There’s no place like home.

L Frank Baum, The Wizard of Oz

Amy was born in a small suburb near a large city in Texas. Her parents, upper- middle class, decent Americans, were proud of their daughter and hoped that she would marry well and settle down in Texas near them. But the very week after graduating from university, she flew away. Her dream was to be an actor in the theatre and for this, she knew that she must go to its mecca. New York City, the city of dreams, had seen many Amys arrive to pursue their dreams. Only a tiny few succeeded – most settled for marriage and a contented life somewhere in other suburbs.

Not Amy. She had an unshakeable, focused vision, and a determination to get what she wanted. After five challenging years, if not a star, she had become a respected actor earning her livelihood from her chosen vocation. Later on, surprising even herself, she began to write plays with strong female roles. Her first play won a prestigious prize that allowed her to live without having to earn a living for one year. Since an early age, Amy had also possessed a spiritual bent from an early age, leaving organized religion behind in a relentless quest for an alternative that would provide meaning to what was already a purposeful existence. Unfortunately, this sometimes made her prey to various charlatans who had gained popularity in the West, and who relied on those like Amy to create their own livelihoods.

First, a popular Indian guru who chanted Sanskrit verses and urged all to discover the blue pearl within. She sat for hours in this attempt only to fail - even when the guru passed by gently taping her on the head with a large peacock feather meant to awaken the seeker. Next came a yogi, dressed in a white dhoti and long, white kurta, of undetermined age from north India with long, limp, white hair and beard, and who smiled all the time. She took naturally to Hatha Yoga as though she had done it before and soon became a favorite pupil of the master. The old yogi made unwelcomed advances not long after, so she hurriedly left.

Despite these early experiences, her thirst for all that was India persisted. She read Hindu philosophy beginning with the Upanishads which she remembered had influenced Emerson in the nineteenth century when he began the transcendental movement in New England. She read the great epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata – the latter becoming her favorite, especially the chapters known as the Bhagavad Gita. She felt deeply that if one understood the Gita, this alone could become a firm foundation for life.

But though she read profusely and meditated daily, she felt intuitively that something was missing. As the scriptures said, a true, living Guru was needed: Guru and disciple are one, like a candle and its flame.

“If I am to discover what I seek, I must go to the source – and that is India.”

Amy read of the Fulbright Scholarships and applied for a Research Grant to India. She had been asked to teach playwriting at a prestigious university in New York and had done this for the past two years. She hoped that the university affiliation might help her to win the Fulbright. Three months later, just after a new play of hers was successfully produced in New York, Amy received a letter announcing that she had indeed won the Fulbright Research Grant to India. She enthusiastically began to prepare for the adventure that she hoped would change her life. Perhaps this would tame the restless demon of never being content with who she was or where she was. The demon of feeling that there was something missing, that whatever was achieved or known was never enough.

Her actor friends thought her mad to leave a promising career as a playwright and asked, “What is this folly you are undertaking?” Amy simply laughed, tossed her long, dark hair, and responded, “A Fulbright Folly.” She sublet her midtown high rise apartment to one of her older graduate students and after goodbyes to friends and family, headed east.

Arriving at Delhi Airport, Amy was confronted with the cacophony of sounds and smells that abruptly catapults the unaccustomed Westerner into the exotic chaos and confusion that is India. After two sleepless nights in the air, Amy was grateful that she was met and driven to her hotel.

The next day the eleven other Fulbrighters were introduced to her at breakfast. She learned that they came from all over the United States and were widely diversified in their chosen study topics from classical Carnatic music of south India to modern politics after India’s Independence in 1947. She felt proud to be part of this brilliant effort to broaden the mind by studying far-flung places and varied cultures. Amy thought to herself, “This is how government money should be spent rather than bloody wars.” At a government party that evening, they were told that each year, a different scenic trip was scheduled for the Fulbrighters, and that last year it was the famed Taj Mahal. This year, they were to be flown to Bombay (Mumbai as it is called nowadays) then onto Aurangabad before being taken by bus to visit the amazing Ajanta Caves – one of the seven wonders of the world. That night. Amy tried in vain to quell her excitement and combat the inevitable jetlag in order to sleep. She dreamt of becoming lost among the hordes of people circulating in the Delhi airport. In the end, she managed a mere three hours of sleep, yet the next morning, her enthusiasm spirited her quickly into action. She had another plane to catch.

