Stars & Spice

sorry so delayed

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 15:01:00 +0000

Time is of the Essence.

Or so they say.

Basically, I don't have Time anymore, and I can no longer post my life stories in two different places. So please check out the personal stories here, and the more general adventures at http://foretdelumiere.blogspot.com/

bisoux

Kamikaze Cows

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 10:59:00 +0000

You know you’re in India when cows become road hazards.

Today, a kamikaze cow decided to burst out of the wilderness and run full force into the front of my bike.

It hurt.

Where else does this shit happen?

Money Honey

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 15:00:00 +0000

Last week I hosted a big wig from my old university. Her husband came too, and among the many…wise?.. things he said, he insisted: “In India it’s better to be rich than poor.”

I’m not rich. Far from it. But compared to the locals living in the villages that surround Auroville, I’m golden. The debt I carry doesn’t matter; I have free will and enough money I know I’ll never starve.

That said, many of the locals look at my fair skin and tell me lies to take my money. It’s disheartening and frustrating. Just the other day Monica and I were completely taken advantage of at a sunglass shop, where we didn’t know the prices and ended up paying 200rs more than we should have. Yes, it’s only 4€; yes, it means more to them than to us; but we will struggle day to day and we certainly don’t like being treated differently because of the color of skin. Reverse racism.

As the manager of two places, and thus the payer of two ammas, I often find myself in uncomfortable situations that test my morals. At Grace, the amma was sick one day but insisted on receiving money for her time off. It’s the habbit of the community to give the workers 12 sick days a year; she has already used all of hers, so I didn’t pay. It’s not my place, not even my money for her wages, and she works for several houses… so if we paid beyond the sick leave, what implications would it have for everyone else who employs her? Still, it broke my heart and I felt like a cruel colonizer.

Worse still is the situation at home. The day after arrival Raja took 1000rs of mine to lend to Vasentha. She promised to pay it back quickly. But she never did.

I kept asking her for it, and she kept insisting next week. My friends here told me I had to start cutting it from her wages, but that seemed so harsh… She wouldn’t have taken it from me, a person she likes and respects, without intending to pay it back—right? Plus, while 1000rs is a lot for me, I can survive without it. Can she? She needs it more than I do.

But today she asked me for 2000rs more. “Give it to me now, and I’ll pay you all 3000rs back next month.” She needs it to travel to a temple. I balked. “You’re kidding, right?”

I gave her her wages for the week, and she insisted on being paid more. “I was here yesterday,” she insisted. Doing what? “Tidying a little, you know.” She was doing her work, her laundry, collecting firewood and cashews for herself.

I lost it. Forget it. “Now you get paid only for the time you work here. No more coming at 11 and doing your stuff and expecting cash for it; you get paid only for the hours your work on the house and the land. You sign in when you arrive and when you leave, and you’re paid accordingly. You have tasks. Complete them and you’ll get a small bonus; don’t and you’ll get paid only for the time you’re active here. And starting next week I’m taking 100rs from your salary towards the 1000rs you owe me.”

She cried. She reminded me that her husband is an alcoholic and beats her. She insisted she’d pay me back. She had the Old Man do a special puja where I was asked to pick three items and the order in which I picked them had some special significance to them. But I didn’t yield. She’s not getting her loan, and she’s going to have to start working for her pay.

I felt like an asshole. I still do feel like one.

What to do? I’m earning a salary that reflects the local cost of living; I’m not a money bank for every woman with a sad story. I empathize but this isn’t sustainable.

Monica & Me vs. Mamma Hen

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 12:53:00 +0000

“They’re like goldfish,” Monica said. We stood staring at the baby chicks running around the storeroom. Their feathers were starting to change colors, but they were still awfully small.

“What do you mean, goldfish?” I asked.

“They grow according to their environment, and they’ve been trapped in a little basket their whole lives, so they haven’t grown much.”

The theory sounded good, but what do I know about chickens? Then it hit me: she didn’t know anything about chickens either. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She feigned insult. I remained silent. A moment passed. Then she looked at me hesitantly before adding with a laugh, “I mean, I haven’t read it anywhere or anything...”

Still, it was good enough for me. “It’s time to move the chickens.”

However, we soon realized that was easier said than done.

First, we tried herding them with sticks. They didn’t cooperate. In fact, we looked so ridiculous the Old Man was bent over laughing at us from the peaceful security of his house.

