A Journey Ends

My last day in India was very sweet and special. I awoke to sunshine at the Embassy and after breakfast with Thomas, Ulla and Anna, I struck out with Raja on some errands. I met Nikhil, Arjun and Nivriti (Arjun's girlfriend) at a place called Have More for lunch and what they were calling, "my last truly Indian meal." Arjun presented me with a book, The Exile in the Forest, a beautiful collection of lithographs telling the epic tale of Ramayana. Thriving on a largely vegetarian diet and little coffee and little alcohol, I've lost nearly 10 lbs. Today we feasted on lamb and chicken specialties.

Since arriving in India, I've been admiring the nose pierces on women of all ages. Northern Indian women pierce on the left, Southerners on the right. I thought about a nose pierce for myself and decided  if I was still interested in it by journey's end, I'd go for it.

I held Nivriti's hand at a jeweler's off Connaught Place while Arjun and Nikhil circled around in the car. At the counter with people selecting jewelry all around me, I got a gunshot to my nose. There was no blood and it didn't hurt much....at first. I chose a pearl stud to start, hypoallergenic. Its fairly obvious but  the permanent one is a tiny white stone with a classic silver wire backing that I bought in Benares. It will sit flat on my nose and be but a shimmer. The left nostril must clearly be on some kind of meridian because one of my left teeth and my left sinus began almost immediately to ache. It's been so long since my ears were pierced and felt like a really big adventure. "Do you have any whisky," I asked the salesman afterwards. He was expecting me to ask after a different kind of alcohol, I think, and this caught him off guard. Then we all burst out laughing.

My good-byes with the boys were swift and heartfelt. They have been part of my life almost since my arrival and we have made sweet, sweet songs together. They're young and eager to learn and it was a joy playing with them and teaching them more about the art of accompaniment - about cabaret and the jazz in their blood. I know we'll perform together again. Arjun's brother lives in Manhattan and we'll likely reunite there at some point.  Then I'll find us a stage and introduce him to my musical world. We'll play in India when I return.

In the afternoon Bharat came to the Embassy for a short visit and to say goodbye. He was my first partner in the Aryuvedic yoga massage class. His work on my hip and pelvis unlocked a year's worth of trauma in that area. He's also one of the three with whom I got so stoned at Holi and we laughed again about that. A beauty of a guy, full of life, smiles and vigor.

My last partner in the massage training class is one with whom I discovered a deep and lovely connection for life. Daman is a Sikh, an actor, a man of parts, a bird of a different feather. We didn't find very much time for each other in these 5 weeks but the hours we had were always extraordinary. He was busy with Fashion Week today and came late in the evening to retrieve me and drive me to the airport. Fin is a nickname. He calls me Ivory Fin.

As my plane took the air, I had not the pangs of longing I've experienced leaving other places in my life. India is another home for me in this world and I have but barely scratched the surface of all she is and has to teach me. Rarely have I felt so deeply happy for so many days on end. Rarely have I been so completely purposeful and so perfectly seen. I had no real idea why I was coming here. I had applied for the residency while nursing a broken hipbone a year ago - put it into the ether with no expectations, no plan, and barely a hint of understanding. I came here on a feeling and because I felt called. I arrived wide open and India poured herself into me. 

There comes a point in flight where the distance behind me is the same as what lies before me and I begin looking forward. My 2:00am flight from Delhi to Frankfurt lasted 7 hours. I managed to sleep for 5 of them and was soon landing in my original birthplace and in the embrace of my uncle Alfons for a layover of 7 hours - a second breakfast, a warm shower - and time with he and his partner Helga. It was sunny, and quiet, and spring hung in the air. The streets were so clean it was shocking. I phoned my mother's sister, Renate. A traveler who's seen most of the world herself counts Goa as one of her favorite places. She was eager to hear how India was for me.

Back at the Lufthansa check-in counter, I was enjoying a light and playful banter with the purser of my flight to JFK, when he presented a big surprise:  an upgrade to business class on the brand new Airbus 380, the largest airplane in the world. Champagne, a reclining bed, cameras on the wing to follow the flight...such a ride...oh my! I could only pinch myself. The symmetry didn't escape me either. 42 years ago I made the trip on the same airline with my Mom, Dad, and two little brothers... I left my homeland and birthplace of Frankfurt for a new city, New York City, and a new world.

A world where lots of love and exquisiteness awaits me....

Namaste.

Ulla's Birthday

I was happy to be invited to stay in India a week after the Zorba residency ended to celebrate Ulla's birthday. Wife, mother of three - a gracious, gorgeous, multi-talented ambassador, not only of Germany, but of womankind is she!

In the morning I gave her an Aryuvedic massage. Afterwards, one of my students, Zorian, came to do a tarot card reading for each of us. Then the residence was decked out in splendor and Ulla's daughter Anna stepped in as mistress of ceremony of the evening's entertainment she'd organized. She and Thomas prepared a slide show of Ulla's life. Arjun and Nikhil came and we reprised a few of our favorite songs from these concert outings. Other friends performed opera and modern Indian dance. To the soundtrack of the 60s, we danced the night away. It was a great bash to round out a lovely friendship that has deepened for us with this visit. So much of my stay has been influenced by Ulla's passion for music and her great spirit. It was really wonderful having the Matusseks here in the city where I would come as an artist in residency, a fellowship I applied for while nursing my broken leg last year. April 7th happens to also be the one-year anniversary of that auspicious event in my life. Thank you Ulla for helping make my first journey to Indian so especially rich. Happy Birthday my dear!

Let's Go To Benares

Benares Song

(written in English by Bertolt Brecht, 1927)

There is no whisky in this town

There is no bar to sit us down, Oh!

Where is the telephone?

Is here no telephone?

Oh, Sir, God Damn me: No!

Let's go to Benares 

Where the sun is shining

Let's go to Benares!

Johnny, let us go.

The first time I heard the word Benares was in this song by Brecht from Mahagonny Songspiel some 15 years ago. Brecht liked using Asian place names in his works - Surabaya, Mandelay, the Punjab.

