∰ The Three Sisters ∰

I started this post back in February. It's time to let it out now. I think I can finally share it.

Sometimes when I am in India I get a sense that death is nearby, underlined by the exaggerated rush of vital humanity that is life in the city of Mysore. I can smell the fine line that we all walk every day but in India, it feels narrower. I sail through the city in constant prayer, a call to prayer. A leaning into feeling, not feeling. Dreaming not dreaming. The place has altered my cell shapes. I have been redefined by my deep learning and rickshaw near misses.

Reach out and touch the brush of a passing squealing bus, 
put a foot in the gutter that reeks of unknown rot. 

A wave of unfortunate events could catch us in destiny's slipstream and that will be it. 

Cheerio and thanks for everything. That might seem mawkish to you but I've had my fair share of unexpected losses and tragedies as well as this bountiful festival of living delight. India rotates on Vishnu fire and whispers to me that it's not for long, this privileged existence, as I joked about my yoga practice being better in the next life. 
I'm in the next life and it's coming along. 

This is today, my day, I own the world and the moon if I want to and I am thankful for this dawn, this birdsong, this breakfast and this haberdashery shop. India gives you the gift of gratefulness, a thankfulness, a cradle to settle in and an edge that cannot be ignored.
How lucky I am, how fortunate, how favoured?

So, I heard about The Three Sisters. Again. I have let the name run through my ears for years but I never got the opportunity to explore where they lived in my adopted Indian home. It's not easy navigating the suburbs. This time I persevere and I turn up at The Lilac Door, nervous to meet the sisters. I was expecting three Shakespearian characters and in some ways they are straight from a fairy tale, brimming over with enthusiasm, leading by example, beauties. 

Shashikala is the youngest and was authorised to teach Ashtanga Yoga by her teacher Sri K. Pattabhi Jois. Here, in their home I am welcomed and nurtured and I find what I need, a quiet shala with a teacher with whom I can build a practice so I join up and begin practising in the Three Sister's shala. It's perfect for me, a spacious practice with room for adjustment and absorption. I improve my focus after 8 months of various injuries and physical limitations and I actually feel myself thrive. I watch the sunrise from 
Utthita Hasta Padangusthasana even though I know I ought to be gazing at my big toe.

The world wakes up and it feels as though I am in exactly the place I am meant to be. The doom filters down my body and evaporates in the morning sun.

It is advised and a very splendid idea that yoga practitioners take a castor oil bath once a week. Castor oil is thick and sticky and impossible to deal with yourself unless you have lots of hot water and a wet room and an assistant. Or two. It's a greasy oil ball of gunk. Luckily for me, I have the three sisters. Or two of them. Harini and my teacher Shashikala give caster oil baths to lady yoga practitioners (and some lucky chaps if they know them well). After yoga practice on a Friday I walk downstairs and enter the labyrinth of dark rooms where I will have my bath. It's not a bath, not at first, it's a body massage with caster oil. But it is so much more and nothing more than that. It is practice again, they make me work. I panic when I can't find my hips and they escort me around my own body and I have never felt so lost and at home, so relaxed and so pushed around, so happy and so NOW. Impossible to describe the looseness of my body and the spaces that I knew were there but I hadn't dared to open. My mind was a slowly spinning universe, all seeing and unknowing, unborn and delivered. All of this whilst lying on an oily tarpaulin while two pairs of feet rolled me through medieval banquets and space travel for beginners.

This is a continuation of practice. Calling it a 'treatment' is quantitive easing the city spa. This is an unspoken promise of trust and knowledge. I will never let anyone else realign my body again. For me this is the one and only way for me and my body.  A practice to compliment the practice. It's vivid. The way the sisters flattened me out like an uncooked chapati. I was Good Friday and Easter Sunday. I was Charlie's Angels and Cinderella. I can't even conceive that I went to Mysore so many times and didn't run to the lilac door of the three sisters on arrival every. single. time. 

And when they have finished rearranging your bones and nerves and early childhood and say Get Up Now;  your brain cries nooooooooooooo. And they peel you from the floor head first and very carefully lead your oily sticky being down a dusty book lined fly swatted passageway. You get gently sat on a stool and here begins the second bath. Soap nut paste and warm water. The water is heated by a wood fired stove on the other side of the wall. You can smell the warm woodsmoke. You close your eyes by order and then the water is sluiced over you, over and over. Warm. Everlasting. Soapnut and lentil paste rubbing the oil away. Having your face washed tenderly by these two living saints is to be transported to a third bonus childhood. Then they leave you with 'as much water as you want to take' and you can continue where they left off. Economically washing away the everything, the dust, the misunderstandings, the whispers. Wrap up in a thin towel and pick your way through the gloom to outside, dazzling sunshine. New day. There's a mango tree.

