Welcome, Chics!

Raja sweetly created a home for the hens, and they quickly took advantage of it. Two hens laid six eggs. Now, tucked into the corner of the newly cleaned storeroom, a hen sits warming eggs in a blue bucket full of sand.

But today there was more than a hen, eggs and sand in the bucket. Today I heard chirping.

"Monica, come quick! And bring the camera!"

Thus we are pleased to welcome Thelma and Louise into the world. (We're naming them after girls in hopes that they don't join the incessant crowing... It's better for Monica's sanity this way.)

*We're working on taking better pictures... but you try touching a mother hen! They bite!

Gay Pride Parade

Sometimes I look around and realize that these are experiences so few other people will have. For example, I don't know anyone else who rode four hours on a bus with Indian transvestites to the first-ever Gay Pride Rally in Tamil Nadu.


The ride was like taking a bus with a varsity sports team; every time another car passed they'd hang out the window, bang on the side of the bus, and scream as loud as they possibly could. And in India, there's a lot of traffic.

But it was fun! They also serenaded us with Bollywood movie songs and tried eagerly to speak with us in broken English. We, of course, tried to show of our ridiculous Tamil vocabulary, but they were most happy when we agreed to take pictures with them. It's the fair skin.


The event itself was mild (although it may have appeared so tame because we arrived three hours late... as the bus was three hours late). In this case, mild is good--it set a strong precedent that peaceful rallies of this kind can take place here, hopefully inviting more gay, lesbians and transvestites to come out next year. It was also interesting to see so many people with masks; this life still isn't as openly accepted here as it is in the States or Europe. Still, seeing so many supporters--even if they hide their features--is empowering.


After the Rally we ate Subway at Spencer's the crazy Indian mall. We opted for a taxi home, and that experience was even crazy. But I'm too exhausted to even begin to explain.

Alas, just another day in the life...

Roomies

I spent the night on the hammock; sometimes it’s just too damn hot in the house. As light slowly took over the land, my senses began to stir. My heart stopped. There was someone snoring beside me.

I froze and my limbs went cold as only the chill of fear makes them do. Who was sharing the deck? How did they get up here? What did they want? Was I in danger?

I listened to the rhythmic breathing and tried to take comfort in the fact that the breaths were small, meaning the breather couldn’t be too large either. Maybe one of the millions of locals got lost picking cashews yesterday, wandered all night, and ended up here. ‘It’s probably some poor little woman, or even a child!’

So I worked up the courage to turn around... slowly... carefully. I wished for something heavy or sharp with which I could defend myself if necessary. ‘I’ll have to rely on my charm... and dirty fingernails.’

With my face towards the breathing I opened my eyes. Nothing. The floor was completely empty. The dark corners were people-less. I was alone.

But the snoring continued.

So I looked up.

There, still as a statue, was perched a large owl. Its feathers lifted and left to the rhythm of the breaths. The great bird was snoring.

I laughed at myself and rolled back to sleep, content to share my space with such a magnificent creature. ‘We both can snore together for a few more hours...’

When I woke up in full light later, the bird was gone. A lizard had taken its spot—a lizard like I’ve never seen before. Pink head, green body, black neck and legs, beady eyes staring at me with curiosity. I swear its colors shifted as it slowly crept along the keet roof. Are there chamelians in these parts?

I laughed. I like that the house is so full, and we all make such splendid roommates.

Fridge for Friends

I like that the Land suddenly isn’t so far. People stop by uninvited. They come for tea or lunch or dinner or for no reason at all. Sometimes they spend the night, sometimes they don’t. But the point is: they come, and it’s always nice to have guests.

Now, if only I had a fridge to serve them cold drinks...

Progress

Once upon a time (Dec. 25, 2008) fourteen students visited the Land.

They were Americans and unfamiliar with working with their hands. But they picked up mumpties...

...and clumps of compost...

...and together they planted four trees.

Six months later...

One of the students triumphantly (or foolishly?) returned to the land. Glowing with pride, she checked on their four trees.

And I'm proud to report, all four a growing well, happily, and safely at Lumière.

:)

~ c.e.michel

Country Cowgirl

The lady takes a mothering tone when she teases me for being a country girl because my nails are always dirty. "It’s because I’m constantly cleaning and planting!" I cry in defense.

The trendy gay man teases me for being defeminate because I don’t wear sparkly things. "But I only wear dresses!" I cry. "Plus, everything gets ruined when you spend so much time with red earth."

