Chapter Six

     Wedneday, January twenty-seventh evening. Three mornings now I’ve walked through the village into town at seven, stopped in at the Executive Inn Food Fun restaurant for a three idlees breakfast with a long cup of coffee, and taken a long auto-rik ride through Tamil town to Kottakuppam to the pink three story building behind the Cocoland resort to visit Rahul’s class in Ancient Massage, his version of Thai massage along with what he’s learned from other sources. Six paid students, he never takes more than eight, including Gilad and Claudia; by name I’ve met Sonia, and there are three other women. All together, three women from France, one from India, Claudia from Chile, and Gilad from Israel. Some are more advanced, some are beginners. Classes last for one month. Now is the final week of January’s round of instruction. Each student learns and progresses at his or her appropriate level. A student may take a one month class, and leave for several months and return for another class, each progressing in his or her individual way. Some are practicing massage in their own countries and are here to augment their knowledge and skill. In addition to teaching the technique and spirit of Thai Massage, Rahul’s lessons are about locating the source and causes of pain, and helping the client understand how the pain can be alleviated. He talks, he demonstrates, he involves his students in practice. And I am a welcome visitor. I sit on a mat in the same circle as he and his students and listen. I am invited to ask questions. There may be another one or two or three welcome visitors.

     On Monday and Tuesday, a dark-skinned, middle-aged, shaven-head fellow and I give each other neck, head and facial massages during the practice session. And throughout all of the spoken instruction are messages about chakras and meridians, energy and energetic flow, and the locating and releasing of blockages that ultimately serve to  cause so much of the pain in body and spirit that so many of us carry through our lives. The students and visitors are such a lovely group to be a part of and I feel so fortunate to be welcome and to participate. The students take notes, and their learning will be evaluated, and there is an accreditation system for this profession measured in hours of class taken with professionally recognized masters of which Rahul is certainly a fine example. I feel that I have found a fountain of precious information and insight in Rahul and his class. An avenue of learning is opened before me, though I do not plan to sign up to become a regular student, nor to pursue the practice as a profession. I will learn as much as I can from this man as long as I am welcome to visit and participate. This is a very mysterious beginning of something important for me. This is so breathtakingly new in concept and experience,

I hardly know what to say or expect from one day to the next, except for now,

I intend to walk into town early tomorrow morning for idlees and coffee at the Executive Inn, and to find an auto-rik man who will drive me out to Kotukuppam for another morning session of Ancient Massage.

     Sunday, January thirty-first at two in the afternoon. All day at home so far. Wilena departs today for Chennai, from where she will go to her Pokhara home in Nepal. It’s been a rather busy and exciting week. Starting from my rooftop at Dawn every morning, I return to my room to shower and dress and pack a little bag with money and writing and drawing paper and pencils, and camera to carry around through the day. Leave the gate behind to walk through the village to the Executive Inn for breakfast, then get an auto-rik driver to take me through morning traffic to Rahul’s ancient massage class. He has six official students and two or three of we occasional visitors who want to listen to his words, for he is a man of wisdom and healing and outright friendliness, The class goes on till around noon, and I will refrain from the details, for this is a class of oral teachings, and writing about it all is, I feel, an invasion of the privacy of the class of which I am, in fact, an observer. The students take notes, and I’m sure no one would object if I did, but I don’t. I am here to listen and remember what I will, what I can, what makes the deepest impression on my need for knowing. There are no textbooks. Rahul teaches what has been passed on to him from indigenous and traditional sources that reach back into sources of knowledge that are not written down. His is the healing art. His is the sacred art. My path to this place of learning has been a gift to me. And I almost don’t want to say as much as I’ve already said. I’ve had a busy week and made some new friends amongst the students and visitors. January’s classes are drawn to a close on Friday. The free public healing session was yesterday, Saturday morning, and February’s month of classes begins tomorrow. Some of January’s students will continue through February, some will depart, and there will be new ones. Altogether no more than eight. Some that leave may return some other month, or in another year or more, to refresh and continue their learning. I’ve been nurturing plans of my own to make a path towards Sikkim in the latter part of February. No details on this just yet.

