Longtime townie Jeff Brunell finally returned to school just before turning thirty. He’s in southern India, completing his graduate field work and taking stock. These are his findings. To see the entire series start here.

Reservoir at the top/foot of mountains.

Temple, Munnar.

Civil service aesthetics, Kakkanad.

SLUG PARTY ’13.

Far hills near the ashram.

Drying nuts in the sun.

Varkala cliffside.

A home for an unhoused family – part of a national project, locally administered- under construction.

Yacht of the ubiquitous Kingfisher, feat. great dogs.

Turbine shipment or possible wood cakes.

10/07, 6:15pm

A deal with myself: put on your Rooboks and trekking shoes, plan a run before dinner, and you can take a walk to Freezing Point and catch up on the journal there.

Settled.

My body hurts again. Not so much as yesterday – chanting beside the lake at sunrise, literally holding up my head – but sore. Between Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, we did ten hours of yoga – plus, another 10 of seated meditation, which is almost tougher on my bad posture back and knees.

Coffee arrives. I was right chill in that regard all weekend; brought along two small bottles of Pepsi and granted myself tapering doses early in the afternoons. What else – the food was just as good as we had heard it would be- all veg – and only once did I go overkill, when Mr. R. gave me five pappadums and I refilled my plate so I’d have somewhere to use them. We ate in silence and tried to keep it spiritual while across the room, the Aussie broke custom, spoke, and made his move on the woman beside him. It reminded me of the line – “you have a beautiful practice.”-  that J. flagged as giveaway for the yoga pickup artist.

I helped mop the floors and then received my actual karma yoga assignment for the weekend: taking rounds, collecting campus trash, washing out and replacing the bins. First day, I was with a military-serious guy who seemed a little American in his germ concern; second, it was just me; third, I was paired with a lanky and longhaired Japanese man in a brown linen suit and no shoes, who worked intently, silently, and said only ‘Arigato,’ as we finished.

Word is that the ashram became far stricter over the past year. Because it’s a glorious place – not far from the train in Trivandrum, midway between the beaches and hill stations, and criminally cheap at less than $10 USD daily – it seems that many travelers have treated it as a hostel; coming and going late, barely attending classes. So now, one needs a pass to exit the grounds, and there was no little grumbling about this change.

But on Friday, we lucked out – afternoon theory class was cancelled and we had occasion to explore along the lakeside. We followed it down to stunning Neyyar Dam, with its bright paint and ceramic tourists – including a bikini-clad woman who presides over a public pool and a mustachioed huntsman with a tiger in his sights at 10 meters distance – before wandering on to the sweet little aquarium nearby.

There – catfish held frozen poses, like performance artists at 45 degree angles from tank’s bottom; piranhas and eels paced their too-small territories, totally unmoved by our gawking. We ran into some enormous and sentimental crabs, and I was reminded of the Huntsman spider in my window back on campus. I told S. about the sequence of my emotions – fear, respect, and the horror and confusion when it appeared to double in size. Then, how unexpectedly touched I was when I concluded that it was, in fact, giving birth.  And later, my sadness to find the mother gone and the smaller form motionless in the same spot where it had been days before.

S. noted what should have been obvious: don’t spiders lay eggs? I thought, Hooray – we’ve discovered a new breed, and then, Oh no – the egg sac got stuck inside the mom, nearly killing them both.

A week later in finally occurred to me that the spider was molting.

“-enough blue in the sky.”

Backwards time travel!

The greatest place.

Kitchen rig.

Textile sales.

What the monsoon does to everything, given time.

1 lakh = 100,000.

Convenient parking.

A restaurant’s sign – that’s the classic lunch in Kerala, and it’s fantastic.

WONDER WALL.

The good guy.

Ashram walk.

That first full day ended with prayers, meditation, and early sleep – 10pm. The next morning, it was tougher to wrench from bed – these were nearly soft, mine was right beside the mountain window, and I hadn’t managed quite enough rest. Jai Ganesh, Jai Ganesh at the morning prayers, yoga, and lunch. An ayurvedic massage followed by a drawn hot bath; oatmeal scrub to get the oils off, self-administered with the scoop and bucket technique. Hot water for the second time in five months – as ecstatic an experience as I guess it always should be.

I showed up to theory class as the wheels were coming off. The teacher was a gentle and kind of clumsy Canadian, with a great voice for the songs but obvious ambivalence toward public speaking. As I walked in, a sour old Frenchman was complaining to the assembled that he didn’t come all this way to get indoctrinated with chanting. The teacher said, Hey, this is a part of the thing you signed up for, but you aren’t required to participate.

Others jumped in. A Christian conservative from Sweden stood up and excused herself, citing “conflicts of interest” while wringing her hands. Two different people – thankfully, neither was American – expressed with incredulity that they were unaware of yoga’s connection to Hinduism. S. and I exchanged a look of vicarious embarrassment. I raised my hand and said that when I’m up in arms about how some concept reflects on me and my beliefs, it illustrates that whole ego enmeshment thing that we’d traveled to the ashram in order to examine. I’ve bitten my tongue a lot over these past four months, and I’m glad that I spoke up – the teacher looked like I’d thrown him a raft.

