A Holiday Gift to Myself

This holiday season, I gave myself a very special gift.  In a year already packed with travel adventures, I took one final trip, a once-in-a-lifetime journey to southern India. 

But, why India?

I started contemplating the answer to this question last Thursday, my final day in India, as I sat dangling my legs in the cooling waters of the pool at my hotel in Fort Kochi. 

My public school K-12 education was typically all-American and unashamedly Eurocentric, which was typical of the times, i.e. the 1950s and 60s.  As far as I can recall, I particularly enjoyed learning about ancient civilizations of Egypt, Greece and Rome, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance.  I was fascinated by costumes, castles and cathedrals, and spent hours pouring over maps, timelines, and dynastic charts.  I must have had a very healthy imagination because I found it easy to slip into fantasies about living in another time and place, the more unfamiliar the better.  Sometimes I was a striding across the Acropolis in a flowing robe to listen to a lecture by Plato, or looking down from a tall tower as a handsome knight on horseback rode to my rescue, or conversing about poetry in a Medici palace while dressed in sumptuous silks and lace.  

While the school curriculum paid scant attention to Asian history and civilizations, I was always aware of China and India, thanks to my father, who often spoke of his World War II experiences in the China-Burma-India theater.  In fact, he had very fond memories of his years in Yunnan province after the war ended, and would have remained in China if not for the Communist takeover.  At home, he cooked Chinese food at home and taught me how to use chopsticks at an early age.  Of course, Chinese restaurants (Cantonese style) were ubiquitous on Long island when I was growing up, and going out for Chinese food for Sunday dinner was a ritual in my family.

My introduction to Indian food occurred later on, probably in high school, when my father, who had adventurous taste buds, brought me to an Indian restaurant in New York City.  The flavors were complex and challenging to my fairly limited palate.  They burned my mouth, yet I immediately craved more.  And I wanted to know more about the source of this exotic cuisine.

Always an avid reader, I sought ought information about Indian history and art, about Hinduism and Buddhism.  A big part of my attraction to the sub-continent was visual.  I was seduced by photos of the vivid colors of women’s saris, the elaborate glittering jewelry, the graceful sculptures and the finely detailed Mughal paintings.  Above all, there was the serene grace of the Taj Mahal, which I dreamed of one day seeing in person.   India had clearly captured my imagination.

When I got to college, I signed up for a prehistoric archaeology class where I first learned of the Indus Valley sites of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro.  I was an anthropology  major at the time, and I imagined myself on a dig, a beautiful paisley scarf wrapped around my hair, unearthing a prehistoric figurine of a fertility goddess by day, feasting on delicious curries when the sun set, then retiring to my luxurious tent for a passionate night with a tall dark Indian lover.  Dust, heat, and the lack of basic sanitation never entered the picture.

An elective art history class during my senior year exposed me to the academic study of Buddhist and Hindu art and architecture.  Words such as circumambulate, stupa, and lingam entered my vocabulary.  Mandala designs lodged in my brain.  One of the books from that class, Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization by Heinrich Zimmer, still sits on my bookshelf. 

When I finished college, my goal was no longer to be an archaeologist.  It was to get a decent-paying job and make enough money to travel the world.  My first trip to India was in1980 when I stopped off on my way home from a work assignment in Tokyo.  It was early or mid June when I flew into Delhi.  The monsoon had not yet arrived and daytime temperatures approached 120.  I had chosen a hotel with local character.  True, the elegant building dated from the British Raj, but I hadn’t considered the lack of air conditioning in the rooms when I made my reservation.   A whirring ceiling fan moved the stifling air above the bed.  

Weather and traffic conditions were not conducive to leisurely strolls and independent exploration.  Since I was traveling on my own (I was quite fearless in those days), I arranged for a car and driver to take me around the major sites of the city.  I also took a day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal (it lived up to my expectations) and finished up my week with a few days on a houseboat in Kashmir, where the higher elevation offered a respite from the oppressive heat and humidity.  I vowed to return to India someday, but not in the summer!    

While I was working in Boston in the 1970s and early 80s, I didn’t lose my connection to India.  In fact, I expanded my exploration of the country in several ways.  I took a classical Indian dance class.  Although I practiced in front of a mirror for several hours, I never managed to get the fluid side-to-side head movement.   I read Indian cookbooks, sought out the unfamiliar spices, and experimented with recipes, which I fed to my willing friends.  In addition, India influenced the art work I was doing in my free time.  Mandalas, especially the Sri Yantra, provided a jumping off point for several works in acrylic and pastel.

During the four years I lived in the South of France with Elliott, my India fixation was forced to take a hiatus.  My husband didn’t share my love of Indian food, and it was hard to find the necessary ingredients.  Then, when we relocated to the Washington, DC area in 1987, I was excited to find quite a few Indian restaurants and grocery stores.  While we were raising our children, I occasionally thought about making another trip to India, but that seemed far in the future.  During the years of our marriage, Elliott and I did quite a bit of traveling.  However, I generally deferred to his preference for European destinations.  

It would be 37 years before I prepared to step foot on Indian soil once again.  This time I would be traveling with an OAT group around southern India.  After hours of making phone calls, collecting and scanning documents, filling out online forms (with very detailed questions about my parents and grandparents), and multiple visits to an office in DC, I had succeeded in obtaining the necessary tourist visa.  I had gotten the recommended shots (thyphoid, Hep A) and pills (malaria, azithromycin).  My packing list grew by the hour.  As the day of departure approached, anticipation and a bit of anxiety were running high.  Which adapter plug worked in India?  How much sunscreen should I take?  Did I have enough energy bars tucked into my suitcase?  How would my hair react to the climate? 

The day of departure finally arrived on December 3.  Over the next few weeks, as the henna designs fade from my hand, I’ll be reviewing my notes and photos so that I can share my South Indian adventures with you.