Lost in Translation

Tuesday, October 27th

Chidananda seems distracted today and his greeting is luke warm. As is customary, he served chai tea and biscuits. Almost immediately he launched into a tirade about Westerners and why they cannot be trusted. As the story unfolded I came to see very clearly how things get lost in translation. He had recently befriended a young woman from Europe who in the course of their conversation disclosed that she was hoping to find a place to have free meals. Good naturedly, he took her along to an ashram serving daily meals to the poor and the sanyasin (monks) where she could have two free meals a day.

Over the next several days he encountered the young woman, when he went for his own daily meals at the ashram. Noting her regular appearance, Chidananda, determined that he had provided her with an invaluable service and that the she in return should make a small offering of gratitude. On meeting her again, he boldly approached her and suggested that she return the favor he had extended to her, by purchasing him a small radio, costing 250.00 Rupee ($5.00). She had clearly saved greater than this sum with the free meals she now enjoyed. She refused to entertain his request. Not satisfied, he demanded to know where she was staying. She in turn became suspicious and fearful; accusing him of wanting to and rob or attack her. In his mind the question pointed to the fact that she must live somewhere, and so had the means to buy him this small gift. “She is a beggar, he complained, eating food that is prepared for the poor. If not for me she would not know where to eat for free!”

What has began as a congenial encounter, was now shrouded in fear, suspicion and resentment. For Chidananda it was a matter of honoring the principal of give and take. A system finely woven into the cultural tradition, and universally understood in his community. And for the young woman, having no understanding of this, he would have seemed fraudulent. A deceiver, dressed in the orange robes of a holy man. I saw that the gap between language and culture could so easily lead to profound misunderstanding. The fragile threads of communication had been severed and neither could find their way beyond the frayed edges, toward understanding.

The tale was both ironic and tragic, and in the telling Chidananda revealed the very human side of his personality. I learned it is wise not to see these men who walk the path of the renounciate, as existing outside of the human drama. It is from the couldron of this very human drama that each of us must emerge. Without the stain of our passions and of our desires, we cannot know self mastery.  In his book “The Way of Illumination” Hazrat Inayat Khan says, and I paraphrase, “ a gem is just a stone, and not until it has passed through the stone cutters wheel, does it reveal its radiance. “

We decided to take Chidananda out for lunch at a near by restaurant, and with some reluctance he consented to accompany us. Lunch proved a good tonic to lift him out of the doldrums, and we parted with the promise to stop by in the next few days. Prema and I then set off ton foot to visit a well known ashram about 4 kilometers away. It was a long walk along a narrow mountaneous road and we had to stop numerous times to give way to passing vehicles. We eventually arrived at the ashram which sat just yards from the beach, on an isolated plot of land. On entering the grounds, I saw that the gardens that it was famous for, were poorly maintained and over grown. And the buildings were dilapidated., and in desperate need of repair. All thoughts of spending any time here quickly evaporated, and I was happy to remain where I am, until it is time to leave Rishikesh. 

After dinner I fancied some time away from the ashram, and snuck off to Mama Mia's where I had a large mug of black coffee, with toast and jam. It was the perfect indulgence. The proprietor was watching television, and I decided to join him.  The show was "Big Boss" which is the Indian version of Big Brother. The proprietor and his assistant were riveted to the screen, and informed me that they don't miss a show.  Each week someone is appointed head of the house and at the end of three months who ever is the winner gets five million rupees.  The show is a carbon copy of the original, and many of the house guests that appear on the show are television stars, and celebrities.  Caught up in the drama of who would be cast out of the house this week, I missed the 10:00pm curfew and had to pound on the front gate to be let in.

 

Unconsciuos

Friday, October 22nd

Today Manus greeted me with a look of concern. “Are you ok” he asked solicitously. With a smile, I nodded that I was fine and I asked him if I could possibly change my room to one that had hot water. Happy to be able to accommodate me in some way, he checked several rooms to establish which would offer me this small creature comfort. I followed him to the store room where I collected a set of clean sheets and a blanket, as the nights have turned cold. Manus in his quiet manner, expressed his feeling of regret for what had occurred. “ This happened because you were unconscious “ he declared. “It is important that you are conscious at all times, particularly in the handling of money. I am sad that this has happened to you my daughter.” His lilting voice carried a note of genuine concern and I was touched.