      I’ve spent a fair amount of time this week jostling through the shopping district traffic and crowds. Designed and had printed a new set of what are called business cards, with my website, California and email addresses, along with my Indian telephone number. Bought a personal, portable WiFi device for forty-five dollars and had the techies in that office help me activate it. At one point, I had to provide a Xerox copy of my passport, so I left the techies’ office, and went to a Xerox shop four doors down the way, and in the process left my envelope with the copy of my book that I carry around on that counter. I discovered that missing in the techies’ office, and returned to the Xerox shop to recover it, and there I found the proprietor reading it with such an avid interest as I rarely see. He stood at his counter and read several pages aloud for me, a fifty year old man with Shiva’s ash across his forehead, speaking well pronounced English, and shaking his head with approval and appreciation at almost every other line. And I have the treasure of listening to his voice speaking thus. He wants a copy and I tell him that I have four copies waiting for me at the post office, that I will pick them up next week, and that I will bring one for him. How could I not? Such is the magic of wandering through the streets of this amazing piece of land called India. And one of the techie girls is simply enthralled with my safari hat and wants to try it on for a photo. Again, there is no way to say No! Manage to find my way over to Bharati park in the center of the French quarter for a couple of hours three times this week and get off a sketch of a nearby tree each time, to see to it that my pencils are tuned in. At the Café des Artes is the following piece:

     Now here in the garden of Café des Artes, two lovely young women are conversing in mellow French voices. I have nothing going on in my mind except the time for listening to the music of their elocution. They at their table are close enough to turn their chairs and they would be sitting at my table. For all they know, I understand every word they say, their pronunciations are so clear. Simple graceful hand gestures accompany the variations in tone and emphasis. Brown haired mademoiselle with glasses explains in elaborate detail the subject of her intent, while the lady in dark red hair and red blouse listens attentively with occasional comments or questions, while both of them sip their way through their glasses of fruit juice. The speaker sips slowly while the listener has almost finished her glass. An Indian girl sits across their table eating her salad at their four person table. An army of ants invades the unwiped surface, and I must step up and summon the garcon to come over and wipe the table clean. For one fleeting moment, I catch the glance of Merci from these three charming faces. The red haired girl begins her turn to go on at length with smiles between phrasing her opinions, her descriptions, her thoughts, spaced with occasional gentle laughs, while the brown haired girl listens with her quiet smile. Her glass of green juice is slowly going down. The red haired girl sits straight and stretches her back. Brown haired girl takes another sip and listens. Fiddles with her straw. Red haired girl with her glass of red juice has barely one more sip left at the bottom of her glass. The brown haired girl’s green juice goes down to the bottom first. Her glass is set on the table. The Indian girl is eating her salad and talking quietly on her cell phone. Red haired girl calls the garcon and orders another watermelon juice. These two charming women evidently have a lot to discuss. Their conversation goes on without pause, while I am arriving at the final cup of my pot of Masala chai. And for all they know or care, this writing activity of this man sitting so near is entirely something other than what it is. They sit together profile to profile in my view, and in thought my sketchbook and pencil follows the curves and lines of their foreheads, moves to the angles of their noses, the lashes and brows of their eyes, the shapes of their lips, the turns of their chins, the curves in their ears, and the way the hair of the girl with glasses hangs loose around her neck, and the hair of the girl with her fresh glass of watermelon juice is tied up and knotted at the top of her head, loose strands hanging around her ears and down her neck. The second glass of watermelon juice is going down fast, and passes from one set of hands to the other. The threshold of departure approaches. Where shall I go from here?

     Monday evening, February first. Not really all that difficult to foresee what has been forthcoming. After two healing session Saturdays, and five mornings of oral teachings by Rahul at his Ancient Massage Foundation Healing Hands Center,