Take rest, Nagaratna - the third sister will make you a fruit salad and you'll be as high as a papaya mountain and the sisters and their babies will sit with you and press you for chatting chit chat.....your life, their lives, the price of food, the traffic, the practice. The phone rings, the babies chuggle, searching your face for clues. Vocal kannada gunfire stutters over your head. Your mind is uncoiled, unbothered, unearthed. You sing the babies your best version of The Wheels on The Bus. 

With actions. 

Your mind is recomputing, recalibrating, the torque has been set. You think you can hold on. 

The three sisters say NO SCREENS, NO COMPUTERS. You laugh, as if. 

Then you find that you rest all day, night dreaming,  day sleeping, water drinking, fruit nibbling. 

You have gone in and out and in again.

Monkey's paws thrum on the roof and the water tank sizzles. 

ҩ loving the bones ҩ

I've joined a writing group. I normally have trouble with things that have group in the title, being a touch insular and having a fear of myself (autophobia-which is apparently cured by the almighty fix of yoga). 

But it is one of my new favourite things. Being in a group AND confronting myself. The panic subsided on meeting my fellow groupies who are now my new bessie mates in Mysore. I am becoming a belonger and whilst I resisted it for some time by sticking to my Essex ways I am settling into happiness and I'm rocking a smile big enough to light a small village in Nepal. 


It's only three weeks until I go to work in Nepal.

My new new fear is the power cuts that are daily occurrences there. According to my sources (i.e I can't remember who told me) the evening news on Nepalese television was read by candlelight in protest at 18 hour power cuts since the Nepalese sold their national electricity to India. A bit like pawning your lunch maybe? I curl into a panic at the thought of a) not being online b) not being able to read and c) not being able to see insects that may be hiding in corners before retiring. I am trying to convince myself that if I can manage to do a whole primary practise every morning and not die in slime on my mat, then I can cope with a little thing like that. But the time is looming for me to leave the sanctuary of my Indian mummy and I'm going to be going it alone in much more challenging circumstances. 

BIG deep breath. And smile again.

Writing class is an exercise in making time to write, in a very informal setting. We each write a word on a scrap and fold it up and put it in a bowl for the middle of the table. There is usually cake, coffee and snacks too... Then one at a time we choose a word and we all set off writing inspired by that word for 2, 3, 7 or 9 minutes. 
And out the words cascade. 
I had no idea I had so many jumbling around up here. I can't get them out fast enough. They somersault out of my pen like kids set free at home time. 

Then the bit that I was really scared of happens. We Read The Words Out LOUD. I was actually terrified of this bit. After all, the words that we write have no rules therefore no structure so it's a little like laying your mind out on the page and if yours is anything like mine, it's random and hip hop, tangled and a bit sweary. But it's fine here round this table of secrets. No judgement, no criticism, no praise, just listening to the words that someone else wrote is a big pleasure. It's inspiring and comforting and even I can do it. In my best Essex accent! The various international accents are a pleasure to listen to. It's as though I am tuning into a world radio installation of beautiful words, stories and snatches of prose. I really love it. I never want it to end. I wish I could catch the readings in a shell and listen to them later.

It's similar to yoga practise (which you might have noticed I try not to talk about, attempting to hold something in, maybe something like my Mula Bandha!) The writing is similar in as much as it's a practise of sorts and it is changing the way I look at things once more. This is very good for me. I want to change. I am glad to see things differently. The idea of practising creativity instead of waiting for it to strike like a midnight thunderstorm. This is revelation. I recommend it to anyone wanting creative sparks. Whatever your speciality might be. This, I am sure, would work for anyone. You don't need to be a writer.

So, now I dream of writing and fountain pens and the sound of scribbling. And dare I say it, I am able to concentrate, focus, immerse and absorb my asana practise more than I was before I started this writing practise. Light is illuminating the dark corners here anyway.

Sending a big smile from over here to all of you out there. Thanks for reading.