Armed with a key to my new room and an armful of linen, I proceeded to transfer my belongings. It felt good to be occupied as it took my mind away from the incident and the sinking feeling that was gnawing inside. I now had a desk and a chair, both borrowed from Sridhar 's old room. I had all the comforts that the ashram could feasibly offer me. In this I was satisfied. Moving was hot work and gave me the perfect excuse to christen the shower. The hot water poured over me and for a moment I just stood there, drowning in the familiarity of it. At last I felt liberated from the dust and grime that is ingrained into my feet. But, I cannot wash off the stain of India. Her soil draws lines in the soles of my feet, marking the topography of my journey. This map, like the mendhi painted on the palm of a new bride, delineates my journey and binds me to a path that is predestined.

I am forced to surrender to the vicissitudes of life and all that may come.  It is both the magic and the adversity that lie at the center of this web. Stark naked, I can only sit and wait for what must inevitably manifest in the weaving of this dream. The loom of time casts its own stitches in the torn fabric of the sack cloth in which I carry these few possessions; of flesh and bone and sinew.  And the river that flows within me, deep and red, and pulsing with life, enters the cosmic dance, guided by the rhythmic shimmer of the moon. Black and mysterious, I await the full bloom of her silvery light, to illumine my way.

The anxiety that had arisen in me slowly dissipates as I simply accept where I am at this present time. Gone, is the wanting and the desire to know. Remarkably, I am unconcerned about the future. The bank card will arrive, and I will re-chart my course in accordance with the movement of the current, that is coursing through my life. Some call it fate, other say it is grace and others still, speak of karma.  At worst it was simply bad luck.

Today, Prema and I again visit her friend the sadhu, whose name I have discovered is Chidananda. We find him at home. With a wave, he hustles us into his tiny hut that is now very clean and tidy, thanks to the efforts of the woman we encountered there last week. She is he informed us a very wealthy person, with many acres of farm land that produces several types of crops. The luncheon that she sponsored was a tremendous success and he had been received like royalty. Off course, he is very self deprecating when he speaking of himself. But it is clear that others look upon him as a very wise and gracious man.

He served up black coffee and biscuits and opened our discussion with talk about the state of ones mind. He warned that it is vital that we are conscious at all times in both our thoughts and our actions. “When we are unconscious, he said, then we find ourselves out of rhythm with nature. The mind wants to wander in pursuit of what it craves and avoidance of what it repels. And in this we become unconscious. You must take hold of your mind and remain conscious at all times.” It was as though he knew about the events that had transpired. Again I had been given the message to remain present.

Our time with Chidananda, was special, and I feel truly privileged to have met him. A man with no outward expression of desire, who accepts what is metered out to him. What need he asked, has he of rubies and emeralds. His mother in the form of the goddess Kali, provides all that he needs. She asks only that he remain true in his devotion. “All too often, desperate men avow their love for god, placing their heart upon the alter; only to take it back when god has interceded on their behalf.” This he asserts, is the failing of men. Such was the nature of our discussion. I asked Chidananda if he would be willing to be interviewed and he has consented. Next time I will take my camera, and I hope to illicit from him the story of how he became a renounciate.

A new group of guests have arrived at the ashram, but I have no interest in making new friends. I smile politely, and escape to the sanctuary of my room. Perhaps tomorrow I will feel differently, for now I am happy to keep my own company.

P.S. Please forgive me as my entries have become scattered and follow no chronological order. I will try to rectify this.

Black Money

Monday, October  25th

In my fog of forgetfulness, I failed to journal about my expedition into town with Sridhar last week. He had promised to take me to a local pool hall and on the day before the close of the retreat, we sauntered into Laxman Julha. Sridhar wanted to purchase some euros and I knew where to take him. We laughed at the irony of me having more knowledge of the area then he did as a native to the country. But, we are far from his home in Southern India and I am here in Rishikesh for a second time. We cross the bridge and enter the main through fare that leads to the gem store where currency is exchanged. I am certain that they will have euros, as I have learned that they are big in the business of money changing.

Only this morning Musette had been in the shop sipping chai, when a businessman walked in. In a hushed conversation he asked if he could purchase rupee with American dollars. With a nod the gem store owner invited the man to sit down, and the transaction began. Musette, informed me that the man proceeded to remove $50,000.00 dollars from his bag and handed the money over the counter. The gem merchant carefully checked each hundred dollar bill for authenticity, and once satisfied began to count out the corresponding value in rupee. All of this took place as Musette looked on. The money it transpired belonged to a local guru and the businessman was acting as his intermediary.