I am now on the threshold of engaging a full one month course, full time six days per week. I went to this morning’s first-day-of-class session with no precise, well-articulated plan except to be there. Clearly the magnetic attraction for what is going on there is with me. Gilad and Claudia and Helene are continuing from last month’s session, and there are five fresh faces, one fellow and four women. I arrive about an hour into this session, and am welcomed by Rahul to sit near him in the circle. All of the notebooks are open and busy as everyone listens and writes to keep the river of information coming forth in memory inscribed. This goes on till twelve when the class breaks for lunch before the two o’clock practice session, and Rahul asks if I will be here. I explain that I cannot afford to contribute very much money to what is going on here, and he explains that that is not how this works. The question is will I be here, and I can contribute what I can afford when I can. I explain that I’ve planned to run errands this afternoon, but that I will begin the full day session tomorrow. Truth is, I need the rest of the day to settle into this idea that I am going to commit to this one month program, and give thought to the practical arrangements and implications this will require. Living arrangements for one, after I leave Ayodhya Bhavan on the 7^th or the 15^th, and the whole gamut of reorganizing my personal schedule around this new full time commitment. And there is no question but that this is the thing that I must do.! Travel to Sikkim and Nepal is postponed. The mountains are not going anywhere. They will be there when I get there, and when I do go off in that direction, I will be carrying a whole new framework and paradigm of truly useful knowledge and understanding in my neurological backpack. When did I say I thought I had a schedule that told me I had to be at some certain place at some certain time? What is happening that is important to me is here and now, no question about it.

     First errand in town is to my internet WiFi shop where I engage a printout of the French translation of the first fifteen pages of my book that Claude Convers created for me in 2014. Encountering Sonia last week, and hearing her wish for a French version of my poetry, inspired me to recover this translation from my email archive, and format it into a nice Word document that she could easily understand and relate to. My work in Pondicherry is not yet over. Perhaps I can come up with a nice little French zine style version of my first fifteen pages of verse with a few drawings included. Indeed, that is such an obvious little project for me to work on now.

     Make a gift of my 2014 book to Rahul. Now down to the last copy of my published CreatSpace version. An order for four more copies has been shipped. There have been rumors that the package has already arrived in Pondicherry, but my inquiries at the Pondy main post office and the Ashram post office have not brought forth the elusive parcel. On the rooftop this evening, Rajesh recommends that I tune into the hymns of Vishnu on YouTube, and perhaps begin practicing my Ohm chanting a little more often, a bit more regularly. And then of course, there is always the bee-humming exercise.!  Also managed to get another tree drawing from Bharati park down into my sketch book this afternoon. And get that last cup of Masala chai in at Chez Nous before my final walk through the village to the rooftop where sunset paints the western clouds with luminous reds, oranges, pinks and soft purples, as Sirius emerges through the eastern skies fading through blue into gray into night.

     Wednesday, February 3: second day of massage class. Sonia, Liz, Gilad,

and Saddam Hussein, the fellow from the Cocoland swimming hole, inquire about the symbol on my T-shirt. I give each of them one of my new cards with my web site address and show them the last copy of my book that I now carry around. Sonia keeps me posted on upcoming events this weekend at Alliance Francais. Gilad reminds me of tonight’s midnight meditation. Helene also gets a card. What is an “outline?” Draw a picture of a Kashmir mountain with flowing stream while on the two hour break between morning class and afternoon practice.

     Thursday evening, February fourth. Three full days of class now behind me, including the afternoon practice sessions, with note taking during the morning lecture and discussion. This journal is not about my classroom notetaking and what I’m learning in the class so much as it is about who is here and the spirit of the group. There are eight official students who will get the primary attention of the instructor. And there are the visitors, including me and some former students who are always welcome to Rahul’s classes to listen and participate and brush up on their skills, and even assist the beginners with their learning in the afternoon practice sessions. Morning from eight-thirty till around noon, we sit on our cushions in a circle under the thatch covering of the open air rooftop, listen, take notes, ask questions, and watch Rahuls’ demo. Afternoons, we’re on our own for practice, and follow the guiding light of Gilad, our instructor-in-training. Claudia is here, as well as Jetsun from a little island in the ocean east of Madagascar. And then there is the French contingent. Simon, and five women, three older, including Helene and Marie from last month, and Catherine, and two younger, Liz and Amodine. Also a young woman from Italy, Mira. Stefan, whom I met last Saturday is here today, a very experienced student, and Sonia was here yesterday to visit and participate. French is the lingua franca amongst the majority in this class; my ears are virtually swimming in the flow around me of their words and phrases, especially of the women. Rahul teaches in English and Gilad teaches in English, and Claudia and Mira and I need the English. Stefan is French. Sonia, Helene, Marie, Liz, Amodine, Catherine, Simon, Jetsun, and Stefan are all French speakers, which is all very musically inspirational to me.