Sivananda has a weekly share night on Saturdays – essentially, a talent show – and early in the day, S. told our English friend T. that I play guitar. She had volunteered to assemble a program; I agreed to participate when it appeared that she’d have trouble putting together a bill. That afternoon, two guys arrived from the rail station and separately signed up to play. I heard each practicing and later and thought, Shit – this show is no longer safe for amateurs.

But I didn’t back out, even though I wanted to and even when they both absolutely killed. The one was a British copywriter who performed troubadour songs in a resounding Baritone; the other played a variant of the accordion, peculiar to his region of Italy, with the unbelievable urgency of a sidewalk doomsayer. Both possessed rare showmanship and emanated total confidence.

S. read a poem – in public, for the first time in years – about the huge beauty beneath the grit here, describing the two grown men, strangers, spooning by necessity on the overnight train. A tiny lady, quiet and composed, burst into traditional Hawaiian dance with frenzied precision; the Willie Nelson-looking Indian who’d accompanied our chants on his acoustic guitar sang a lovely folk number about how mountains, valleys – wherever – it’s all great when you’re there. Several men who looked like cops had just arrived from Chennai and signed up at the last minute. They demonstrated a choreographed form of dance fighting, most impressive in that it was composed almost entirely of defensive maneuvers. A meek Swedish kid stood and gave a moving speech about how he finally felt safe somewhere, thanks to everybody, before singing, a-cappella, a song from the musical Pippin.

Another late arrival stole the show: a middle-aged Indian guy, with super-tight pants and a bit of a belly, who announced, “This is a sad song,” – I thought, thank goodness – “and it’s called Too Much Love,” –  he drew his finger theatrically across his throat – “Can Kill.” He launched into a Freddie Mercury rock ballad, all thrusting hips and slow gesturing hands. Everybody was floored in that R. Kelly way – where it starts off a bit tongue-in-cheek and loops around to something closer to religious awe.

Then it was my turn, tasked with closing down a great show. I was able to borrow the bearded dude’s guitar – he said, “All the best,” – and crooner J.’s pick. A perfectly tuned instrument, set directly into my hands, had a huge effect. Generally, that’s the instant of panic and disarray for me; realizing that I’m clammy and totally unsure how to tune a guitar. The clean food and yoga before performing yielded obvious benefits, too – I played Arms Outside as solidly as I ever have, and for once, my mind and body were moving at the same rate under pressure.

That’s the third occasion in under a month to keep the performance practice alive, and each was to an audience between 50 and 100 – far larger than I’m used to – and without the unconditional positive regard of my long-indulgent friends. I felt good when I finished – not puffy but not needy, either. The final act was one of the instructors, leading a laughing yoga: laugh uproariously, turn to your neighbor, repeat. Run around the room, using your hands like bumper cars, and laugh wildly at each collision. Not everybody participated – a few years ago, I’d have been standing with them, arms folded and nervous – but I joined in. It was cathartic.

Mapping community assets with neighbors as part of a participatory rural appraisal.

Cross in the hills.

Braille notebooks at a school for the blind.

Distant and misty cows.

Crates.

Tea pickers for the mammoth Tata corporation.

Cow w/ luxury high-rise.

Munnar music school.

This scene upset me a lot.

But this was good to see.

Kochi city arborist.

Tin roof and mosque.

Roundabout near the toxic zone.

View from Kalathary Bridge.

Meeting of the Democratic Youth Federation of India.

The ride to the peak!

– with this kind and funny driver. It’s substantially colder in the eastern hills.

Outside our homestay, moments before the rain started.

Conference hall at Renewable Energy Center Mithradham.

The virtuous.

A call to action, top left.

Sunday raced by. I dragged myself from bed and joined a silent parade of students, walking from campus to the reservoir to conduct our morning prayers at sunrise. Neck pain and bright light had me partially in retreat, but I was glad that I didn’t permit myself the out of remaining in bed. I made it through yoga practice; brutal and barely manageable at first. But after thirty minutes, somehow, I was moving through the pain and farther into the asanas, including some that I hadn’t been able to manage at all on day one.

Each teacher was great. They were the kind who notice, come by, and correct – persistently, if necessary – but do so in such a way that it’s empowering and collaborative. In a way that felt like they’re telling me because they know that I can do it right. And I made progress – for the first time, I can say with confidence that I know how to do sun salutations correctly. A goal three years old, clarified in a phrase – keep the hands in one place and line up the toes!

The weekend was so worthwhile – and I’d been a little doubtful, bad as I’d felt from arriving all but sleepless. I noticed on Sunday, walking with my head high and clear, that I never strike this pose at home – that I tamp it down on the days I feel this good – because it would seem like a violation of the code of disaffection. And I recognized something like growth; at ease and laughing with strangers, excited for the future.