So we tried catching them with a sheet. They were too quick. Every time we came within sheet-throwing distance, they’d scuttle out of range or take cover beneath a prickly bush. These goddam chickens are wiser in the way of warfare than they lead you to believe.

Then we resorted to the basket, catching Mamma underneath and scrambling around to convince the four chicks to join her. But the distance between the storeroom and the henhouse was simply too great! As we dragged the family along, Mamma’s foot or a baby’s wing or an entire chick itself would get caught between the thatch and the path, and we would cringe on their behalf, cease our movement, and stare at the broiling remaining distance. By this time the sun was at its zenith, and Monica and I were drenched in sweat.

Still, we refused to concede. We took a moment to strategize over a glass of water, built a chicken-catching contraption with a basket, a couple sticks, and our own wit, and tried again. To no avail.

Maybe the idea was sent from elsewhere, but it struck us both at the same time: With the chickens in the basket, we shifted them over the sheet, wrapped the corners tightly to prevent any openings, and lifted everything. All five rascals were squawking and squealing, but they were sealed and transportable. We carried the chickens to their new home, shifted the basket on its side, with the sheet between the chickens and the henhouse door. Then, like two proud magicians, we let the sheet drop. Mamma, Thelma, Louise, Beatrice and Mammacas flew frantically into their new home.

We sealed the door just in time for Vasentha to arrive. She looked at us, standing and sweating beside the hen house. She looked at the Old Man, laughing from a distance. And she looked at the animals playing in the dirt within caged walls. “Super.”

Monica and I may get the hang of this after all.

Lost in Translation

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 13:08:00 +0000

Vasentha and the Old Man are engaging me more and more. (I mean beyond the evening tea ritual they’ve pleasantly implemented with me and Monica.)

In turn, I spend long hours wondering if they’re doing their jobs, if I should be giving them more direction, and if so—how?

The nights before Vasentah comes, Monica and I agree upon which tasks we want her to do, then take turns assuming the responsibility of miming the messages to her the next morning.

And the Old Man? Forget about it. I’m in over my head.

But still, they look to me eagerly. They tell me things about the house and the forest and wait for my response. As if I have any clue.

This afternoon they were particularly animated. Something about cashew trees, branches of wood, and something above their heads. A bird was eating the cashews? Is that it? They mimed movement. People are stealing the wood?! What???

They dragged me to a couple sites on the land where bundles of cashew branches rested or where the earth was scarred from a recent fire. They gestured to the surrounding trees and leaves damaged by smoke. They pointed into the depths of the land and hollered wildly. Then they spewed more Tamil and waited for my reply. Four deep brown eyes staring at me. Two mouths biting lips in anticipation.

That’s when I cracked. I fell to my knees laughing hysterically, Gopal kissing my face, the sun beating sweat from every pore in my body. “I don’t know!” I cried through my incessant giggles. “I don’t know what you’re saying, and I don’t know what to do, and I just don’t know!”

The workers laughed too, but I’m not sure they knew why.

I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt and tears burst from my eyes. “I’ve lost it,” I muttered. “I’ve finally lost it.” I called out names of people who surely will not come soon.

Alas, I recovered. There’s a way to fix this, to understand, to explain. I just don’t know it yet. I marched to the kitchen and asked Vasentha for tea. And I learned another lesson in patience.

Everything in Auroville (And perhaps everywhere? It’s just more noticeable here?) happens in its own time, in its own way, and it’s all connected—if only you have faith that the answer will emerge in time. Only moments after I recovered from my fit, a friend who speaks Tamil happened to come by. I begged him to translate.

“They’re just telling you that there’s wood all over the land, not in one place, and tomorrow Vasentha will spend her day carrying it on her head to move it instead of helping indoors. Is that ok?”

I swallowed hard. It was my pride, I think. “So they not only know what they’re supposed to do, but they’re doing it?”

“I guess,” he responded, perplexed by the humor I seemed to find in the situation.

And I laughed some more. “Seri, seri!” I said to the workers. Ok, ok!

I’ll be better at Tamil long before I get better at charades.

Daily Activities

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 17:06:00 +0000

People from the States keep asking me what life is like these days.

The thing is, running a forest is a lot of work. Period.

Twenty acres is a lot of land. Period.