When I shared this story with Sridhar he laughed and said that this is known as “Black Money”. Money that is deliberately kept outside of the banking system so as to avoid paying taxes. He said that it is is a very common practice in India, and estimates that more than 70% of the population do not pay taxes. There is more money in circulation than first appears, and the gem stores merchants are the money handlers at the center of this exchange.

To purchase a one bedroom apartment in Delhi, which goes for $250,000.00, the seller fully expects the buyer to make a 50% down payment in “Black Money” to evade paying taxes on the full property value. I am stunned that people are able to amass this much in cash deposits and that property is so expensive here. Land, Sridhar informs me is even more astronomical. To purchase a plot in Delhi or Mumbai costs a minimum of $500.00 per square yard. There is then, this unofficial banking system, that is intrinsic to the economic structure, which operates with the full knowledge of the authorities.

Sridhar, is able to purchase euros at a competitive rate and is chuffed at having saved 'six hundred bucks' (rupee). With business complete, we strolled back over the bridge and head to the pool hall. It is actually a restaurant with a wonderful view overlooking the river, that has two snooker tables. I warn Sridhar that I have not played for several years and was likely to be a poor opponent. True to my word, I played abysmally!

Barely able to pocket any balls, I lose all four games. Yet, there had been a glimmer of hope in the final game, when I had only two balls left in play and victory seemed within reach. But it was not to be. It was predictably, a slaughter of the lambs! Sridhar, took my poor performance in good stride, and made every attempt to educate me on the rudiments of the game.

In consolation he bought me lunch, spending the money that he had saved on the euro exchange. Sridhar is a systems intelligence professional, who works for the banks tracking the individuals behind identity theft. He is employed by an American firm, and is very well compensated in dollars. Unlike many of his friends, who now live and work in the United States, he opted to remain in India. In this way he is able to maintain close ties with his family and still enjoy the privileges that come with earning a salary comparable to that of his peers in America.

The retreat is at a close and most have gone on to other destinations. A doctor, an advertising executive, a psychologist, a masseuse, a computer specialist, a businessman, a chemical engineer, an investor, yoga instructor and more. We had gathered from around the world to converge here in Rishiksh, each bound by our individual quest for meaning.

Stolen

Thursday, October 21^st

Immediately after morning meditation, Prema and I set off to the German Cafe for breakfast and discuss our immediate plans. I am set to leave Rishikesh next week for Pune and she is think to continue on here for the next several weeks. Her nomadic life style gives her the freedom to go or stay as her spirit moves her. I have decided to take the train from Haridwar to Pune, which will be a forty hour journey. I am excited at the prospect as I am told that it is an adventure all by itself. And this will give me material for my blog, as I must keep my handful of followers engaged.

After the meal we took a rickshaw into the town of Rishikesh to change money at the bank. The ATM machines are often out of service, and so sometimes you have to try two three banks in order to withdrew money. Today we were in luck and got the needed cash from the first machine we tried. Then we headed to the vegetable market to buy fruit and sweets for the final day of the retreat.

There as a buzz of activity at the ashram, as half of the group would be leaving after dinner, to drive through the night to arrive in Delhi for an early morning departure. I joined in the group discussion and said my good byes to Musette and the others who were heading back to Denmark and Norway. Angelo was headed to the local travel agent, and I decided to accompany him to purchase my train ticket to Pune, as the tickets must be purchased at least a week in advance, if you have any hope of getting an air conditioned car.

I went to my room to off load my packages and when I reached for my purse to put the money away it was not there. I was stunned. I tipped the contents of the bag onto my bed and with a sinking heart I realized that I had been robbed. My purse contained $400.00 mostly in rupee, and my credit card and bank card. How had I not missed it. Mentally, I scrambled through what I could recall of my movements and I still could not fathom where or how I had lost the purse.

I dashed back out to the lobby and alerted the staff as to what had happened. Sridhar who was on hand loaned me his cellphone and I immediately cancelled my cards. The bank promised to send me a replacement bank card here, but it will be at least a week before I receive it. I have no money and no means of getting money, and this engenders a terrible feeling of powerlessness. Musette, on hearing about my predicament, pressed her last thousand rupee into my hand. I am close to tears.

