South Indian cuisine for the soul, served with a felt sense of safety
The roots of yoga grow wide and deep.
That's how it spans the universe.
But as seekers of enhanced life force, or prana as it's known, we often get caught up in striving.
We study the esoteric texts and practise yoga diligently, both on and off the mat. We salute the sun daily, praying that our commitment provides the antidote to the stress of modernity.
Yet still, we get stretched beyond our capacity.
Of course, as yogis who know all about balance, we are soon able to bounce back.
But why is it that 'union', the true meaning of yoga, is so elusive for us?
I went to South India to find out.
God's Own Country
Through the window of my sleeper carriage, the countryside rolls past. Lush green palms, dotted with candy-coloured, candlelit homes.
The iron wheels clatter against the tracks. My body rocks gently back and forth, like a cradled newborn.
A sign passes: "Welcome to Kerala, God's Own Country".
My heart sighs.
This cauldron of spiritual soup, where Muslims, Christians and Hindus live harmoniously side by side, is a sight for stressed eyes.
I've been overworked and underpaid for years, trying to make sense of things.
This venture is long overdue.
The task in hand, I've read, is simple: reawaken the part of me that's been asleep.
Destination, Peace
A home built around the Pancha Mahabhutas (the five elements)
The home isn't just built alongside nature; it's designed to welcome her in.
It's the humble dwelling of a yoga master named Parameswaran (Param) and his beloved family, my new teachers.
Param was born into a lineage of Hindu priests. A candle burns bright in his heart.
Their home is a gateway into belonging, something I've longed for most of my life.
It has the calmness of a temple. Carved wooden pillars hold up a lattice of hand-carved beams, the carpentry skills of a bygone era. Statues of deities perch beside pots of aromatic oil and fruit. And brass, brass everywhere, sparkling beside endless candles.
In the centre of the living room, under a beam of daylight, a waterfall trickles, pouring the essential nutrients of light and water onto a lone basil plant named Tulsi. This living artwork enlivens the stagnant energy left over from summer, I sense.
Smallholding, no border
The six-acre smallholding is an oasis of exotic fruits, Ayurvedic herbs and flowers. Birds and butterflies weave through palms that gently sway in the warm breeze.
It's hard to define what is owned by the family and what is on loan from God. There are few fences in this neighbourhood, unlike at home, where 'what's mine is mine' seems clearly defined. And although boundaries are understood here, they are rarely crossed, as part of a cultural contract. The only deal breakers, when it comes to smallholding borders, are wayward elephants. This is also their home, and they don't mind showing up when peckish, I'm told.
I get to meet Param's wife and their three children: a boy called Shanka and his younger twin sisters.
The family treasure announces her presence with the clatter of a tin bell. The sacred cow peers through a glassless wooden window frame, licking from ear to ear.
Occasionally, a brightly coloured sari bobs across a backdrop of foliage. The woman wearing it balances a silver jug on her head, a skill she mastered as a little girl for fetching milk. The cow approves with an unassuming glance as she continues munching and licking, and munching and licking.
Warm and unpasteurised, then boiled on a wood-fired stove and mixed with cardamom, this 'elixir of life' soothes the mind, body and soul.
Here, the things we take for granted are appreciated differently and take real effort to produce.
And yet nobody seems to be in a hurry to move things forward.
Where Safety Lives
Oil lamps now light up the home. The deities cast shadows that flicker. Portraits of past generations watch over us from a dark wooden altar. I ponder how many pujas (ceremonial rituals) they have witnessed.
There is something magical in the air; I sense it in my body.
From the kitchen, a grinding stone hums as supper is prepared. The gentle melody reminds me of an old-fashioned gramophone.
Like Pavlov's dog, saliva gathers at the corners of my mouth. The sound and smell, of freshly pulped coconut rice, alluring.
Shanka sits, wrapped in traditional cotton dress, on a terracotta floor. He proceeds to raise his hands in prayer from a great height, whilst his father fans the fire pit with a coconut shell. Incense begins to cloud the room, competing for dominance with the sweet Keralan dish simmering on the stove.
As a family, we sit down together. The food makes its journey from pot to plate, our hands join, and we chant our heartfelt gratitude to the creator.
In this moment, amongst these almost strangers who care little for possessions, we have everything. The essence of yoga permeates the room. Every breath we exhale enhances the spiritual cloud upon which we rest.
With a felt sense of safety, a full belly and an open heart, my glazed eyes stare at the moon from my bedroom window. I retire to the symphony of the backwaters and the magic of the night.
The Godly Hour (Brahma Muhurta)
Nature awakens at the Godly hour of 4am, to cues from Brahma (the Creator). Petals begin to unfold and birds start to coo, whilst mongooses and palm squirrels make their first chirps. This tradition refers to the auspicious period that falls roughly 1 hour and 36 minutes before sunrise.
I notice a perfume-like aroma, as the crisp morning dew releases the scent of many flowers and herbs. Echoes of spiritual discipline begin to chime across the valley, as worshippers give thanks for the opportunity to witness another day.
My body-mind is alive, awake with excitement and in need of expression. The yoga space already holds a father and son, in a combination of movement, stillness and reverence. I'm invited to join in with what I thought was my hobby, but is now becoming a way of life.
Asana, pranayama, mudra and bandha: the tools of a lineage of masters, carefully scrutinised, embodied and lived. Gratitude and humility arise simultaneously, from a depth I never knew existed.
Afterthoughts
I didn't find the missing link in a sacred text.
I found it in a family home in the backwaters.
A shared rhythm. Food slowly cooked, the taste of connection.
Nobody rushing.
No distractions.
Nobody performing.
When we feel safe in the company of others, the body softens. This is what union feels like.
It's not something we strive to achieve on a yoga mat.
It's something we feel, together.
You don't need to travel to India to feel this.
Start tonight.
Eat a meal slowly, with the deepest gratitude for its journey and your own. This is known as experiencing 'rasa': tasting, or savouring, the universal essence of something. Rasa can also be found in your work, through art, healthy relationships and meaningful life moments. According to Ayurveda, rasayana is the path to rejuvenation, strength and longevity.
Where in your life can you welcome more rasa?