South India Travel Essay

South India Travel Essay 2015

In 1981, I set out on a two-year hitchhiking journey that led me through India and Nepal for six months. That time left an indelible mark on my soul. It shaped me in ways I’m still unfolding, taught me about surrender, resilience, and the wild grace of the road.

Now, decades later, I find myself on the cusp of returning.

This time, I travel to South India—where I’ll meet my brother, Israel Gev, in Auroville, a place imagined as a universal town, where people from across cultures and faiths live side by side, reaching toward harmony, toward something finer and more essential in the human spirit.

From there, we plan to dive into the shimmering blue of the Andaman Islands, exploring the hidden world beneath the surface—another kind of pilgrimage, this time into the depths of sea and self.

Later, my beloved, Danna Sigal, will join me for a journey through Tamil Nadu and Kerala. Together, we will walk through ancient temples and coastal villages, wander spice-scented markets, and trace the evolving story of a region I last met as a young man with a pack on his shoulders and the world in his eyes.

I carry no illusion that this will be the same India I once knew—or that I am the same man returning. But that is the quiet promise of travel: not to reclaim what was, but to meet what is.

As I prepare to go, I hold close the words of John O’Donohue, his blessing for the traveler:

When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.

I remind myself to leave behind the ballast, to travel light—inside and out. To listen. To let the journey shape me as much as I shape the journey.

To remember that every crossing is sacred if we let it be.
And that the road, always, has its own quiet urgencies to reveal.

Mamallapuram: Unveiling the Historic Coastal Town of Tamil Nadu

Mamallapuram, perched on the coast of Tamil Nadu, is a place where time seems to fold in on itself. Once the flourishing port city of the Pallava dynasty, its stone-carved temples and monuments, crafted between the 7th and 8th centuries, still stand as witnesses to history.

At its heart is the Shore Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage Site dedicated to Lord Shiva, its silhouette etched against the Bay of Bengal. Scattered nearby are the Five Rathas, the Descent of the Ganges, and the Varaha Cave Temple—each stone carving a story drawn from Hindu mythology and the textures of daily life centuries ago.

As we wandered through these sites, one scene stayed with me: Danna sat cross-legged on a stone ledge, sketchbook balanced on her knees, her pencil moving in quiet rhythm. Around her, a small cluster of local children gathered, their bright saris a swirl of color against the ancient stone. They leaned in, wide-eyed, watching each line take shape on the page as if it were a kind of magic—Mahabalipuram’s sculptures reborn in miniature. In that moment, the centuries collapsed into something intimate and timeless: art meeting wonder, a traveler meeting the gaze of the place.

But Mamallapuram is not only its past. It’s the fishermen mending their nets, the salt-tinged breeze that carries across the beaches, and the small market stalls offering stone sculptures and delicate wood carvings. Standing there, I felt the quiet pull of continuity—how the past leans into the present, how we carry old stories even when we don’t notice.

Auroville’s Epic Journey: Israel Gev’s Role in Creating a Green Paradise

Auroville has always been more than a place. It is an idea. A dream of human unity, where people from across cultures, faiths, and nations live together in search of something beyond politics or borders.

When Auroville was founded, the land was raw, barren, sun-scorched—a desert waiting for its green future. And in those early days, the pioneers faced an impossible question: how to make the earth bloom?

They faced numerous challenges and turned to Israel Gev, my brother, a hydrology expert with a Ph.D. in water and land management. Israel played a key role in identifying the right mix of tree species to shift the microclimate and help anchor the dream of afforestation. It was Israel who, together with the Auroville community, believed that barren land could become a forest — that faith and science could work hand in hand.

Today, when you walk through Auroville, you step into a green miracle. The trees rise where once there was dust. Birds and wildlife return. Water flows. The people of Auroville revere Israel not just as an expert, but as a guide, a figure who helped translate vision into form.

When I arrived, I was struck by the vibrancy, the sense of possibility, the echo of all those who came before, working under unforgiving sun and through trial and error. And as I walk alongside my brother now, decades later, I see not only the forest but the imprint of patience, imagination, and collective resilience.