And there are animals to protect! Just this morning the villagers brought their dogs to collect cashews and—as they do almost every morning—the dogs chased the chickens. For the third time since June, one of the dogs succeeded in catching a poor bird, and I had to come with a stick to free the cock.

Plus, our Gop__ needs a lot of loving (which I’m more than happy to give) and company (which I spend simultaneous writing about watsu and/or complementary currencies). He’s just a puppy, after all…

And the cows come several times a day to eat the young trees and blooming flowers, and the house/kitchen/storeroom always offer improvement projects, and the workers—my God, the workers.

Everyday they try to teach me Tamil. However, the lessons include me repeating what they say without any clue what it means. We laugh a lot. Then they ask me serious things in Tamil and look at me with expectant eyes. I suddenly have to make a thoughtful decision based on a frantic stream of grunts and hollers which meant absolutely nothing to my ears. Sometimes we play charades, but I’ve always been bad at that game.

They look to me more and more for direction. I point and explain what needs to be done around the house. But in the forest? I clearly have no idea, and even if I did, the Old Man would have no idea what I’m saying.

Thus, after working on watsu and economics, between fighting village dogs and chasing cows, while tending to Lumière’s puppy and employees, I’m now researching Tropical … Forests and practicing Tamil online.

So, my fellow Americans, my only answer to you is: I’m keeping busy.

Chics Day Out

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 11:59:00 +0000

Interesting how much we’ve seen shapes how world view. Many will never leave their home country, many have never been on an airplane, many can’t even conceptualize elsewhere. I, for one, strongly advocate for travel and encourage others to see as much as they can. If I had the resources, I would give EVERYONE I know an opportunity to leave their sheltered life—even if only for a few moments.

Why should the baby chickens be exempt?

Thus far, the chicks’ entire world existed only of the blue birthing bin, the protective basket, and a few futile glimpses of the storage shed corner as we changed the sand or water in their home. It was time to push their limits.

(Plus, the Steward of the Land suggested a chick expedition via skype… so I was simply following orders.)

I first let them out in the morning. They just emerged from the storeroom door when the Old Man ran over hollering, pointing to the sky, and herding them back into the protective den. Apparently there’s a giant gray bird that eats baby chickens if they come out too early in the morning. Seriously.

So we tried again at the zenith of the day. Voila—Thelma, Louise, Beatrice, and Momacas (she’s a bit fatter than the others)—you are free! Go forth and prosper!

And while we (mostly Monica) took their guardianship quite seriously…

…this is primarily how and where they spent their day of freedom:

Getting them back into the basket was the hard part. It consisted of using the basket as a shield and a giant stick as a sword, so I pranced around like a gladiator until they were successfully herded back into their tiny dominion.

One of these days we’ll shift them to the abandoned hen house…

The Vet

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 12:01:00 +0000

It’s good to be humbled. I find I am wrong more frequently these days, and that’s fine. I’m sure I’m learning something besides humility.

A dear friend took me and the dog to the free vet for village dogs. What an incredible service! Walking through its beautiful gate, visitors find themselves in an open puppy playground with battered dogs full of life and hope. A three-legged beagle mix greeted us with protective barks and gentle kisses. Several mutts followed curiously in our wake. Others suffering from mange or broken limbs or whatever else were herded into the back field, where they can run and tussle and play. I was immediately relieved, and brought our street dog to the table.

“Ah, he’s not so bad,” the vet said.

I looked at the fly-infested, limping, bleeding dog and responded, “You must see a lot of suffering.”

She examined his wounds, weighed him, gave him a shot for worms, played with his feet and teeth and unmentionables. Here are the conclusions:

He’s six to nine months old.
He’ll be a big dog, judging by the size of his paws. Some German Shepard mix.
He has mange and needs to be washed with special soap.
He needs follow up worm pills.
He needs to eat more. A lot more. He’s malnourished—probably because of the worms.
He limps because he’s weak; as soon as the mange and worms go, he’ll be better.
He’s already attached to us.

“Now,” she said, “the first step to healing is a name. What are you calling him?”

We each blurted out three different words.

“And that, I fear, will be your problem.”

Ok, ok... Gop__ it is?

The Dog

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 15:46:00 +0000

We're still settling on a name, but Gopta and Gopal are coming out on top… even though he’s not living up to his name as defender/protector or cow herder. In fact, as I spend time with him, I realize more and more how difficult this is going to be.

