One of the main reasons for this trip was to meet my brother, Israel, and his wife, Ofra, in a place untouched by the weight of home. Somewhere neutral, peaceful—where the air wasn’t thick with the tension of daily survival, where conversations could flow without the shadow of sirens and breaking news. India, with its vastness, its contradictions, and its quiet sanctuaries, offered exactly that.
The chaotic dance of travel, the last-minute adjustments, the sheer relief of a timely arrival—all melted away as we landed in Kochi. This port city, steeped in history, is a living testament to cultural convergence. Imagine: the legacy of Vasco da Gama’s bold voyages, the enduring presence of a Jewish community with roots tracing back to King Solomon, and the iconic Chinese fishing nets casting their shadows across the water. Kochi is a vibrant mosaic where diverse religions and traditions intertwine, a place where India’s heart beats in full rhythm—a heart that embraces contrast, that welcomes all.
And to be here with Ofra and Israel, so much love.
Alleppey wasn’t just pretty pictures; it was a feeling. Imagine: green waterways, the soft lapping of water, a world slowing to its own quiet rhythm. With Danna beside me, it felt like a perfect, quiet moment stolen from time. Then my brother and his wife arrived from Israel, their faces alight with wonder. Seeing Kerala through their eyes amplified everything.
We ate, we talked, we simply were—together—on that gentle houseboat. And in the quiet evening, under the soft glow of the houseboat lamps, we talked, processing the trauma of the past year in Israel, finding a sense of healing in the stillness of the backwaters. The light through the palms, the shared laughter—it wasn’t about sightseeing, it was about connecting.
Alleppey became more than a place; it was a shared memory, a quiet, beautiful chapter in our family story.
Kerala is just… green. Overwhelmingly so. Palms, bananas, mangoes—a lush, endless explosion of green. And that green seeps into you, like a quiet calm settling into the bones.
Albin, our driver, is a wizard. He weaves through the madness of Kerala’s roads like it’s nothing. I wouldn’t dare. It’s a skill, pure and simple.
We stopped at Amma’s ashram in Amritapuri. I remember years ago, in a large banquet hall near LAX, my son Tomer and I, lost in a sea of people, skipping the Amma’s hug line, volunteering to clean plates instead. I knew someone from our dance community who’d been here, hadn’t seen her in years. Curious, I wanted to see what the ashram was like.
Two thousand people live in this ashram. Everyone we met, eyes shining, asked, “Staying for Darshan?” Amma on stage, giving a sermon in Malayalam, translated on a screen, before offering endless hugs—sometimes till midnight. People say she changes lives. Me? Still a skeptic, but a seeker too, I guess. Left wondering, as always, about faith, about the mystery of it all.
Varkala was a lesson in how to do absolutely nothing—and love it. Pure, glorious laziness. The days followed a simple rhythm: eat good food, buy an absurd number of bracelets, talk. Endless, meandering conversations—sometimes light and ridiculous, sometimes heavy with the weight of world affairs, mostly those close to home.
Every morning, the gentleman swept leaves. Then, the next day, more leaves fell, and he swept again. It made me think about how simple, repeating tasks can bring you to the present moment and maybe to enlightenment.
In Thekkady, a highlands town, we did what tourists do. We toured Periyar National Park, half-hoping to see a tiger, though no one has spotted one in years. We watched a colorful Kathakali performance, had an Ayurvedic massage that almost put me to sleep, and played Rummikub.
But the real gem of Thekkady was meeting Adel Hassan. Our host, warm and effortlessly gracious. Born and raised in Nuweiba, a member of the Tarabin Bedouin tribe from Sinai, now the owner of Chrissie’s, a stunning eco-friendly hotel in the Kerala mountains.
How does a Bedouin from Nuweiba end up here, of all places? That’s a novel waiting to be written. But what struck me most wasn’t his story—it was his presence. The way he listened, not just with his ears, but with his entire being. Fully present.
His demeanor reminded me of Barbara Fredrickson’s line from Love 2.0:
“A smile. A kind word. A moment of presence. Love is not something you wait for—it’s something you create.”
Adel also reminded me of my dear friend Avi, who runs a B&B in the Golan Heights. Both possess a rare gift—the ability to offer guests something more than comfort. The feeling of being truly seen.
Four days. Each road led to another temple. But first, the roads themselves.
This is where the full force of India’s colors hits you. Western minimalism has no place here—more is everything.
The saris? Every single one, a riot of colors and patterns you’d never dream of pairing. The trucks and buses? Forget dull paint—they are hand-painted works of art. House fronts, fruit stands, even the roadside shrines—everything bursts with color.
Is it overwhelming? Sometimes, maybe.
Is it beautiful? Absolutely.
It’s like a living, breathing work of art. And when I’m here, I love it.
And then there were the temples. The smooth, ancient stone beneath my bare feet in Meenakshi Temple. The soft white carpet at the Matrimandir. The horns and chanting in Thanjavur’s Big Temple. The near-sacred silence at the Matrimandir.
By sheer chance, we witnessed the vibrant musical procession of Lord Shiva being put to rest for the night in Thanjavur.
In Rameshwaram, Danna drew a group of women pilgrims. They chanted and danced around her as if she were a goddess. And honestly? They weren’t wrong.
At the Matrimandir, we entered the silence. The crystal ball at the center of the hall reflected the light from the sun. I saw particles of light within the ball, shifting from dim to bright gold, a mesmerizing dance of luminosity.
Temples are architectural marvels, but ultimately, they are only props—tools to amplify the search for something greater.
If my intention is to seek connection, I will find it anywhere. No doubt, temples help amplify the senses, creating a space for contemplation.
But truly, to be seen by a higher power is to meet oneself at the intersection with the transcendental, and that, for me, is possible only in those fleeting moments in my dance when I swirl and become a mere vessel of the infinite.
Robert Bly’s translation of Kabir’s poem captures the essence of spiritual ignorance and the irony of searching externally for what resides within. In his book Kabir: Ecstatic Poems, Bly translates:
I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water is thirsty.
You don’t grasp the fact that what is most alive of all
is inside your own house;
and so you walk from one holy city to the next with a
confused look!
Kabir will tell you the truth: go wherever you like, to
Calcutta or Tibet;
if you can’t find where your soul is hidden,
for you the world will never be real!
Our last and longest stop was Auroville. My brother, Israel, has a long history with this community, offering his hydrological expertise. We reconnected with old friends, made new ones, and did our best to offer support. Auroville is undergoing painful changes—changes that have left many feeling uprooted, uncertain.
I chose to dim the bright colors in my photos, an attempt to reflect the tenderness of this time. Auroville was built on far-reaching ideals, on a vision of something greater. I can only hope that a way forward is found—that this unique, fragile community flourishes once again.
I pray that our friends find security and peace.
This journey was never about collecting places. It was about finding moments—of stillness, of connection, of simply being.
Outside of Israel, in a land untouched by the immediate weight of conflict, we breathed easier. We sat with each other, unhurried. We let the green seep in, let the temples’ silence hold us, let the backwaters carry our conversations.
And while the world at home continues its relentless storm, here, for a while, we were just a family—talking, sharing, healing.
This, above all, is what I take with me.
February – March 2025
The God of Small Things, by Arundhati Roy
My Seditious Heart: Collected Nonfiction, by Arundhati Roy
Inglorious Empire, by Shashi Taroor
The Hungry Tide, by Amitav Ghosh
The Shadow Lines, by Amitav Ghosh
Empireland, by Sathnam Sanghera
The Widows of Malabar Hill, by Sujata Massey
Kabir Ecstatic Poems, versions by Robert Bly