India, Day 7
My neighbour is a grumpy old man. He complains I should not shower after 930pm. I ask him what time he goes to bed. "8.30pm, then I get up at 2am to meditate and do some pranayamas.". I doubt it makes him a happier man.
I’m wearing a top that’s a bit shorter than it should be, revealing an itch of my tummy. A mistake. A formula for instant stares, comments. I don’t look at the men, not letting it get to me. Travelling in Muslim countries like rural Malaysia and Indonesia, it’s far worse. As I walk to the yoga class, I see a commotion of men, one of them destroying a wall freshly laid bricks. Two other men hit him with wooden sticks, he’s in too much rage to care. Who says Indian movies are over-dramatised. 2.5 hours later, the brick wall is brought down. Indian politics.
At yoga, I’m next to Lina, a Californian, with a second home in Rishikesh. She used to be a whale-watching tour guide in Alaska. She and her partner run an export business, selling tents from India all around the world. She tells me anything will come true if I just float off a flower basket down the Ganges River, greet her, splash her waters 3 times on my face. "Any man you want, baby". "That can be dangerous" I tell her. We go and check out the "Juice Bar" after yoga.
Over the idlis, it dawns on me that I could shop till I drop and mail it all back home, so I dont need to carry it in the mountains. I go crazy. Top quality pashwina shawls, singing bowls, auyverdic medicine, teas and oils, jewellery, some clothes. Mostly gifts. My friends and family are to feel my new philanthropic causes on them first!
It begins to rain again at night, I get stranded near another ayurvedic shop. The man is a doctor too, he makes a diagnosis of my health and the type of person I am. He leads me to the back of his office, measures the pulse of my both hands (left for moon, right for sun). He presses and touches me everywhere, listens to my chest. Verdict: I’m Pitta and Veda, 50:50. I’m yet to do some internet research to really understand what it means. He’s spot on with my astma tendencies, weak uterus, bad lower back, current indigestion (I indulged in some heavy northern indian food). He asks me why I don’t have children, and that I should, just to give my uterus a break. I love browsing his little, packed shop. I’m like a 10-years-old in a candy store. The almond oil is so different than the one I have at home. It tastes great too. I ask him for a natural deodorant – he opens a small container full of sandalwood and saffron oil balm. To apply under the armpits and the crotch. I buy many other things; auyvervedic well-being teas, blood-purifying tables for my poor skin, gas releasing tablets, and something to please my uterus. I pack it all up at night to send off home. I feel healthy already.
I’m wearing a top that’s a bit shorter than it should be, revealing an itch of my tummy. A mistake. A formula for instant stares, comments. I don’t look at the men, not letting it get to me. Travelling in Muslim countries like rural Malaysia and Indonesia, it’s far worse. As I walk to the yoga class, I see a commotion of men, one of them destroying a wall freshly laid bricks. Two other men hit him with wooden sticks, he’s in too much rage to care. Who says Indian movies are over-dramatised. 2.5 hours later, the brick wall is brought down. Indian politics.
At yoga, I’m next to Lina, a Californian, with a second home in Rishikesh. She used to be a whale-watching tour guide in Alaska. She and her partner run an export business, selling tents from India all around the world. She tells me anything will come true if I just float off a flower basket down the Ganges River, greet her, splash her waters 3 times on my face. "Any man you want, baby". "That can be dangerous" I tell her. We go and check out the "Juice Bar" after yoga.
Over the idlis, it dawns on me that I could shop till I drop and mail it all back home, so I dont need to carry it in the mountains. I go crazy. Top quality pashwina shawls, singing bowls, auyverdic medicine, teas and oils, jewellery, some clothes. Mostly gifts. My friends and family are to feel my new philanthropic causes on them first!
It begins to rain again at night, I get stranded near another ayurvedic shop. The man is a doctor too, he makes a diagnosis of my health and the type of person I am. He leads me to the back of his office, measures the pulse of my both hands (left for moon, right for sun). He presses and touches me everywhere, listens to my chest. Verdict: I’m Pitta and Veda, 50:50. I’m yet to do some internet research to really understand what it means. He’s spot on with my astma tendencies, weak uterus, bad lower back, current indigestion (I indulged in some heavy northern indian food). He asks me why I don’t have children, and that I should, just to give my uterus a break. I love browsing his little, packed shop. I’m like a 10-years-old in a candy store. The almond oil is so different than the one I have at home. It tastes great too. I ask him for a natural deodorant – he opens a small container full of sandalwood and saffron oil balm. To apply under the armpits and the crotch. I buy many other things; auyvervedic well-being teas, blood-purifying tables for my poor skin, gas releasing tablets, and something to please my uterus. I pack it all up at night to send off home. I feel healthy already.
posted by Magdalena Wszelaki @ 6:46 PM
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