     By now, I’ve got the French version of my book all laid out into a Word document. Fifteen pages of verse with two pictures in the text, and five pages of pictures at the end. Twenty pages all together, along with front and back covers. It’s all ready to go. All I need to do is find my printer.

     Friday evening, Fevrier cinq. Very simply, this Thai Massage world of Master Rahul Bharti and the French contingent of his students and followers have pretty well taken over my conscious daily existence. Total immersion is the name of the game. I have fallen into an ocean of kindness with enthusiastic men and women of all ages. Marie is seventy-four, so I am only the second oldest person here. The amount of material, the quality of insight, and the pace of learning are intense in every respect. This is in no way and by no means a course for lackadaisical people. The teacher is gifted beyond words and knows how to

push his students to their utmost with grace and encouragement that inspires everyone. The sense of teamwork and participation and loving concern is honest and deeply felt. And while the lingua franca between teachers and students is English, two thirds of those present are native French speakers, and the culture and sound of French surrounds and bathes the ears and the heart. My life has already been transformed in spirit during this past week, and the course will continue till the last day of this month. This morning’s circle began with Liz to my right next to Rahul, and to my left were Simon, Marie (first time I’ve seen this Marie), then Stefan, another new girl with a Goa T-shirt, Hélène, Jetsun, Catherine, Amodine, Mira from Italy, Claudia, Sonia, and Gilad. Rahul’s students keep coming back and he loves us all The atmosphere is contagiously uplifting. Yesterday’s lunch was a home cooked meal from the kitchen of the Healing Hands center prepared by Claudia and Helene, shared with Marie, Gilad and I.

     Every day is different. Today, I rode on the back of Amodine’s motor bike to the Happy House restaurant on the Auroville road where we met up with Simon, Liz, Sonia, Mira, Claudia, and the girl with the Goa T-shirt, Patricia. A lovely open air patio where well-prepared affordable Indian dishes are served. Liz to my right, Mira to my left, and Sonia across the table. Liz speaks of her recent two week visit to Viet Nam, and her interest in going to Laos and North India and Nepal. She tells a moving story of re-connecting with a now sixty-five year old woman whom Liz, now thirty-three, treasured when she was nine. Liz is inspired by the kindness and wisdom of her elderly friend, and hopes to be like her when she is that age. My mention of the Plain of Jars in Laos leads Liz to speak of her powerful encounter with an ancient rock dolmen in France. All of we around this table have multiple interests in common. Sonia wants to know if I’m writing, and I say I’m keeping a journal, and look forward to a fresh encounter with my poetic muse, and how I miss my paint brushes and tubes of paint. And in all of these conversations, I nurture the image of the French version of my book of poetry that I have been designing on my laptop these last few evenings. And I look forward to giving each of my lovely French speaking friends their copy, for though I cannot speak with them in any but the simplest phrases of their native language, the quality of their speech, whether in their accented English or natural French is music to my ears and touches my heartfelt connection with their culture. Surely, one or more of my past lives carries memories from that linguistic world.

     After the afternoon practice session during which I worked mostly with Simon, and watched Stefan, the accomplished student and follower of Rahul, Stefan gave me a ride on the back of his motorbike into Pondy. Stefan has been coming back to Pondy for eight years, and to Rahul for four years. He takes me to a couple of tea shops he frequents, one on the way into town, and one in town, and points out the Hotel Qualithe where he now stays, which I imagine I can give consideration to when my time comes up at the Ayodhya Bhavan. Together, Stefan and I watch the master tea maker perform his art for the endless stream of customers that come to his shop for their five or ten minute glass of his master brew.

     La Terrasse at 5:10 p.m. for a hot Ginger Lemon tea. My “things and people to keep me entertained” plate is pretty well stacked !