ᙊ beware of the crocodiles ᙍ

The lake is the closest this city gets to having lungs. Despite being close to the chaos and pollution, this area is literally a breath of fresh air here, especially at 6am. Clean and cool and quite perfect for a stroll. The mosquitos are nowhere to be seen and the birds and creatures seem completely unbothered by us.
Quite a lot of locals come here to trudge, walk or jog around the lake.
The lake is also home to fishermen who fish in coracle boats which are simple floating circular baskets. I have been in one before and they are surprisingly stable. Though when you look at them your mind fights this fact. Just beyond the fishing boats is a huge swathe of green that cuts across the lake and it is teeming with giant pelicans! Amazing! Next time I will get a picture but we glided past them when it was still dark. No way was I going to flash photograph them. Huge wings, huge beaks. I wonder if they ever get eaten by crocodiles? What do crocodiles eat anyway? Not chapatis & dahl.

Crocodiles live in the centre of the lake so I was a bit nervous, I hadn't read up on Crocodile Attack Survival but having said that I would have liked a crocodile wrestling story for my after dinner speaking tour.

I didn't see one but I did see the warning sign. Apparently when the lake dried up a bit last year the crocs were found wandering in the road. I don't know how true that is but how weird that would have been to see a croc strolling into the city.  

I hope these two don't mind that I snapped them, aren't they gorgeous in yellow? They were briskly walking and the sun was coming up. I felt a bit voyeuristic, I do usually ask people but this was a fleeting moment of action.

And this crumbly glamour? Reminds me of British Victorian seaside structures. Love those stripes... 

 ḜɤɛɾƳƉǡŷ ƪŠ ɱaɼkℇ₮Ɖǡŷ 

At the entrance to the city market are all the fruit sellers, people just bring a basket of fruit and sit and sell them. This treasure chest of pomegranate jewels was rich and oozing with juice. The fruits here are so organic and pure and all grown by sunlight and with love. They make our mass produce in the UK look full of false promise like a dodgy good looking bloke. All looks and no substance. This fresh produce sings with energy and flavour and if it's true that we are what we eat, then this week I may turn into a pineapple. A happy juicy flavour full pineapple. A bit crooked around the edges but full of charm and personality ;-)

It seems that my 'spiritual' practise is not penetrating as deeply as I hoped, as everything goes by the by on arrival at the market. Full of poise and determination and material denial on my yoga mat...I turn into the worst kind of shopper. Faced with the Spoon Stall I am full of agony about the fact that I want every single version. Just look at them. What would you choose? Spoons for baking, serving and even spooning. My favourites are made from rosewood, I'm not sure if that's wrong or right. But do I even care? I know it's going to seem crazy when I unpack but if you ever come round for dinner or group baking sessions we are going to be well served.

This stall, and there are a few like it, worries me. Selling hair. Why? For whom? Whose hair was it? I don't like it a bit, but I do love the stallholder... can you see him? Bald as a coot. Got short of stock mate? I feel all itchy now and it makes me want short hair. Why do we covet the dead stuff that grows out of our heads? 

Just so you can appreciate the indecision and drooling that the market provokes, this is the inimitable and wonderful RoobieRoo modelling the bag selection on one stall. What is a girl to do? They are all beautiful, all cheap and made with recycled materials by local women. Good strong bags in great designs and colour combos galore. The banter and the good humour is delightful among the stallholders & customers, not like the miserable misers we have to deal with at home. They shrug and laugh and somehow with all the language barriers we seem to get by. Numbers are the same everywhere right? And one clever little fellow said I looked like Carla Bruni the other day so I adore them.

ONLY TWO WEEKS LEFT. 

I am so excited to come home and see all my loved loved ones

but so sad that this, like all good things, has to come to an end.

It's time to roll my sleeves up and get back to some serious slog.

Someone has to pay my spoon bill.

ʱʘɱɕ ʂʬɛɛɨ ʱʘɱɕ

This is where I sleep whilst I am in India. I should have a mosquito net over my 'four poster' but there aren't too many mosquitos and having the fan on a gentle cycle seems to blow most of them off course. It feels like a horsehair mattress but is probably cotton stuffed. It's quite flat and hard and well, I get used to it. The simplicity of the whole arrangement is the appeal. I don't have to think too hard or keep up any kind of standards. My simple bed, with my little mat and a spare bed for a guest or sitting on. There is a window opposite my pillow that looks out onto my closed in balcony (see below) and a window to my left that looks out onto a coconut tree and overlooks a small aviary. I call it the birdsong view. Who wouldn't want to wake up to that?

