I’m a sucker for kids everywhere, and I love photographing them as I travel. Unfortunately, I feel incredibly awkward taking a photo of children unless I have permission, so I never end up capturing as many images as I’d like.
Here are just a few of the children I met during my month in India.
This boy approached me in Hampi, asking for a “country coin.” He lucked out. I gave him a U.S. quarter, an Argentinian peso, five Bolivianos and a stack of Ethiopian birr.
These little guys were bored as hell at a parade in Panaji.
Same parade. This kid’s mask creeps me out.
On our ashram field trip to Kanyakumai, a few of us girls found an abandoned school where we could change into our bikinis. One of my friends was standing directly behind me here, trying in vain to shield herself, as these children walked into the room.
Beautiful little boy in Hampi.
These girls are so gorgeous, aren’t they? They were sitting outside of the Monkey Temple in Hampi, looking so peaceful and calm despite the overbearing heat.
As I walked around Munnar, Kerela, I had to keep reminding myself where I was.
I had already spent a couple weeks in India — long enough to know that this country definitely bucks stereotypes. It’s not all Taj Mahal, Mahatma Gandhi and cows eating rubbish in the streets.
Still, I never expected this.
That’s not the India I imagined!
The hill station mimics the Alps, except with vast tea plantations instead of snow. The squatty tea bushes form electric green cobblestones that pave the slopes of every mountain.
Not only was the countryside lovely, it was downright comfortable. After the relentless heat and choking dust of Hampi, I couldn’t help but settle down in Munnar for a few days of cool relaxation. It was even chilly enough to wear a fleece at night.
I wasn’t the only one enjoying this Irish Springs commercial-come-to-life.
With a lemonade sun in the cloudless sky, I took the local bus up to Top Station — the highest point available by public transport — to see what I could see.
The driver of the bus situated me next to him, perching me on top of the dashboard. I’m certain this isn’t the safest place to ride, but it is arguably the best.
It felt like a 3D flick, no glasses necessary. The windshield was massive, with every motorcycle and wayward rickshaw about to slam right into my face. I loved it, hoisting my hands in the air like I was on a roller coaster, screaming “WOOOO!” around every hairpin curve.
Once the ride ended, I asked the driver what time the bus would be headed back down the mountain.
2:30, he said.
2:30, I confirmed.
When I showed up to the bus stop at 2:15, I realized the driver actually said 2:13. And unfortunately, this was the only timely bus I have encountered during this whole trip.
The bus was gone, and the next one wouldn’t arrive for several hours.
However, the peculiar thing about India is that everything always works out somehow. And so it was with my predicament.
After a few minutes, a car full of guys from Cochin agreed to squeeze me into the backseat and return me safely to Munnar.
As we headed down the mountain, one of the guys turned to me and in his most charming voice said, “Can I offer you a drink?” He proceeded to pull a crystal glass, a liter of Coke and a bottle of Honeybee brandy out from under his seat.
With that unexpected offer, a good day in Munnar just got better.
The city was up well past bedtime last night, crackling and humming long after the win against Pakistan in the ICC Cricket World Cup semifinals.
“It’s a big deal that India won, of course,” said Anubhav, my host in the city. “But it’s a really big deal because we beat Pakistan.” Though sports thrives on rivalry, the long history of division and conflict between the two nations turned this into far more than a routine cricket match.
The explosions began the precise moment India triumphed.
“Come,” said Anubhav. “To the roof!”
With bare feet we hopped up a flight of stairs, entering a rooftop terrace that was littered with paper and plants, parchment-thin leaves and splintered wooden beams. From that vantage point we looked out over a leafy side street populated by wooden stalls and buildings that buckled and heaved with decay.
All of it glowed pink, gold, green and luminous in the fizz and sparkle of fireworks. Each rattle and pop shook the roof, and I jumped up and down in delight.
Fans funneled into the street, chanting the name of their country. “Ind-YAH! Ind-YAH!” A spontaneous parade began with some beating on metal buckets and plastic bins. Taxi drivers flattened palms against their car horns, their vehicles erupting in long, continuous honks.
Many fans draped themselves in enormous Indian flags. As they ran down the roads, bubbling with energy and might, the fabric lifted and snapped in the wind, flowing like Superman’s cape.
To top it all off, a brewing storm ushered in gusts of thunderous wind, bringing cool relief to the sweaty night.
I’m not a sports fan, and I don’t know jack about cricket. But it’s hard to escape the kind of excitement that unfurls with shouts, hugs, cheers and tears.
For a brief moment last night, I didn’t just feel like an Indian cricket fan — I felt like I was a part of India.
