VKV stories

I have told you how the bulk of my time was spent at VKV, but it’s the little stories that bring a place to life. I think we had a particularly excellent batch of students. We must have; it can’t be so special all of the time. And even over the month we were there, some of the magic disappeared as some more people moved on.

Two young British women, Bella and Chloe, had the excellent idea of starting a series of cricket matches. Teams were picked fairly, with an equal number of Indian stars and pathetic, inexperienced westerners. Bella was really the heart of the game; she’s yell from the sidelines, cheer on the Tigers whenever we made a run, boo the Elephants, encourage newcomers. And Chloe is a PE teacher, so she was a great coach. The staff who were not playing (the women) laughed that all these crazy westerners were running around without their scarves and making fools out of themselves. I never thought cricket could be so much fun!

Another tradition we began at VKV was the customary jaunt down to the river after Kalari class. Kalari is India’s martial art, and it is brutally hard on beginners. Before a student gets to learn anything exciting, or useful in a fight, they have to do exercises to make their bodies stronger and more flexible. Which means it was both painful and somewhat boring. By the end of the hour long class, everybody was sweaty and hot and tired and sore. So we’d wander down to the river and jump in, fully clothed, right as the sun was setting. It was fantastic fun, and we did it quite a few times even though we were warned that the river was a bit polluted. However, after the first week, the daily swim stopped. Too many people dropped out of Kalari. (I did too, but that is because my knee collapsed because I was being competitive and pushed myself too hard, too fast - after not training for so long – and did not pay attention to what my body was telling me.)

So the sunset swim failed, but there was an up side to my knee collapsing. I’d already visited Sarath, Mom’s Ayurveda teacher, in the first week to consult about my asthma. So when I returned for my check-up, I asked about my knee as well. He prescribed four massages, three of which took place on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Mom and I went to the hospital around four each day, where I had my ½ hour massage, and then we sat in Sarath’s office for a few extra hours and just talked and told stories. It was fantastic, one of my favorite memories of VKV. By Saturday, I had elicited an invitation to visit his family’s house with the Ayurveda class. (I will describe this later – it deserves its own post.) When I returned for my final massage on Monday (Sarath was not entirely pleased I had skipped on the weekend) I was told that my knee was still in pretty bad shape. So Mom and I went to the hospital every day that week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday afternoons was spent in excellent company. The massages themselves alternated between being relaxing and excruciating. The worst one was when Dr. Amma, the supervising Dr., came to examine my knee after the first few massages. She has hands of steel! The young women who had been massaging me before were as gentle as lambs by comparison. I had bruises forming before the massage was finished! Fortunately, the massages seem to have helped. While my knee still hurts a bit, it feels much stronger. I do not think it will collapse again anytime soon. The asthma medicine is also helping, I think, but it is harder to tell because I have been controlling it fairly well lately. The medicine is also revolting in every sense of the word. Sarath has now given me about four liters of medicine to cart around India for the next two months. I think I will be very diligent about taking them, because they will be gone sooner.

But cures aside, it was the pleasure of Sarath’s company that made the trips to the Ayurvedic hospital such a pleasure. He has gained the rank of “adopted elder brother” in my book. At first, he seemed so serious, even though he smiled a lot. Being a doctor, you know, is a very serious job. Maybe it was all just in my head that he was terribly serious; he soon banished my assumptions with stories of his college days. He claimed that all this was behind him, but still took great pleasure in feeding Mom’s Echinacea to all the staff at the hospital and all of his family members with the single exception of his two-year-old nephew. (Dr. Amma also escaped – although Sarath kept a perfectly straight face, she knew him too well and didn’t trust the suspicious looking bottle in his hand.) To be fair, I also thoroughly enjoyed watching Hari’s expression change from unwary curiosity, to surprise, to laughter. Everyone had a good time.

One day at the hospital was particularly lovely. In the morning, my violin teacher had asked me if I like Kerala. I said, “yes, it’s great” in a very unrevealing sort of way. He told me that saying it was great meant nothing at all; was there anything I didn’t like. So I thought for a little while, than admitted that I wished it rained more. The more I thought about it, the more I missed the rain. A really good storm, where the clouds are dark and full; when they break, the drops fall on you are big and round and heavy; the smell of the dirt right when it first starts to soak up all that new water.

That afternoon, right as we got in the rickshaw to go to the hospital, I got my wish. The sky opened and the rain began to wash away all the dust and grime. Rickshaws are open on the sides, but they have a tarp that can be opened when it rains. I kept the corner of my tarp down and peeked out at the drenched countryside. When we arrived, I spun around a few times before waltzing inside on a cloud of happiness. I think everyone laughed at me a bit, but that’s all right. I enjoyed it so much that I think they did too. And the power was out, so we sat in the cozy little office, with a candle lit, and talked and drank hot tea. It was a magical hour. And when I went for my massage, the rain drummed a tattoo on the tin roof above the massage bed. The next time it rained, Sarath made sure to show me the view from the back door, which showed the river and the green trees instead of a dusty parking lot. I was entirely happy with a dusty parking lot if it rained, so you can imagine how I felt looking out at the river. So I danced in the rain some more. I hope he realized when I thanked him for showing me how much I really enjoyed it.

On one of our last days at the hospital, Mom convinced me to bring my violin and I gave a mini-concert. After I’d finished my performance, Sarath commented on how nice it would be to play an instrument but that he’d never had a chance to learn one. I pulled my newly-acquired Mursing (jaw-harp) out of my purse and told him that this was an easy instrument to pick up. I demonstrated the basics, which is all I can demonstrate, and then he tried. He was actually pretty good – better than my first try, at any rate. Not that that’s saying anything. So I gave it to him with the stipulation that if I came back to VKV he would give me a concert. I doubt that will happen, but hopefully he will have fun with it.