     Saturday, Fevrier six. Four in the afternoon at La Terrasse, after an eight to three session at the Healing Hands center. Two hours with the singing bowls then turns right over to the healing session as somewhere between thirty and forty people climb the stairs to visit the master healer. Just watching and listening to this man do his work with his hands and with his compassionate insight is inspirational. Head back into town for a visit with Jay Ram at the post office. No package yet; it’s as if this parcel of four books has evaporated somewhere over the Pacific ocean, or is sitting quietly in one of the old dungeons in this old building, collecting dust and awaiting discovery some fifty years down the road. Walk through French town to La Terrasse. Hot Lemon Ginger Tea for starters. The white kitty sleeps in the chair at the table next to me. Nice empty time to be at this restaurant, an old standby where I can listen to the humming cooler, the occasional crow flying by overhead, and the once-in-a-while scooter going by which is just a faint reminder of the city out there. Getting one step closer every day to the French version of my Livre as I ask Rahul about where he got his pamphlet printed. I’ve been cranking out little books since 1978 and here comes another one!

     Nice to visit La Terrasse again after spending the last entire month finding my entertainment on the North side of town. Can’t find there what I find here, and can’t find here what I find there. Different kinds of thinking goes on here, especially when I’m the only patron. Couple of small Indian families come and eat and go while I keep on sitting. One jerk of a little boy gets a kick out of making the kitty jump, and his fat-assed mama couldn’t care less. After they have been gone a few minutes, kitty reclaims her chair to resume her nap.

     Saturday, February sixth, following my five o’clock meal at La Terrasse, sit and watch the waves rolling in for a while before walking over to Alliance Francaise for the seven-thirty Caribbean music singing concert of Erika Lamont. Erika has been an occasional visitor at the Healing Hands center, a rather quiet personality there on familiar terms with some of the more regular and experienced students. Her singing voice is mellow and clear, and she is accompanied by a guitarist, and a fellow who splits his time between keyboard and alto sax, and a single drum percussionist who keeps a mellow rhythm going with his hands. Altogether, an uplifting energy of rhythm, melody and voice.

I arrive early and wait in the foyer until Gilad, Helene, and Sonia arrive. The theatre is good for about 200 below and 100 in the balcony, an intimate space easily filled with Erika’s admirers. We manage to find four seats together in the balcony, Jetsun arrives a few minutes later to join us. How sweet it is to be a part of this Francophone circle. After the concert, we mingle in the street for a few minutes before heading to our homes, and Jetsun gives me a ride on the back of his cycle to the Chez Nous coffee house for a Masala Chai, where we share some of the stories of our lives, before he gives me a ride the rest of the way back to my home.

     Sunday, February seven. Sign up for twenty more days at Ayodhya Bhavan. Exit date will be Saturday the twenty-seventh by noon. After some laundry washing and laid-back time, meet in passing in the hallway Mr K. C. from Iran who recites a couple of spontaneous verses from Hafiz after I tell him I’m a poet and give him one of my new business cards listing my websites. Take an auto-rik out to Serenity Beach to visit with Dara and Sofia from Chile and Argentina at the Teevum Plage restaurant. Where I meet with some additional artists and movie makers with whom I can share my cards. And ideas are generated for future encounters.

     Monday, Fevrier eighth. Seven in the evening, waiting for my pizza. Thai massage final leg sequence. Walk for bananas and cookies and tea for lunch. Internet shop printout and quote from Grand Offset Printers in Tamil Town.

A totally occupied day looking forward to a totally occupied tomorrow. Sonia shows up for the afternoon practice session. Besides the economic reasons,

I came to India to Clear My Mind from so much of what was becoming a never-ending routine that was moving, certainly, I can’t complain, but I felt a real need for some kind of kick-start into something new, and here it is.  Life over here for me is on a whole different level of enthusiastic and exhilarating interaction.

     February ten, Wednesday. Marie the younger inquires about my claim to be a poet during the afternoon practice session. I bring out the printout of the French translation and say I plan to make a booklet. However it happened, Catherine comes around to a very long recitation and marvelous spontaneous performance of something I do not understand, and her enthusiasm captivates the entire group. Would that every day should bring forth at least one such little miracle.

     Monday, February fifteenth. Distribute copies of French version to classmates. Take a hit from Jetsun Phoenix on the healing Hands rooftop. Getting more entangled with the Massage Center students. Serenity Beach on Sunday for a dip in the sea. Playing with the waves and crashing breakers.