So I'd been thinking about where to travel in the three short days after my workshop and before Ulla's 60th birthday party. Some friends recommended a mountain getaway in the foothills of the Himalayas which aren't too far. Others suggested places like Jaipur and Jodhpur but also cautioned that since these were desert towns they were already very hot now. There was Rishikesh where the Beatles attended a transcendental meditation back in 1968. Most of these spots were an 8-hour bus or train trip.

When Ashwin asked me where I really wanted to go, without thinking about it, I said Varanasi, or what Indians have always called Benares. What I read about this strange city on the banks of the holy River Ganges captivated me. People bathed in the river in evening and morning meditations, and burned their dead out in the open on funeral pyres. The city has a rich musical heritage - many musicians have come from Benares. It all sounded compelling. Something was calling me there like India as a whole had called me.

My friend Ian in NY suggested a book, Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi. Venice is already near and dear to my heart as the place where I fell in love with my soulmate at age 19 and that the two cities are linked in this book was interesting enough. Turns out I haven't much like the book, but the author's descriptions of Varanasi are richly construed and spot-on.

It was my ambassador Thomas Matussek with whom I sat at lunch out under the pergola at the residence one afternoon who convinced me to choose Benares and also solved the travel problem. "Fly there," he said. "It'll take an hour and not cost very much. In fact, we'll set it up through our travel agency here." And so we did and on Monday morning at 9:30am I boarded a SpiceJet (India's commuter airline) and flew southeast. I got into a terrible traffic jam with my taxi driver (Varanasi's traffic is even worse than Delhi's with cars, bikes, rickshaws and animals and no lanes in any direction. The hotel Ganges View had come up in conversations and in the book as the place to stay, but it was full and so I got a room a few doors down for two nights at the Palace on the Ganges. It was sweet indeed...small with a big bed and a view to the Assi ghat below.

I've had a deliriously charmed experience in this maiden visit to India and there have been angels accompanying my footfalls. Truly, I have often sensed a presence larger than my own guiding my steps and my awareness. Traveling now alone to a place that is intensely weird, "equal parts fantasy and utter repulsiveness" as one visitor to Zorba told me, I was open yet guarded. Ready to flow in the stream of life as I have come to know it -  trusting that a few benevolent and unseen beings always have my back.

I walked along the ghats after checking out my room. It was mid afternoon and already hot. Cows were everywhere, on the steps, in the water. There were goats and monkeys too. Lots of men were hawking boat rides, lots of children were hawking henna tattoos and souvenirs. "What country, what country?" they would ask. Eventually I started answering "Mars." That didn't deter them. "You like a pretty necklace for Mars? You got some rupees for me?"

I thought I knew what dirt was, what waste was, what shit was. Na. On the surface this was easily the most disgusting place I'd ever seen. But then I'd already been in Delhi for a month and my resistance to the things of this world like filth, poverty, overcrowdedness, noise and shoving had been broken in the first week. Here it all smacked me in the head again and then vanished. The Ganges is so polluted to my Western sensibilities as cannot be believed. But the people who bathe in it and clean their clothes in it don't believe it's dirty, they believe it's holy and so it doesn't make them ill. They flock from all parts of India to take a splash of it in their palms and annoint themselves. They come to Benares to die at its river banks and be cremated here.

I ate the best chicken butter masala of my trip at Fair View rooftop restaurant a few doors down and that's where I met Ricki. Ricki became my guide that night, procuring me a boat for the trip upstream to the evening prayer ceremony and the laying of candles into the river. What a sight when night comes and all these little candle boats are afloat on the river. "This is your luck," Ricki said as I placed my floating candle into the water. Alas a stroke of the oar sent water into my offering drowning the flame. I cried out in dismay. Ricky retrieved my candle and relit it and my luck returned. Isn't that how it is in life? A year ago almost to the day, my luck went out and I fell and broke my femur. Today I was bobbing on the Ganges far away from home and all I knew about myself. And I had walked here on two good legs.

Getting the low-down:

Recovering my luck flame:

The chant of the Brahman:

Ricky procurred me another boat the next morning at dawn, an experience that was so tranquil, dreamy and surreal that I know it will play in my dreams to the end of my days. 

The Ganga at dawn:

Ricki wanted to be my guide for the rest of the day, but I opted instead for some alone time. Something slightly terrifying happened outside my hotel after the morning boat meditation. I returned to my hotel for the complimentary breakfast, showered and put on my sandals which it turns out were wet on the undersoles. As I came out of the hotel, I slipped on the marble staircase and went kerplunking all the way down on my rump. In that instant half a dozen men from as many directions shouted out in horrow and flew to my aid. As soon as I had stood and brushed myself off, back they were to peddling their wares and services. Humans at the core, salesman after that.

Jesus! What is it with all the falling at this stage of my life!?! I walked off the plunge, wondering if the titanium pins in my hipbone had held together and wandered again alone along the ghats. At 

Manikarnika Ghat at 3:00pm, I 

observed the laying down of a corpse on the funeral pyre in silent reverance and with no camera recording it. The head was exposed - stony and still. The body had been lathered in many essential oils and in ghee (to facilitate burning) and was now wrapped in cotton and colorful sashes. The next morning when I came down to the ghat at dawn to meditate in the stillness while people bathed and laid their laundered saris and sheets out on the steps to dry, I saw that this body and all the logs above and beneath it had burned overnight. All that remained was a pyramid-shaped cone of ash. I wondered about myself, my sensibilities. My best musical endeavor to date is all about the coming and going of life, creation and destruction, the sex act and the death act. How is it that I'm made for such things?.... How did I become like this?....

It was Tuesday afternoon and I ventured up into the neighborhoods through Benares' famous alleys and up along the main street called Shivala. I sparred with flying monkeys and got kids to stop selling and smile. I texted Arjun and Nikhil back in Delhi: "Benares is con artistry bobbing on waves of enchantment. Where nothing is as it appears or appears as it is. Where shit and gold shake hands." And later: "There is no place on earth like Benares. I've known border towns in Texas, Arizona, in Europe. This is a border town too. Not to another land, but to another world."

Here I walk along Shivala Road:

A South African woman has opened a coffee shop called Open Hands where Westerners can chill out and collect themselves from the intensity of the Benares experience. I was served the largest piece of carrot cake I've ever had alongside my first coffee in weeks and then I went nuts buying textiles. Two 4x6 cotton rugs for $25 a piece, 2 sets of curtains for the new apartment, pillow cases, tunics and recklessly lovely silk scarves. Back in Delhi, Raja would help me buy another suitcase for the journey home. I arrived with one and left with four.