Here's why:

I'm not his person. Dogs pick their person; we, also, are drawn to certain dogs. I was not drawn to Gopta nor him to me; we were united by extraneous circumstances and now must learn to like each other. We’re getting there. Slowly.

He's old. I don't care what Raja said: This is not a puppy—it's a small-sized dog. His balls have dropped and he's stubborn. I'm not training a puppy; I'm teaching an old dog new tricks. Or trying to, at least.

He's scared. Of everything. Including the chickens. (And eating… Every time I feed him he nibbles, jumps away, timidly returns, eats some more, and continues as such until the bowl is empty.)

He doesn't bark. How can you noiselessly defend a house?

He won't chase the cows. Unless, of course, you count him chasing me as I chase the cows.

But I have faith if not patience. This poor pup had a hard life and survived something traumatic. In time, I hope, he’ll come around…

In the meantime, we’ll shower him with love and affection, heal and feed him, and try try try to make him the Defender of Lumière and Protector of Plants!

When Worlds Collide...

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 08:04:00 +0000

It was definitely the strangest site I've seen since arriving in the forest.

There was an old, black-skinned Tamilian—hardened from a life of physical labor and wrinkled from years in the sun.
There a computer—equipped with the latest software and top-of-the-line gadgets.
The Old Man sat in front of the computer, wearing a loin-cloth and USB earphones, skyping his boss half-a-world away.

We had to take pictures... ;)

The Newest Addition

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 12:36:00 +0000

In the middle of the night Monica turned to me. “Catherine,” she whispered, “do you hear that?”

I listened to the sounds of the land. “Hear what?”

“That creepy noise that’s definitely not a cow.”

Yup. Yup, I heard it. And there was nothing me, Monica, or an injured old watchman that my grandfather could beat up could do about it. (In all fairness, my grandfather’s in remarkable health for 80.)

“We really, really need a dog,” I said.

“A big dog,” she replied.

Hours earlier, across Auroville…

Raja had just finished dinner with his family when his eldest brother marched in. “I need some leftover food.”

“You don’t have enough?” his mother asked, full of concern.

“It’s not for me; it’s for this damn dog that won’t get out from under my porch.”

“Dog?” Raja’s ears perked up.

So his brother told the story: A few days ago he—a mere puppy—was chased by bigger village dogs, and now he’s broken and bleeding in the sand near Brother’s house and refuses to move.

“Lumière will take him.”

So suddenly we have a guard dog in need of serious mending… and a name.

Any suggestions?!

Boys, Bikes & Brands

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 09:22:00 +0000

The thing about Auroville is: It’s a small town where gossip festers so much that you realize high school was a breeze. (This is written, btw, with the most sincere love and affection for the community... and just a pinch of cynicism.)

Monica and I have taken it upon ourselves to conduct research into the cause of certain types of gossip, and we’re composing a guidebook for future unsuspecting ladies to follow if they ever decide to visit the City the Earth Needs.

Here are our findings so far:

Boys
If you talk to a boy, you’re interested in him.
If you dance with a boy, you want to have sex with him.
If you ride on the back of his bike a certain way or a certain number of times,* you’re in a serious relationship.
If you’re sharing a living space with a boy, you’re basically married…even if no romantic feelings exist.

Bikes*
Riding on the back of a boy’s bike is not as innocent as it seems. For example, if you’re clinging to the back of the bike instead of the driver, there’s a chance you may just be using the boy for a ride. However, if there’s less than three visible inches of space between you and the boy, then you’re clearly together. Some other signals:
The first time a girl rides on a boy’s bike, it may just be to get from Point A to Point B.
If the girl is seen a second time on the back of the same boy’s bike, then they’re dating.
If caught a third time, she’s pregnant.

Brands
If you’re associated with a boy due to any of the aforementioned actions (or anything else), you acquire a tag. You are labeled as his. And, sorry ladies, it seems that once you’ve been branded, there’s little hope. Here's some advice from Aurovilian men on the subject:
To lessen the impact of a tag, date someone else for more than 2 months.
Be aware that no Aurovilian man will date you out of respect for the tag holder, because they've known him longer than you.
If you are unattractive, tags will not last.
Clear as mud.

Stay tuned for more from the anthropological eyes of Catherine & Monica...

The Case for Dogs

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 12:34:00 +0000

The land is lined with coconut tree gravestones of puppies long past. Something about dogs and this place doesn't work; they fall ill or injured and pass away long before their time is due.