Auroville and the Matrimandir: A Sustainable Vision, by Danna Sigal

Auroville is an international community founded in 1968, a place where the experiment of human unity continues to unfold. Of its 3,000 residents, 900 are Indian, while the largest group of international residents comes from France. It sits just outside Pondicherry, a former French colony on India’s southeastern coast.

My beloved partner, Danna Sigal, wrote these impressions from our visit:

Auroville is a utopian community dedicated to peace and service of the divine, without religious affiliation. At its center stands the Matrimandir, both a spiritual and architectural marvel. The serenity of the building and its surroundings is in stark contrast to the glorious South Indian Hindu temples, where color, sound, fire, music, chanting, incense, and thousands of deities fill every inch with life and devotion.

The procession to the inner chamber of the Matrimandir is carefully orchestrated to quiet the mind. After leaving behind electronic devices, you cross the expansive gardens under the blazing Indian sun toward a massive Banyan tree. At the appointed hour, you are led in silence down a ramp between towering red sandstone walls, remove your shoes, and ascend toward the entrance.

Inside, awe takes over. Cool air, white marble benches, the ritual of donning white socks to protect the pristine Himalayan wool carpet—all prepare you for the ascent. Slowly, deliberately, you rise along a spiral ramp encircling a central shaft of light, reminiscent of the “fountain of youth” scene from Fellini’s 8½.

At last, in the central chamber, you are guided to one of 84 white meditation cushions. A crystal sphere at the heart of the space catches light from a small skylight, refracting it downward through the lotus fountain below. It feels like stepping into the living realization of an architecture school dream: a pavilion designed to evoke profound meaning and awe. Here, the spirit of Auroville—hope, community, perseverance—breathes through the space, reminding us that beauty and idealism still have a place in the world.

Auroville today has built a sustainable, carbon-positive culture of experimentation, and its pulse continues to expand.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, we sat among a quiet gathering on the wide terraced steps facing the Matrimandir. People from all over the world were scattered across the red sandstone, some cross-legged, some wrapped in shawls against the evening cool, all drawn into a shared stillness. The golden dome of the Matrimandir shimmered in the softening light, its surface catching fire with the last rays of the sun. For a few long moments, it felt as if the entire place was breathing in unison, a hush spreading outward like a ripple over water. I remember glancing at Danna beside me, the peaceful hush settling on her face, and thinking: here, even silence is communal.

I sat alongside Danna, watching her quietly absorb the space, I felt a stillness rise in me—an echo of the stillness within the Matrimandir itself. For all its bold ideals, Auroville invites a kind of surrender: to the collective dream, to the labor of making beauty real, to the experiment of holding peace at the center of human life.

The Matrimandir: A Shrine to the Ineffable

Upon entering the main chamber, I had to pause and take a deep breath.

If there is a way to bring the eternal down to earth, the Matrimandir does it.

A sense of nothingness, emptiness, and beauty pulses at its core. Here, in this perfectly calibrated sphere, form gives way to essence. It is a shrine to the ineffable—what is too vast, too subtle, too great to be named in words.

There are no objects clamoring for attention, no images or idols, no clutter or excess. And yet, at the center, one element speaks everything: a single beam of light, piercing the space from above, catching the crystal sphere, scattering into radiance.

In that moment, it is as if light itself is the prayer.

It is not a place for answers but for presence, for surrender, for listening to the silence that lives beneath sound.

👉 For those curious to glimpse the Matrimandir’s atmosphere, here is a short video.

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands: A Reflection on the History and Significance of India’s Island Territories

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands, a remote archipelago of 572 scattered jewels in the Bay of Bengal, feel at once distant from India and yet profoundly woven into its story. Only 36 of these islands are inhabited, and among them, a few remain home to aboriginal tribes who fiercely resist outside interference, holding fast to ancient ways of life.

The climate here is unforgiving—tropical, sweltering, heavy with humidity. Geographically, the islands sit far closer to Myanmar and Indonesia, just 30 to 55 miles from their shores, and yet they belong to India—a legacy shaped by colonial tides and the restless rearrangement of empire.