I have a little washroom with a solar heated water tank and a western loo, a couple of buckets and a jug. And numerous pipes, taps and things that I don't know what are for.

This is the balcony from my room, it's my favourite place, could you guess that? My 'chaise longue' is an old spare bed I dragged out here and can you see my yoga mat rolled and ready? It's sunny and conducive to chats and facepacks and hair oiling and drinking chai and reading and meditation and listening and being a nosy neighbour (OMG the action is fascinating) and I can push the table back for extra yoga practise (this is rare). 

The sun streams in and I inhale yellow light and exhale lotus flowers.

And this is the heart of the house. The wondrous space that is Pushpa's kitchen. Everything is rustled up on two burners. No oven here. The sink and worktops are black marble. It's a standard Indian kitchen and I love them. They all seem to be black and white. I've not seen a variation on that theme. Some have grinding stones built in and washing clothes stones. Washing machines are rare. I sit on a little stool in here to eat my meals. Watching and learning and listening, I'm even starting to understand some of the singsong Kannada that chatters around over my head. There are always numerous women gathered here, peeling and chopping together. When they visit each other, they all start to do the chores. I love that. And you should see how glam they are for coconut grating. When they are not in their nighties, they are knockout these gals. If they weren't so shy I'd be snapping away for you.
Just a little peek at my Indian living arrangements. And these are totally luxurious of course. There are huts made of mud on the same street and huge families residing therein. I play at  living simply, there are many here who have no choice. And it's a cliche but they are so happy and friendly and relaxed. Warm & inviting & inclusive, all of them. I have a permanent sense of admiration. We have got everything and yet we are so closed. Is it the weather?
Namaste, my friends, namaste.

**India** Part Five (Remembering to breathe)

Namaste 

Arriving in Mysore after yet another overnight train journey left me drained and unexcited due to a posse of Indian business men who entered the sleeping carriage at midnight and then proceeded to play the latest Bollywood hits on their mobile phone MP3 players. This level of disturbance and rudeness is quite rare in India but the politeness extended to a live and let live mentality in the rest of the carriage and nobody spoke up and being alone I didn't want to draw attention to myself. But I fumed as I struggled to sleep on the rocking rolling riding.

Mysore was a city alive with possibilities. I checked into a cheap but clean hotel and hailed yet another killer rickshaw to take me to Gokulam where I knew the yoga shalas (schools) were. Suddenly I felt very alone, adventurous and out of my safe zone as the natives in this area weren't so used to English speakers and I had to survive on my wits. Also bear in mind that illiteracy is high and so writing a name of a place down won't get you there any quicker. I didn't realise that Gokulam could be pronounced in so many ways. The emphasis is on the 'go' or the 'ku' or the 'lam' depending on the driver you ask. It's a funny situation saying the name twenty times until realisation dawns on their faces and they repeat the name the same as you've been saying for five minutes. And they are so happy with themselves grinning as they put your fragile life state in the balance whilst negotiating a roundabout whist continuing to turn around to beam at you and repeat the name of your destination. Gokulam, Gokulam.

I arrived at the yoga shala of Shri K Pattabhi Jois. The famous founding father of contemporary Ashtanga yoga made popular by Madonna and co. I felt like the new girl at school. After enrolling and committing myself for a month to a tough physical regime, I set about looking for somewhere to live for a month close to the shala. I quickly came unstuck...the busiest time of year for yoga students and the only option was expensive hotels or shop doorways. I stood in the street after a long fruitless walk to find something/anything/no room at the inn and I noticed a statue/shrine to Ganesha the elephant God. Ganesha, I have been told is the God of beginnings and remover of obstacles. So, not being one to pass up the opportunity of a good prayer I asked Ganesha to please help me out of this lime pickle and send me a nice place to live. 

Dear reader, would you believe it? Within 45 seconds a friendly face popped out from under the shop counter and asked if he could help me? I explained my predicament and within five minutes I was standing in the kitchen of Pushpa's house being fed delicious Indian breakfast and handing over a months rent for food and lodging all within walking distance of the yoga shala. Bingo wings and elephant wishes. Ganesha is now my secret favourite deity...he wasn't always an elephant but it's a long Hindu story. I still say thanks to him when I see him and that's a lot. There are so many Ganesha shrines and temples.