And after I took this photo my camera phone lost its juice. I had not wanted to schlepp the large charger and converter with me to Benares in my small day back and so that was the end of the filming. Henceforth I would have to carry my impressions on the silver screen of my mind. At Open Hands I asked one of the sales guys where I could hear some tabla and sitar music and he told me to come back at 7:00 that night which I did. I was told that Bablu was waiting for me in the street on his motorcycle and would take me to a place. In my previous life, I would never have gotten on a motorbike with a strange man and no sense of where he was taking me. But now I hiked up my long skirt without question, grabbed him tightly round his belly and held on for dear life as we entered the crazy traffic stream of town. Several times I thought one of my knees would take out a cow utter or some goat testicles...but it never happened. Turns out Bablu brought me to his own music hall and then went off to find more guests. What an ingenious way of producing music - I have something to learn from him. This night, along with a few other visitors from Australia and Japan, I took in a private concert of tabla, sitar and the beautiful sarangi (a kind of violin). Here's a photo of an old one I snapped in my hotel lobby upon arrival. 

After the presentation, they invited the singer from New York to the stage. I merged my Summertime by the Gershwins with Faiyez Ali Khan's sarangi as accompaniment and can say that I sang in Benares. One of the Japanese gals captured the duet on video and has promised to send it to me. I hope she does. The next day Nanu, the tabla player, drove an hour to town and gave me a singing lesson in Indian ragas (9 beats and 16 beats). One of them is happily named Raga Saraswati. He used a harmonium to find our pitches, though what what he called Middle C was more like Ab as I know it. But it was pure bliss and my gratitude for being "led" to this artful space made for a lump in my throat then and does so even now.

At the end of the lesson, Bablu zipped me back to my hotel on his motorbike in time for me to catch my cab to the airport for a 4:00pm flight back to Delhi. God, I'm glad I came here!

The Days After Zorba

Since my day trip to the Taj with Simar, the days have been action-packed. My arts residency at the Global Arts Village (newly renamed Zorba the Buddha) officially ended on March 31 and that night I moved to the Embassy to prepare for a concert at the grand re-opening of a restaurant called Second Sin in MGF Mall in Saket the next night. The gig was great fun - photos are forthcoming from Laurent Guiraud, its manager and French ex-pat whom I've befriended here. I'm grateful to him for giving me a public venue to which I can invite the people I've met in this fantastic first month.

Meet Raja (below on the right). He is the major domo at the Embassy and a lovely man. Took me around to run some errands - a fitting for the blouse for my first sari which will be most beautiful indeed, and shopping for another suitcase. His tailor has a stand in a nearby market where sewing machines whirl and sacks of rice (rice?) are stored in the shadows. My silk sari costs $120. The blouse will cost $8 to make and the ready-made petticoat is $6.

Back at the Embassy, the landscapers and some of the staff were felling a rotten tree, a Shisham (hardwood similar to Rosewood). Ulla wants to have furniture made from it. This task proved to be an interesting diversion that I captured on film. Clearly I'm feeling very much at home here at the ambassador's residence.

After my late night at the Second Sin restaurant opening, I arose early and headed to Neemrana Music Foundation to teach my first workshop, Beyond the Beautiful Voice: The Art of Singing a Song, to singers and actors. I had 17 students in all and we worked from 10am to 5pm. The class was organized by another French ex-pat, Antoine Redon, artistic director of Neemrana who also participated in the workshop as a singer. It was a wonderful day spent with talented and daring artists and I was happily exhausted by the end of it. Sadly, I forgot to bring a camera, but Antoine's wife Capucine (great name!) filmed bits of the class which will surely prove very edifying once I'm back home. One of the students, Doris, drove me back to the Embassy, pointing out some Delhi highlights along the way such as Humayun's Tomb and India Gate. One isn't supposed to stop near India Gate, so Doris (an ex-pat from Holland who's lived in India for over 25 years) pretended that her car was overheating so I could get out and snaps some pics. Swell!

Yesterday I returned to Zorba to teach the same workshop in a different environment. This time I had two singers in the group, an actor, a dancer, three public speakers and a voice-over artist. The luscious natural beauty of Zorba's surroundings lent the day a decidedly spiritual air. Teaching felt very organic to me as new ideas were born into my method. It was very exciting and I learned as much from these passionate students as they learned from me. 

Last night Ashwin threw me a party and I said goodbye to he and Simar and my good friend Nishant, head of facilities, who arrived the same day I did - March 1st - which seems like eons ago. These partings were bittersweet but I'll be back, sure as rain, and  will see all these people again.

Shortly, my taxi driver will arrive and whisk me off to the airport. I have three days to spare before Ulla's birthday and am flying to the mysterious city of Benares (called Varanasi today) on the holy Ganges, just me and my day pack. It will be good to leave Delhi and see what the "real" India is like. 

Oh Taj Sublime

After leaving Agra Fort we had lunch at a restaurant in a hotel with which Rao Travel has an arrangement. The food and service were quite good. Simar and I shared our table with a gal from Iran and a guy from South Africa, each traveling solo. Regrettably I didn't write their names down on a napkin and have forgotten them.

The bus dropped us about 200 yards from the entrance to the Taj Mahal, the rest of the trek was accomplished by camel or horse buggy. We jumped on a horse buggy. It was so tipsy I thought I would slide out the back right onto the road. The camels fascinated me - never have I seen one outside a zoo. In fact I can say that about India in general...never have I seen so many zoo animals out in the streets among the humans...cows and sheep and goats, of course, and monkeys and kingfisher and cobras and now camels. Where is the wise elephant of my dreams...perhaps around the next corner...

Admission for Indians into the Taj Mahal is a whopping 30 rupies (about 6 cents). For me, the non-Indian it is a shocking 750 rupees or $16! (The Empire State Building costs the same.) The queue for nationals was endless yet there was no line for foreigners. I approached, received a warm greeting and was welcomed inside. The guards stopped Simar in her tracks. She's got a look that can pass for many nationalities and has said she's often asked if she's Israeli. The guards refused her entry in my queue and she obediently headed to the long line of Indians. Seeing her go, a deep voice rose up in my belly and I surprisingly blurted: "Wait! She's with me. She's mine." The guards turned to me equally surprised. I reiterated calmly and firmly: "She's with me. Come Simar. Come." They let her pass. As we walked together, I shot her a glance and a smirk. "I feel like an imperious white woman during the height of colonialism."