The celebration continued through a dark and dreamless night, long into the morning. Now the shouts have calmed slightly, the noise has dimmed. But at every chai stall and bhel puri stand, smiles remain on the faces of every sleepless fan.
The wake-up bells rang at 5 a.m., but my eyes were already peeled open. It was my last morning at Sivananda ashram, and I wanted to soak up every last second of the experience.
My bag was already packed. I braided my hair, brushed my teeth and pulled on my Nikes.
Instead of our usual morning satsang — meditation and chanting in the temple — the entire ashram set off on a silent meditative walk through the forest and up a nearby mountain.
The air outside was cool and slithery with mist. It was dark enough for me to use a torch, but peaceful enough that I didn’t want to. Instead, I wanted to pause the moment, doing nothing to disturb the inky, blue-black surroundings.
The suggested method for a meditative walk is supposed to go like this: Take three steps, breathe, three steps, breathe, three steps … all while clearing your mind and focusing on your third eye. But I personalized my walk, sopping up every deep and gentle breath, while running a devotional chant on a loop in my head: Jaya ganesha, jaya ganesha, jaya ganesha pahimam, sri ganesha sri ganesha sri ganesha rakshaman.
We walked through gentle hills, then finally headed up, up, up the mountain. We arrived at a temple perched precariously on the brim of a craggy, volcanic-looking black rock.
We took off our shoes. And we sat. And we breathed.
This is what we saw.
Morning unfurled purple and pink lashes, batting them with a soft, bright-eyed glow. Finally the sun burst forth, like the host of the world’s greatest surprise party.
I think it’s no coincidence that swamis and sages, priests and philosophers typically tackle a mountain in their quest for the divine.
It was a moving finale to my ashram experience.
There are times when you search for god. And then there are the times when god finds you.
I was discussing arranged marriages with Switen, a man born and raised in the romantic backwaters of Alleppey, India. Switen’s own marriage was arranged — he and his wife were virtual strangers, meeting barely two months before they were wed. They have since had two children and seven blissful years together.
His explanation for how it works was simple, but revelatory.
“In India, love comes after the marriage,” he said.
I grew up being a love cynic. I had a very bad perspective on men for a very long time, which created a string of unhealthy relationships. If you would have asked me then for my view of marriage, I would have said that the whole institute was a demeaning way to keep women from being independent, and it prevents them from moving toward self-actualization.
I knew that love existed, but I thought it was a fleeting emotion. It was the fluttery feeling that lasted only until the man got drunk, picked a fight and slept with the Theresa, the bartender at the pool hall. Love inevitably leads to despair. As my wise guru Tina Turner once said, “Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?”
It took a long time for those wounds to heal. I dated some bad men who disappointed me. I also dated some good guys who were disappointed by me. At that point, I joked that I would marry twice — first for money, then for love — but I never thought either would happen. I figured I was destined to grow old as a crazy cat lady, except for the fact that I hated cats.
Then I met Jason.
We went to sushi bars, skydiving dropzones and X-rated puppet shows. We kissed. We moved in together. We got a cat. I started to love cats. We moved across the country. We pushed through a lot of ache and trauma and hurt. We got new jobs. We got a dog. He started to love dogs.
One year ago, we got married.
I can say now that I never knew love until Jason put a ring on my finger. I thought I loved him before, but it’s nothing compared with the sweeping tides of feeling since we exchanged vows.
It’s as if every atom in my being has been charged. I’m happy to wake up and breathe his air, and it settles me just to know this man exists in my world. It’s the kind of love that claws at me, makes every day ripple, makes me hungry to return home. As I travel, I hear his voice in every bell, his eyes appear in every gold-flecked sunset, and when I see the moon I know he hung it there.
Still, this is no fairy tale. There were some tough years. We’ve waded through muck and we have stooped low with burden. There were misunderstandings and mishaps. I wasn’t always a good partner, and a lesser person might have given up on me.
Ultimately, I learned that relationships are work, and I wasn’t putting in my overtime.
This makes me think that there’s something to the idea of arranged marriages. Maybe in the short term it’s more romantic to have only the initial attraction, and maybe that can be sustained. But for the long haul, for the things that really matter, it’s a conscious choice to be in love and stay in love.
Of course, I don’t think anyone should be forced into a union they don’t want to be in. But if both partners are willing to meet halfway and put in the time, effort and energy, it’s possible to be happy for the rest of your lives.
So that’s my wish today as I celebrate my first wedding anniversary — even though I’m in India and Jason is in California. Let’s decide to be in love and stay that way, baby. We can do this thing.