During British rule, these islands were largely neglected. Dense forests, wild animals, and malarial swamps made them inhospitable to settlers. But it was precisely this isolation that made them useful. In 1857, the British established a penal colony, and over time, political prisoners and freedom fighters were exiled to Port Blair’s infamous Cellular Jail, their resistance locked behind stone and iron.

Standing before the Cellular Jail, I felt the weight of history press into the stillness of the present. The long, narrow wings of the prison stretched out like ribs of stone, lined with rows of tiny, shuttered cells that looked inward on a barren courtyard. Here, India’s freedom fighters were severed not only from their homeland but from each other, each cell a fortress of solitary endurance.

As I walked its dim corridors, I could almost hear the echoes of footsteps, the clink of chains, the quiet defiance that even walls this thick could not entirely silence. The British called it Kala Pani—“black water”—a place of no return. But in the hearts of many Indians, it became something else: a crucible of resistance, a place where the dream of freedom was stubbornly kept alive, even in the dark.

Looking out across the compound, under a sky so piercingly blue it felt almost indifferent, I was struck by the contrast: the lush, wild beauty of the Andaman landscape wrapped around this stark, punishing monument. Here, too, is India’s story—a land of paradox, where beauty and sorrow, ruin and resilience are never far apart.

Briefly, during World War II, the islands slipped from British control when Japan seized parts of Southeast Asia. Subhas Chandra Bose, the firebrand nationalist who championed armed resistance, was handed the islands by the Japanese—making the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, however fleetingly, the first liberated territories of India.

When the war ended, British rule was restored. But after independence, the islands remained with India, stitched into the fabric of a newly sovereign nation.

The Vision of Subhas Chandra Bose: A Reflection on India’s Modern Future

Most of the world remembers India’s independence movement through the lens of Gandhi’s nonviolent resistance. But Subhas Chandra Bose, a brilliant and controversial figure, saw the world differently. To him, only armed struggle could drive the British from India—and restore the nation’s dignity.

Bose’s alliances were nothing short of audacious. In 1943, he traveled by German submarine around the tip of Africa to meet a Japanese vessel, forging an improbable union. Under his command, the Indian National Army was formed from 40,000 former prisoners of war captured by Japan, aimed at invading British India.

Though Bose’s military campaign was ultimately crushed and his life ended tragically in a plane crash in Taiwan, his vision left a deep imprint. Gandhi imagined an India of simplicity, peace, and moral force; Bose dreamed of an India that was militarily and economically powerful. In many ways, modern India has evolved closer to Bose’s path—today home to the world’s third-largest military, armed with nuclear weapons, and emerging as a global economic power.

The Devastation of the 2004 Tsunami on the Andaman and Nicobar Islands

But the islands’ fragility was revealed again in December 2004, when a magnitude 9.1 earthquake off the Indonesian coast sent walls of water racing across the ocean.

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands lay just north of the epicenter. Within minutes, waves towering 49 feet slammed into the shores. Entire islands were swallowed; entire villages were erased. The Nicobar Islands, with their flat and vulnerable terrain, were hit hardest. The unofficial death toll was estimated at 7,000—just a small fraction of the 230,000 lives lost across Southeast Asia, but in this isolated corner of the world, the scars were deep and lasting.

The Many Gods of Hinduism: A Manifestation of a Single Unity

Tamil Nadu is often called the land of temples—and rightly so. It holds more Hindu temples than any other state in India, each one alive with devotion, ritual, and centuries of history. The Tamil people’s spiritual fervor pulses through the streets, the architecture, the festivals. It’s no wonder many believe that the birthplace of Hinduism lies here.

But Hinduism is more than a religion; it’s a culture, a way of life, a moral and cosmic framework. The term many Indians use, Sanatana Dharma, means “eternal faith” or “the everlasting way things are”—an order woven into the universe itself. The caste system, though now contested and evolving, has long been one of its most potent social manifestations.

Hinduism’s worship practices reflect a deep relationship with religious imagery. In many other faiths, images serve as symbols or are even forbidden altogether; in Hinduism, images are seen as genuine embodiments of the divine.