We arrived at the Taj at the peak of day. It was a scorcher and there were many people there. I had to wet my scarf and wear it on my head for air conditioning. And I vowed that the next time I visit the Taj I will leave Delhi at 3am and arrive at dawn, or wait until dusk when the shadowplay is grandest. Ashwin told me the Taj is at its ethereal best on the night of a full moon. The grounds are amazing, all the buildings so beautiful - the stone, the carvings, the details...

No matter where we've all grown up in the West, we've heard of the Taj Mahal, seen an image of this great wonder of the world, a tomb erected in the name of true love. But until we lay our eyes upon it we cannot fully fathom its incredible beauty and majesty. It is something from dreamworld and completely breathtaking.

So Simar and I spent an hour there, strolling under shade trees and slowly making our way inside.

I let a song go out of my heart (albeit sideways):

And someone answered:

The view to the north, west and east.

Auf Wiedersehen Taj!

Day Trip to Agra

I've known all along that I wouldn't have much time to travel and see other parts of India on this maiden journey, but I quickly decided that a day trip to Agra to see one of the Seven Wonders of the World, the Taj Mahal, was a certainty. I booked my bus passage through Rao Travel and in the last minute Simar decided to come along.

I recently met a really sweet taxi driver named Ravi on one of my many trips between Zorba and the Embassy and elsewhere and have been calling him often. He picked me up at Zorba at 5:00 am this morning. The bus left an hour later from the neighborhood of Vasant Vihar which is where my pianist Arjun and his family live. The bus was comfortable with mostly Indian tourists aboard and soon we were out of Delhi and stopping for a road-side breakfast.

Our first stop in Agra was the very impressive Red Fort, an UNESCO World Heritage Site. The Red Fort and the Taj Mahal bear testimony to a civilization which has disappeared, that of the Mogul Emperors. Agra's history goes back 2500 years but only during the rein of the Mughals did it became more than just a provincial town.  This 16th-century fortress of red sandstone was built in 1565 by the Emperor Akbar on the right bank of the Yamuna. Within its 2.5km-long enclosure walls it contains many fairy tale palaces such as Jahanguir Palace and the Khas Mahal, audience halls and two very beautiful mosques.

The Emporer Shah Jahan, who built the Taj Mahal, was imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb in Agra Fort from which he had a view of the sublime building he erected for his deceased wife, Mumtaz Mahal. There in the distance it shimmers.....

Chhartarpur Temple

Delhi has many wonderful temples and historic sites. I have not yet a chance to really visit them. Seems my time is spent in the streets and in the homes of India. But I heard there was a temple near Zorba and our Ghitorni stop on the Metro line. The station was two stops away at Chhartarpur. On my way into town to do a little more shopping, I decided to pay it a visit. It might even be more interesting being way off the beaten tourist path...

In my travels on the elevated subway, I've been spotting several huge statues sprinkled throughout South Delhi. Today on my way to the temple I passed one of them - Hanuman - the mighty monkey deity - a central character in the Indian epic Ramayana. Hanuman aided Lord Rama in his expedition against evil forces and is one of the most popular idols in the Hindu pantheon. Believed to be an avatar of Lord Shiva, he is worshipped as a symbol of physical strength, perseverance and devotion.

The Alexander Technique

One of the great perks of being at Zorba is taking part in some terrific workshops. I’d already learned an Aryuvedic Yoga Massage with Swami Khirad. This weekend I learned the Alexander Technique as taught by Ashwath Bhatt (second from left), also a trained actor. 

The Alexander Technique is a system taught to improve posture and movement, and to use muscles efficiently. It takes its name from F. Matthias Alexander who, in the 1890s, developed its principles as a personal tool to alleviate his breathing problems. He credited the technique with allowing him to pursue his passion for Shakespearean acting. The technique involves the re-education of what Alexander called "The Use Of The Self", a re-education of our reactions to internal and external stimuli.

We learned concepts such as end-gaining and inhibition. End-gaining means to focus on a goal and lose sight of the process of getting there. In simple walking, for instance, we have only the destination in mind and lose awareness for how our body actually walks. By bringing inner awareness and outer focus to walking, we can correct posture, breathing and body alignment. Inhibition describes a moment of conscious awareness of a choice to interrupt, stop or entirely prevent an unnecessary habitual "misuse." A freer capacity and range of motion result and we experience this more as a state of "non-doing." In stagecraft, I myself teach a concept I call self-collection which is very similar. It is a moment of gathering myself up before entering a character and a song and bringing awareness to my body, breathing and intention.

Ashwath taught us with great humor and sensitivity. I picked up several games and connection exercises from him that I think will be fun to incorporate into my teaching, beginning with my own upcoming workshops in stagecraft at Neemrana Music Foundation and here at Zorba. Ulla Matussek came out form the Embassy each day to join us. We became a tight little group working in this nurturing oasis of nature.

Indian Wedding

Indian Weddings are astonishing. Celebrated for days on end with lavish sets, costumes, fanfare, ceremony, I was lucky to experience one right next door.

For weeks in the adjacent farm, builders had been erecting a structure nearly a NY city-block in length. The peace I’d known in my first week at Zorba was soon dashed by the sounds of hammers and drills that went well into the night. The Friday before the wedding, when we were all assembled for the Alexander Technique, the Ring Cermony was taking place. The volume of noise and music was so high it made our building pulse and the window glass rattle. That night I packed up my bedding and slept in the Heart. The mosquitos were buzzing but it was better than the din. They finally quit their partying at 5am. Nobody in our group got any rest and arrived on Saturday morning fairly fried and so Ashwin went to have a chat with his neighbor. He returned with an invitation for two. We got dolled up in our finery and attended the wedding on Sunday. Being inside the complex was amazing...it was jaw-dropping what all had been created there in three weeks time... a long entryway with hundreds of votives, tropical garden, a gazebo, a main hall, a dining hall and a room for the ceremony. 