The friend tells me I’m a cowgirl because I’ve all but given up on make-up. "It’s too hot," I explain, tired of the teasing.

But today, as we returned to the Land from an afternoon out, I called the bike to a screeching halt and hopped off the back. There was a family of cows grazing, eating the flowers like they were exquisite desserts plated just for them. I grabbed a stick, started screaming in Tamil, and chased the beasts to the hole in the fence--while Vasantha and the Old Man looked on in laughter.

And it dawned on me that my friends may be right, and I deserve the teasing.

Things of which I am/was Proud

In the spring, we hung mirrors along the path. Driving along--especially at night--the little hanging spinning squares would capture light and reflect the way.

I received great feedback on the mirrors. They were beautiful, clever, helpful in finding the way. I was so proud.

But today they’re gone.

There are so many people wandering in the woods by the house these days that it was only a matter of time. Someone stole the mirrors, and I was crushed.


On the up-side I fixed the solar-powered washing machine, which required tools (that first had to be found then cleaned... too much bee honey on them to use!), disassembly, fiddling, and reassembly. I’m not really a fix-it-myself kind of gal, so I'm (once again) feeling pretty proud.

Things come and go, my friends.

The Story of the Old Man

The Old Man is the source of awe, superstition, rumors, and truths. Most assume he's a crazy drunk, but few can deny a certain...presence...he commands. Everyone who spends time on the land sees him, wonders, and guesses. He moves slowly amongst the trees, black skin shining under the Indian sun. He sits in silence outside his hut, the whites of his eyes watching you even in the darkest of nights. He wears a loin cloth and turban and nothing more.

Sometimes he shaves; sometimes his silver stubble grows a bit too long. Sometimes he sings; sometimes he converses with no one in particular.

Tonight I asked Raja for the Old Man's story.

"You know," Raja began, "he talks to himself sometimes. At first it scared me, so I asked him why..."

'The asuras,' the Old Man responded. 'They walk this land constantly, and if you cross their paths, they'll take your mind.' The devils will steal your sanity. 'I talk to nature, to the gods, to them. I sing about my life and release my sorrows; I do it to keep them away.'

Raja was intrigued and asked a great guru if there was any truth to the Old Man's tale.

'Yes,' the guru answered. 'There are no asuras in that land; what he's afraid of is no longer possible. However, the asuras--and any bad spirits--will only bother those who are afraid, who think negative thoughts. If you are strong, if you are a friend to all the energies, to all the souls lingering in the air, you will be safe no matter what.'

And that, I found, was sound advice.

"But what's his story?" I pressed.

He came from a town whose name means 'Two Dams.' "So," Raja said, "he grew up by the river." But, despite being a good person and a hard worker, the Old Man had no job. "So he came to the land with the first family that owned it. He came to make little works, to do the gardening, to tend the land." Years later, he still does... with great pride.

"He's also a bit of a translator, a communicator with the gods," Raja explained. Sometimes people will take him to the temple where he will begin to work as if intercepting instructions from the Divine. He'll do his piece and advise the locals on what they must do differently, and of what they're doing right.

I smiled. "So the man who protects Lumière speaks to the gods, to the spirits, and to nature. He sings his soul out to ensure he's strong enough to fight asuras. And he's so tremendously grateful and entrenched in this land that he's a part of it and it's a part of him. Right?"

Raja considered the question for a moment. "Right."

What better watchman could you ask for?

A Day at Lumiere

This morning I awoke with a jolt; something huge had landed on the thatch roof above my hammock bed. I followed with curiosity its heavy footsteps as it traversed the ceiling. Then, to my great delight, I watched a peacock descend and linger in the garden before trotting into the wilderness. What a way to start the day.


This afternoon Raja climbed a tree while Monica and I sipped wine, read, and hollered orders or encouragement to him from our swaying hammocks. Who ever said It's a man's world?

In the night we had delicious sambar cooked by Vasentha, who was in a particularly pleasant mood all day. We were serenaded by an unusually happy Old Man. And now, with the breeze bringing some cool fresh air to the land, we'll fall asleep with smiles sealed on our lips.

This is life at Lumiere.

Not bad, right?

Never Mail Fragile Things

This is not a joke.

In the image below, you can see the package before departure from St. Tropez... as well as its status upon arrival in India.


Fragile items need not apply.

