We just so happened to be there for the elephant’s morning stroll, and I just so happened to have her trunk on my head and her sacred breath in my face—a party story that I’m sure will never get old. I visited Pattadakal, a “neighborhood” of temples, wet and dripping after an unplanned and fully-clothed plunge into a sacred pool in Mahakuta, and Badami, while a bit on the smelly side, had some fabulous views and pretty entertaining signs warning visitors to watch out for the “monkey menace.” All in all, very much worth the chance to escape the classroom and set up camp in a hotel with hot water and toilet paper available at your whim.

Of course, no travel log is complete without touching on the Indian road system, which is a diverse combination of dirt, rocks, and pavement. Imaginative signs line the way with slogans like: “Come home in peace, not in pieces” and “Follow traffic laws, conserve rainwater!” Better yet, when we’re driving around on India’s jackhammer roads in the wildly bouncing van (a ride not recommended for pregnant woman or people with heart or back problems), Indian towns have a habit of transforming into baseball stadiums. As we pass through populated areas and the townspeople realize that a bus of white foreigners is rolling by, ‘The Wave’ is picked up en masse.

After all the time I clocked sightseeing in Karnataka, I can’t say I have a much better grasp on India. It’s a big country (all the better to build millions of temples in!) and Karnataka is only one part. Four months may never be enough to develop an understanding or familiarity with South Asia, but I’ve certainly learned a lot. Now when I set off for my traveling seminar, I’ll be extra sure to be judicious with my rainwater.

Food

When I told people I was running off to India for a semester of my life, elephantiasis, malaria, typhoid, and a whole slew of other third world diseases were always first and foremost on everyone’s list of concerns. While it’s reassuring to know that my family and friends don’t want me coming back foaming at the mouth with chronic hallucinations and an arm expanded to roughly the size of China, “disease-ridden” India has been pretty tame. (Mosquitoes are a different story altogether. Perhaps I’ve mentioned them and their atrocities in each of my previous articles, but you’ll have to get used to it as I’m sure I’ll continue to mention them. They’re terrible and they need to die. My lower legs are a war zone, and I am now sporting my third bite on the bottom of my foot. Mosquitoes, please, the bottom of my foot? I know my foreign blood tastes fabulous, but come on. How obnoxiously desperate can you be?)

The next concern is the food—the dreadfully, horribly, stomach-punishing, spicy food. I like to think of this “spicy food” infamy as India’s try at the Boogeyman myth. When gutsy American travelers plan their overseas adventures, it’s the little closet monster that concerned friends wave around as soon as South Asia is mentioned. It pokes its head out of a dark and shadowy corner, all fanged, prickly, and breathing fire, and gurgles, “Oh, do watch out for the food! They like spice in India! A lot!”

Okay, yes. India does like spice. But it also adores rice, curd (a more primitive form of yogurt), puuri (which I liken to fried puffs of air), potatoes, and these fabulous rice chips whose name I can never remember. It offers noodles, tomato soup, veggies, and some of the most fabulous fruit juices I have ever spent less than a nickel on. To prepare for India, I purchased a pharmacy of drugs intended to save my digestive system from certain peril. Two months later in Mysore, while taking inventory of my own personal Walgreens, I find that I have popped a couple Peptos and snacked on some Tums (yes, when Cheap College Student goes to India, calcium-enriched, tropical fruit Tums can double as dessert). Overall, my food-born digestive failures have been no more intense or frequent than what they would have been back in Syracuse. The Gobi Man, much beloved provider of fried and sauced cauliflower, whips up the hottest food I have eaten yet, and my mouth only sizzles for about five minutes afterwards. To summarize: India’s spice fetish is all bravado. You could get hotter in your local corner market’s buffalo wings.

Still, India’s food is definitely different. I had heard rumors, before my arrival here, that an entire Indian meal can be bought for the measly sum of one American dollar. Sadly, I must debunk this myth. I suppose that’s true for some restaurants and some stomachs; for the most part, though, there is a catch. My American belly is used to excess, but Indian restaurants are really only excessive when it comes to their sauce. Paneer pollack, for example, is a complete Indian entrée. In most restaurants, it would probably cost around an American dollar, but also in most restaurants, it would be comprised of about five pieces of paneer—small, party-sized cubes of a substance similar to cottage cheese—drenched in roughly a gallon of pollack—a spinach sauce. Hardly enough to satiate my “Super-size Me!” American notion of eating out, I’m afraid. Where’s my salad and my choice of side dish? So, okay, instead of $1, you have to invest in some naan (a.k.a. bread) or rice along with the entrée, which might just tip your bill into the $1.50 – $2.00 range. (Unbearable, I know. There goes the life savings.)

