Men in Black, Ladies in Red, Umbrellas in Yellow

My last post from India encompassing some final observations of South Indian Pilgrims as my own passage nears moves eastwards.

We left lovely Varkala then returned, yo yo style like in Goa bouncing back to the beach life baby. Last days on the Arabian Sea with coastal walks watching the fishermen bring in the morning catch and afternoon beach lounging – amused by the lifeguards huddled together, 5 under an umbrella erratically blowing whistles. Cheap ajurvedic massages and dodgy pedicures and nail treatment for the girls.  

We take a final trip to town to get my moustache pruned by the experienced old barber and we find bus loads of pilgrims in yellow milling about. Curious, we follow the singing line of yellow umbrellas towards the ashram..and another festival....established by the social reformer Narayana Guru...rows of pilgrims listen to speakers talk of equality and breaking down the caste system.

A trip to the elephant festival to watch the parade of glorious elephants, floats with kitsch Hindu gods and theyyem dancers weave through the villages. The villagers wait eagerly outside their houses with tables of incense and offerings of bananas which they feed to the passing holy elephants for good luck. Village boys appear at our sides to accompany us, part of the spectacle.

Leaving Varkala Beach behind, we journey south accompanied by hordes of boisterous men in black, Ayappa devotees, feels like an illicit lad's weekend away, carrying packages of blankets and belongings lop sided upon their heads, en route to the Sri Ayappa Temple in the Western Ghats. Apparently the largest pilgrimage in the world with 40-50 million flocking there each year (last year 300 or so devotees were killed in a stampede) – compared in my guide to English football fans.

Into Tamil Nadu and we land at the end of India, the subcontinent's cape and the busy seaside getaway of Kanyakumari, an Indian Blackpool with candyfloss, ice cream and tat. Village women, perhaps seeing the sea for the first time, jump into the waves, waist deep shrieking delightedly. Kanyakumari marks the famous meeting place of three great seas: Arabian Sea, Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean - perplexing as the sea and the bay are surely part of the wider ocean, but I am being pedantic. Unsurprisingly this is also an auspicious place of Hindu significance with the engraved footprint of a goddess visible on the rocks (under a glass case, housed within a temple).

The main activity for the thousands of Indian tourists is to queue for 2 hours for a ferry to go 150 metres to the rocks marking the southerly point. One rock has a temple,the other a towering statue of the Tamil saint Thiruvalluvar. At boarding time the orderly queue turns into a chaotic charging at the boat. I see this mental free for all behaviour repeated in Tamil Nadu when I'm trying to get off the bus faced with a rabble (the old women seem to be the worst) clambering onto the bus. Stuck on the bus steps and unable to bear this behaviour I cry out in horror and with the throng momentarily stunned by this screeching strange white man I make my descent. 

For our final 15 hour train ride to take us to the heart of Tamil Nadu we booked to travel comfortably in AC 2 Tier, the highest class of carriage available. Boarding the train at 2 am the train conductor accosts us and correctly observes that our ticket was for the day before and explains that the date changes at midnight (noted). In the face of our bewilderment he enquires “And what do you now propose to do about this?” (Troubleshoot!) The AC class all booked up, in my dreamy valium induced state (I'd intended to pass out) I venture through the jungle classes (a term coined by Indians for second class) to Sleeper class (mid way) to explain our erroneous train escapade to the next officious conductor. Waving my ticket in the air: “this is a worthless piece of paper. You must pay a penalty.” (thanks for the understanding). I press him and he sells me new tickets on Sleeper, not without first fining me £6 for my foolish behaviour.

I awake to the sound of singing and giggling ladies in red, another group of noisy pilgrims, a jolly village get away which has the added bonus of bestowing religious merit. IBalaji, the grandson of a pilgrim, appears expectantly beside me and I enquire about the pilgrimage, tales of far off important Hindu sites and temples, the more I learn the more confused I get.