Pushpa, my landlady, had only decided that morning to see if she could squeeze a couple of yoga students in to supplement her meagre earnings as a language tutor. All my luck but she says it was hers as we became firm friends despite having completely different ways of living. She is a devotee of the local Ashram and spends most evenings there in meditation and is a devout Hindu. Never married she is leading a pure life to get closer to God on her death. Hindus believe that the soul reincarnates, evolving through many births until all karmas have been resolved, and moksha, liberation from the cycle of rebirth, is attained. Pushpa, bless her heart, has had enough of being reborn. I, meanwhile, probably have a long way to go to attain the purity and full set of halos that she has.

She was the greatest cook, the best coffee maker and to wake every morning to her performing her puja (Hindu cleansing prayers) was a delight. She washed the front step down every day and drew a new Rangoli design on the path to keep out evil spirits. Bells were rung and bananas and grapes and incense were offered to the Gods. I learned so much being with her, she was a gem cut from the finest diamond. She was as interested in our 'culture' as I was in hers and she insisted in oiling my hair like an Indian lady and squishing a Hindi prayer of sandlewood paste on my forehead, whilst I traded her fast acting Nurofen for her slipped disc back pain. She was surprised we don't have fresh coconuts in 'our place' and to be honest if she left 'her place' for 'our place' she would probably expire on the spot. I tried to explain about life in the West but she doesn't even have a t.v so her life and her world is Gokulam. And very refreshing it was too. She became a second mama to me (of course noone could replace my Jeannie) plaiting my hair before yoga and telling me to wash my hands and nagging me into eating more than is good for me. 

I finally found the true heart of India, by living in an Indian home. I absorbed so much colourful detail about the Indian way of life. Walking to yoga every day was an orchestral arrangement in rural village life. Always passing 5 or 6 wandering holy cows munching on people's gardens and seeing the same children who shouted 'hello, what's your name?' every day for a month. And if you pause to engage in this you get asked your mother's name, your father's name, your sister's name, your brother's name and then all the way back to what's your name. All this from a grubby bare footed three year old. Every morning I saw the lady whose sole task in life was picking up the cow pats and make a big cow pat pudding with her bare hands then these were hand formed into little cow poo pattercakes which were put all along the ditch to dry and would be later used as fuel for cooking the evening meal. The 'ironing man' had a hole in the wall ironing parlour and I couldn't even lift the heavy brass iron. He slammed it around ineffectually ironing all day. Muscles galore though. The local shop was a hatch into a living room piled high with groceries. I couldn't recognise much except coffee and washing powder. Milk comes in a plastic bag and packaging was refreshingly minimal on everything. 

Yoga was a dream. All that collated energy, all those young warriors bending and twisting like flamingos, the sound of breathing amplified by the room's acoustics. No whispering or talking, just absolute focus on the practise. The only sound was the clicking and unclicking and cracking of my knees and toes. Hmmm. I was a mere beginner by the standards around me but I was full of determination and tried to undo 43 and a half years of no yoga. I worked very hard at my practise. Often wet through by the end of it. I was bendier and calmer and  kept trying to emulate a state of grace which was usually ruined by the next rickshaw driver. I saw some incredible yoga postures and some world class posers. In the afternoons at the local hotel pool I saw too many skinny malinky girls eating lunch (three almonds)with a foot around their necks or young stud warriors diving into the pool whilst maintaining a yoga posture. I soon found the rebellion group (the oldies) and we had a good social life, eating cake and sunbathing and talking. I made some good friends.

I have made a great new friend, Anette, around the same age as me, 6'2" and utterly gorgeous supermodel material. She was a German living and working in Switzerland and we became firm friends. Until I met her I was pretty much a Loulounomates and then a whole world opened up for me in the local community. I think she just helped boost my confidence and told everybody about my creative work. I did some bookbinding classes & I became involved in a couple of art projects (one nearly got me arrested, long long story, invite me round for dinner) and helped raise money for a local charity that feeds the homeless every day. Three pounds sterling feeds 45 people breakfast and 10p gets them registered at the local clinic where they can get medical help which many are in need of. I saw so many physically disabled people on the streets. A man with no legs and a tray with castors as his transport. A dwarf man with no legs who used two blocks of wood to shuffle around on. People really in need of help. Operation Shanti is run to help these people and they do a really good job. What I did was a mere pinprick on a bunch of bananas.

