I(n)diosynchronicities

The doctor at Ayurvedagram, a rustic Kerala-inspired spa in Whitefield, has it sussed. It’s all in Sanskrit scriptures written in 1500 BC. The absurdity, or simplicity, of life, depending how you look at it.
Like Mad John, in the far left-brained west Doc would be labelled a bit odd for his cosmic view of things. Schizophrenic, possibly, without conscience or persona. Not that labels worry him. Quite the opposite; he’s completely comfortable with them.
Ayurveda (‘the science of life’) is, quite logically, bipolar, and better for it, he says, because once you’ve discovered what it is that tips your scales, it’s easy enough to restore balance. Once you know what dosha or set of doshas dominate your personality (there are three, based on the elements, which make up seven combinations), you have all the information you need.
To prove his point, he studied 100 IT executives all doing the same job in the same place with the same technological equipment. Placed under stress, they displayed three predominant reactions which correlated with the three main doshas. Solution? If, say, your dosha is pitta (fire) you’ll get emotionally hysterical and need to, amongst other practical rituals, eat less spicy food to balance your manic depressive scales.
On a grander scale, the cosmos is a big recycling unit full of evolving particles. When you die, your body disintegrates into the earth and your soul joins the pool of universal consciousness. What lands up in the womb is a new permutation of particles fished out of the omniscient pool. Simple.
And explained, metaphysically, why the sewerage I (a Vatta/Pitta – a restless combination of air, space and fire) was sloshing through in 80 Foot Road was secondary to the conversation between me and Boy (a Kapha – a solid body of earth bound together by water), who circumnavigated adeptly.
And why we seem to inhabit different planets.
“Impermanence is at the heart of things,” I say, clutching at Buddhist straws to make sense of our precarious state in this frenetic, flowing foreign land.
Comes the reply, sans tongue or cheek: “Oh, it’ll all stabilise when I get my motorbike.”

So much for fantasies of sailing a tuk tuk through the streets of Bangalore in the warm, July monsoon. While Observatory’s River Club and the Cape of Storms is living up to its name, Karnataka is on the verge of a drought, and the city’s 7000 new tuk tuks are unlikely to sprout sails should the present temperateness change its disposition. Which is probably a good thing, since every spare minute is spent indoors in wait of electricians and back-up technicians who never arrive, or, when they do, provide little protection from the odd storm there is. Eskom looks efficient in comparison.
But, after a braai with fellow South Africans, I have made a sound decision not to veer into whingeing ex-pathood. All those beer bottles precariously balanced on the garden fence, while we tucked into fatty chunks of sacred cow, was enough to remind me of how much more we have to be embarrassed about.
If Durbanites, Eastern Capers and Capetonians can vie for provincial superiority (“our roads are worse than yours, we have more hijacking, therefore we are tougher and better able to deal with India”) 8000km away from birth base, there’s scant chance we’ll be peaceful anywhere.
Though I suspect our fighting talk is really just a peculiar sense of humour developed to deal with centuries of insecurity and quest for identity, gentle veggie eaters could be forgiven for changing the national head wobble to a vigorous, uncomprehending shake.
And might go some way to explaining why Indian businessman reckon they’ve got to count their fingers after shaking hands with a South African. Or maybe just proves the local contention that northern meat-eaters fight while southern rice-eaters play.