They say, "the uglier the bride the bigger the wedding" and since this was mammoth, I was surprised to finally see a fairly pretty bride. Turns out the groom's father is some huge media personality and very rich. I kid you not: champagne and cognac flowed on dozens of trays for over 400 guests all night long. 

I kept leaving Ashwin to go explore and that is how I came to be in the street when the groom arrived. Not sure how it happened but I wound up as part of the groom's party as the pictures and videos reveal. Nobody asked me to leave. I chuckle to think that he'll see me there in all his photographs.

The food was incredible, so much so that Ashwin and I missed the marital ceremony because we were grazing. There was a gourmet spread of veg and non-veg offerings, and the richest and best black daal and chicken butter masala of my trip thus far. The delicacy of the night...goat's testicles. Wheeee, I already had one in my mouth when the handsome man on line behind me told me what it was. Gulp. Smooth and buttery, actually...yummy.

Long live this prince and princess!

Have a look:

Berlin Night

Tonight we celebrated Berlin Night with a selected audience at the German Embassy. We began by reprising our afternoon tea set, songs from the Weimar Republic, with Felix Hofmann at the piano. After a break, I took the stage again with two lovely Indian jazz musicians I’ve found in Delhi and am coaching in the art of cabaret accompaniment - Arjun Gupta on the piano, Nikhil Vasudevan on drums. Sweet.

With vintage posters adorning the walls, silent films playing in the banquet room and sumptuous food and beverages, people were transported to the great city, past and present. Songs included “Life’s A Swindle”, “Mack the Knife”, “Beware of Blondes”, “ Lou Lila”, “Falling in Love Again” and “Tea for Two” in the first set, and “Speak Low”, “Koffer in Berlin”, “Night and Day”, “Libertango”, “I Let my Daddy Do That”, “In the Still of the Night”, “Mood Indigo” and “Lili Marleen” in the jazzy set.

Wunderbar!

The Ruins of Hauz Khas

This is Simar. She is one of the directors here at Zorba with whom I already had contact from New York. She is a beauty with big expressive eyes, a waterfall of long black hair and a free and generous spirit. I've named her Shopping Girl, not because she's a shopping freak but because whenever I'm shopping with her I have extraordinary luck. Having an insider is really the best way to go. They know where to take you and how to handle people once you're there. 

On Monday, we ventured to the old runs of Hauz Khas in central Delhi. In the 13th century, this was an institution of higher learning. Today it forms a rough-and-tumble park and lake where lovers kiss in rocky crevices and now and then a chanteuse drifts through and plays her voice against the ancient stones.

Afterwards, we explored the nearby shops of Hauz Khas, very rustic and not so much geared to tourism. There in a boutique I scored:  two stunning raw silk garments. One is an ivory skirt with sumptuous beadwork, matching top and scarf. The other a black raw silk skirt with a flare-out at the ankle and gold trim. When I emerged from the dressing room, Simar and the proprietress both let out a "wow!" and I took them both. Each is a one-of-a-kind piece that will no doubt make an appearance in this blog at some point. 

Divine Touch

One of the virtues of being here in residence is that I have access to some wonderful workshops. Last weekend I participated in a 3-day seminar to learn the "The Divine Touch" an Aryuvedic yoga massage technique. We were a small group of 11, including our Swami Antar Khiraad, and by the end of the weekend had grown quite close and symbiotic.

We began each morning with an hour-long meditation at 7:00am, then ate breakfast together, then after showers rejoined at 10:30 to learn a particular section of the body, say the back, until a mid-monring tea break. Then more massage until lunch, next the legs, and then on until 4pm. Then we rested until dinner.

Each day futons were spread around the floor and we decorated the floorspace with flowers (always the red rose petal, marigold and yellow wildflower combination). We used sesame seed oil to warm and lubricate the body and calamis powder (from the ginger family) as a gentle abrasive. We each had 3 partners from whom we received and to whom we gave. It was blissful. Where tantric massage is designed to awaken the senses and our sexuality, Aryuvedic massage is a healing massage intended to stretch the body, open the joints, enhance circulation and improve alignment. Swami worked for some time on my pelvis and hip joint, freeing it from residual pain and stiffness resulting from last year's hip accident. Good breathing was a key element in our work.

Naturally, owing to the intimate and peaceful environment we created, no photos were taken f the actual sessions. But here we are at mealtime, after a spontaneous pillow fight and in our final circle where I serenaded the group with Nature Boy.

Hearth Beat

The food at Zorba is out of this world. Always diverse, always full of taste, always vegetarian. A few nights ago, I presented myself to the cooks at Zorba, Maman and Dilip, as Chopping Girl. We were feeding 25 that night and I first tackled about 10 pounds of okra. The Indians call it lady fingers in English and bindi in Hindi. As I looked out the window I realized I was in this moment supremely happy.

Afterwards I cut cucumber and onion for the salad and then hovered around Dilip (also my morning meditation mate) and watched him sizzle jack root in sesame oil in the wok and mastermind the curries.

The kitchen and all its accoutrement is well loved and well used. There's not a spot of copper in it. That will have to be remedied. 

Dheeru drops by. He's head of facilities here and been a part of Zorba for a long time. Handsome, gentle and soft-spoken he shares an Aryuvedic secret about copper. If you're suffering from stomach upset, put water into an unlined copper vessel overnight and drink it first thing in the morning. The metal and water have bonded overnight to provide a restorative and healing liquid. Wow!

Before parting and partaking of our creations that night, I asked my friend Lalit to procure me some ingredients. Lalit has been my tech guru here at Zorba and all-round awesome assistant, helping hook me up to the Internet, arranging for my taxis and so forth. I told Lalit I wanted to bake my favorite cookie...almond with raspberry filling...and needed him to purchase a non-flavored oil, some maple syrup (Aunt Jemima is what I expect to be using), some pastry flour, some almonds (which appear here often in rice pudding and other desserts) and raspberry jam. Then on another day I'll bake Karen's Cookies for the family.

Chef and Chopping Girl

Bon Appetit!

आप का खाना स्वादिष्ट हो (āp kā khānā svādiṣṭa ho)!