We reach the flat plains of Tamil Nadu, our final destination. We've travelled thousands of kilometres across the Indian subcontinent from the mighty Himalaya down to the Gangetic plateau, across the deserts of Rajasthan, through the dry state of Gujarat to the sea, transition zone of Maharashtra, drunken Goa, lush, tropical Karnataka and Karnataka to exotic Tamil Nadu. The stone bungalows of Kerala and rich towns give way to mud huts with palm thatch and dusty poor towns like in the Northern states. The ancient Dravidian races of Tamil Nadu, chiselled shades of black, even some curly hair, proud of their Tamil culture and its far distinction from the Hindi heartlands of the North. My Hindi is now forgotten and I attempt a few Tamil words with the help of Balaji my chosen teacher.

The mystical charm of the ancient Chola temples of Tamil Nadu is enforced by their continuing usage by thousands of Hindus today. Compelled to visit at least one, to checklist, from the many famous temple towns we choose Chindambaram and finding the temple alive with activity our temple interest is awoken again. On Monday morning the holy site where Lord Shiva was enthroned as Lord of the Cosmic Dance is littered with the debris of a weekend festival. Four huge colourful gopuras surround the temple site which is administered by Brahmins of the Dikshitar Caste. These friendly, chubby brown skinned guardians with interesting hair arrangements (shaved fronts and buffon knotted buns) perform the daily ritual ceremonies in the inner sanctum where there is a great energy...incense and fire are wafted in front of Lord Shiva as pilgrims crowd eagerly in front of the shrine. 

We bus across the plains towards the Bay of Bengal and Puducherry (Pondy) observing the devastation reeked by last week's CycloneThane. Precarious thatched huts crushed and forests of palms lying on the ground, pushed over like matchsticks. Pondy is sombre in its recovery from the frightening attack from the heavens, seafront buildings boarded up and avenues lined with timber debris. The curious French colonial town of Pondy with its melange of French and Indian, its Hotel de Ville, Indian men playing boules, policemen with French hats teaching the youth to march and the continued presence of French institutes and cuisine.

Fatigued after the travelling and after a blazing domestic row in a tuk tuk, we treat ourselves to a nice hotel....overjoyed to have a modern room with flatscreen TV, cable, internet, air con, a fridge, room service and complimentary toiletries (amazing what £15 per night as opposed to £5 awards). A haven/ office to take stock, eat croissants and forward plan.

A penultimate stopover at Mamallapuram with its wonderful rock carvings, streets echoing with the chipping away at stone and its ancient craftsmanship. We have a final thali in the village dining hall, luncheon restaurants which feed a cheap, all you can eat with your hands thali to fill up the people for the day. The Tamil thali is served on a palm leave, which we first need to rinse and then later efficiently folds over to tidy away the thali debris. 

And Chennai, our final destination, India's fourth largest city, which boasts the world's longest city beach - a huge dustbin. Happy to be moving on but a little sad, 75 days' phlittering has been a great amount of time to get a good flavour of India and time to adapt and appreciate the people and culture but I realise I have become quite attached to the Indian way. I have conquered the Indian way to my current satisfaction and now time for eastern climes. My nervous apprehension on entering the country back in November was rewarded with hectic North Indian towns, filth and hassle, it took weeks to relax into it, adapt and feel some control and then enjoy the rhythm of dealing with people. All the time my fascination of such a rich diverse country sustained and grown; having only peeled a few layers I am coming back one day to continue, meet more people, learn more lingo, learn more Hindu philosophy, appreciate the country further and travel the distant northern state of Kashmir (and of course Punjab)...this can wait a while. As we have heard Indians say, “something is better than nothing.”

22 Hours Visit to the Hugging Saint

We visited Amma's Ashram for one night and one night only. A remarkable place not quite like any other I've ever known, an unusual cross between a spiritual retreat, a religious cult, a communal living experiment and a humanitarian aid foundation.