Seated next to an Indian civil servant on the plane to Bombay, Amy smiled thinking that if she were casting a spy in a play or film, she would definitely cast the man sitting next to her, dressed in dark suit and tie with close cut hair, and asking too many questions. After arriving in Aurangabad, a designated bus was waiting to carry the dozen Fulbrighters the next 165 miles to the famed Ajanta Caves.

Their guide, a young man in his mid-twenties who spoke excellent English – a legacy from two hundred years of British rule - stood at the front of the bus and tutored them enroute. “The thirty rock-cut Buddhist cave monuments date from the 2nd century BC to about 480 AD. The caves include colorful mural paintings as well as rock-cut sculptures that are among the finest surviving examples of ancient Indian art. They are very expressive showing the emotions through gesture, pose, and form.”

“How and when were they discovered?”, asked one of the more academic Fulbrighters.

“Yes, yes. Discovered in 1819, by a British soldier, Capt. John Smith, who was in a tiger hunting party near the caves. A local shepherd boy showed him where the entrance was and Smith asked the villagers to come to the site with axes, spears, and torches to cut down the tangled jungle growth that made entering the cave difficult. Once inside the caves, he vandalized a wall mural by scratching his name and the date over the painting of a bodhisattva.

“Bodhisattva?” another fellow American asked.

“Yes, a bodhisattva is any person who is on the path towards Buddhahood.”

As Amy stood in the wilds of India, outside the entrance of the first cave and looked around at the multitude of open cave entrances, she keenly felt how far she had come from Times Square and the Broadway theatre district. Laughing out loud, she said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore!” Tom, a Fulbright historian from San Francisco, overheard her and laughed in recognition of the well-known line by Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

“Well, Dorothy, shall we enter?”

“How wide and amazing the world is,” she smiled, before stepping into the second- century caves.

After an exhilarating and breathless two hours, she entered Cave 4 and came upon a huge, overpowering rock-cut sculpture of the Buddha in teaching pose surrounded by bodhisattvas, his disciples on their way to Buddhahood. Tears filled her eyes, as she felt the deep desire to know the peace visible on their faces and to one day acquire the wisdom that years of turning inward might yield.

As she walked on as in a waking dream, exploring other caves, she visualized Capt. John Smith crudely scratching his name and date on one of the priceless murals in sharp contrast to the many anonymous artists who left no trace of who they were or even when they drew or carved their masterpieces. Amy was grateful to have visited the caves as she felt she had touched the ancient depth and wonder that is India.

From Mumbai, Amy said her goodbyes to her American companions and flew to south India, her chosen area for research. The research project she had submitted to Fulbright was titled The Actor-Storyteller of South India where story and drama had more than mere commercial appeal. In fact, she had chosen Kerala for her study of dance-drama and shamanic rituals as that state had been less influenced by the invasions of the Muslims as well as by British rule, thus better preserving the purity of the ancient traditional forms.

She sought the oldest known dramatic shamanic forms in India, more than five thousand years old, which were created by the indigenous Dravidians. Still performed, these pre-Hindu forms of dance and drama were slowly diminishing. She would study them and make sure there were film records. The dramatic forms had passed from father to son for thousands of years. Now, however, the younger men were more interested in becoming software engineers in Bangalore – India’s Silicon Valley - and earning well which meant that these precious forms were in danger of decline – and even extinction.

Kerala is located at the southernmost tip of India – just across the sea from Sri Lanka (Ceylon). Amy had read a charming myth about the origin of Kerala, how it arose from the cosmos. Parashurama, an avatar of the god Vishnu, had performed severe penance to atone for his sin of killing his mother, so Indra, the main god, rewarded his devotee by reclaiming Kerala from the depths of the sea. Amy’s heart and mind were well-primed to embrace her Oz. She would soon learn that myth and reality in India are so intertwined that one often becomes the other before you know it.

The luxury of having won a Fulbright Research grant was that the recipient could move freely and decide where and what to research, unlike the Student or Lecture grant which tied the recipient to one school. Amy decided to take a couple of days exploring on her own before contacting a professor she was told would assist her.

