Riding the iron peacock

Travel by train in India echoes my whole experience of India: the sense of perpetual transitions (in time, in place, in culture); the anxious anticipation of a journey; the easy conviviality of fellow travelers; and the sheer, irrepressible inertia of this place.

We spent the better part of three days holed up in our cheap and reasonably comfortable hotel in Kochi (technically, in Ernakulam), limiting our ventures out to the aforementioned cinema. (By the way, The Three Idiots is the highest grossing Bollywood film of all time, according to the review in The New York Times!) Our last day in Kochi was jam-packed with the some of the best this town — spread over a several islands reached by ferry — has to offer. We saw the famous and enormous Chinese fishing nets, gigantic wooden spiders on the shore, lowering their webs into the water through the labors of half a dozen men. (Observing their yield, it seems that tips received from tourists trying their hand at the nets must make up as much of their income as their paltry catch.) We visited the historic synagogue on artfully named "Jew Street" in artfully named "Jew Town." ("Mama, do we live in a ghetto?") We were carried along by clashing aromas while touring a spice warehouse, thousands of burlap sacks begging for your olfactory attention. (I opined that it felt like drinking a masala chai while smoking a clove cigarette and being lashed with a star anise hairshirt.) We had a short course on Indian rugs and ended our time in Fort Cochin with a performance Kerala's distinctive ritualistic theater, Kathakali.

An important part of Kathakali is watching performers apply their make-up while seated on stage, so we arrived early for this purpose. True Kathakali performances can last from evening until dawn (or longer); ours was a distilled-for-tourists show designed to be compatible with the schedules of the tour-bus crowd. The stories are told by silent actors in elaborate costumes through hand and facial gestures, accompanied by drums and a singer giving voice to the characters. For all the uniqueness of this particular form, I am fascinated by the theatrical conventions and themes that cross continents, cultures and currents of human history. E.g., the ceremonial transformation of the actor into their character through the application of make-up and costume. A play encompassing both entertainment and moral instruction. Characters drawn as deities or as archetypes of human dispositions. The all-male cast performing the female roles, offering no less insight into the local constructions of femininity than the Miss America pageant or any (other) drag show.



The particular tale told during our performance was only too familiar: a woman attempts to seduce a noble man, pleading with him to get to know her in the biblical sense despite his rebukes, is revealed to be the devil incarnate, and is attacked with a sword and sent away.

Sigh.

Like I said, common theatrical themes.



After boarding the ferry back to our hotel, we collected our things and headed for the train station. Our overnight journey would take us to the state of Goa, a special spot on the hippie trail. It would also give us another opportunity to experience India in motion: the affectionate parents tucking their two small children into a single bunk for the night; gregarious families eager to strike up conversation, hear our impressions of their country and encourage us to visit their home town; friends on the platforms bidding farewell to passengers, running alongside the moving train as it pulls away to say one more farewell.

I love overnight train rides.

Our arrival in central Goa by train would be followed by a rickshaw ride to a bus stop, and an overflowing, groping bus ride to the town of Palolem, our destination. Palolem is touristy, but also one of the loveliest crescent beaches I've ever visited. In contrast to my other experiences in India, Palolem feels like "India lite." There are more white faces here than we've seen since the ashram: bikini-clad Europeans and Russians pushing the limits of modesty to minimize their tan lines; families with giddy naked toddlers running on the soft sand, studying the crabs and the waves; and the ubiquitous aging hippies, their leathery skin tightening in the sun. (There are lots of Indian tourists, too, and they seem to be having the most fun here, but most Indian locals live inland or in neighboring Chaudi.)



Many restaurants don't have Indian items on the menu, or, if they do, they are at significantly inflated tourist prices and of mixed quality. There are persistent touts everywhere ("taxi! taxi!"), but thankfully most are friendly and have a good sense of humor, as if to say "look, man, it's my job to ask and it's your job to say no thank you."

To my surprise, I've found that these aspects which make Palolem so touristy and so unlike the hustle and bustle of Indian cities does not spoil its charm for me. No doubt extended stays in India merit some time for decompression. But more than that, there is something indescribably right in daily walks up and down the beach to watch the sunset. In hearing the waves crashing on shore. In daily rhythms guided by one's appetites. The morning yoga sessions are fabulous, too, led by a skilled instructor with a great sense of humor and a penchant for joking about sex while we contort our bodies into pretzels. Yeah, that's a little more like it.