Listening to the Land

I learned two important signs tonight:

1. When the gecko croaks, the words being spoken are certainly Truth. For example, if you're speaking of rain when it cries, it will surely rain.
   
   
2. When the owls cry, good spirits are present. Every night they wake me from my sleep, and now I can take comfort in their bittersweet song.
   

A New Old Friend

Raja wandered the land alone.

It was early--the best time to see the trees. It's still relatively cool at that hour; humidity hangs in the air like a thin silver veil instead of an oppressive iron weight. The rabbits linger longer in the morning, the birds sing sweeter, the bugs don't bother you as much.

But he wasn't alone.

From behind one of the pruned cashew trees a woman emerged, slowly, gracefully, silently. Raja greeted her with caution. "Are you lost?"

"No," she muttered mysteriously. "I came here."

Ok. "Do you need some water? Something?"

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Who are you?" he answered.

"Why do you need to know who I am?"

"Because," Raja replied, trying to keep his patience with the elder lady, "I am taking care of the land."

"Oh? And who are you?" Her voice wasn't harsh nor kind.

Our Warrior of the Woods sighed. Why play this game? "I am Raja. Martanda asked me to watch the land while he is in Canada."

"Ah, Martanda," she responded. "I want a jackfruit."

"Who are you?"

She too became tired of these silly questions. "I planted that jackfruit tree, and I want to sample its fruits." She is the mother of the first Lord of the Land.

Raja smiled, filled with joy. There's something special about Lumière that draws people in, lures people back. You reap the land with your hands and heart, and you want to see what magic your seedlings produce. "I am sorry, Madame," he said softly, sending her all the warmth of his heart. "The jackfruits are not yet ready. Please, please come back soon and we will share many with you."

She smiled. "Don't worry, I will."

We all come back some day.

Pawns in our hands

I read this in an ancient Indian stories captured within Krishnavatara and had to share:

"Then his [Krishna/Vaasudeva's] voice grew kind. "And I tell you, she will marry you. She wants you..."

"Vassudeva, you don't know how heartless she is," said Shvetaku angrily. "I was only a pawn in her game."

"My brother, you don't know women," said Krishna with a laugh. "We are all pawns in their hands.

"But they can give us strength to make pawns of everyone else."

Why nice guys finish last

"Whatcha feel like doin?" I asked, out of politeness.

"I dunno. Whatchu feel like doin?" she responded for the same reason.

We both knew what was in store for us: Girls' night out.


With wine and nice dinner on the mind, we wove our way through the lightening-lit streets of Pondi to Satsanga, a charming French/Italian/Chinese/Indian restaurant that plays host to so many of my fondest memories. We entered, late, to find only three other active tables: 1) a local sat drinking in a dimly lit corner; 2) two foreigners shouted at each other over half-full beers; and 3) an American or French boy eating alone and engaging the entire waitstaff with his tales. We chose a spot far away from them all.

But we were bound not to be alone. Before we finished dinner, the drunk India had relocated to the table beside us--despite all the other empty tables filling the star-lit space of Satsanga. Engrossed as Monica and I were in each other's conversation, we couldn't ignore the weight of his stare and the burden of his eyes. Then he started talking to us. Or, at least, he tried. In a drunk and thick accent, we made out simple questions which we answered with short, curt replies. He kept pressing. I snapped. We moved tables.

Of course, we then found ourselves near the two foreigners speaking loudly in a language we hadn't previously paid attention to. Turns out they too were drunk and wouldn't stop talking to us. I am not a patient person and entered bitch mode, causing Monica to laugh even more over quickly disappearing wine.

They improved though, mostly because they were Russian circus workers in Pondi for the Gemini Circus. Before long they ordered us dessert; cute. Then they ordered us more wine; ok. Then they ordered more dessert, more wine, and paid the bill. "Monica," I said as they sought to order more, "it's really time to go."

Meanwhile, the lone boy with the charming smile who made friends with the waiters kept making eyes at us too. But, to my surprise, he simply left... after speaking loudly to the waiter about how he'd return tomorrow. Between the Indian's stares and the Russians' progressive drunkenness, the lone departing Westerner seemed like the most decent person there. So as we left, I slipped his waiter my card and instructions to deliver both to the boy the following day.

The note read:

Thanks for being the only guy not blatantly hitting on us tonight. Call for a chai some time."