I’m sorry to say, but Indian food will never hit quite the same chord with me as fried chicken, fast food French fries, salads heaped in dressing, lavish desserts, and cow (steak, hamburger, ribs—cow in any form I’ll take). It’s fabulous that the new diet has allowed me to shed some pounds, but I’ve been hankering desperately for the calorie-laden, artery-clogging, obesity-loving American food I know and love. A good portion of our days here at the Dhvanyaloka Centre for Indian Studies is spent in nostalgic fantasies of all the food we’ll chow on upon return to US-living. Let me just say that no girlish fears of pudge will be enough to save my new Indian-born figure from total annihilation. Forget “hakuna matata,” life is just better when your only hope of avoiding a blubberous decline is a treadmill and a step machine. Now that’s the kind of motto this American girl can live by.

Foreigner Fame

Aspiring media darlings and lovers of the limelight: forget making it big in the States. Come to India instead. All you have to do is dust off that American accent and you’re an instant star. No preparation required.

I’ll break it down with some good old-fashioned stereotyping: the Irish adore their beer, Americans their money, Italians their wine, and the Aussies their now dearly departed Steve Irwin. The thing that gets Indian toes a-tapping is foreigners. “What country?” has skyrocketed to the top of my list of questions-people-ask-me, beating out even the standard assessment tool of colligates: “What’s your major?” In Mahabalipuram outside of Chennai, where the humidity and sun were so intense that the mere act of breathing is equivalent to an intensive full-body work out, Indians were clamoring to be photographed next to me. I graciously declined all offers, haunted by nightmares of my feverishly flushed and sweaty face making it into some family photo album. I’m not sure when standing next to a half-melted American became a Kodak-worthy event, but it definitely makes for a photograph in serious demand among camera-wielding Indians.

School pens, like unattractive pictures, are a currency all on their own. I may never understand why, but Indian girls and boys definitely find panache in being able to take notes in American ink. To make matters worse, Indian youngsters are ubiquitous; I’m beginning to suspect that teachers put class on hiatus when a foreigner comes into town just so one or two of the children can retrieve a coveted American writing utensil for show and tell. When I venture out into the streets or temple areas of India, I’m guaranteed to hear at least one voice beseeching me with, “Mah-dahm, skoo pen?” Don’t be fooled by the sweet, plaintive tone, though—it’s merely a cover. Just like the United States had beanie babies and Tickle Me Elmo to create frenzies among present-buying mothers, the school pen turns Indian children into greedy, wild savages. The one time that I did have a pen on me to give a child, a dogpile had formed on top of the boy in the millisecond before my offering even had a chance to leave my hand. Mind you, the pen that caused the fracas was the plainest and most boring pen imaginable; it was a solid white tube with a blue cap, one of fifteen from an off-brand, Big Lots multipack that probably cost no more than $1. It didn’t even have writing on it, so there was nothing that made it particularly American. I can only imagine the pandemonium that would have ensued from something with color or a retractable point.

The celebrity that Indians associate with foreigners is automatic and unconditional. At times, it’s a pest. Indian men must liken Western woman to porn stars: our appreciation for clothes that reveal both the ankles and the shoulders is of course a sure sign of unconscious nymphomaniac tendencies, like a Freudian slip of the wardrobe. Either way, it’s not considered a breach of etiquette in India to stare, and so stare the men do. Liberally. Openly. Not always so comfortably. It’s those times that you’re sitting in a restaurant trying to digest your fresh lime soda and Gobi Manchurian (arguably the best use of cauliflower ever discovered by man) with twenty pairs of eyes fixedly analyzing your eating habits that you find yourself cursing India’s foreigner fixation.