We take a scenic route to Amritapuri by ferry through the dreamy Keralan Backwaters. On arrival we make our way to the temple and the International Office run by helpful white men in white lungis with sweet north American accents who efficiently process new arrivals and issue darshan tokens (the famous hug and blessing from Amma). Here the bureaucratic epicentre of this busy ashram with Ammatapuri Internet, an Information Office and a cottage printing industry. Groups of Indian ladies and white ladies, all in saris, supported by the youth sitting at tables diligently piling newsletters and Amma pamphlets into labelled batches to be shipped off to Mangalore and beyond. The literature comes hot off the in-house printing press in nearby outhouses, rolled in on barrows across the yard past the holy cow shed. 

We are issued with our “Code of Conduct” (no kissing or hugging – there is only one hugger around here), assigned a room and advised to attend a guided tour at 5pm. Us boys are housed in the new block on the edge of the sprawling complex in a dorm block that is still mid way in construction, the ashram clearly can' t build dorms fast enough to cope with devotees' demand. It's growing...The girls go to their assigned space in an old block which they are to share with other creatures they will later meet.

The architecture of the ashram is 1960s Soviet communist style, it juts incongruously out of the jungle it inhabits – ugly pink concrete flat blocks stand haphazardly, spreading through the trees. The complex is adorned by posters of Mother adding to her iconic status and sometimes bizarre edicts

“Darshan is reserved today only for people who have not had darshan already this week.” Again the communist analogy is not far away.

We dutifully attend our induction and are presented along with the other 50 new arrivals with a 40 minute video on Amma, a promotional showcase of the incredible achievements of Amma's humanitarian initiatives – millions of dollars spent on disaster relief, slum renovation, education, care homes, healthcare, research for a better world - run through her charitable foundation Embracing the World.

It is a sleek marketing video, too sleek, which immediately makes me suspicious but I'm not sure why as there is clearly wonderful work going on...thousands of people being helped, my skeptical mind? Too many statistics? (I later learn that Amma's marketing team is second to none) The most impressive element of the work of this NGO for me is the mobilising of volunteers to drive forward the work thus seemingly allowing greater funds to be focussed on charitable work. The income for this charity is huge and I am left wondering where this money comes from...

Our guided tour includes a trip to the cow shed where it all started with Amma performing miracles as a child, the attention she received from visiting holy men was much to the consternation of her father who eventually allowed his daughter to follow her spiritual path with the guidance of the persistent saddhus. The complex has grown into the jungle and village from this shed and now homes 3000 residents and hundreds more visitors, people from different religions, all Mother's children come to the ashram and follow the rules. I observe serene ghosts phlittering, contemplating who they are, spaced out with slight deferential smiles on their way to meditation sessions and their seva. Seva is the selfless service which the armies of residents and visitors are encouraged to partake in daily, working for others without expectation is said to allow individuals to reap the wealth of a peaceful mind and an open heart. Seva includes working in harmony with others cleaning, cooking, building dorms and serving cappuccinos.

In a preparatory talk prior to our darshan, our guide explains that with Amma, the divine mother, “it's not a regular human being that we are dealing with here.” We are warned that she mirrors how we approach her and she can communicate with everyone. My curiosity of this lady is awakened and I am struck by the strength of devotion in her following. We are also advised of additional regulations that Mother has put in place for her visiting flock. 

The main auditorium stands central to the complex, an imposing functional building consistent with the architecture, the lack of walls allows the tropical air and mosquitoes to wash through. This is where the action and fun happens. An atmosphere of calm with rows of devotees sitting on plastic chairs, dozing, dancing, singing and watching the stage where behind a crowd Amma is hugging. The stage, flanked by two giant iconic kitsch photos of Mother meditating by a waterfall and standing in a meadow,could be the setting for a presidential rally. Speakers pipe out mantras: “absolute bliss”. An infirm Indian woman positioned in her wheel chair below a TV screen gazes in awe at live images of Amma giving darshan on the stage, curiously watching the divine mother thrust head after head to her breast. When Amma goes for a break the screens switch to footage of Amma out and about, in action, with her adoring jubilant fans.