But the land needs a dog. For example...

These days there are always strangers on the land. Dozens a day, from early morning until the heat becomes to much to bear. They come to pick cashews, but they wander too close to the house, use our water tap, sit in the kitchen. They ignore Raja’s request to keep away from our space and stick to the cashews.

One day Raja cracked. He was sick of the villagers coming too near, so he walked inside and concocted a plan.

He download sounds of dogs barking from the internet. And he played them, over and over, all the while shouting at his “dog.”

Slowly, slowly, the people moved away.

He told me this story after an afternoon of chasing cows. Out of breath, I could only reply: “Can we train our fake dog to herd cows too?”

Scorpions

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 04:48:00 +0000

I never really considered myself a scaredy cat.

Sure, from time to time loud bursts of thunder make me jump. Fine, I occasionally have nightmares about clowns that turn people into cotton candy and suck their blood. And I still think Ernest Scared Stupid was the scariest movie I’ve ever seen... aside from The Ring.

My point is I don’t get frightened driving through the woods in the middle of the night; snakes and small animals don’t scare me; I don’t think there are monsters living in the closet everyone refuses to open. I’ve even overcome my fear of spiders and peacefully co-habitate with giant hairy arachnoids.

But this weekend I discovered scorpions.

The first one we saw was at night, and it looked like a black lobster crossing the dirt path. “Is... is that a scorpion?” I asked Monica, a Texan, as we drove past.

“Sure was,” she replied coolly. She’s seen her share of scorpions and, as she quickly reminded me, the bigger the better.

Still, my blood ran cold.

Later, as I plugged away on my keyboard, I heard shouting from the downstairs bathroom where Monica was emerging from the shower. “Goddam scorpion buried itself in my skirt while I was in the shower for five freakin’ minutes, lil [expletive], [expletive], [expletives].” (Apparently she likes scorpions less when they’re in her clothes instead of on the road.)

While this one was small and red and thus more dangerous, it didn’t bother me, as I didn’t see it. “It’s only a scorpion,” I hollered down. “Get used to ‘em, I guess.” But don’t expect me to use that bathroom ever again.

In the morning I noticed a flattened black shell of a scorpion buried in my tire tracks. Monica told me she saw a small one cross the road. “The rains bring ‘em out,” the locals told us. Great.

Then Saturday night we went to the most innocent of events: a child’s play at the Visitors’ Center. Obviously something of this nature puts you in a cute and cuddly mood, and you naturally feel happier about everything. Until you go to the parking lot, climb onto your bike, and notice a giant lobster with a spiked tail staring at you. Scorpions are NOT cute and cuddly, nor anything to be happy about.

Fight or flight, right? Well I scrambled awkwardly to get into gear, pressing the wrong pedals until I jerked the bike forward and far away. I was silent; no words within me could alert the group of people coming to the parking lot about the giant beast that awaits, ready to induce pain with its miserable stinger. The children—for the Love of God—I failed to warn the children!

But I realized as soon as I regained my voice that I am afraid of scorpions, and if tested in a crisis situation, I would surely fail.

Old Man vs Wild Cat

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 04:10:00 +0000

Last night there were noises. Violent noises. Noises too scary for us to check on. Plus, we have a night watchman, and his voice triumphed over the cries. So everyone in the house returned to dreams, and only this morning did we learn of the previous evening's heroic adventures...

Apparently the shadows hid more than sleeping bugs last night. Somewhere in the bushes lurked a wild cat, and his hungry eye was on the chickens. While the chickens' protectors slept soundly, the cat pounced--snatching away a beautiful white hen in its blood-thirsty fangs!

But the Old Man isn't too old. He sprung from his bed and approached the vicious cat with a big stick and only mild intimidation. It was one wild creature versus another, and with flaring arms and bizarre shouts, the Old Man frightened the beast away.

But not in time. The hen lay wounded on the ground, blood staining its precious feathers. The Old Man scooped the poor damsel up, nestled her in his arms, and walked away slowly. He soothed the creature, wrapped her in bandages, gave her the love and attention any old bird needs.

And today, she's walking with her chicken comrades across the Land.

No wildcat will get us down.

Welcome, Chics!

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 04:08:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 20:24:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 03:39:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 14:28:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 07:10:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 12:25:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 14:26:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 17:50:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 05:03:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (C. E. Michel) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 12:16:00 +0000

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.