Interesting to watch the broad movements of the brush, see what is being painted as we work our way across the country and through our allotted travel time. We began with the shock of arrival, followed that with the shock of the new, and the shock of being changed… then the shock of allowing change to happen. An intense half-month of deep work and high heights, with our consciousness being stretched every which way, from the sublime to the base, from the political to the social.

We arrived in Mangalore both feeling simultaneously filled and drained, and folded ourselves into the comforts of second-world accommodation and meals as though tucking ourselves into bed. Yesterday, we waited on the relatively quiet train platform, and took an air-conditioned (if slightly worn) car on a gentle journey past rice paddies and villages, stopping every now and then at a coastal station to take on north-bound passengers, sitting half-lotus or reclining-buddha on the long seats — vacant in our section except for us — chatting and smiling and feeling at ease. The lack of intense stimulus has an interesting affect, when you watch it from the inside out: it feels like deflation, it feels almost like a sloth, or a slight depression, the gap between hills, a dreamless night between active days. But in reality, a welcome emptiness into which all the fast and deep waters of the last couple of weeks can collect, can work their way into the cells instead of pouring over the surface of the body. 

Details of the ride north: we left Mangalore at 2.40pm and slowly worked our way up the coast, watching as the sun leaned, then bowed, then finally dipped down over the flat horizon. Somewhere along the mid-Karnatakan coast, with the sun already down and the sky a dusk orange/red, we made out a tall oblong object against the sky, with a jagged edge along the top. The form was certainly like that of many of the ancient temples we have passed (or seen in photos), a sort of a vertical wedge into the sky, with an arched entry in the center of the long base in front. This was at some distance, and appeared as a foggy silhouette against the western sky.

We were still puzzling it out — temple or not a temple? — when the changing aspect of the site, as our train drew away to the north, brought another object into view: an irregular vertical shadow, silhouetted as well… vertical with a narrower flat top, which came to a dull point. The shadow was almost as tall as the temple-tower — quite tall. We watched as our angle of sight slowly, slowly opened the object, until suddenly it became clear that the leftmost side, the one further south and nearer the temple, was in fact an enormous staff, held vertical by a giant arm… that the object was in fact an incredible carved figure, standing guard of the northward edge of the temple. The head clearly wore crown or some other device, which rose to a point; the other arm appeared to be down along the statue's side. To watch this play out, and have it come into being before our eyes, our minds puzzling until a last clue made all clear, and all played out at the ocean's edge, with a backdrop of the setting sun, was quite powerful.

Darkness fell, and it became clear we would not arrive anywhere near dusk, perhaps leaving the train around 9pm. Another adventure. The beach accommodations were all booked: we were able to get a "one room might be available… ask when you get here", and another promise of a "confirmed" tent space, but nothing firm. Manny said, "After all, what's the worst that can happen? We sleep on the beach, hugging our backpacks…"

Another interesting complication: each passing station was identified by a signboard, but that signboard was not lit, and the aging windows of the train were so scarred and sooted that even the smallest light within the car made them into mirrors. With growing discomfort, we began considering counting off stops remaining, 10.. 9.. 8.., knowing that it was possible that some of the marked towns were not, in fact, stations on this line. No one called out the stations when we stopped.

Our uncertainty was accompanied — which is always comforting in a way — when we realized that no one could read the signs, and no one except the immediate locals — those who had just got on or were getting off the train — knew where we were. A number of people in the next berth jumped up at each stop and ran to the door to ask… As they returned I would ply them with a minimal Hindi: "Ankola hai?" "Karwar hai?"… yes, it was Ankola. Sure, we are in Karwar.

Somewhere between Karwar and Canacona, our station, the train stopped. Manny and I grabbed all of our stuff and pushed out to the doors, the attendants between cars saying "Oh! Yes, Canacona!" and hurrying to let us out… opening the doors to find we were in the middle of fields, with no station around. The conductor who had been pacing the cars all night, with his list of every berth and every passenger, stopped us to ask which stop we were at: Are we at Canacona…?

Physically we were so comfortable the whole ride, that this little crease gave us more smiles than anxiety, and when at last Canacona arrived, we stepped out into a quiet cricket-filled night, a quick autorickshaw ride to the "maybe we have a room" guest house — which did indeed have a room (in a new building under construction, that is to say: very clean and shiny, the first ever guests in our room) — had a fine meal from the restaurant…

… and went to bed. 

Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2010