There are countless deities, yet they all emerge from a single unity—Brahman, the ultimate reality. Among the principal deities are Brahma the creator, Vishnu the protector, and Shiva the destroyer of evil. And beyond them, a vast pantheon unfolds, each god or goddess embodying a distinct aspect of life. If I were a Hindu, I suspect I would be drawn to Vishnu; something about the protector’s quiet strength speaks to me.

At the Srirangam Temple in Trichy, we found ourselves drawn into conversation with a local guide, his gestures as vivid as his words. Standing before a brilliantly painted doorway, its gold panels adorned with delicate images of the divine, he spoke with a kind of devotional intensity—not just explaining the history, but embodying it.

Danna leaned in, listening intently, her face open and curious. I stood nearby, struck by the gentle crossing of worlds: a guide who had likely walked these temple grounds his whole life, and two travelers arriving hungry to understand, to bridge the distance between outsider and local, observer and participant.

In that moment, the temple became not only a monument of stone, but a living conversation, unfolding in real time.

The Caste System in India: A Barrier to Social Mobility

I often wonder how I would have fared, had I been born into another caste—anything but the Brahmin elite. The system constrains mobility, binding one to the circumstances of birth. It’s a social order reinforced in scripture and myth, designed to uphold cosmic harmony.

In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells the warrior Arjuna, tormented by the thought of the battlefield ahead: “If you do not execute this battle, then having given up your personal dharma and reputation, you shall incur sin.”
Here, dharma—duty, law, order—trumps even the deepest personal anguish.

It’s no surprise that over the centuries, many Indians turned to Buddhism, Islam, Sikhism, and Christianity, seeking a different relationship to fate, freedom, and dignity.

👉 For a deeper dive into the caste system, read my essay: The Caste System in India and Nepal — A Closer Look at Its Profound Impact and Struggles

The Importance of Moksha: A Reflection on the Ultimate Spiritual Goal

At the heart of Hindu philosophy lies Karma—the law of cause and effect—and Moksha, the ultimate liberation: release from the endless wheel of birth, death, and rebirth (samsara). It is the soul’s final homecoming.

Hinduism and Buddhism both address liberation, yet they frame it differently. Moksha means “release,” a letting go of the cycles of reincarnation. Because Hinduism holds the concept of atman, the soul, Moksha is the merging of the soul with Brahman—the source of all being.

In Buddhism, liberation is called Nirvana, meaning “extinction” or “blowing out,” like a flame extinguished. Here, it is not the soul that merges, but the burning of anger, ignorance, and desire that ends. A Buddhist who has attained Nirvana is unchained—not from life and death alone, but from time itself.

The difference between Moksha and Nirvana is subtle, almost delicate. One is a merging, the other an extinguishing; both point toward the freedom human beings have long sought.

The Bustling Disorder and Chaos of Indian Cities: A Reflection on the Energy and Buzz

Driving through the cities of Tamil Nadu, you encounter a kind of symphony of chaos. Motorcycles weave between tuk-tuks and cars; narrow streets strain under the weight of centuries; saris flash brilliant colors against weathered buildings.
It’s a riot of sound, motion, and color—a kind of high-voltage hum that electrifies the senses. There is no tidy order here, but there is life, everywhere you look.

Madurai: The Ancient Capital of South India

“There are millions of gods, beta, but all represent aspects of three, and all three are really one. Brahma is the Generator, Vishnu the Organizer, and Shiva the Destroyer. Together they are G.O.D. or Brahman. All the millions of Hindu gods are just forms of the one Supreme Being.” – Sarah Macdonald

Madurai, the ancient capital of South India, is Tamil Nadu’s second-largest city. At its heart rises the Gothic labyrinth of the Meenakshi Temple, watched over by four great gate towers soaring more than 150 feet into the sky. Here, among thousands of pilgrims and worshippers, we attended the night darshan ceremony.