But it’s those other times, like when you find yourself at the Viveka Tribal Center for Learning, that you couldn’t feel more touched by this unwarranted and undeserved stardom. A cultural excursion landed us at the school right in the middle of its prime time for learning, so that we could meet the children and they could meet us. The students gathered in throngs when our bus pulled up. As we stepped off, we were welcomed with choruses of “Hello!” and “Good morning!” Young faces, 150 strong, stared at the group of us like we were The Beatles, or Audrey Hepburns, or Brad Pitts. They didn’t know our names or what our personalities were like—they didn’t even know that we would return their exuberant greetings—but they stared at us like were amazing. To them we were: we were foreigners. We came with our digital cameras, our clean and quality clothes, our obligatory educations, and our infinite school pens. Most of these children were first generation students; no one in their family had set foot in so much as an elementary school before them. As we wandered through the campus, kids from the “third standard,” without a teacher in sight, ran into their classroom and belted out the ABCs so they could show off to us how much they know. Girls from the “fourth standard” recited a prayer for us so we could hear the words. Others begged us to sing them American songs, taught us that “white” is “bili” in Kannada, asked us our names and shyly provided their own in return. As I passed by a classroom in the middle of reciting the alphabet, my eyes met those of a girl in the front row who, surprised, promptly forgot to continue reciting. I grinned and waved at her, and a bashful, sheepish smile stretched across her face. In that smile, all the unpleasant ogling in the world became unimportant.

India is extremes and contrasts. In the time it takes to breathe (or to break a sweat if you happen to be visiting Mahabalipuram), the things about it that you hate the most can become the things about it that you love, and the memories that you will treasure for years arise from the experiences that you started off thinking were worthless. You have to keep on your toes here: India, like any good media sweetheart, is all about the drama.

Karnataka: A Temple Extravaganza

India is a huge country. I might have known the size of South Asia before hopping the plane over, but I certainly did not comprehend the diversity and amount of history and culture inherent in the country I chose to spend the semester in. Even though, as a study abroad student, I am more of a temporary resident here, I still feel like a weekend tourist. Four months will never be long enough to see and experience everything that India has to offer; even with a program director who has connections all across the subcontinent, I know I will still come up short by my departure in December. As a part of the Culture and Civilization of India course, our group forays around Karnataka provided a small glimpse of the vast and complex country known as India.

Our first weekend in India was spent touring our new surroundings in Mysore. Although it was not exactly a part of the cultural excursions since Dr. M. S. Nagaraga Rao did not accompany us, the itinerary and locations of the day were chosen and arranged by Dr. Rao, and the trip—my first taste of Indian archeology—still remains one of the most vivid to me. On the top of Chamundi Hill, I saw my first temple structure, paid alms to my first Nandi, was given my first bindi by a holy man, and was approached for the first time by young students looking to acquire coveted “school pens.” Later, I would return with the group to make the climb up the 1,001 steps, a memorable experience that was as grueling as it was rewarding. Mysore is known throughout the country for its beautiful palaces, and we were given the opportunity to have an in depth and personal tour of the main palace. It was a busy day, and one that set the stage for my future experiences in Mysore.

Our real cultural excursions began in Sravanabelgola, with a hike up a rock hill to see the colossal statue of Gomateshwara. From there, we toured Belur and Hale bid, two cities in southern Karnataka that are well-known for their Hoysala and Chaluyka architecture. The Keshava Temple in Belur was unique because it was still an active temple, and when we went there was a large gathering of people and jazzy music playing in the background. In Hale bid, we viewed the Hoysaleswara Temple, which epitomizes Hoysala-style artistry.

The Chaluykas and Hoysalas were very prolific builders, as examples of their architectural constructions can be seen all throughout Karnataka. The Chalukyas, in fact, built many of the temples that we visited during our cultural excursions and on our tour of Mysore. Among them, one of my favorites was the series built into a rocky hillside in Badami. Admittedly, the ornamental Chalukya and Hoysala temples all look very similar to my untrained eye; I have difficulty separating the different religious structures that we visited, and I still cannot determine precisely from which temples all of my photographs are taken. The excursion to Badami, in contrast, remains vivid and unique. I am not particularly an aficionado of the Chalukya and Hoysala tradition of excessive embellishment. Architects and sculptors during the time period certainly knew how to get the most out of their rock; however, instead of looking full and space-efficient, I find the plethora of carvings to be rather overwhelming. The Badami temples that we visited during our weeklong travels in northern Karnataka are exemplary of the Chalukya period, yet they have a look and feel that is somewhat more serene and controlled. The artistry and flourish of the temples, combined with the natural tranquility of aerial views and solid expanses of soapstone made the Badami caves a pleasing sight for me. The experience reminded me a little of Chamundi Hill and Sravanabelgola: there is definitely something satisfying in ascending a rough, carnal, and sometimes precarious stairway to enjoy a bird’s eye view of the surrounding area.