Dilli Haat

So much excitement in my first 10 days that I hadn't had any time to shop! And I was getting quite sick and tired of the same few t-shirts and slacks. Time to get in among the people, so off I went to explore Delhi on foot. I boarded the Metro at my stop, Ghitorni, which is a 10-minute walk through the gated community that surrounds Zorba and one of the last stops on the Metro line here in South Delhi. An Indian visiting Zorba informed me that Delhi-ites were thrilled with the Metro. It's clean, fast and efficient, had come in under budget and on-time. That's because it wasn't built by Indians, he said, but by foreign developers.

New Yorkers take note: these trains are awesome...brand-spankin' new and shiny. People behave themselves. Nobody is acting out, begging, spitting (for spitting on the trains or platforms there's a 200rs fine). Of course, there's no entertainment aboard either. In all fairness to my hometown, we'll see how this subway looks when it's 100 years old.

I jumped aboard and saw Delhi from an elevated perspective on my way to Dilli Haat, an open air bazaar where I could find crafts, rugs, pottery, jewelry, paintings, and textiles - especially scarves - from all over the country. A little bit sanitized for the tourist yet charming all the same.

I shopped for a few hours and received a rapid education in bartering...Gak! I'm none too comfortable in that realm. Unless you're in a fixed price shop, the Indians really expect it and I had to act the part. If a scarf is 2000rs, for example, you counter with 1000rs. Maybe you meet halfway, maybe you walk at 1000rs. If you turn and walk away, your price is usually met. Dina, a friendly Brit who saw I was having lunch alone at a nearby table and invited me to join her, told me that Indians have tiers for Western shoppers. They'll charge a Swede something different from a German. With a Russian, they know there isn't any haggling. If you say your from America...God help ya...they know you'll buy anything so you're sunk.

I spent $100 there. In my backpack: 3 raw silk scarves, 1 silk & wool wrap (all from Kashmir and so gorgeously loomed that I couldn't stop fondling them), 1 pair of leather sandals, one pair of jodhpurs, and two small paintings (including a tattered old sketch of Sarasvati, Ganesha and Brahman). Not too shabby for a virgin voyage. 

Dina shared useful travel tips with me and gave me cleartrips.com as the source for booking my travel after Delhi when I will have a week to strike out for Agra, Jaipur, or even Varanasi...

Eventually evening came. I was still on my romp, snapping photos at dusk. Boom, I bumped into something, turned around and...yikes!...a cow's head. Yup, backed right into the holy creature. Cow's heads are large in any dimension, but when the beast is hungry as anything is that lives on the street, it's head is definitely bigger than its body and looks a tad cartoonish. Dina said that every cow in India is owned by someone who feeds them. They may roam through the day, into squares and shops and businesses and out into traffic, and then make their way home. I was tempted to reach out and pet this one but thought better of it. Instead I gave it my best Indian smile and made my own way home.  Nighty Night Elsie...

Tea for Two

Ulla Matussek is beautiful, generous, talented and spirited - an exceptional ambassadress (is that a word?) for Germany. We met in New York City at a diplomatic affair in 2009 when Thomas Matussek was the German Ambassador to the U.N. and felt a connection and a common passion for the music of 20s and 30s Berlin. Ulla has also painted. Her singing passions lead her to classical music and Lieder. The two used to give great party's in the Central Park boathouse in late summer around German Unity Day - Rob and I miss those. Thomas is the ambassador to India, a post he already held once before, some 25 years ago.

When I shared the news of my fellowship Ulla was excited. "We'll throw a Berlin Party while you're here...And maybe an afternoon tea to give them a taste of it." She's been an angel to my journey,  helping secure Lufthansa's sponsorship of the Frankfurt-Delhi-Frankfut portion of my flight and venturing out to hear musicians I might like to work with while I'm here.

She set the Berlin party, Berlin Night, for March 24th and the tea for March 9th.  Recently a young German traveler named Felix Hofmann contacted the Embassy offering piano instruction. Ulla immediately engaged him for the tea. Felix has got the music of the Weimar era in his bones. He's laughs gleefully as he's playing it. Not yet a confident improvisational player, he nonetheless came up to speed quickly with the old scores she and I put in front of him. The tea featured solos by Ulla and I including Life's a Swindle, Mack the Knife, Falling in Love Again, Beware of Blonde Women, Liu Lila, I Want to Be Happy, and a zippy duet of Tea for Two in both German and English.

Speaking of old music, to give the space some 20s flair, Ulla had several of the old covers of her father's sheet music blown up into posters and framed for the walls. A friend brought some old Berlin films from Germany which she has playing on a huge vintage projection screen in the dining room. Some 65 ladies, mostly Indian, attended and were transported. Tea, coffee and a banquet table full of cakes and cookies followed. It was fun!

Ashwin of Zorba

India is a stream. I feel like I'm floating in water, on my back aloft, my face in the sun.

I am in love with the Indians.
I am in love with their immediate warmth. Their respect. Their yes.
With their deep brown eyes and brown thick hair and broad smiles.
With the spiritual anchor supporting everything they are and do.
And their desire to flow with me in a space in which all is right and good.

This is Ashwin. Zorba is his creation. He has thick curly hair of shoulder length that he likes to run his fingers through. He's a guru, he's a nut, open, plain-spoken, imaginative, loyal, gentle, wise and yielding. When he laughs he leans backward. It's infectious. On as many days as possible, I rise with the sun and meditate with him. Some evenings he takes me along to a street event or concert and shows me a slice of Delhi. He is teaching me how to lead a retreat center, just in case I want to have one of my own one day. He doesn't know this.

One night we began with a drummer's circle in a downtown park.

We continued on to the craft museum for chanting by a Tibetan nun and some traditional Indian dance. The Indian dancer had a quartet with her featuring a vina, the stringed instrument that Sarasvati herself is playing.

Some of Ashwin's friends joined us for a late dinner, including Brigitta, a native of Hungary who lives in Munich and performs traditional Indian dance herself. This night the food was spicier than at Zorba which I didn't realize until I'd already had a big bite full. Zoweeeee! The milky mango lassi (a yogurt drink) helped to soothe the pain.

The next night, in celebration of International Women's Day, a party was held at Zorba. A few people sang. I did I Am A Vamp and Someone to Watch over Me to give folks a taste of cabaret as nobody here knows at a what it is. Brigitta came and treated us to some Bollywood dances.