And the stories could continue into the night but I have to end it here. Maybe I'll write that book everyone keeps telling me to write. Maybe I wont. But thanks for reading. I'm flying home on Friday. I miss everyone so much. It's going to be a shock after all this diversity and twanging of my imagination. In India I have had the luxury of time to dream and observe. It's a beautiful life for all of us despite the troubles we have to bear. And I think we should all be grateful that we've simply got legs (apologies to Ronnie here) and that we don't make cow pat puddings as a career option. You are all special and much loved by me and thanks too to Ganesha. 

And the biggest thanks go to my dad. If it wasn't for John I wouldn't have got round to doing this trip, he told me to go and do yoga and I miss him every day. Thanks dad.

La'Haim.

Cor, that was like my very own acceptance speech...

Applause, 

much throwing of roses, 

...curtain

Love and lotus flowers, lentils, garlands and Gods

Loulou

xxx

**India** Part Four (you can't always get what you want)

Namaste 

 

 

This might be the penultimate episode of my travel journal. I'm going to keep it brief as it's the part of my trip where not a lot happened and it was almost a resting stage for what came next.

I flew to Goa to meet Colin who had rented an apartment there for three months. It meant I could rest a while in a home, not a hotel or guest house and explore Goa from there. 

It's so great to see an old friend when you are so far from home, especially when it is the culmination of months of planning and talking and 'see you in Goa'conversations. It was so nice to see his little sunburned smiley face at the airport! His apartment was great and spacious and I had a room with a bed and mosquito net and there was a huge balcony from which I could watch the world go by.

Every morning without fail the bread man (man on bike selling bread door to door) would parp his horn relentlessly outside our door. This was about 6am. It became annoying and then in the end just a joke, if I hadn't have laughed I may have stamped on his horn. The wheeziest loudest horn, like a clown would have in a circus. One morning I ran out furious about being woken up again and I asked him in sign language to shush. He just smiled at me and bibbed his stupid horat me in reply. 

Selling door to door in India is commonplace, vegetables, bread, milk, curd, buckets, you name it, they'll bring it. They all have their monotonous cry to herald their arrival and it becomes part of the huge tapestry of noise that begins at first light with howling dogs and ends around 2am with howling dogs. Colin spent a long time hatching a plan to wake every sleeping dog in the afternoons as revenge. Never come to India for peace and quiet. It's a continual barrage to your ears that I'll probably miss when I get home. Like the first time Meghan came home from university she couldn't sleep because it was too quiet.

Goa disappointed me because I realised I was about twenty years too late. It's now a massive tourist industry. It used to be a hippy paradise but is now a massive package holiday wheel of fortune and it's hard to find Goa's soul. I saw some hippies though! I called them the 'toolongs'. Looking vague and wrinkled (note to self..don't sunbathe, it's scary) and I saw some clear cases of mental derangement from too much sun, drugs or India or probably all three. I wanted to help one guy because I kept seeing him everywhere, sometimes miles from anywhere, with his rucksack and faraway eyes. He looked like driftwood and so far away, he must be missed or loved by somebody. Colin dissuaded me from being the world's social worker but I still think about that guy now. He looked too young and too alone. I hope he found his way home.

 

Beach life spirited me away again. We visited every beach in the North of Goa. Some were exquisite, one morning we spent watching whales and dolphins churning up the water. I started spending more and more time in the shade under a parasol drinking water. I was doing yoga every night on the balcony in preparation for my final Indian adventure. I knew I had to get serious as

I was on my way to Mysore. The centre of the world for Ashtanga yoga. It was not going to be a walk in the park and I didn't want to show myself up as an amateur. 5pm every night was Louise's yogurt time(as Colin named it). It became sacred and I became more serious about my reasons for wanting to study it further. I took up yoga more seriously after dabbling in it briefly and after my dad died it really helped me get my energy and strength back. I wanted to make yoga the final focus of my trip to acknowledge it's power and ability to change lives. Especially mine.

 

After 10 days in Goa I was ready to finally be properly really truly alone on my adventure in India.

I booked an overnight train to Bangalore. To continue onto Mysore somehow. No friends to meet me, no idea of what would await me when I got there. I was excited and scared and hopeful that my Indian knowledge would sustain me. I was about to enter my fourth state of India having already visited Kerala, Tamil Nadu and Goa. And the state of alone was calling me.

Karnataka and myself here I come.

More soon from the land of a thousand stories.

 

Love from she who is probably not leaving you on the edge of your seats

 

Loulou

xxx