Smelly, Hairy, Glorious Mr. Hess

I reached my hands into the cool, brown soil and heaved a load into the clay bowl by my feet. It was warm, but not uncomfortable, a welcome change. I took in a deep breath of Kerala’s fresh air and my mind traveled to 1985ish.

My family lived on Dark Hollow Road, a few acres of property and a beautiful stone house and barn in Pennsylvania. The front patio was currently being built by Mr. Hess. Smelly, hairy, glorious Mr. Hess. I sat with Mr. Hess during his breaks. He showed me how to stick green pods from a tree in our yard onto the bridge of my nose. I remember his bearish body odor to this day. An odor only attained in the hot sun while doing manual labor. We all smelled like Mr. Hess while we did “karma yoga”.

We were reconstructing a path uphill from the main hut to the meditation hall, which is also a hut. Karma yoga was a rejuvenating part of everyday during our 5-day yoga retreat in Idduki. Meditation from 7:30-8:15, Chaia afterwards. Asana yoga (stretching using the yoga positions you are probably familiar with) until 10:15, followed by a delicious brunch usually including rice, a salad of cucumber and tomatoes in curd, and pumpkin curry. Karma yoga from around 10:45-11:45. Tea at 1:30 and Asana yoga from 4-6. Dinner at 6 and meditation followed by a lesson from our Guru from 7-8:30. Five great days.

After karma yoga on this particular day, I yelped through an ice cold shower and began writing as I impatiently waited for Chaia time. My body was running dangerously low on its daily dose of cardamom and sugar. Apparently cardamom is the second my expensive spice in the U.S., making my digestive system quite the prize this year.

Our week of Christmas celebrations has made me feel refreshed and ready for the long month of January, which ends with my 25th birthday (groan). Our Christmas Eve was one of the best 4th of July celebrations ever. As we grilled chicken marinated in curry over a small charcoal flame, we watched fire crackers and sparklers from the neighbor’s driveway. A group of kids came by, banging pots and pans and singing as a mini-Santa Claus danced. Kochama made The Best Potato Salad Ever along with a delicious noodle dish. We drank boxed port wine from Goa and ate plum pudding topped with ice cream and M&Ms for dessert.

After eating what felt like two Thanksgiving dinners on a Christmas Eve that was celebrated like Independence Day, we sang some Led Zepplin, Bob Marley and that Tin Soldier song. Binu, Achen’s son, may very well be the coolest Ph.D. student ever, and he was the rockstar that night. Having lived in the States somewhere around 1994-1995, he picked up great taste in American tunes.

Back to the Ashram. My fellow volunteers are sitting on the porch discussing how badly Gandhi treated his wife and reading quotes from his autobiography. I hear one of them shout, "Gandhi II! No More Mr. Nice Guy! I'll have a steak, medium rare." Things are never black or white, good or bad, everything, Gandhi included, is a ball of grey mush ready to be smooshed around by American missionaries and their visiting friends.

Mr. Hess taught me to forever associate the smell of putrid perspiration with nature, childhood peace and the most basic and necessary happiness. I felt, and smelled, this again in India over the Christmas holiday.