     February 16.  Tuesday visit with Stefan at Hotel Qualithe for an order of cheese and spicy French fries with a lemon soda. Ismo leaves Ayodhya Bhavan on Wednesday the 17^th morning. I’ve got ten more nights at Ayodhya Bhavan.

Go over my file for my new English version. Plan for a visit to Mr. Guna, my printer at Grand Offset. Another final copy.  Another latest copy. There can always be another version.

     February 17, Wednesday afternoon. Sit with Jetsun, Simon, and Liz on the rooftop. Liz learned to sing when she was 5 along with her sisters 3 and 8. Amodine is there with us for awhile. Getting more difficult to think about pulling up stakes and leaving town just now just to see a mountain that will always be there. Meet Pierre on this morning’s walk. He happens to know Stefan.

     February 17, Wednesday. Work with Mr. and Mrs. Guna at Grand Offset Printing on formatting the new English language version. Takes a long time as they work to make an excellent copy with hi-resolution and clear pictures.

     Thursday, February 18. Meet Maxim and Morgan (as in Morgan la Fey) on the street on the way over to Chez Nous for my evening tea and a pizza. Stefan comes out with an enthusiastic monologue on what he likes about Rahul and the classes and he compares his experiences of twelve months of classes. I hold the speaking amethyst and come up with my memory of “you walk alone,” and “My eyes are open and all I see is darkness.”

     Friday morning the 19^th. Tell the story of my dream about “My eyes are open, and all I see is darkness.” Now I am more of a member of the group as my story joins the pool of stories in the circle.  Major transition week draws closer. The class will pass from the February to the March session. Shall I continue or not, and if so, how ? House moving on the horizon, which includes decisions about my continuing role in Pondy. The publisher and book distribution function is relevant, and I will have both an English and a French version. February 19, is the second anniversary for Gilad at Healing Hands. He is today’s master chef for preparing a celebration meal for all of us in this month’s class. In a circle we sit.

I am just inside the door and to my left is Stefan. From Stefan to the left is Mira, Gilad, younger Marie, Helene, Amodine, elder Marie, Simon and Liz and then Claudia to my right. Our circle is on the floor. It would be nice if Catherine were here. Jetsun comes in after the meal. We are all trying to learn the back sequences during the afternoon. Six p.m. walk over to Hotel Qualithe rooftop restaurant for spicy cheesy French fries and a lemon soda. I have been in three ashram guest house environments since arrival in Pondy on December 22. New Guest House, Niketan in Thiruvanamalli, and Ayodhya Bhavan.

     Now, Stefan tunes us in to the Buena Vista Social Club.

     Saturday evening, February twentieth. Moving right along in total immersion with Healing Hands Thai Massage classes, six days a week, along with saturation in the francophone cadence and music of most of my classmates. Third week down of the four week course, and we have been tsunami inundated with wave after wave of one series of moves after another. Legs, belly, shoulders, arms, back, neck, skull, and face, the movements that need to be learned, memorized, integrated, practiced and developed are knitting the class together in a web of collective attention. I’m on the slower end of the learning curse spectrum. Everyone learns at his or her own rate, and this seventy-one year old body, as fit as it is and I try to keep it, is just not as flexible, bendable and spry as those younger ones. The fact that I’m here at all continues to amaze me. After today’s morning till mid-afternoon class, Stefan and I on Stefan’s bike, and younger Marie along with Amodine on Amodine’s bike, ride into town for a good old fashioned Tamil banana-leaf lunch, with hot sambar on the rice, and tasty veggies on the side. Stefan knows the streets and shops of this city like the lines in the palms of his hands. He then leads us out of town for a grand tour, first to the Pondy harbor, which I had never seen before, then through all kinds of winding roads and streets through townscapes and countryside to the Villupuram temple with its colorful gopurams and crowds of devotees. When we ride back into town in late afternoon towards dusk, we stop at a very unpretentious door in the Ashram sector of the French Quarter where Marie meets her friend, a frail and brilliant very elderly madam, Kasun, who presides over this extensive store behind its simple door, Fleur en Flacon, with natural medicines and herbal health related items. Kasun takes the four of us to her room upstairs in the back, where we sit in a circle on her floor as final dusk settles into darkness, chanting Ohm together, chanting Ohm Tare Tuttare together, and tuning our five voices into one another, into our combination vibration. Five hearts, five voices, five souls merge in tone and spirit and the universe is alive and real within Kasun’s room for this sacred hour. The nearly full moon lights the eastern sky, and everything is Right.