On the ride home, I found myself laughing as we dodged potholes and mud puddles created from freshly fallen rain. Men always whine that "nice guys finish last." But that's not true. It's just nice guys leave quietly without giving an opening for good things to happen, and the assholes don't shut up, thus giving them more opportunities to lure even the most skeptical bitch out of hiding.

productive play

I watched the rain fall with mixed emotions.

The land needs a drink. The roads need the water. And I love the smell of the forest and red earth after the rains fall. Plus, the skies have been thick and gray for days, grumbling and tumbling and twisting and shouting but never opening up. I'm sick of empty threats.

However, the rain stopped me in my tracks. I looked at the freshly cleaned whiteboard and list of "Things to Do," and I realized none could be accomplished in the rain.

Some people accuse me of being a workaholic. I disagree whole-heartedly. I just like doing things.

"But Catherine," they said as I looked longingly at the rain, "you work all day on the computer."

"It takes a lot of time to launch an NGO and raise funds for a business."

"But then you go back to the land and work."

I laughed. "That, my friend, isn't work. That's fun."


And thus, amazing things are unfolding on the land...even with the rain.

Monica vs. The Chickens

The chickens here live in trees. The trees receive them happily. Monica does not.

There is one rooster who lives in the tree behind the bedroom who seems particularly confused. Monica wants to eat him.

Every morning, around 1am... and 3am... and 6am... this rooster cries and cries and cries. And so does Monica.

I laugh, smile, sleep.

"Catherine," she said this morning as she drove to work, "I need earplugs." Just then a chicken darted from the bushes and threw its feathery self in front of the wheel, forcing her to swerve and curse. "Goddam chickens are haunting me!"

tee hee. It will be a fun fight to watch.

Monica's Quotes: #2

We were gathered around the kitchen table, dining and drinking and laughing. The bugs joined us.

"Dear God," Monica exclaimed. "I'm so pale the moths are attacking me."

Welcome to the Neighborhood

There were two options for housing: One in the center of town, one in the forest. One was hot, the other was cool(er). One was new, the other was comfortable/home. One had a fridge and wifi, the other had peace and serenity. We chose the forest.

But we still cherished the first, convinced we would use it as an office space...and, if we preferred it, we'd simply move in full time. We stopped by briefly yesterday to drop off a few things knowing today would be our first full day at the office.

It was a long, hot morning. We arrived by 9:30, sticky and irritated; the wifi man cancelled our morning appointment, forcing us to endure yet another day without connectivity. We entered determined to make the best of things none-the-less, and--armed with coffee and snacks--we were optimistic, even after the amma lady scolded us for improperly shutting one of the locks yesterday. Until we realized none of the outlets worked.

Consulting our "House Instructions," we realized we had to flip some generator on that lives in the outside storage shed. We marched to the shed...only to discover the key doesn't work.

As we fought the lock, a kind looking man approached on his bicycle. "A neighbor!" I whispered, and we smiled our brightest, friendliest, most welcoming smiles. "Hi!"

"You left the side door unlocked yesterday," was the neighbor's response.

"Excuse me?" No greeting?

"The door. You need to lock doors."

"Of course," I humbly responded. "I can't believe we did that. We're just getting used to the house; that's all."

"Fine, get used to the house," he said sternly, "but lock the doors."

"Right, of course, and our amma kindly let us know too."

He grunted and road away.

Monica and I exchanged glances.

"Um, hello?" a voice called from around the corner.

"Let's try this again," I whispered once more to Monica as we prepared to meet another neighbor. She wore a big hat and a thin smile. "Hi!" we greeted her with our innocent eyes.

"You live here now?"

"Yes, we're just discovering the place."

"Shut the light off. It's a waste of electricity," she instructed in a teacher's voice and pointed at the outside light, then walked abruptly away.

I bit my lip and flipped the switch. "This is why we chose the forest."

"No neighbors. Only roosters."

Raja, Monica & Me

Raja is taking good care of the land and of us.

The evening we arrived, he gave us a perfect welcome to the country: two weddings and a "coming of age" party--all in Tamil. "We like family now!" he shouted over and over, his voice thick with sweet enthusiasm.

Two days later, we were family... dining with his brothers and parents in a tiny hut in the local village.

We spend our evenings driving around Auroville and Pondy, walking the beaches and building dreams for what we'll do this summer on the land. A better water filter. More mirrors along the path. A new bedroom. A new garden. Or two. More flowers, more fruit, more animals. Whatever. A land of love and life and light--Lumière.