The early Chalukyas of Badami were especially known for experimenting with mixtures and combinations of different architectural styles from northern and southern India. At Aihole, one can find Dravidian, Deccan, and Rashtrakutan traditions of sculpting meshed together in a single building. Perhaps because of the sheer number and the similar form of Chalukya architecture, I find it difficult to distinguish our excursion to Aihole from the rest. Pattadakal, similarly, is a blur to me; the most vivid memory I have of it is that, instead of the manicured gardens that surround some temples, Pattadakal’s grounds were a plowed and furrowed expanse of dirt. The temples we saw in Pattadakal were grouped together in what I will call a “neighborhood” for lack of a better term, and I believe that one of them had a rough staircase that led to the breezy roof.

After seeing a myriad of ornamental and action-packed Chalukya and Hoysala temples, the sight of Ibrahim Rauza and Golgumbaz, two feats of the more stoic Islamic religious architecture, was a much-needed and refreshing shock. South India knows how to fill every inch of available space; in complete contrast, Islamic architects know how to not fill it. The graceful arches and domes of Ibrahim Rauza and Golgumbaz are tall and sloping, and the two buildings are majestic for their austere simplicity and skillful design. I felt very small next to the gigantic mosques, but the size and empty space were essential to the impact of the two fantastic structures. It is almost as if the architects built a new sky when constructing the mosque and mausoleum; just as a tree house is built around a tree, Ibrahim Rauza and Golgumbaz seem to be constructed around the sky, and the flocks of birds that inhabit Islamic architecture only made the relationship more severe. According to Islamic tradition, birds use the same language as God in their singing, so having a constant flurry of wings and avian chatter is an essential to the atmosphere of mosques.

The Chalukyas built thousands of temples in order that each town had at least one or two at their disposal. The mosques, on the other hand, seemed to know that they were something special and rare in our tour through Karnataka. Set slightly removed from the rest of Hampi, Ibrahim Rauza had a powerful and commanding presence. Golgumbaz had an especially strong impact on me as well because, not only were we able to drink chai and watch the sun set behind the impressive dome, but we were also able to return the next morning, climb the steps, and experience the “whisper gallery.” Golgumbaz’s dome has impressive acoustics, so even the quietest noises are amplified. Something whispered against the sloping wall can be heard clearly many meters away on the other side. Seeing the Islamic architecture was definitely one of my favorite parts of the week in northern Karnataka.

Indian temples are generally always built to suit multiple functions and needs. Beyond just a location to worship a god, temples are designed to be social hot spots. Community events, including religious discourses, marriages, and song and dance performances, were held in temples so that they could also be held in front of the gods. Not only did this practice add religious sanction to the event, but it simultaneously served as an alternative form of pooja that made devotion to the god an inherent part of the community’s daily life. The dual purpose of Chalukya and Hoysala temples is manifested in open designs that give the structure the capacity to house a large crowd; in stone benches added for seating; in larger eaves to move the drip drains out of the way; and in wide surrounding platforms for visitors and devotees to walk around on. I have seen all of these characteristics while touring Karnataka’s archeology; however, the functionality of India’s religious structures was never plainer to me than it was in the Vithala Temple of the ancient city of Vijaynagara. The Vithala Temple does not provide merely a multipurpose space; the building itself is multipurpose. Once a famous dance hall, the pillars of the Vithala can be played like a musical instrument. Its clever architects have even figured out how to make rock imitate a variety of instruments. Thus, the Vithala leads a double life: mind-mannered worship site by day, entire symphonic orchestra by night. I was stunned to arrive at the seemingly ordinary temple to be met with the resonance of drums, string instruments, bells, clay pots, and more, all of which arise from light taps on the different stone columns. I cannot even begin to fathom how the granite was manipulated in order to create such diverse sounds; the Vithala Temple, to me, will always be something akin to a supernatural Indian miracle. I only wish that I could have been present at the temple during its prime, and could have heard the songs produced by such a unique and revolutionary creation in person.

During the same day that we visited the Vithala Temple, we also went to the Virupaksha Temple. Like the Keshava Temple in Belur, Virupaksha is a living temple which is still in use for worship. We had arrived at an auspicious time, since the temple elephant was brought out to take her morning walk, participate in the religious rituals, and bless the current visitors by gently resting her trunk on their heads and breathing on them. Since elephants are not native to the United States and can only be viewed from afar in zoos, it is exciting to interact with the animals. It is also exciting to be able to say that I have been blessed by an elephant.