I suddenly remember that I may have money stashed away with my passport and I return to my room to find that I do in fact have a hundred dollars set aside. I am relieved as this will be enough to see me through till the bank card arrives. In my haste, I have forgotten to close the windows and the light now flooding the room is a magnet for all kinds of insects which descend upon me in a massive swarm. It is the final straw, I begin to scream in my mind, but I cannot find the resource to shed the tears that threaten.

Everyone extends their commiserations, and this simply makes things worse. Now I am carrying the guilt of making others feel bad on my behalf and I struggle to muster up a smile. Full of self pity I wonder if this the measure of the blessing promised me for my seva of blood sweat and tears. It seems a cruel joke and only the gods of fate could have conspired to this end. I am at a complete loss. I apply my energies to trying to unravel the series of events leading up to this disaster, it is a pointless endeavor, and eventually I conceded defeat.

Dinner is for me a somber affair, and I cannot even register the taste of the food. I try to join in the conversation, but I fail miserably. Once we have waved goodbye to the departing group, I find refuge in my room. I recalled the words of a friend who on learning that I would be traveling to India, cautioned me to be aware that “you don't do India, India does you!” These words rang all too true.

Nothing is going to plan. I am stuck here in Rishikesh for an unforeseen period of time. I kick myself for my stupidity. Certain that this could have been averted if I had not somehow been careless. Self recrimination doesn't alter my dilemma, but it gives me somewhere to direct my anger.

Ever the pragmatist, Sridhar advised me to calm my mind and simply accept what has happened as a lesson. His words fall like heavy stones. What lesson could this possibly hold for me. It is simply a bitter twist of fate. The search for meaning would be but another useless endeavor. Sleep comes easily, and I enter its embrace with welcome relief.

Black Chai and Hashish

Wednesday, October 20th

I arose at 4:30am. My feet hit the cold marble floor and I stumbled into the bathroom to perform the morning ablutions. I turned on the tap to fill up the five gallon bucket and plugged in the heating coil. It would be ten minutes before I had hot water, and I took that time to brush my teeth. Once bathed, I spent the next several minutes washing out the bucket and rinsing the floor. Finally, I brushed any remaining water on the floor toward the drain with the purpose built broom. A long rubber strip attached to a broom handle. This is my twice daily ritual.

I have fallen back into the pattern of mindless mental chatter during my meditations. With just a couple of days to go before the retreat ends, I am again wondering the point of the whole exercise has been. Clearly I am not on the fast track toward enlightenment. Even my best efforts fail to bring me close to a sense of accomplishment. But, I won't dwell on these thoughts. It is early in my journey, and there is still a chance that despite my failings, a profound transformation may take place.

Today's expedition took me to the German cafe where I met up with Musette. After a light lunch, we set off to engage in our favorite pass time of shopping. By now we are known to a number of the shop keepers who wave a greeting as we pass by. Every where we stop, there is always a cup of chai on offer, as is the custom here. It is quite easy to get addicted to the sweet milky tea that is always served piping hot. Some where along the way I lost sight of Musette and so made my way back over the bridge alone.

On impulse I stopped in the gem store to look for my friend Ravi, but he had traveled to Delhi and is likely to be away for the week. Disappointed, I decided to stop at the cafe below his shop and have sweet black chai. The owner recognized me and very quickly set about making a fresh pt of chai. I sat on the muddy bank at the only table available in this make shift cafe. I was soon joined by local named Gopal who introduced himself as a local tour guide, and proceeded to tell me his life story.

Gopal was born to a very poor family, and he recalls traveling around the state with his parents as a small boy, to work on construction sites. The work was hard and paid very little. Families like his lived and worked on these sites until completion of the project, and then moved on. It was a nomadic life that offered little stability to the young Gopal. With no education and no ability to read or write the prospects for him were non existent. By the time he was thirteen years old he ran away and found himself in Goa. What began as liberation, hanging out at wild parties and meeting foreigners, quickly devolved into addiction. He had developed a cocaine habit and lived in a drug induced haze for six years before returning to Rishikesh. He managed to get straight and got himself odd jobs in the hotel industry

Like many in his position, he courted tourists and had a three year relationship with an Israeli girl, which abruptly ended when her mother showed up and took her back to Israel. He is very pragmatic about the loss of the relationship and shrugged it off as simply another closed chapter in his life. He has recently married a girl selected for him by his parents; after the marriage his new wife spent one month with him before returning to her home some 300 kilometers away. She is pregnant with their first child and he hopes that she will return before the birth.  She will live with his parents in what he describes a “plastic house” which they have occupied for the past 36 years. The structure is made of bamboo columns covered in heavy black plastic for a roofing, and the walls and floors are made of mud. Gopal does not live there, instead he finds shelter in a small lean to at the side of the road, but goes home for meals.