Raja is also our teacher. We are learning salsa, tango, and self-defense. He sits behind me with grave patience as I try try try to master the motorcycle. But my favorite lessons happen almost every evening as we collect our notebooks and sit cross-legged in a circle outside the front door. There, he teaches us Tamil.

"Soon," I tell Vasentha even though she doesn't understand me. "Soon we will be able to chat."

Tonight, Raja bravely led the caravan to the windmill, which we diligently climbed to catch a glimpse of the full moon.

And, of course, I already have a rash. So Raja, our teacher and caretaker, roamed the land and gathered all the right herbs for a perfect healing bath.

It may be India. It may be in the middle of the woods. But don't worry Ma, I'm in good hands.

Monica's Quotes: #1

Driving into Pondi, I laughed to myself about my first impressions of the road. I clung to my driver and said, "You know, I'm trusting you with my life right now." Buildings flew by, shopkeepers shouted, he wove through buses and cars coming in the wrong lane. It's crazy. I asked Monica if she was nervous.

"No, no," she replies. "It's just like driving in Paris... except for all the motorcycles and cows in the road."

Of Cashews & Fingernails

We returned to find Vasentha removing cashew nuts from sickly sweet over-ripe cashew fruits. I had to see how it was done.

Vasentha laughed as I brushed ants and worms off a mushy green sample and pulled the nut off, squealing with delight. "Monica," I giggled, "you gotta try this!" Especially since I had to go. Business calls.

"What are you going to do while I'm at the meeting?" I asked Monica through the red walls of the house. I was concerned I was trapping this fair-skinned lady in a land she didn't know. "Will you read? Nap?"

"Nah. I'm going to help her with the cashews."

Perfect.

Later that night, she gave me her feedback: "It was great," she said. "We sat together until the whole pile was gone. We talked... I guess. I mean I talked to her in English and she talked to me in Tamil, and we just pretended we knew what hte other was saying. Or maybe we pretended the other was responding with whatever response we were hoping for."

I noticed then I was smiling so widely my cheeks ached. "Tonight we'll petition Raja for Tamil lessons."

"Right," she responded. "As soon as I cut off my nails. I don't think I'll ever lose the smell of the dirt and ants and worms and rotten fruit!"

And just then, Raja entered with gorgeous smelling flowers for our hair...

Arrival

I am not as much of a stranger to this life as my previous post infers. In fact, I come from a land that absorbed me like this land absorbed its steward; in Camarat, the soft scratching of sanglier startled me from my deepest sleeps, the maze of forest paths are clear as highways, the local herbs and spices and flowers and fruits were put to good household use. So in some ways I am used to life in the wilderness.

Plus, this isn't my first time in Auroville or at the Forêt de Lumière, which is why--to my great pleasure--Vasentha and the Old Man greeted us so warmly upon arrival.

They laughed at our obnoxious amount of luggage and gasped at Monica's fair skin. We were carefully guided into the home and allowed to rest. I curled up in the hammock with my favorite sheep-pillow-cased pillow and slept like I'd never slept before. But not for long.

A slight breeze broke the heavy heat and carried tamil to my ears; I recognized my name through the harsh grunts and words. Walking down the windy staircase, I smiled. Vasentha had made us a plate of jackfruits (which I'd never had before) and a variety of mango (which I'd never seen before), and two cups of perfect Indian tea. God, I forgot how I missed chai.

It begins... (again)

Things in the forest are changing. Temporarily.

This is the Lord of the Land:

A real-life moglie, he is so in-tuned with the land that a mongoose trespassing in the middle of the night will awake him so violently he will leap to the porch and hollar wildly to save his chickens, who are sleeping soundly in the trees (for lack of a coop). He all sorts of useful tips for tending to and leveraging the awesome power of nature, he instinctively knows his way through the 20-acre maze of forest paths, and he can protect even the most unsuspecting visitors from the dangers of wilderness. He feels this place, craves it, loves it.

But he's in Canada now.


Enter Monica and me.

I am in Auroville to launch an NGO that will introduce a complimentary cuurency into the bioregion. Monica, who is a graduate development policy student pursuing are urban creatures more acclimated to navigating metro systems than forest paths. We seek out the best happy hour specials, not the ripest fruit or veggies from outside our window. We linger at street-front cafés for best middle-of-the-night study sessions and afternoon wine breaks. We know very little of nature. And for the next three months, we're watching the land.


Wish us luck.