Playing hooky (the respectful way)

Yesterday, 8:30 a.m. Sat down to an Indian breakfast, post-yoga post-shower, wrestled with pages of news until they rested in the right position, and began mentally preparing myself for the work day.

"What do you have to do today?" Host pops Ramgopal asks me as he's skipping down the stairs.
"Well I have two articles I need to.."-- Nevermind that. You had two articles in the paper today, I have a friend in town from Sri Lanka, and I'm taking you to Nandi Hill and we're wine tasting and we'll get in free 'cause you're a journalist and you can write a story and you just have to come it will be so fun just call your boss it won't matter you work hard enough, ok, go get ready--don't drink your coffee--we'll stop for that!"

Holy shit. The lack of coffee lagged my mind and his words I could barely capture, but what DID register was, "Opportunity! No office work!!" So I called my boss, pitched her the idea, said I'd be ready with a story, and there were no issues.

Those who know me well will understand this: I was with two 70-year-old men, both of whom could speak more words than I can think, and those ideas they speak of I hold too dear. The two are constant reminders of the virtue in good listening. Being with them is like peaking into a pinnacle of history that may soon go extinct.

What divides Nandi Hill and the city is the Bangalore International Airport, and maybe some llamas and hilly pastures. But most importantly, the divider is a town called Devanahalli with a hill (I'll check the name) that boasts more history than most. Indian rebels would carry the British P.O.W.'s up this hill, and push them off, watching their cheeks slice against dripping stone slabs until their features blurred and, alas, they had expired. Now it's where farmers go when their land is lost and they can't fathom surviving in the slums--where forbidden lovers seek acceptance from above. (I'll have to read into this to understand the precise details).

Nandi Hill itself is a 100m high mountain. It's a sacrificial stadium, a lover's retreat and a pocketed zoo with a serene view of surrounding towns and cities.

Ram took me into the Hindu temple. We left our shoes at the stone pillar and proceeded through Alice's doors and locked ourselves in a maze. That is, until I found a door I wanted a picture in front of, and what popped out was a Hindu priest. He invited us into his home.


This priest lives on sight, complete with modern appliances including a T.V., a reverse osmosis water purifier, washing machine and a western toilet. But enough of all that, he laid down a mat and welcomed us with coffee. Then he brought us to the temple, where I drank holy water and was repeatedly blessed. It was 12 P.M. and I had been blessed four times that day, after yoga and this incident.

Then he let me take a picture with Lord Shiva. Hmmmm.

Lunchtime rolled around and I was guiltily pressured into a whiskey. It was "impolite" to watch two men drink without having one myself. They were both talking over each other, flicking their hands--suggesting the unimportance of the hour-- and before I could finish the "f" in fine the waiter was at the table scribbling "Johnny Walker black label" on his notepad.
The food was splendid, one of the best meals I've had. It even beats the lunch in Kerala, and I think I'm finally discovering the food I prefer. The lunch spot was on the hill overlooking all below, and for a moment I shut my eyes and pretended to be a British imperialist. I opened my eyes and looked down on my countryside, planning out effective trade routes.


"This is how the British were so successful," I thought. Not only did they have vision that got them to the top of the Indian hills, but on those hills they had a physical blueprint to lay their vision to work. It must be instinctual why made persons love living on hills. I guess I already knew that, but I had never actually stood on a hill and played pretend in the same place power-hungry men mapped out reality.

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On a personal note, since I was 15 I've been writing on scrap pieces of paper different strings of words to describe that the only legacy we can leave this world with is a story, so we might as well spend our lives creating one. I finally feel that I'm really, really creating one. My own. And most importantly... we need life-long friends and descendants to tell them to...

Work....
Phone messages are sent to my extension, leaving personal mail for the "manager" and "health columnist". I now deal with editorial content. I write like mad. I live like mad. I'm pretty sure I'm on the brink of going mad, yet I have never felt so sane.


Wine story and pictures later.