Life, Gopal complains is very hard and he feels cursed by fate. There is no joy in life he says.  His only escape from the sheer hopelessness of existence is to smoke hashish. Unlike cocaine which made him aggressive, he has found that hashish mellows him.  When the worries of the world become too much, it is his refuge. It has become a way of life for him. He leaned conspiratorially close to me and confessed that he is actually a dealer. Removing a long pencil of black tar from his pocket he informs me that this costs 1,200 rupees. I politely shake my head and indicate to him that I do not smoke. He shrugs, and casually puts the hashish back in his pocket.

As a parting gesture Gopal takes hold of my had and places it on his shoulder and then begins to massage my arms in circular strokes. “I have aryuvedic oils that I use for a full body massage,” he whispers. He is a purveyor of all things and at thirty six, still has the advantage of youthfulness that is not yet marred, despite his abuse of substances. His name like his despair, is tattoed into his flesh, and cannot be veiled by his playful comraderie.

A friend passes by riding a bright red and white motor cycle, he waves and shouts a greeting as he speeds past the cafe. Gopal lets me know that his friend is riding a brand new bike purchased by an American girlfriend. According to Gopal, she is old, but has a nice body.  I suspect that he is envious of his friend, and hopes to find himself a new girlfriend. Whilst I chatted with Gopal, the cafe owner had prepared pakora and jilabe for me to taste. One savory and the other sweet, and both delicious. I am touched by this simple gesture and communicate my gratitude with nods, as his English is limited.

As I walk back for evening meditation, I am again struck by the stark realities that people are confronted with. There is a pyramid of poverty with subtle gradations of deprivation that are threadbare and impossible to distill in the morass of hopelessness and despair that haunts the Gopal's of this world. This is clearly not the only reality in India with its burgeoning middle class, but it is what I am witness to for now.  Life is mortgaged for as little as Dostoevsky's loaf of bread or as much as one hundred Lakh. And the price exacted is a piece of the soul.

The Locusts

Tuesday, October 19^9h

Musette and I purchased much needed plates and cups for the kitchen. It was our offering to the ashram, and today I would again offer seva. Prema has asked me to help her clean the meditation hall, and has intimated that it carries a special blessing. After lunch we gather the mops, brooms, and buckets needed fort the tasks and set about the job of cleaning the floor. The meditation room is a large circular dome with a circumference of more then 100 feet. The prospect of cleaning the floor with a dust pan and broom was daunting. I got down on my knees and began to sweep the coarse matting covering the concrete floor.

It is hot work and within minutes I am sweating profusely. The roped weave of the carpet cut through the thickness of my jeans and burned into the tops of my bare feet, and I knew I had been suckered. No reward could be possibly be recompense for my hard labour. Hot, sweaty, uncomfortable, and choking on dust, I dedicated myself to completing the job as quickly as possible. One hour and thirty minutes later I emerged from the meditation hall in desperate need of a shower.

Bathed and dressed in clean clothes, it was all but forgotten. I went in search of Manus, the manager, to ask about getting Internet access. He sent me to the Sony shop across the road. I joined the queue of people, pressed single file against the length of the sales counter. I asked the clerk if I could buy a drive for pay as you go Internet connection. He handed me a form that asked for my passport number, two passport photo's, he name of my mother and my father, and a letter confirming my place of residence. In a country of over a billion people, there was no possibility of anonymity in cyberspace.  I gathered the necessary documents together and returned to the shop. The clerk duly documented the information in a hand written ledger, activated the drive and handed me my connection to the outside world. I left the store feeling triumphant.

After dinner I knocked on Sridhar's door too ask him to help me set up the drive, as this was way beyond my technical know how. He invited me into the inner sanctum of his room, and I discovered that he had a desk, a chair and most enviable; a hot water geezer! I joked that he had the luxury suite, and he replied that “if you don't ask you don't get.” Here I was feeling noble about not complaining,the when the smarter course of action would have been to play the diva. As he fiddled with the laptop, I caught up on the local news and listened to the chill music that was streaming form his computer.