Arriving in Trivandrum, the capital and the largest city in Kerala, her first order of business was shopping for Indian clothes. She had been advised to go to the Emporium as the prices were fixed and fair. She decided that churidars or cotton pants with a long cotton kurta (shirt) that reached well below her knees were the most practical attire. And a young German woman at her hostel suggested she also try the new Fab India for the best clothes. Though more expensive, they were indeed much finer. She also purchased one sari in case of special events and found a local tailor to make the small gold-colored fitted blouse to go with the bright red cotton sari which had gold borders. With her dark hair and brown eyes inherited from her Welsh ancestors, Amy hoped that she would blend in and be taken for a north Indian rather than one more American tourist. She found at the Emporium a practical pair of sturdy leather sandals as well as a lovely grey, wool Kashmiri shawl with delicate pink and green embroidery, in case of cooler weather.

Amy was touched by the sweetness of the people who waited on her, and the slower pace of life which allowed room to breathe and simply be – unlike the hustle and bustle of New York City. And she loved the food! Delicate spicy curries and basmati rice or chapatis. Yet, most of all, she had the wonderful feeling that she was where she was meant to be at this time in her life.

She stayed up most of the night devouring two books on the history of Kerala that she had found in the Modern Book Centre. The following morning, after her porridge, she was eager to explore the city. After visiting the museum and Rajah’s palace, she went to see the Sree Padmanabha Swamy Temple known as the richest temple in the world – with valuables more than one trillion dollars in its treasury. Its hoard of gold and precious jewels is believed to have accumulated in the temple over hundreds of years, donated to the Deity by various dynasties and Rajahs. Rumor has it that two enormous cobras protect the innermost hidden chamber, and anyone who dares to open the vault will meet with dire results. In 1908, two robbers broke in and found not two but hundreds of cobras encircling the treasures, and the terrified thieves ran for their lives, with nothing to show for their trouble.

The specific date of the temple’s origin is vague, but was probably built some hundreds of years ago. Amy was discovering that as time is considered unreal, local people- unlike those in the West – are not bothered by exact historical dates. The great tower over the temple was later constructed by Rajah Varma in the eighteenth century. During the two equinoxes (Sept and March) one can see the rising sun pass through each of the ten floor openings at five- minute intervals in perfect alignment. “How clever they were – even then,” thought Amy.

Amy was disappointed when told that only Hindus were allowed inside the sacred temple. But after she showed her Fulbright Guest of the Government card and made a small donation, an exception was made. She secretly delighted in the flexibility of India’s bureaucrats.

Inside the temple, she was amazed at the eighteen-foot sculpture of Sri Padmanabha or Maha Vishnu reclining on a serpent. The serpent has five hoods facing inwards, signifying contemplation. The Lord’s right hand was placed over a Shiva lingam. On either side of Vishnu, were his two full-breasted consorts, Sridevi, the Goddess of Prosperity and Bhudevi, the Goddess of Earth. Brahma emerges on a lotus flower, which emanates from the navel of the Lord. The deity rests on two platforms carved out of a single massive stone cut out of a rock measuring some twenty feet square which is two and a half feet. Amy stood there for several minutes to take in every single detail of the enthroned god who, in his divine majesty, lay in repose without fear or concern. She sighed, thinking, “Indians have no need to read mythology. They live it every day!”

After eating a light supper of lentils and chapatis at the International YWCA Youth Hostel, she wrote copious notes in her journal before going to bed. Tomorrow she would begin to make inquiries about shamanic or dramatic performances in the capitol. And, she probably should contact Professor Narendra Sharma who was to assist her in her research. Amy had done her homework and learned that Prof. Sharma was not only a respected professor at the University of Kerala but a professional theatre director as well. She would greet him as a colleague.

When they spoke on the phone, they agreed to meet at the university – not far from where Amy was staying. One of the largest buildings in the city, it was easy to find. She had read that it grew out of an earlier college established in 1834 and that its current name and form dated from 1937. Built from white granite stone, it would last for hundreds of years.

Upon meeting Professor Sharma in his office, she was struck by his kind yet enormous sad eyes. Though in his late forties or early fifties, he looked much older as his hair and short beard were speckled with many white hairs. Sharma was delighted to learn that Amy was a professional actor and playwright from New York.