     Journal notetaking has taken a back seat these last couple of weeks. There is more going on than can be reported in micro detail, as the theme of first engagement with this new life in India develops into a theme of developing friendships and a relatively settled way of life. Everything that is happening needs to be consolidated into an image that says it all. Two men and two women riding through the Tamil countryside on two motorbikes to visit a colorful crowded Tamil temple, and five persons in age from twenty-something to perhaps eighty-something, sitting in a circle chanting Ohm as dusk settles into full moonlight.  . . . perhaps gives a clue to the spirit of the day.

     Sonia visits Healing Hands today. Her unassuming wish that my verse would be in French led to my publication of Claude Convers’ translation and from there to my forthcoming publication of a new English version. I am so pleased to give her copies of the French version for herself and her daughter. Also give a copy to newly met Sandra after today’s session. Also give a copy to Kasun this evening. Copy by copy, my hundred French booklets and hundred English booklets will find their way into their Pondicherry readership. If there is anything I need to be doing, it is hanging on here in Pondy and continuing with the program.

     Sunday February 21, Serenity beach, Teevum Plage. Ninety-eight percent full moon rising. Got sloshed around by some heavy breakers this afternoon. And neither Dara, nor Sofia, not anyone else to engage with in conversation in any of the languages I more or less know or don’t know. Just me and the sea, and the sand, and the moon, and the breeze, and the breakers breaking continuously.

    

     Monday, February 22, on the Healing Hands rooftop. First day of the fourth and last week of this month’s massage course. The path I’ve been mysteriously following has brought me here. This is also my final week at Ayodhya Bhavan. Whole new story begins March first. I wonder if I will ever find the place and situation where I will feel well settled in this vast country.

     Monday evening, February twenty-second. Today took delivery from S. Guna of Grand Offset Printers, one hundred copies of my latest version of Gathering of the Tribes of the Earth. Today is full moon rising over the ocean, and the Maasi Magham festival of Vaitikuppam, with the “theertavari”  in  the sea for the “utsava” deities  from over one hundred temples in Pondicherry and surrounding areas of Tamil Nadu. The annual “bathing in the sea” of the main temple deity from each of these surrounding temples from as far away as fifty kilometers inland. All up and down the coast of Tamil Nadu this is happening, and Vaitikuppam is the focal point for this happening in this area. This little seaside hamlet, just north of Pondy’s French Quarter is the focal point for the gatherings of throngs of people from who knows where all, all come here to turn the main streets of Vitikuppam into midway at the circus.

     Tuesday the twenty-third. Second day of the last week of class. Lunch with Gilad. Rehearse my on-again – off-again plans for staying another month or leaving, or something in between. Get a bit of info from Erika Lamont about getting an apartment in Kottukuppam. Hand out copies of my fresh English language version to Claudia, who really appreciates it, and Gilad, and Marie the elder, and Marie the younger, and Helene, and Amodine. One at a time, each at his or her own best moment.

     Tea stall shop talk between Stefan and Marie the younger, as I listen attentively. Ride to a luggage store in Tamil Town with Stefan and buy a fresh bag that I know will be useful as I reformulate my packing and carrying paradigm. Visit with Stefan at Hotel Qualithe as my moving date becomes imminent. Plan now is to take Stefan’s room till March 29 when he returns from Hong Kong. Meet Ralph who has spent 15 years in Auroville, and Mark from Germany who has spent most of the last fifteen years in Tamil Nadu and owns two acres in the hills of the Kodaikanal area. Meet Saline and her few years old daughter. Time for a lemon soda on the rooftop restaurant and beer garden. Nice place to sit if they get their background music right, and when I can sit facing away from their complimentary TV screens.