Once he had figured out that my laptop was reading the data from the Internet connection that I had borrowed from him the day before, he deleted the data and I was successfully plugged into the Internet I said good night to Sridhar, making a mental note to speak with Manus tomorrow about a room change. I am desperate to have a shower!

I settled into my own room and set about the task of sending out the diary entries for the past few days. I hadn't been in the room more than ten minutes, when I noticed a dark patch developing on the wall opposite where I sat. The patch shimmered with movement. Closer inspection revealed that a swarm of tiny flies had entered through the closed windows and draped themselves on the ceiling and walls, forming a canopy around the naked light bulb. I was horrified. Instinct told me to switch off the light, and turn on the light in the bathroom. I did this and in moments they had all migrated to this new source of illumination.

In the darkened room, I returned to completing my entries, battling with the few stubborn flies that refused to leave; hovering above the fingers of light that emitted from the keyboard. After a week with almost on insects in evidence, I was at a loss to know the cause of this particular invasion. They had descended like locusts and were another proof of the irrepressible and unpredictable nature of life here.

A Year in Provence

A year in Provence

Saturday, October 16^th

I decided to go down to the Ganges river and take a plunge. The shock of the cold as the water hit my body caused me to tremble. I literally felt as If an electric current had passed through me. It was exhilarating, and soon my body had adjusted to the temperature. My visit to the Ganga today is not without purpose. I have come to petition Mother Ganga to remove the woundedness that I carry deep within my soul. In this, I am guided by local mythology, which says that if you ask Mother Ganga, she will wash away your sins. And in return I offer her three flowers, so as to honor the natural flow of life's give and take.

I emerge from the water feeling revitalized. I do not know if the feeling of renewal is real or simply imagined; a residue of the rivers hypnotic current. Not caring, I cling to this feeling, as I make my solitary journey back. I am running late as usual, and I quicken my pace to arrive at the cafe where I will be meeting Musette for breakfast. I am the fastest thing moving on two legs, and I realize that I am still habituated the frenetic energy of New York. The relaxed pace of India, has not yet seeped into my bones.

I arrive at the cafe to find that Musette has already eaten her American styled breakfast of hash browns and eggs. She is happily sipping on a cup of coffee on the balcony of the restaurant which overlooks the river. It is a spectacular view. I order a glass of orange juice and we talk about her life in Denmark.

Seated under the hot morning sun, I am reminded of a similar scene in France. Just three short weeks ago, I was seated in a cafe in the port town of Ville Franche; sipping wine and eating a baguette. As life naturally seeks to imitate art, I sat contemplating living in France. “A Year in Provence” seemed idyllic. But, under the spell of India's naked beauty, here in Rishikesh, any such desire is all but extinguished. I now seek to while away my days sipping black chai, reading books and practicing yoga in a quest to discover the meaning of life. That sounds rather lofty. The truth of the matter is I like the rest of us want to live without having to earn my keep. I am plagued with flights of fancy.

After the second of the three daily meditations, I am feeling restless. Immediately lunch was finished, I inveigled Angelo to go off campus with me and walk into Laxman Julha. Angelo is what I can only describe as your typical beach bum. His highly bronzed skin, bleached blond hair and rippling muscles all confirm his tale of living on the beaches of Ibiza. He is a masseuse and he spends his summers working and living on the beach for six months. In the winter he migrates to the city of Madrid. And in keeping with the stereo type he boasts of spending the last ten years in an intimate relationship with marijuana.

He takes me to a tiny shop selling singing bowls and statues of Buddha. He is keen to purchase a singing bowl, as he uses them is his work. He is actually a very intelligent chap, with an extremely analytical mind. We spend an hour listening to the nosounds of the different bowls; at the end of which he decides to take them all. I am disappointed as I had hoped to buy one as well. I ask the shop owner if he has any more, and he sends his assistant off on a moped to bring back more bowls from the warehouse. In less than ten minutes the assistant is back with only two bowls. I select the larger one which seems to have the best resonance. The shop owner was quite anxious to finalize the sale as he needed cash to travel that night some 200km away and offered us a 30% discount.   We were surprised at the generosity of the shop keeper, and hastened to pay before he changed his mind. 

