The Journey and Arriving

The genial Father Pinto was completing my tourist registration declaration when I mentioned that I was expecting a package by courier. He reached down beside his desk and, with a twinkle in his eye, and handed me a small box bound up with brown parcel tape.

“You mean this one,” he smiled, and I was overjoyed to get my hands on the replacement charger for my laptop.

Even though I have no internet access in my room, I can at least sit here and do the majority of my blogging, emailing, and general writing, in off-line mode. Later, I simply transfer my off-line draft to the Blogspot website and add the photos.

Ernakulam Junction is a busy station

Ernakulum station the previous night had been a less frenetic version of the kind of Indian railway station portrayed in films. The entrance area was crowded with families picnicking on the grubby floor or sleeping on their bundles of luggage. It’s a sort of mass “Waiting for Godot” scenario, and one wonders whether some of the apparent travellers live in a permanent state of suspended transit, waiting for their destination to be announced so they can escape the tyranny of railway purgatory.

I wove a path between them and staggered (weighed down by my back-pack) up the three flights of stairs to the bridge that stretched over the platforms, high above the power lines. I was taking the train from its starting point of origin, so there was no rush to clamber on and frantically search for my reservation. This was just as well, once I realised what “3AC” on my ticket actually meant. “AC” is air-conditioned class, and “3” meant 3-tiers with 6 to a compartment, very much the same as the couchettes that were the mid-priced option for crossing Europe in my student years.

Sliding into the bottom couchette place would have been one thing for the Henley-fit oarsman I once was, but at my present age and size it was rather like trying to store plump Teddy Bears on narrow bookshelves. Thank God I had the bottom bunk, or I would surely have come crashing down with an almighty thud. However, apart from the size limitations, it was most civilised, with crisp, freshly laundered sheets and pillowcase, a blanket and a fluffy towel, all included in the £4.20 I paid for my overnight trip across the sub-continent. At precisely ten past ten, the train gave a very slight shudder and crept out of the station, quickly settling into the regular rhythm that is reliably soporific on long journeys.

At eight next morning, there were auto-rickshaws waiting at Kulithalai station, and I paid the standard 80p fare for the 3 or so miles to the ashram.

You know how it is that sometimes, you take a step into a different space, and you could be changing planets. That is something of the sensation at Shantivanam. The community was buzzing. A 20-strong group, mainly of Americans and Europeans, were making their way from their accommodation, along the footpaths towards their waiting coach. The castors of their sleek, multi-wheeled shell suitcases struggled to cope with the thick dust of the dry paths, so that the unfortunate travellers had to sledge their luggage along. 

The ox-cart delivers building materials

They were an intriguing lot, middle-aged and beyond, and typical of the unusual groups you come across from time to time in this part of the world. South India is full of interesting international experiments in communal living, searching for a new spiritual solution to age-old human problems. These latter-day pilgrims were off to study another ashram nestled in another dusty Indian village.

So I arrived to join another intriguing group from around the world, also searching for a new spiritual solution to age-old human problems. But I had a back-pack: not a wheely-case, and I felt really good about that.

My Christmas retreat