Over coffee in a nearby café, Sharma told her that she was there at the best season for performances of Kathakali, the most famous dance-drama of Kerala, and Kutiyattam, a much earlier Sanskrit form dating from the tenth century. Amy smiled as she gently interrupted the professor.

“That sounds fine, Professor Sharma, but my research is for the indigenous Dravidian forms before the Aryans came.”

“Oh, yes, yes, those, too, may be seen. Usually at the temples and villages not far from the city. In fact, there’s a Theyyam performance. I could take you tomorrow at 5pm?”

“That’s perfect. Oh, might I have a library pass for the university?”

This provided Amy with a full day to obtain some books at the university library and research before actually viewing the ritual dance. Amy learned that there are more than four hundred varieties of Theyyam. It is a ritual art form that predates Hinduism, going back over five thousand years to a time when the most common form of worship was tribal animism – worship of trees, serpents, and animals, with rituals sometimes involving blood sacrifices.

“What?” exclaimed Amy so loudly that others in the library looked up in wonder. Amy smiled apologetically. “Blood sacrifices?” she thought to herself, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

That night Amy wrote to Suzanne, a fellow actor and a close friend in New York.

Dear Suzanne,

India is a complex country so whatever you say about it, the opposite is also true.

India is a mirror that reflects what is within you and then intensifies it. Perhaps this is why many Westerners are frightened or even repelled by this country as it forces you to face yourself. My demons are stirring. One moment I want to stay here forever and the next to run like hell.

New York seems so far away. Do send your news as I send my love, Amy.

Professor Sharma, as promised, collected Amy at 5pm in his black ambassador car and they headed north for her first experience of Theyyam. She learned that Sharma, never married, was devoted to his plays and his students. Apart from teaching, he was an active professional playwright and director in his own language, Malayalam. Amy noticed that whatever the hour, he always looked tired, not completely well.

“It will be a late night as the performances begin late and go until early morning.”

“I don’t mind, but I don’t wish to impose on you.”

“I enjoy it, but when you’ve had enough, just say the word and we can leave.”

It was November, the best of the seven- month season for performances which are traditionally held outdoors. November and December provided the best climate, with less tropical heat. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes knew no particular season, continuously circling in clustered clouds, attacking at will.

Amy enjoyed a light supper with Professor Sharma, who then spread blankets on the ground, and procured water bottles for them. In a small, sandy ring, frenzied drummers began beating their drums in perfect synchronicity. Young priests lit palm frond torches, carelessly swishing embers off into the air. Older priests appeared in crisp white lungies then stood in line in front of the small temple, staring at the crowd as if to command their attention for the sacred moment soon to come.

As they waited, Amy liberally spread local anti-mosquito cream on her arms and neck while Sharma explained that these ritual dances can go on for hours, depending on how long it is before the god, Kutty, enters the trance, totally taking him over. The performer begins the day’s events by singing and chanting stories in minimal costume. Only then, once painted and dressed in his most elaborate attire, is his transformation complete. Only then is he fully prepared to channel his god, Kutty.

Amy was about to say something when suddenly a collective breath was released from the crowd, and a sense of awe filled the void. The god had arrived. The Theyyam began.

The face paint was ornate: wide eyes sunken into black pits, while the rest of his face was a vivid orange. Red designs spread across his face as if a tiny lizard dipped in paint ran hither and thither, the lines so delicate that they were almost invisible. The overall effect was distinctly supernatural – which was precisely the point.

The dancer, now inhabited by the god, spins for what feels like ages. Sometimes he spins so quickly it’s hard to focus in the low light. Other times, he spins slowly, as though dazed or drunk. Members of the crowd cautiously approach him bearing crumpled rupee notes, pressing them into the god’s hands for a blessing as he continues to spin. Amy whispered aloud, “It’s not only great theatre, it is sacred.”

Finally, Kutty dashes to the front of the temple, walking back and forth several times before finally collapsing onto a seat before the priests. Young boys fan his sweating body with towels as the old priests bring him offerings of food and rice. As Kutty catches his breath, the crowd begins to disperse. Some move away to chat and compare photos with friends, while others move forward to whisper to the god, asking for advice and blessings.