After 3 hours in the queue we realise with irritation that we are being delayed by a rogue “priority darshan queue” which reminds us we are in India. But eventually our group is summoned to the stage, our anticipation heightens and my belly rumbles.

We join the snake of plastic chairs moving along in line from chair to chair in the comical queuing system. Amma sits in the centre of the stage on a golden throne attended by her inner circle of staff, senior holy men in orange and attendees. This inner sanctum is surrounded by a further throng of devotees deep in meditation, residents are rota'd for meditation stage duty. A powerful energy pervades this space; a cumulation of meditative hum resonating with the hush of excited pilgrims moving closer to Mother and vibrations of sanskrit mantras and music piped through the vast auditorium. I close my eyes, letting the incredible energy wash over me, I feel at peace.

After my long wait I find myself near to Amma and the final moments before my darshan move quickly. A line of holy men streams through the pilgrims paying respects and honour to Mother, kissing her hands, touching her feet (normal respectful behaviour in India). Mother's assistants beckon me forward, enquiring of my language in preparation to be passed onto Mother who appears to be multi-tasking. In between hugging her devotees she holds court discussing possible business issues with her aides and laughing. It seems that important issues of her empire are being discussed and although this could potentially distract her from her embracing, she always re-focusses for a second hug and gives different attention to each person, responding to the individual. Sometimes a quick clasp and others a long warm cuddle. An incredibly smooth operation. I am firmly encouraged to my knees alongside pilgrims from a second complimentary queue coming from the other side of the stage. The moment is arriving, my hand placed in preparation on the throne. The busy throng of assistants almost becomes a final tussle which I find overwhelming as I am trying to compose myself for my darshan. Then it happens, my head is pushed forwards to Mother's breast and she is whispering in my ear “Maradona, Maradona, Maradona” (this mantra is a gift), she gives me a sweet and it is over.

As we go to bed Mother is still busy giving darshan on the stage, she has been going for an impressive 12 hours already. These marathon sessions have been known to continue for over 20 hours and have been happening for over 20 years now. Amma has embraced over 30 million people. After the darshan sessions end Mother returns to her room and stays awake on her mobile deep into the night resolving issues across her international network of centres and projects.

We enjoy the peace of the ashram and indulge in bargain cappuccinos and delicious chocolate coconut cake served to us by selfless devotees. Amma recommends the “middle way” - an appealing approach to spirituality which balances meditation, self-discipline and cake. We also do a spot of shopping, perusing the Amma merchandise – stuffed Amma dolls, pens, Amma 2012 calendars – a whole industry. In fact the Amma operation is more than a few dolls, it's a series of well established limited companies – Amrita Enterprises Limited, Amrita Business School.

Amma encourages all visitors to take time to relax and learn how to be peaceful, becoming witness to our thoughts and body. Obediently I silently participate with the communal journey to a divine conciousness, meditating and doing morning yoga on the beach – only sounds of the waves of the Arabian Sea, a Japanese man's breathing exercises, Hindu music and the blaring horns of passing tuk tuks remind me I am in India. The ashram has grown into the village and village houses find themselves in a sea of ashram, perhaps the village road which cuts through will be redirected through an underpass in the future. Interestingly and spookily part of the code of conduct is not to communicate with the villagers.

As I leave the headquarters of Amma International I feel peaceful and calm and ponder on the experience and movement. Amma is clearly an amazing individual and has mobilised a mass movement in a country, culture, psyche and religion which allows greater space for spirituality and for revering individuals as living gods – Indian law even has allowances for living gods and goddesses – something that is quite alien to Westerners.

Further research on the web proves interesting, I discover quite controversial stories about the organisation including an Ex-Amma Forum, a place where ex-devotees come together to support each other with recovery from their ordeal.

The girls, visited by rodents in the night, departed swiftly back to the beach and the boys phlitter further into the backwaters to file reports and play shithead.