  

Two Worlds

Already a week has gone by since I arrived. It was very cold the first several days and I regretted sending Rob home from Frankfurt with all my winter sweaters. I wrapped myself in scarfs and layers and slept with the portable heater on, and now that its finally spring and a beautiful 70-80 F, I am delighted. I want to share with you my very distinct worlds. Previously I posted photos of the grounds at Zorba (the Village)...idyllic, green, peaceful.

The other world of mine is at the Embassy where I have been twice now and where I will have an afternoon concert tomorrow with the German Ambassadors wife, Ulla, a fine classical singer in her own right and a dear friend who has facilitated much for me here. Tomorrow she has invited some (mostly) ladies of the diplomatic community to the Residence for tea and Weimar ditties.

Between Zorba and the Embassy lie some 30km, a 45-minute trip in good traffic. Traffic in India is a new headspace. Each time I wish to leave the complex, someone calls a cab for me. I get a fairly beat-up old Ford Fiesta or some such thing and a good driver with adequate English. I book him for an 8 hour day or 80km and it costs me 800rs... $17. Not per km but for the entire day. He drops me at the security gate of the residence, parks his car and takes a long nap until I am finished. That works out best for him and is cheaper for me than were he to go home and come pick me up again later on. A finer car would cost 1300rs - just shy $30. Yes, it puts the whole one-way $35 (plus tip) trip from the Manhattan Theater District home to Brooklyn in real perspective.

In India, in leftover English fashion, the driving happens on the right side of the car. There are no seatbelts in the back. Speeds never reach Autobahn-caliber purely because of what all is on the road, the road that has no lane markers until you get closer to central Delhi and where the equivalent of a two-lane road is actually a 6 lane road. We share the pavement with other cars, trucks, motorized rickshaws and pedal rickshaws and motorcycles and bicycles and dogs, goats, the occasional monkey, the Sacred Cow and pedestrians. And they're pretty much ranked in that order, with the exception of the cow for whom all traffic stops. Basically, the more space you take up on the road the more significant you are. Monkeys are smaller than humans but much more savvy on their feet. There is a constant honking of horns as this sea of mobility gasps and oozes its way forward. I have yet to hear an angry shout or watch a fistfight, though they tell me they have those here too. All I observe, and its quite marvelous, is how it all integrates...just like the many and varied spices that begin their journey as one and merge into an incredible thing called curry.

And then when 45 minutes are up, I'm here at the Embassy of the Federal Republic of Germany, on German soil in fact. Or let me correct myself. I'm in the Ambassador's residence that adjoins the Embassy. Looking out over the sprawling lawn from the piano where I rehearse German cabaret with Felix Hofmann, a young pianist who happens to be here at the same time I am and is our accompanist for tomorrow, I see the tent outside and the pool and tennis courts beyond and my imagination strays to what it might have been like 80 years ago here in Delhi when the British owned the place. Imperialism is most definitely still in the air.

A Girl's Got to Have a Goddess

A girl's got to have a goddess, especially on a journey into the unknown. Like many things of late, mine appeared when I reached for her.

Vishnu is the Supreme Hindu God, Shiva the destroyer of ego (and ultimately the world). Together with Brahma they are the Trimurti. Brahma is the God of creation. And Brahma had a wife. He also had mother and a daughter and a consort, and all were Saraswati (in Sanskrit, Sarasvati).

Saras means flow, wati is woman. Originally a river goddess, Sarasvati evolved into the goddess of consciousness, creativity, divine intelligence, and of literature, art and music. Buddhists call her Benzaiten, the one who offers protection and guidance to those on their spiritual path toward liberation. Her four arms represent the four aspects of learning - mind, intellect, alertness and ego. In her hands, Sarasvati holds a book of the sacred Vedas representing her universal and divine knowledge; a rosary of crystals symbolizing the power of meditation and spirituality; a pot of sacred water to signify creativity and the powers of purification; and a vina, an instrument representing the arts and sciences. She is associated with anurāga, the love for and rhythm of music which represents all emotions and feelings expressed in speech and music.

Her sacred bird is the Hansa bird which, when offered a mixture of water and milk, can drink the milk alone, thus evincing Saraswati's ability to discern the good from the bad and the eternal from the evanescent. Serendipitously, the Hansa bird is the crane-like bird in the logo of Lufthansa, the gracious sponsor of my Frankfurt-Delhi-Frankfurt flight.

Back home I remember reading that a peacock is sometimes shown with Sarasvati. He represents pride and arrogance over beauty and having a peacock as her mount, Sarasvati teaches us not to be concerned with external appearance and to be wise regarding the eternal truth. I had forgotten this until just now as I was going through some photographs from my first incredible week here.. Lo and behold, the peacock has emerged.

Jinti is one of the pets at the German Embassy. Ambassador Thomas Matussek and his wife Ulla raised him from an egg last summer. He greeted me at the Ambassador's residence two days ago when I made my first visit there. Here he is flirting shamelessly with me and flaunting his, as yet, adolescent plume. When Luna, Matussek's old dog came in to say hello (I first met Luna in NY), Jinti became very jealous and attempted to chase Luna off, his plume vibrating with ardor. It was hilarious and a memorable welcome.

The Indians celebrate Sarasvati with a festival every spring. To hear the Sarasvati Mantra, recited for higher learning and wisdom, click here.

My First Day in India

I awoke later that morning (March 1) after a long slumber to the sound of voices and people working outdoors. I threw back the cotton canvas curtains – the sky was overcast, the grounds spread out before me. Men were moving dirt and raking in orange pants and tunics. One was standing on a ladder trimming the thatch off a neighboring unit. A woman dressed in similar clothing but with a sari-like sash across her shoulder was sweeping with a long bristled broom. Each greeted me with a smile.

I showered, dressed and walked along a path and a man-made ornamental pool to the first of the larger stand-alone buildings and peered into a large hall with a wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows. It had a special vibe. I voice behind me said, “That is the meditation hall. Come.” Sibash is a dark skinned Indian with handsome features and dark eyes. He oversees the housekeeping staff. I followed him to the tallest building in sight. We removed our shoes and entered a space called The Heart. On the upper level a long maple table stands 1.5 feet high on a rug with large pillows all around. A longer similar table is set up on a lower level below and a beautiful hand-painted stone fireplace is set into one of the walls. Sibash disappeared and soon a taller man with equally handsome features named Dheeru arrived and introduced himself. He is head of facilities and grounds. Simar, the associate director, was close behind. A beauty with long hair and large dark eyes, I had spoken with her from home.