Kutty then stands atop a wooden stool at the center of the ring. Two young priests hold his hands, steadying him as he circles in a tight, stomping dance to the drums. Bells and bangles clatter as he rattles his feet between rotations. He looms over the crowd, reminiscent of a giant serpent poised to make a kill. The drums halt and there is not a sound to be heard anywhere. And then, Kutty abruptly turns and exits. It is over. The god has vanished.

Amy was mesmerized and later could not remember how long he danced and twirled, spinning around and around as if carried by the increasing thunder of the drums. Time ceased to exist. In reality, what seemed a short time was several hours. Amy was surprised to witness the sun rising, for it was already the next day.

Driving back to Trivandrum, Amy could not speak for a long time. Sharma looked at her and smiled, understanding her mood. After almost an hour, Amy asked, “Professor Sharma, tell me about the men who perform these rituals.”

“For over five thousand years, the young men have inherited from their fathers and grandfathers the calling to continue the tradition. A tradition handed down through family lines, the dancers begin preparing for their divine roles at a young age, often in their early teens. Years are spent learning the skills required for every part of the tradition, from how to make costumes from coconut husks to the delicate art of face painting.”

“Say more.”

“Well, let me see. When not performing, Theyyam dancers are mere mortals. The weeks leading up to a ritual demands of them, a life of purity. He consumes no meat or alcohol, nor does he lie or speak badly of others. He prays at the temple daily and cleanses himself before the dance.”

“It is a sacred dance.” Amy laughs out loud.

“What is funny?”

“I was just imagining what the Broadway critics would say about this performance.”

They both laugh.

“Professor Sharma, if you don’t mind my asking, why did you never marry?”

Shyly, he responds, “Well, the right girl said no, and I could not settle for less. You might say I married the theatre, and my students and fellow actors have become my family.”

“Yes, I understand that. Theatre is a family – though sometimes dysfunctional.”

She raised the possibility of having the dances and rituals filmed in order to preserve this extraordinary tradition. And Professor Sharma came up with an enticing proposition.

“Actually, some of my former students are filming the Theyyam and other early shamanic rituals, and donating them to the University in my name. So, we could make copies of them for you in exchange for a few acting classes, what do you say to that?”

“That’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

He laughed, saying, “The Godfather, right?”

“That’s right.”

During the following weeks, a friendship emerged between them. Amy enjoyed teaching and even more so, experiencing more early rituals and dances. She respected how devoted Sharma was to his students and fellow actors, and touched by the growing affection she herself felt for the students and they for her. Over lunch one day, she asked Sharma, “What sustains you? I mean what makes it possible for you to get up every morning and keep on?”

“The belief and hope that things will improve. Also, the fact that there are a few who make life worthwhile, who balance the hundreds of others, and make me believe that some people are truly good at heart.”

Amy smiled, “I suspect, Professor, that you have too much heart for this world.”

Sharma chuckled, “That’s what my doctor says.”

Amy settled down into an enriching routine studying the ancient forms of storytelling blended with a deepening of her friendship with Sharma. As productive as he was with his students as well as his professional work in the theatre, he was a lonely man, a man who had known sorrow yet had persevered. He would often sit at the back during her acting classes and just smile and nod. This was just the break from New York that Amy needed in order to restore her faith in the work she did and would continue to do in the future.

The only setback was her health as the heat and humidity of tropical south India did not agree with her at all. Once back in New York, she knew she must attend to what was most likely some bug or other. But she refused to allow a weakening body to dampen her mission.

Some of the shamanic forms of early performance rituals were held in private homes. For instance, one lone performer enacted a ritual for fertility. Women who had trouble getting pregnant would sit in large circles surrounding the ritual while the lone performer drew them in with his intense movements and the inevitable loud drumming. Some of the women would swoon and cry out as in ecstasy. Great theatre, thought Amy, with good psychology thrown in! Before there were shrinks, there were shamans.

Another favorite Theyyam was a dancer on long high stilts making his god larger than life. Each dance was completely different in form and action. Amy knew that a dedicated researcher could spend an entire lifetime studying the four hundred forms of Theyyam, but she was happy to collect what she could so that this unique performance could be remembered. She and Sharma had discussed this often and she had pledged to donate the film material Sharma had given her to the university who had invited her to teach an introductory course on Indian culture and philosophy the following year. Sharma’s trusting smile was a firm contract.