Darshan: The Hindu Ritual of Making Eye Contact with the Divine

A key concept in Hindu worship is darshan—making eye contact with the deity. This is no passive viewing; it’s a two-sided encounter. The worshipper gazes upon the god or goddess, and in return, the deity gazes back, blessing the devotee with energy, grace, and presence. Whether in the intimacy of home altars or the charged atmosphere of temple complexes, darshan bridges the visible and the invisible, the human and the divine.

Inside the packed inner sanctum of the Meenakshi Temple, we found ourselves swept into a river of bodies and prayers. Men in white dhotis, their foreheads streaked with sacred ash, moved purposefully through the crowd. A silver palanquin, draped in brilliant red and gold cloth, passed before us, carried on the shoulders of devotees, as chants and bells echoed off the stone walls. I watched as the crowd surged forward—not in chaos, but in a kind of devotional current—straining for a glimpse, a moment of contact, a fleeting blessing. Even as an outsider, I could feel it: the magnetic pull of the sacred, the charged stillness inside the noise.

Women’s Empowerment Conferences: A Powerful Day of Inspiration and Learning, by Danna Sigal

It’s easy to minimize the importance of women’s empowerment conferences when you come from a culture that encourages girls not just to dream big, but to chase those dreams. In India, it’s a different story. Only 20% of women work outside the home. Headlines cry out against gender violence, and recent reports note a chilling fact: although female infanticide rates are declining, there are still 10% fewer girls born, often due to abortion after ultrasound.

But yesterday, we caught a glimpse of the future at a Women’s Entrepreneur Conference celebrating International Women’s Day, surrounded by 400 attendees. There were new friends—Meera, whom we met at breakfast and who invited us as her guests; Sundar, attending with his family to cheer his wife receiving an award; and a bubbling group of ambitious college women. And the saris—vivid, shimmering, unforgettable.

The highlight was listening to the chapter founder and chairwoman, Dr. Rajakumari Jeevagan, introduced as “a great leader who teaches us constantly what it is to be human”—a quality not often heard at business conferences. Switching between Tamil and English, she spoke on familiar topics—open mindsets, STEM education, flexibility, adding value—but she also touched on something deeper: bringing meaning into one’s life and work, integrating physical, mental, and spiritual values, and remembering that “it’s not what you have; it’s what you do with what you have.”

I left grateful—for the welcome, the inspiration, and the glimpse into lives shaped by resilience and vision.

Munnar: A Tea Lover’s Paradise

“On the hills of Munnar, the clouds will come and kiss your feet.” — Mohan, Indian Sweet & Spices’ owner

Perched in the mountains of Kerala at 1,700 meters (5,600 feet), Munnar is a living canvas of rolling green tea plantations. From every angle, the hills stretch out like a velvet carpet, their soft waves rising and falling under the mist.

I stood on the edge of one of these hills, watching a tea picker move through the rows. Her hands moved with practiced grace, gathering the tender green tips, pausing now and then to examine a leaf as if in silent conversation with the earth. The scene was quiet yet alive—an intimate rhythm between human and landscape, labor and beauty, that has played out for generations here.

During the 17th century, tea drinking became fashionable in Britain, and with China monopolizing the trade, the British set out to cultivate their own supply in India. Today, India is the world’s largest tea consumer and the second-largest tea producer. Among its treasures, Darjeeling remains the most famous, but here in Munnar, tea is not just an export; it’s part of the landscape, part of the life.

Kathakali: A Unique Indian Classical Dance and Drama

Kathakali is an Indian classical dance-drama form unique to Kerala, renowned for its elaborate gestures, vivid costumes, and expressive face painting. Its stories, drawn from classical Indian texts, tell of love, power, struggle, and transcendence.

As the Kathakali dancer appeared on stage, his face transformed into a living canvas of green, red, and white. His hands moved with a delicate precision, his eyes flashing with exaggerated expression. Behind him, a mural of gods and sages watched over the performance, as if the mythic and the living had folded into one. The audience sat in hushed fascination, caught between past and present, ritual and performance.

👉 For a glimpse, here’s a video of Kathakali in motion.