Earlier in our weeklong exploration of northern Karnataka, we visited the temples of Mahakuta. Because they must also serve as community centers, Indian temples always have a tank, or large well of water, built next to them so as to provide for the daily needs of its priests and devotees. The recessed tank at Mahakuta is constructed around a natural hot spring; thus, it is popular for worshipers to wade and swim in the tank in the hopes of being blessed by the sacred waters. I visited Mahakuta with no intention to swim, but when my attempts to wade peacefully on the steps went awry, I ended up unexpectedly wet. Even though I had to tour Pattadakal still dripping, the experience was worth the minor discomfort. Between Virupaksha’s elephant and my fully-clothed plunge into the Mahakuta hot spring, I suppose I was doubly blessed during our traveling excursion.

Our final expeditions around Karnataka were done in conjunction with the Science, Technology, and Sustainable Development course. On Friday, we set out to Lukkihalli and Mylanahalli to view a presentation by a BAIF representative as well as two resource-efficient farms. I am not taking the Science and Technology course, so perhaps I was at a disadvantage for this field visit. Overall, I am still not entirely sure of what I was looking at today. I found the visit to the watershed to be especially confusing, since it just looked like the farmers were trying to individually grow little shoots of grass in a rocky square of dirt, and I could not tell the difference between the cultivated watershed and the uncultivated. The concept and practice of resource-efficient farming is a solid one, and it is very impressive how self-sufficient and independent the farms can be when they rely only on themselves and their land’s own output. They manage to make energy-efficient greenhouses, natural fertilizer from the excrements of the animals they raise, and enough clean, filtered rainwater to satisfy the needs of the entire complex. Everything that is produced seems to be used, even if it is only as compost, so waste is nearly nonexistent. I am not sure how farming works in the United States, but I know that our oftentimes extravagant society could learn a lot from how effectively these Indian farms follow the tenets of reduce, reuse, and recycle. Still, while the trip was not entirely worthless, I am not sure that the opportunity to physically visit and tour the two farming facilities was worth the six hours spent in transit for me. For the most part, I think I could have achieved the same knowledge and emotions from a lecture or presentation done here at Dhavanyaloka or at a closer farming facility. However, I liked the pluck of the cashew tree that was growing out of the rock in the watershed, and I did get to feast on some very scrumptious food in Lukkihalli. I cannot say if it was the organically-grown crops or if the BAIF center just had a particularly fabulous chef, but Friday’s lunch was definitely the best meal I have eaten in India to date.

On Saturday we visited two different hospitals: one ayurvedic and the other a primary healthcare provider in Sargoor. Although these hospitals seemed well cared for and well-staffed, they are very different than the elaborate medical campuses that I am used to going to back home in the United States. These Indian hospitals are much smaller and considerably starker than hospitals in the States are, yet the Swami Vivekanda Hospital has a huge and active role in the community of Sargoor. Beyond just medical care, the SVH works to improve the quality of life in the surrounding tribal villages. Back in the United States, such a level of involvement would never come from a hospital; instead, health-conscious community or non-profit organizations might take up similar missions. When “holistic” health is spoken about by American doctors, it is usually only in the context of giving advice to a patient about how they can change their life to promote health and wellness. I have been to hospitals that speak of holistic health in the United States, but none of them follow the concept as completely as SVH. In the United States, holistic health is merely an encouragement from doctors to their patients; at SVH, however, holistic health is activism that changes an entire community for the better. Needless to say, I was very impressed with the progress and success made by the doctors.

Finally, along with the hospitals, we visited two schools—the Viveka Tribal Center for Learning and the Vivekanda Youth School of Excellence—that were set up by the Swami Vivekanda Hospital. I am certain that the time spent at Viveka Tribal Center, short as it was, will always remain one of my favorite memories of my semester in Mysore. The students gathered around us in throngs; they were so happy and excited to have us visiting them and their school, I felt a little bit like a celebrity. When the teachers called them back into the classrooms, the students sat down and belted out their lessons as loud as they could in order to show us how much they were learning. Everyone was so welcoming and curious—it was heart-warming to be treated with such eager friendliness even though the students and teachers did not know us.

