Ashram Escapees

Banana sellers watching Anshuman taste-testing their produce

This time it was Shubham, a PhD student from Mumbai that came to the rescue. Two little scallywags caught me doing the perfect impression of an easy target at Trivandrum train station and came to offer assistance. I knew they were trouble as soon as I saw them and thought how funny it was that trouble looks the same no matter where you are. They asked if they could help, but were of no help, and then asked me for money for helping. And this is where Shubham stepped in. He shooed them away far more easily than I was able to and found out exactly where I should be to board my train. And didn’t leave my side until I was exactly where I should be to board my train. Only then did he head off to his own carriage for the 27 hour long journey to Mumbai. Thank you, dear Shubham.

But even after all that, sitting here in seat 27 AC2, I still feel as though I’m in the wrong carriage. And this time I even had the official with the clipboard and the white railway shirt wave me onto the train. But the carriage is full of men. Really. Only men. Sleeping men mostly, although the three in my cubicle are wide awake and tinkering on their phones. As am I. One just fixed the fan by sticking a pen through the bars and giving the blade a flick. I gently applauded and called him an engineer. They all laughed and it broke the ice for about five seconds but now the silence is back to uncomfortable. Lord, I hope I’m in the right carriage. Perhaps all the women are in the women only carriage and I’m what’s left over. Or maybe, this is just how it is.

So yesterday I waved goodbye to my pals at the ashram and, with fellow Panchakarmian, Anshuman, took a taxi to Trivandrum, the capital of Kerala. It wasn’t my original plan but as most of the gang were leaving too, or had already left, I decided a day of chaos in the big city might be an exciting contrast to the healthy, peaceful, and contained life of the ashram. Yes, I needed an antidote to perfect living.

Given the restrictions of the last two weeks, it was hardly surprising that we were less than half an hour into our hour-long journey before agreeing that we needed to eat some dirty, Ayurvedic-unfriendly food as soon as possible. So the minute we arrived in Trivandrum, our bags still in the taxi, we headed to a canteen called Ariyas Nivvas. There we filled our banana leaves and our bellies with the most delicious curries, rice, poppadoms and chutneys I think I have ever eaten. There is a set menu at lunchtimes and servers scurry from table to table adding whatever you want more of onto your leaf. You’ve never seen two happier people. We laughed, grinned and mmmmmm’d our way throughout, thoroughly enjoying being anti-Ayurvedic. To be fair, the food wasn’t really unhealthy at all, but having been given a ridiculously long list of foods not to eat directly post-Panchakarma, and feeling like ashram escapees, the feeling of rebellion was strong. Two hundred rupees later, and stuffed to the gills, we were back in the taxi.

The train official with the clipboard has just been by, checked my passport, and ticked me off his list. I’m in the right place. And one of my fellow cubby travellers has bailed and made up a bed for himself across the aisle. He’s drawn the curtain. Another is sitting opposite me bolt upright, shoes off, and snoring like billy-o. The third has also kicked off his shoes and has his feet up on the opposite bench. I think we’re settled in for the next 4 hours.

Anshuman kindly suggested that my hotel should be the first drop off point so he could make sure I got checked in. Well, thank goodness for that. When we arrived I found they’d cancelled my booking. No explanation, just that there were no rooms and no booking. So we trundled off to the homestay that Anshuman had booked to work it out from there. Well, thank goodness again. The owners of the Moksha, Mr & Mrs Rajamohanan, are retired architects and had designed the huge, marble-floored villa themselves and it was beautiful. They welcomed us warmly before Mrs Rajamohanan rushed off to make up an extra room. Then, once we’d had a snooze, and the high heat of the day had passed, we went out to explore. We bumped through the colourful markets scoffing bananas, laughing and chatting and hopping on and off tuk-tuks before heading to the Sree Padmanabhaswamy temple just before sunset. Non-Hindus are not allowed inside but we wandered up to the entrance where I gawped at the mostly pot-bellied men dressed in nothing but dhotis who were climbing the temple steps to worship. It was such a beautiful evening and I was so happy to be there.

I’m now down to one cubby companion. The snorer. He’s taken off his shoes and socks and made his bench into a bed. He’s shown me where my bedding is stored too. But there is no way I’m sleeping with him. As it is, it’s a weird thing to be awake and less than two feet away from a slumbering stranger. I mean, he’s in bed and I’m just sitting here opposite him writing this nonsense to keep me looking busy. Not long until my stop. I’ll try not to wake him when I leave.

By 6 o’clock, ashram supper time, our bellies were rumbling again so we headed back to Ariyas Nivvas for round two. Masala dosas as big as my head. And the chef must have known I was having a rebellious streak, or perhaps I just look malnourished, because mine arrived with a great dollop of butter on top. I’ve never eaten lunch and dinner in the same restaurant on the same day before. But why ever not.

I’m now at Our Land Backwater Resort in Alleppey. I picked up a taxi at the train station driven by Raju. He told me he was 65 and gave me a broad grin. He looked about 70 but to humour him I grinned back just as broadly. He chuckled and patted his unnaturally black hair. It’s dyed! he shouted, and fell about laughing. Raju was lovely and we chatted about all sorts of everything whilst he drove me the 30 minutes through the beach town of Alleppey and to the edge of the River Pamba. From there I was taken by canoe to a treehouse on an island. I’m blown away.