Amy stood near a Dravidian serpent shrine that stood just outside a Hindu temple that had been built centuries later. When the martial Aryans came from Siberia to India more than five thousand years ago, they conquered other parts of India by war. Yet in Kerala, the Aryans seem to have taken over peacefully, respecting the Dravidian animist gods and shrines. So, the Aryans left them undisturbed and simply built their larger Hindu temples devoted to their pantheon of gods next to the modest indigenous shrines that can still be seen today.

This tolerance in Kerala is today seen in the Cochin Jews who have been here over two thousand years as well as in the Syrian Christians who began to follow Jesus Christ when doubting Thomas, one of the twelve disciples of Christ, came to Kerala. And, though there are fewer Sikhs. Jains, and Muslims than are found in north India, they, too, worship their own religion in peace.

At this spot, before the snake shrine, a special performance was scheduled. Sharma had warned her that this one might be unsettling. Amy watched in horror and fascination as a fiercely made-up Theyyam dancer with a coconut straw skirt and large headdress danced with a live chicken! The origin of this unique ritual dance was to summon the Kutty god to ward off the pox. After many frantic movements with fierce drumming building a tension that became almost unbearable, the drums and the dancer would suddenly stop. Then in eerie silence, the god, barring his teeth, bit off the live chicken’s head as blood spurted everywhere. This was captured on film and would be later viewed by Amy’s university students– much to their delight.

During her stay, Amy unexpectedly felt inspired to write a short play set in India with the theme of reincarnation. The main character is a young woman who others believe has gone mad as she mourns for a lost love. They were together in a past life and she is reincarnated only to discover that the one she loved had not yet been born again. Unable to bear the separation, she goes mad. Amy decided to say nothing about the play until it was finished. Later, she presented it to Sharma as a parting gift. Delighted after reading the play, he asked permission to translate it into Malayalam. and then to direct the play with his company the following season.

“I’d be honored if you would.”

There came a moment when their friendship might have become something more, but Amy held back and Sharma was sensitive enough to understand. It was as if Amy transformed her feelings for Sharma into a new work of fiction, the play. In this way, she felt that she had given him the best part of herself.

Not long after, while she was absorbed in solitary research at the University in Trivandrum, she heard that Professor Sharma was in the hospital with a severe heart attack.

Stopping only to purchase some oranges at a local shop, she went directly to the hospital. The doctor had said he was not allowed any visitors as his life was hanging by a thread.

Amy gave the oranges to the ward nurse and looked through a glass window as she presented them to Sharma. Sitting in bed, Sharma opened the newspaper wrapped parcel and when he saw the fruit, looked up with his customary wide smile and drew his palms together in a namaste, raising his hands high above his head in respect.

Amy modestly returned the gesture, somehow sensing that this was a final goodbye. They held each other’s gaze for a few moments until Sharma’s strength ebbed and he had to lie back down. Amy left in tears.

The next morning, Ravi, Sharma’s assistant, called to say that Professor Sharma had passed peacefully during the night. He had just turned sixty. After the cremation ceremony, Ravi informed her that before he died, Sharma had translated her play and it was to be performed three months later. Moved that Sharma had kept his promise in spite of his deteriorating health, Amy hesitated then said yes when Ravi offered to drive her to Trichur for an upcoming annual major festival. In this way, Amy was able to experience the Pooram Festival in Trichur with a parade with twenty ornately decorated elephants and the traditional fierce drumming.

Thoughts of Sharma penetrated her mind and heart as she watched the noisy pageant with the added chaos of chanting from hundreds of devout Hindus. She thought of her reincarnation play now translated and soon to be performed. Perhaps if Sharma waited a bit to return, they might meet again in another life, and have more time to know one another.

Saddened by the loss of her colleague and friend and now herself riddled with amoebic dysentery, Amy at last admitted that she was homesick for America. And though she wouldn’t have traded the year in India for gold and would always be grateful for the profound experience of this vast and complex culture, she was more than ready to go home. In place of her usual restlessness was born a firm resolve to return home and create from the depths of her evolving self. She had learned that it was not where you were, but how you lived and gave back what you had found. In the end, in her attempt to embrace a foreign culture, she had faced herself – only to realize how American she was.

In truth, this was India’s gift to her: to accept who she was. Dorothy was right after all. Though the land of Oz was wonderfully magical, “There’s no place like home.”