in a few hours air india is taking me to the grandmotherland of samosas lions chutneys and scraggly beards. i wanted to give a few notes, in multimedia form, before leaving, and encourage the writing of letters as i scramble around the wilderness of my soul Over There.

*

ankur shah

c/o manav sadhana

sabarmati gandhi ashram

ahmedabad

gujarat

india

*

in india i will spend a month in gujarat, with my teachers mukeshbhai and jayeshbhai, anjali and nirali, malavika and denali. we will nurse the sick and play music for the dawn, until the may heat and snowy mountains push and pull us northward to the himalaya, to whom i’ve never been drawn before, and, this time, i know i cannot miss. i’ll be up there for much of may, cross the threshold into the epoch my greying hair demands of me lost in their grip, and then descend (triumphantly, atop a crowded train, with watercolors and no camera) to the futane mango farm for much of june. returning to ahmedabad in july to plan and execute the Inspire College Program, until i return to the US, god and diesel willing, in august to perform and attend some weddings hither and thither.

as always, i am here, and the majority of my practice this time, music and meditation both, will focus on integrating the spheres of here and there, present and past, to be full fleshy there for everyone whom i love, ignorant and innocent of space and time. as it should be.

i have spent the last few months on the road, the holy american road, from seattle to brazil and puerto vallarta to nuevo york. it’s been kind indeed. 2009 is, to quote the ancients, “kicking some serious ass”. the latest book has been distributing nicely all over the planet, and i’ll carry two dozen numbers to give out in india. the cookbook has emerged in its 2nd printing of its 2nd american edition, and is shiny and new and still selling/gifting well. i fully encourage all of you to consume both of these books, in the hope that you may be entertained, edified, or at least feel good about supporting the ephemeral work i’m doing in the world.

in other news, i finally visited the South of the united states, confusing named “north” carolina. i can confirm that people there do have a beautiful accent, a special kind of dialect, and their own cuisine, which involves lots of collard greens, black eye peas, polenta (named “grits”), and ice cream (apparently a regional speciality). apparently though my visit fell in the wrong season, as it has the best “fall colors” in the “western hemisphere” putting new england to shame. so say the locals. i did see some great color in the work of daniel nevins though, and even managed to record one of the locals singing.

there are some recipes, naturally. and other things to share

a. there was a road trip and my partner took pictures. not many.

b. kale chips

it’s a way to eat your greens and think you’re eating french fries. i was served these on numerous occasions up and down the east coast, but never got the recipe straight. i’m guess you rip redleaf kale into admirable chunks, then coat them with a mixture of tahini, olive oil, soy sauce, and apple cider vinegar. maybe with some pureed garlic. heavy on the tahini. and some miners salt. the oven is at 350, it seems (fahrenheit my dear) and you bake the chips until they are soft in the valleys and crispy on the peaks — the kale being laid out, more or less, on one layer on the tray. there is a fake-cheesy-junk-food taste i haven’t enjoyed in years. and it’s kale, so Nobody can complain.

c. hoppin’ john

something like the texas caviar matt brought us in brazil (and which made it into _cooking com bigode_), it’s a salad of black eye peas (when you made too much last night and didn’t season all of them after pressure cooking), leftover rice (not overcooked though, loose grains), fresh diced tomatos and green onions. i’d have a hard time not putting freshly ground roasted cumin dust on top, but they seem to avoid that down South pretty well.

d. rumi [Who Says Words With My Mouth?]

All day I think about it,
then at night I say it.

Where did I come from,
and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere,
I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness
began in some other tavern.

When I get back around
to that place,
I’ll be completely sober.

Meanwhile, I’m like a bird
from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear
who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes?

What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste
one sip of an answer,
I could break out
of this prison for drunks.

I didn’t come here of my own accord,
and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here
will have to take me home.

This poetry,

I never know
what I’m going to say.

I don’t plan it.

When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet
and rarely speak at all.

e. from the poem “fluent” by john o’donahue in the book
_to bless the space between us_, which is a book of blessings for all, or many, occassions

“i would love to live like a river flows,
carried by the surprise of its own unfolding”

f. i reiterate, this drunkeness began in some other tavern.

and i’ll see you there.

when next i write there will be a newly magical phone at my side, supposedly.

trust your own self, though.

love

ankurbhai