     The Vaitikuppam festival has disappeared. For a single day and night, the streets were packed, block after block, with devotees and vendors and music makers and procession followers, and winding my way home through the undulating crowd last night while carrying my package of new books was a dance of dexterity in search of places to step. And today, except for the litter left behind, one could hardly imagine what transpired last night. Such is the magic of a theertavari festival, when the gods and goddesses are bathed in the Sea.

     Thursday, February 25, at 5:11p,m. at Café des Artes on Suffren street. Closing in on the last day of this month’s classes, to be followed by the first day of next month’s classes. After this afternoon pot of tea, I’ll be on my way over to Hotel Qualithe to see about that room that Stefan says will be available. Thought I would see Stefan this morning but did not, so he is surely on his way to Hong Kong now. Should be able to meet Jean Paul, the owner of the hotel, to negotiate the move-in time and fees. Wondering if and how I could set up a distribution table for my new books here at Café des Artes, which seems like a natural outlet. Place is empty now. Three patrons including myself, and the owner is apparently absent. This and the few other tea and coffee shops catering to westerners are on my planning horizon. Shouldn’t be all that complicated and I would like to do it tastefully and thoughtfully. I’ve got the entire month of March to get those 180 books out there, both French and English versions, or at least most of them, for I surely can’t be hauling them around when I start traveling, which I currently imagine could begin March 29 when Stefan returns to reclaim his room and the March Healing Hands classes are drawing to a close.

     Not much more to be saying about the Thai Massage course. Regardless of the fact that it has thoroughly occupied my attention these last five weeks.

And through March, it will continue to monopolize my attention and time, albeit from the point of view now of my forthcoming residency at Hotel Qualithe. It is now goodbye to the past seven weeks living in Vaitikuppam, and the overwhelming amount of walking I engaged in while there. It’s been a very special perspective, from the point of view of Ayodhya Bhavan and of the village. A whole new pattern of movement will now emerge in my Pondicherry life. Some faces will disappear, notabley Gilad and Claudia, and new faces will come into view. The March class will have both fresh faces and familiar faces, and I can hardly imagine who will emerge from the life I will encounter at Hotel Qualitie.

      My Pondicherry world since January 23 has pretty much revolved around the Healing Hands Thai Massage house and everyone connected with it. Rahul, our teacher, and all the students and visitors I have met and enjoyed conversations with. In one way or another, these encounters have led to my French and new English versions of my book. My sense of self and purpose has been invigorated. . . . Now, six-thirty at the rooftop restaurant of Hotel Qualithe, enjoying my cheese and spicy potato wedges and lemon soda, meet with Perumal, the hotel manager, and we agree to meet tomorrow early afternoon for the key handover, and all is in order.

     Choose to walk rather than ride from the rooftop restaurant to my Chez Nous evening cup of tea, and there at the Lord Vinayagar temple on the way is Lakshmi the pachyderm, just returned from her 48 day vacation in the hills around Coimbatore, standing there at the temple entrance giving blessings with the tap of her trunk to the receptive crown chakra of anyone who wishes to give her an offering. Of course!

      Friday, February 26 . Walking along a side street near the post office today, here is an elder, wiry, deeply-tanned European fellow sitting on the curb, and the casual eye-to-eye glance we share becomes a lock as I am walking by in the street, and it becomes inevitable that I stop and sit beside him. He has a thick and scraggly mustache and goatee, and he’s nursing a bottle of water, and clearly has had a fair share of something alcoholic. But his speech is clear and rational, and it so happens that my face is a dead ringer for a close friend of his who passed away a few days ago. This Frenchman’s friend was from Chicago, which I know well and once lived in, and we two men of similar age sitting on the curb begin unraveling our stories. Both of us are very attached to Indian culture, of Buddhist inclination, with similar thoughts about where the world is going and what is the meaning of meaning. Karal is visiting Pondy from Mamallapuram, sixty kilometers north along the coast. Pondy is wet, and Tamil Nadu is dry, and Karal wants some wet. Karal and I talk there on the curb for at least a half hour, maybe more, this is one of those timeless moments, as Karal meets a living image of his friend, and I meet a man I can understand and share meaning with. Our conversation arrives at the end of a circle, and each of us stands for our greeting in departure, and each of us walks in his own direction, after sharing our final locked-in glance.

Our shared moment of timeless forever,

However it happened,

it happened.