A sitar player was hired to play music for us for one hour after dinner. At 9:00pm a group of us filed into the meditation hall to listen to the live performance. We sat in near darkness, the only illumination coming into the room from the hallway light. The atmosphere was magical and I think we were all spell bound by the music. The sitar was at once woeful and plaintive; ecstatic and jubilant. I closed my eyes and let the music take me on a journey of longing, of love lost and found and of the sheer joy of living. The sitar player closed with a single note that hung in the air for two minutes. This I found the most beautiful.

I was intoxicated with the music of the sitar.  So it was only fitting, that this should be the last night of celebrations and I was once again serenaded by the chanting of prayer and song in the name of Lord Ram.

Celebrations and Bitter Herbs

 Celebrations and Bitter Herbs

Friday, October 15^th

Today it is the sadhu's birthday and Prema and I set off at 8:00am to surprise him with gifts that we had purchased. Two metal mugs, a pair of tongs (used to lift hot pots from the camping stove), a box of coconut and caramel sweets, cashews, almonds, apricots, raisins and bread. En-route we stopped at the German Bakery and purchased a coffee roll, sandwiches and powered milk for chai.

We arrived at his home on the river bank to find that he was not there. A woman who spoke no English received us and using sign language, indicated that he would soon return. She had placed all of his belong in the entryway and was busy cleaning the tiny hut.

Prema and I climbed down to the outcrop of rocks at the bottom of the stairs where we waited for hthe sadhu to come. He arrived within a very short time and we sat there on the rocks and ate our picnic of sandwiches. The Sadhu was extremely pleased to see us and had anticipated our visit. He was he said, making preparations to travel to a neighboring state that was the home of the woman visiting him.

She had traveled overnight by train to arrive in Rishikesh at 4:30am this morning. On arriving she went to Trivini Ghat on the banks of the river to bathe and then walked two hours to arrive at his home.

The Sadhu informed us that he had instructed this woman to arrange for a people in her community to pool their resources and sponsor a lunch, providing food for the poor and the disabled. He said that he watched with despair as people vainly worshiped idols and left offerings for the gods, whilst many starved. “Rather then feed the idols, feed the hungry and in them, witness god eating. We are all aspects of the divine and we must honor this in ourselves and others.” With these words, He had managed to galvanize the people of this town into action.

He spoke of his home town of Calcutta, and compared it to the densely populated cities of Tokyo and Shanghai which he had visited in his former life. I do not yet know his story, but he has promised to will share it with me one day. I am left wondering who is this man, who is so willing to suffer the austerities of renunciation, in his quest to know god. It is a concept that is largely alien to us in the West.

We moved our celebration to the hut where the sadhu prepared coffee for us in the shinny new mugs. We lit a candle and cut the cinnamon roll into four equal pieces to share amongst us. This was followed by the rich homemade sweets and I was left feeling slightly nauseous. I had eaten too many sweets. As we ate the sadhu told us the story of a very special type of deer in India that is born with a pouch in its navel. When it reaches maturity, the pouch releases a particular odor. Smelling this, the deer begins to search every where, trying to find the origin of this smell, not knowing that he is the source of it. The sadhu then liked this to our search for god. “We seek god everywhere outside of ourselves, failing to realize that the key to god lies within us.”

He is a man possessed of a great deal of wisdom that is delivered in the form of stories.  He also shared the following story. “ During the time of the second world war, Germany invaded Austria, then called Prussia. In an attempt to escape imprisonment, a magician had sought refuge at a convent, where he lived amongst the nuns. Each day he observed them laboring in service to God. Some composed music, others were translated the bible, and still others were wrote beautiful poems in reverence to God. He observed this and thought. These sisters are all doing work for God, but what can I do, I a lowly magician.

And so this being all that he could do, he decided to go to the vestry and perform magic for the Virgin Mary. Two days later the nuns noticed that he was missing and decided to look for him. They found him standing before the Virgin Mary performing magic and gasped when they saw that she was wiping the sweat from his brow. So immersed had he become in his devotion to the mother, that he had he had dissolved into nothingness, becoming one with her.”

This is the true quest of the sadhu, to become one with God. “Joy he said, knows nothing other than itself. “People waste their lives seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. Yet, each is a mirror image of the other. When the pleasure has ceased, then we know the pain of wanting. And pain must eventually be rewarded with pleasure.” His advice to us was to ”seek only joy, as it has neither beginning nor cessation.

We departed with the promise to visit again when he returned from his trip. I am simply astounded by the simplicity and austerity of his life. It is a path that demands absolute faith. He is completely reliant on the good will of others, and it comes in the form of food and clothing provided by those who regard him as a man of great wisdom. They petition him to pray for them in return for the small gifts that that offer.