Simar sat with me and we had a welcome chat. An attendant brought chai tea with cane sugar as a sweetener and some almond cookies. I discovered I am the only artist-in-residence at this time. Throughout the month there will be visitors for 3 and 4-day workshops and I am invited to attend any of the upcoming special workshops: Self-Empowerment through NLP; The Divine Touch - Ayurvedic Yoga Massage; and The Alexander Technique. Simar expressed the center's desire that I conduct a workshop of my own while I am here. After we part, I explored the rest of the grounds. I met Ashwin, the founder and director, and Mark the architect. These two and Dheeru started the Global Arts Village some 13 years ago. It has recently been renamed Zorba the Buddha.

At 1:30, lunch was spread out on a knoll with chairs arranged in a circle. Everyone I met so far is there, some 7 of us, dining on a vegetarian meal of rice, lentils, curried cauliflower and fried ochra. We talked about art and architecture, and the weekly Tuesday movie night which draws folks form the community for the films and for the food. After lunch I met Lalit who arranged my Internet hook-up. Everyone was very kind.

I managed to stretch my first day to evening. I came upon Sibash and another of the staff preparing for dinner in The Heart. Here they are meticulously decorating the table with red and yellow rose petals.

I am happy here.

Into India

The two stood and waved me off in Frankfurt...my husband, my mother’s sister. He, my great friend, lover and supreme encourager of all my adventures, and she, a world traveller and one who gifted me a number of such adventures during my childhood. She pressed me to her and said, “Ask everyone you meet...do you mean well by me?” and then... “I wish that you have a flying companion next to you who will make the journey swift and enjoyable.”

Security lines at the newly dubbed Fraport were long. It is after all one the of the world’s largest transport hubs. Things moved efficiently in German fashion and people were friendly and accommodating. My Titanium pins set things off bigger than after and I confess that the body sweep that followed was as expert as as efflorage by a good masseuse. Soon I was on board in almost the very last row of the jet, a window seat with one passenger to my right. That seat would belong to Pridraj Singh, a native of Delhi, whom I liked from the moment he arrived. The answer to his “Is this your first trip to India” launched us into conversation that would last through dinner and take up the first 2.5 hours of a 6.5 hour flight from my birthplace to his.

Pridraj, or Prid, is an advisor for Walmart working in North Texas and Arkansas. His company is helping the franchise with a replenishment system. We covered endless ground, from the topography of Texas to Indian ragas and back. A sweet soul who, knowing this was my maiden voyage to his homeland sprinkled out chat with tips and do’s and dont’s. After some 3 hours of sleep that we each got, we resumed talking in the last hour before landing, but it was on the ground in Delhi that he would evince that he was really a guardian angel. He offered his cell phone to me upon arrival so I could make a quick call to Rob in Germany. 1:15am in Delhi was 8:45pm the previous night in Frankfurt and 2:45pm the previous day in NYC. After collecting our baggage, we exited the inner terminal together where my driver was waiting with “Karen Kohler” printed on a sign to take me to the Global Arts Village on Tropical Drive where I will stay for the coming month. The three of us sought out an ATM, some bottled water and a SIM card dealer, AirTel. After that I met Prid’s mother and we made our goodbyes, promising to be in touch during the month we would both be here.

My driver was a quiet, unassuming sort with a dark complexion and chiseled features and a fine smile. I could tell that Prid trusted him to take me safely to my destination. Delhi has a new arrivals terminal which is quite modern and welcoming. Huge copper disks hang on an expanse of counter along the passport control and large metal hands protrude from among them in various gestures. I recognized the lotus hand among them, open palm with middle finger and thumb touching.

The grounds are well kept with low drought-resident shrubs and tall palm trees. There is no grass but dirt. My destination was in south Delhi about a 25-minute drive through impoverished areas in an old Ford Fiesta with the steering on the right - leftover English fashion. Already before leaving the airport grounds I spotted fabric tents and cardboard boxes in which I suspected people lived. Soon there were stretches of housing that seemed to have no order with lots of small domiciles situated one on top of the other, metal, glass, concrete. There were people about at this early morning hour...all men dressed in shirts and slacks or jeans. The temperature was 60 F or so.

The streets were poorly paved and dusty, garbage piled up here and there. Dogs ran loose in small packs. Then out of the blue, the poor shanty-esque environs would give way to some brand new huge shopping complex sporting Toyota, KFC and more. Rundown hotels had names like The Majestic and the Royal and though they were far from regal, there was something oddly welcoming about their entryways. A plant, the light, some color. In a dark and deserted stretch of shops, I read German Bakeshop. All were closed for the night. We drove further away from the city center. Had Prid not vetted my driver I might have been rather nervous, but all seemed well and he had a goal to get me somewhere. Finally we made some turns onto secondary roads and entered a gated complex with two men in a guard post. The grounds were now well paved with high shrubs and lots of tall gates. Tropical Drive is home to several modernized, ever resort-type facilities. I’ll know more by morning.

We pulled over in front of a high wooden door just as Prid was calling my driver on his cell. “Where are you? Has it gone well?,” he asked. “Yes, we seem to have arrived. There’s a gate here and I imagine I’ll be going through it shortly. My driver is unloading the suitcase.” We hung up. Then my driver began to mime that he needed some kind of signature or form for me to sign. I said I had no such thing. Back at the airport PridZorba the Buddha on a sheet of paper describing the facilities, so I knew I was where I should be.

After my driver left with payment, the guard of the Village walked me along a short dark dirt path to a row of buildings, unlocked one of the doors, kicked off his shoes before entering to reveal torn socks and dirty feet. Welcome to the place where I will be laying my head for the next 30 days. I gave 50Rs (about $1) tip which had been Prid's recommendation for such butlering and locked the door after him. I crept onto platform bed with mosquito netting all around and fell into a long sleep.

Set to embark on February 28

My journey to India begins on February 28. I hope you'll return to this blog and follow my writings. KK