After each day spent traveling and touring, I return to my bed in Mysore exhausted, sun burnt, mosquito-bitten, and with an increasingly passionate hatred for bumpy Indian roads. However, after more than a week’s worth of physical interaction with historic sites and community centers, I feel as though I am more familiar with the culture and geography of Karnataka. I came to study in India with no real purpose or goal in mind other than to learn and to experience a life wholly different from my own; I have certainly received that and more. Truly understanding and knowing India may require more time than I have to offer, but I feel very lucky to have had the chance to meet and make a home in the state of Karnataka.

Chennai

According to Wikipedia, Chennai is the Detroit of India. Now I can’t say I’ve been to Detroit, but I feel pretty confident in saying that Chennai has no equivalent in the United States.

Chennai is one of (if not the) largest city in the state of Tamil Nadu. That locates it in eastern India, right on the coast of the Bay of Bengal. My gender studies teacher has often extolled Tamil Nadu for being one of the better Indian states in the way of interrelations between the sexes. She did not, however, warn us that Chennai was also a primordial bog of humidity, dirt, pollution, and mammalian outputs of the fecal variety. In an environment like that, you’ve got to stick together.

There are a lot of cultural excursions built into the study abroad program in India. Chennai was not one of them. It was an experience that we decided to bring upon ourselves with a naïve willingness. Although all of us students decided to go, it became gender-segregated as the boys set off with plans to be cost-effective and “rough it” by sleeping in the streets, on the beach, in a forest, or wherever else they could spread a yoga mat (read: in a five-star hotel). Us girls, more practical but equally as cheap, had made reservations in hostel that cost 70 rupees a night (about $1.50). So while the guys took one look at Chennai and hopped the first train out to go be rugged and manly in the luxury of a neighboring French colony, the girls set up temporary homes in the midst of a mosquito colony. The Salvation Army Hostel boasted metals beds with what I swear were holographic projections of mattresses and bug-infested bathrooms with squat toilets the doors half rotten away. Not exactly a romantic get-away kind of deal, I’m afraid.

Oh, and as previously mentioned, Chennai is on the coast. If white sand beaches and fresh saltwater aromas tickle your fancy, well… the Bay of Bengal might not be for you. Replace “hunting for seashells” with “dodging dead fish” and imagine laying out your beach blanket next to the emptied skin of a poor canine and you’ve basically got the makings for a Chennai beach. ‘Thong Song’ enthusiasts will also be disappointed—even if you were brave enough to strip down to your skivvies and expose your skin to the questionable Bengali waters, you’re not going to find much support here. India has yet to accept the knee-length skirt and Capris into its wardrobe repertoire; the swimsuit is asking far too much. (I’ve yet to conclusively decide whether this is good or bad, seeing as the idea of swimsuit shopping is infamous for causing undue panic and stress in the lives of women everywhere. Maybe the Indian ladies are onto something that we are not?)

The city scene was not much more impressive to me than the beach. It’s difficult to paint a picture of India that I feel an American would be able to comprehend. Chennai smells like a port-a-potty on a busy highway in the middle of August, and it looks like a frontier civilization from the Wild West—the ones with the colorful names like Toe Jam or Hang Man or similar. Scarecrow dogs so thin their entire internal anatomy is visible roam without any discernable purpose or control, and cows—yes, those holy cows—chew on garbage, emit all sorts of unsettling fluids, and mix their own barnyard fragrance into the already noxious, sun-baked city smell. Sidewalks crumble into dirt, cars honk wildly, and a population upwards of a billion is going about their business in the tropical heat without a second thought to their conditions. I’m not sure that I’ve gotten to see much of the Americanized, wealthy India I’ve heard connected with technology and urbanization; most everything has been carnal and back-to-the-basics. I come from a world of computers, video games, and private lawns; the open humanity and resourceful practicality of Indian life is something simultaneously shocking and intriguing.

I can’t say Chennai was all bad. It did have some fabulous American eats that cost more than a night with the Salvation Army, and I definitely left with an ardent appreciation for Mysore living. In the end, I suppose I can chalk it up as a learning experience. I’m a spoiled American, and I’ve been finding that I’m only comfortable in India’s extremes about half the time. At least I will never be able to complain about hotel rooms, beaches, or city streets in the same way ever again. And, after India, all the clogged toilets in the world won’t even make me blink. Bring on your worst, American Bathrooms. At this point, I’d say I’m a thug of porcelain thrones (or porcelain-surrounded holes in the ground, depending on your country of origin).