A Tour of the Cinnamon Spice Garden

Of course, no visit to Kerala is complete without a stop at the Cinnamon Spice Garden—a detour every taxi driver enthusiastically recommends (and every traveler comes to expect). The garden boasts over 100 varieties of trees and herbs unique to Kerala’s lush biodiversity.

The tour winds through shaded pathways fragrant with cardamom, cinnamon, pepper, and turmeric, before gently funneling visitors into the final destination: the pharmacy shop and its enthusiastic sales pitch. Even knowing the routine, it was hard not to be charmed by the display of ancient remedies and the quiet pride in local traditions.

A Relaxing Getaway: Two Days on a Houseboat in Kerala’s Backwaters

Spending two full days on a houseboat in Kerala’s backwaters is the ultimate lesson in slowing down. Pampered and fed with fragrant Keralan cuisine by Anish, the captain, and Unni, his assistant, we drifted through a world both tranquil and bustling.

From the deck, we watched the everyday choreography of life on the water—bus boats ferrying commuters, schoolchildren balancing in narrow canoes, fishermen announcing their catch, and men bathing and beating laundry on the rocks.

The green world around us was lush and layered: coconut palms, banana trees, rice paddies, all reflected in the mirrored surface of the canals. The labyrinth of waterways, where freshwater meets the Arabian Sea’s salty tides, felt like its own universe, suspended between land and water, old and new.

A Close Encounter with a Houseboat Stowaway by Danna Sigal

After a dinner of prawns, chicken, rice, and curry, we lounged in the front deck’s comfy chairs, the lights dimmed to keep mosquitos at bay. David reached for his drink, lifted it—and something leapt past his cheek.

Deciding that glass was no longer trustworthy, he tried another… only to feel something wriggling inside.

I grabbed my phone’s flashlight, and soon a tiny frog peeked out, bold and unapologetic. By the time I got the camera ready, he’d already hopped away, but not before leaving us with a moment of shared laughter and an unexpected portrait near the wheel.

How to Stay Healthy in a Challenging Environment

Traveling in South India can be demanding on the body. Between the heat, humidity, and omnipresent mosquitos, it’s almost inevitable you’ll face some minor ailment—whether a cold, an upset stomach, or a skin rash.

The best approach is simple: prepare ahead. Pack medications for common travel issues, stay hydrated, and listen to your body. Flexibility, more than anything, becomes part of the journey.

Kerala’s Communist Party: A Legacy of Education and Healthcare

A century after the Bolsheviks stormed the Winter Palace, Kerala remains one of the rare places where a communist can still dream—and win elections. Since 1957, Kerala’s Communist Party has been repeatedly voted into power, not through revolution but through the ballot box.

Here, Marx’s legacy is tied not to repression but to remarkable social investments. The state boasts a 95% literacy rate, the highest in India, and a healthcare system where even the poorest residents can receive free heart surgery.

We learned firsthand how politics weaves into everyday life when a transportation strike forced us off our boat at 5 a.m. The Communist Party, furious over the governor’s proposed budget, had paralyzed the state.

Just the day before, chaos had erupted in the Assembly—three women parliamentarians literally bit their way out of a hostile crowd, sending one man to the hospital for a tetanus shot, all front-page news in the morning paper.

Our captain and assistant quietly paddled us to shore by canoe, slipping us into a private car before the roads emptied. Through the hushed streets, we reached Kochi, our last stop, with the sense that we’d been whisked through Kerala’s layered, unpredictable life.

Kochi Biennale: Art, Innovation, and Storytelling

“Kochi, formerly called Cochin, is a former European settlement with a large Christian population and a seafaring heritage. It is a town of enormous charm that reminds some visitors of the Caribbean more than India.”— Gary Weiss

Kochi, or Cochin, as it was once called, is an international city and an artist community. It felt surprisingly familiar, perhaps because it was once a Dutch and later a British colony. Our neighborhood had an intriguing mix—old, crumbling buildings alongside funky, hip boutiques, restaurants, and hostels.

We arrived just as the second Kochi Biennale was underway. The creative energy pulsing through the streets, the enthusiastic crowds, the sense of something alive and evolving—it was a true treat.