I thought about the retreat two years ago where I suspended my disbelief and experienced real progress; evidenced in composure and self-respect that I could feel in my shoulders and witnessed in my courage to participate at Occupy. But when I was there, that weekend out of town, I was still very much a wreck, and everybody at the center could see it. I went back further – fall of ’09, when I was walking like I’d just survived a car crash, on the Cape with dad and Keith; 2007 fall, freshly dumped and cracking up totally; 2005, when I was turning toward C. and away from everything else – I could go on.

So it was mighty fine to remember – as I did, in conversation with Berkeley social worker Jessica, outside the ashram’s general store – that I made it through those times and I’m finally happy to be grown up, even if it means that from here on, I’ll have to exercise to keep from melting.

I succumbed to my lower, truer nature and asked Jessica to check the outcome of the Bills-Browns game on her phone. It was another close loss, and EJ Manuel sustained an injury that will keep him sidelined for weeks. I felt rare equanimity at their usual floundering. There’s the heart of spiritual progress, I guess – though I doubt I’ve seen the last of the internet, pro sports, late nights, junk food, corrugated meats, or coffee. But this weekend was a needed reminder that these are habits, not destiny. When I showed up on Sunday night, showered and all, S. said, “You look handsome,” and for once, I agreed – like my body and mind had reached an accord, if just temporarily.

So lest I forget: besides Jim the troubadour and Fantazio with the tiny accordion; there were Tihaka and her sister,  super chill Londoners of Punjabi descent; Bitu, the brilliant Freddie Mercury fan; Jessica, whose formula for finding work in international development goes: 1) get some experience 2) say that you’ll write grants 3) and that you’ll go someplace nobody else wants to and 4)  maybe be flexible about working for Christians; the ex-intel American paranoiac, “Retired to seek the Self in silence,” ranting about Obama and gossiping about the drinking of another retreater; Natalie from France, who wouldn’t join in laughing yoga, but declared that she’d visit me in DC with pleasure and said, “Brunell with two Ls – that’s not French,” and a loaded, “Ahh, ze black and ze white,” when I offered her a two-tone Dark Fantasy cookie; Krishna, a joyful older Parisian who’d renamed himself and hung around outside our dorm all day, enthusiastically chanting to himself; the hipster from Copenhagen with the frizzy hair and goofy goodwill; the super-buff but sincere Arian couple; the gentle and deliberate girl from China, with a jaw like mine, whose whole manner suggested reverence; the twins from Australia; the Connecticut preppy girl who liked my song and said that my voice reminded her of Rob Thomas, which was definitely a first; the rail-thin senior with mischief written in the wrinkles around her eyes, who talked about pole dancing and twerking, saying she’d just left another husband; the boy who barely spoke until his vulnerable speech of thanks at the variety show; weirdly intense Boris, who looked like my brother but cracked slimy jokes; the Nordic girl who always looked like she’d just woken up; the man I met on trash duty, making that linen suit look killer for three days running; the iridescent Bolivian woman who laughed with me as I grasped for basic Spanish and she, for basic English – hers, of course, was better; the Irish lady whose hellos sounded like little songs; the punk girl with the banjo tattooed on her forearm, serving bean paste delight with shining eyes; and the staff members – like Kiran, whose chants were so off key as to make the rest of us lose our bearings; the ebullient young women whose outfits were all pink on pink on pink; the jokingly acerbic Turkish lady who ran the gift shop, flexing her spiritual muscles and threatening to sock her coworker for insolence; the yoga instructor whose husband was the one grilled by the Christian coalition, looking like Tracy Chapman and telling us to sing Rock-A-Bye-Baby to our cradled legs. To each of you – and to anyone I may have missed – all the best!

A new train class on the way north: AC Chair Car, a kind of glorious doublewide airplane with ‘70s brown upholstery and extravagant legroom. Four hours passed in a flash, comparing notes with S. on the realness of sloppy teenage regret, and it felt like the passage from circumstantial into enduring friendship. We talked then about social work practice, and how one’s own struggles can either inform or undermine the work. It brought the present goal back home, into its right context: within the larger pursuit of a useful adulthood that fifteen year old me wouldn’t despise.

Whether that’s a worthy metric or an unforgivably stupid one, I’m not sure yet.

Our awesome clubhouse.

Typical produce stall.

Water storage, mint car, cliffside homestay.

A jeweler firing a piece.

Charisma.

Roof tire.

Bamboo scaffolding.

There was a landslide on the road back toward Kochi, so we had a jawdropping detour through this wildlife preserve and back via northern Tamil Nadu.

A cow radiating joy.

Munnar from above.

Masons at work near Cherai beach.

This place sells a variety of buckets.

Apartment building and lazers at sundown.

You can’t shake a stick at that.

Waiting for the boat.