Reflection on the Biennale, by Danna Sigal

We learned about the Biennale from a fantastic group of Indian architecture students and decided to spend a few days in Kochi. It was a delight—not just the art, but the insight into contemporary Indian art, and how curators, artists, and audiences see themselves within the global conversation.

The exhibition sprawled across the city. The theme, Whirled Views / Whorled Explorations, played out in a mix of videos, installations, and sculptures.

In one room, we stood in front of a mural alive with symbols and mythic figures, its bold lines and colors echoing centuries of Indian storytelling but shot through with a modern pulse. Nearby, Danna wandered into a camo-draped tent installation, its playful exterior concealing a more introspective interior—a moment of quiet amid the sensory feast.

When science and mathematics are illustrated with thoughtfulness, fine craft, and a touch of whimsy, they hold a beauty that transcends cultural boundaries. Two works, in particular, knocked my socks off.

First, Ryota Kuwakubo, a Japanese artist, created a model train installation surrounded by local Kochi market materials. As the locomotive circled the track in a darkened room, its light threw shadows on the walls—forests, cities, crowds, dreams—all flickering between the conscious and the subconscious.
(Photo note: the image here was captured with the lights on.)

Second, Sumakshi Singh’s interactive piece, “Between the Pages,” felt like stepping into Alice in Wonderland. Singh used scrolls of lyrical hand drawings and projected animations to create an immersive stage set.

We moved carefully through a dreamy paper landscape, captured unexpectedly by hidden cameras that projected our silhouettes onto screens. It was as if we had wandered inside a living book, becoming part of the artwork itself.

The Biennale runs through March, but the team was already planning the next edition for 2016—plenty of time, I thought, to make plans and come back.

Jewish Legacy in Kerala: 2,500 Years of Peace

Jews have lived in Kerala since the days of King Solomon. Between the 5th and 15th centuries, they even enjoyed an independent principality, ruled by a prince of their own choosing.

Inside the Paradesi Synagogue in Kochi, we met Mr. George, the synagogue usher, who shared the layered history of the community. He explained that within Kerala’s Jewish population were two subgroups: the Paradesi Jews (meaning “foreigners”), who traced their ancestry to Yemen, and the Black Jews, descendants of mixed Yemeni and Indian heritage, ranked below them in the old community hierarchy.

Standing in the cool hush of the Paradesi Synagogue, under a canopy of shimmering glass chandeliers, the past felt vividly present. The chandeliers glinted with afternoon light, casting a delicate glow across the blue-tiled floor. It was hard not to be moved by the weight of history in this peaceful space—where, remarkably, for over two millennia, Kerala’s Jews lived in coexistence with their neighbors, escaping the waves of persecution that swept through Europe and Arab lands.

Most of the community emigrated to Israel during the 1950s, bringing to a close a circle of history that had stretched over 2,500 years.

India’s Economy: A Great Success Story or a Work in Progress?

There’s no shortage of bold predictions about India’s economic rise—some say it will be the world’s third-largest economy by 2030. I remain cautiously skeptical.

India is a place of profound fusion between East and West, home to countless religions, languages, and ethnicities. Its founders wisely believed that only democracy and secularism could free the nation from the heavy legacies of the past. From that perspective, India is an extraordinary success: tolerance, acceptance, and vibrant political life have largely endured.

Yet colonial wounds left behind a deep suspicion of capitalism. For decades after independence, India built a self-sufficient, state-run economy, wary of foreign capital and competition. Only in the mid-1990s did that begin to shift.

Even today, inefficiency lingers. The bureaucratic machine can be slow, tangled, and stubborn. As one traveler learns quickly, the “under-the-table” payment that speeds up repairs or paperwork is less corruption here than an accepted way of life.

How does this connect to the frustrations I’ve sometimes felt as a traveler in India? There’s a saying I remind myself of often: “Expectations are resentments under construction.”

When I approach India with my American expectations—whether it’s business promises, government services, or bargaining at a market—it’s no surprise I sometimes feel frustration. My best advice: surrender to the Indian rhythm, keep your curiosity alive, smile often, and remember the golden rule—“Whoever has the gold has the power.”

March 2015