There is inherent in this tradition, an understanding of reciprocity, that allows for men like the Sadhu to peruse the completely spiritual life. The community support them as it is understand that their probity, and commitment to prayer and meditation serves them all. It is the sort of symbiotic relationship that is so uniquely a part of India, and rarely modeled in the West.

Lunch today was a bitter brew. The vegetable that was served up resembled zucchini, but had the bitter taste of aloe Vera. I only discovered after I had eaten the first fork full. At first I thought to throw it away, but I decided to eat all. I did not want to be wasteful, and I saw in my desire to avoid the bitterness , a pattern that repeats itself in my life. In variably, I reject those experiences that I consider unpalatable, or too hard to digest and accept only those that I consider pleasurable. With the sadhu's words still ringing in my mind, I ate every bitter morsel of it.

My day had been filled with both the bitter the sweet. One I welcomed whilst the other I sought to avoid. Life is always delivering both the bitter and the sweet and I am learning to digest it all. Not to do so is to invite illness and discontentment. In many ways India is the perfect depiction of these contrasts.

Life can be harsh here, and extreme poverty is evidenced everywhere. Many of the impoverished are little more than indentured servants, trapped in a perpetual cycle of poverty and deprivation. I can no more seek to change this, than I can change the lives of those who continue to languish in homelessness, poverty, and despair, in New Orleans. Nearly five years after Katrina, people of the 9^th Ward remain displaced and disenfranchised.

The knot of time must inevitably un-ravel itself. Change comes of its own volition. I see this demonstrated in the Gulabi Gangs of India. Armies of women from the lowest caste (the Untouchables) who are demanding equal rights under the law and an education for their children. They march into local government offices, dressed in pink sari's brandishing bosh sticks, demanding protection against spousal abuse and improvements to the local amenities.

They are tearing down the pillars of tradition and oppression that have stood for millennium. Their story leaves me with a sense of hope.  But, for now I must embrace India wholly. Woven into her rich and ancient tapestry, is both the beautiful and the profane;to remove one thread, would be to tear a hole in her fabric. She is the mistress of spice. Purveyor of the sweet, the pungent, the salty, the spicy, the bitter and the sour.

Lord Ram

Lord Ram

Tuesday, October 12^th

India is if nothing else a country of festivals. And it seems that there are as many festivals as there are gods. We are just at the start of a nine day celebration of Lord Ram, the personification of all virtue. At the culmination of the celebration is a major celebration called Dashahara in which people are said to experience an awakening of the Kundalini energy.

So, it is completely ironic that I should be out walking with Angelo, another ashram cohort, and run into an acquaintance of his named Ram, whom he met here two years ago. He is a shop owner and was supervising the renovation of his store that was completely destroyed during the month long rains of September. The two recounted their last meeting, and this gave me time to take stock of this man with a rather imposing name. Tall and slender, he sported a long pony tail and a low cropped beard. He had an easy smile and exuded an air of quiet confidence. There was something very attractive about him that lay beyond his good looks.

Ram began to talking about his travels in Europe and shared the observation that there, everyone related from the head, whilst here in India, people communicate from the heart. In India, much of the communication he said happens telepathically, and on the level of feeling. What is conveyed in the etheric realms is just as tangible as the spoken word. I immediately began to wonder if he could read my thoughts or worse, interpret my body language and know that I was lusting after him.

The conversation became a blur, as I waited for an exit cue. I tugged at Angelo's sleeve reminding him that we had to be somewhere and hastened to say goodbye. With a hand to my chest and a slight nod of the head I gestured my farewell. I looked on as the two men shook hands and embraced, and felt a pang of jealously. It is not the custom here for men to embrace women in public. The most one can hope for is a shake of the hand. Taking Angelo by the arm I dragged him away, and made well my escape.

We made or way to currency exchange and then did some window shopping, before returning to the ashram. The whole time I was plagued with thoughts of this man. But knowing this to be a mere flight of fancy;I took refuge in the knowledge that with his charm and good looks he was accustomed to having women ogle him. 

Meditation this afternoon brought me to an even deeper level of stillness. However, I am still struggling to maintain a seated posture, cross legged on the floor. Supported by just two small pillows, I find that my knees cramp, and my feet go numb, and my hips pulse with pain. This sitting still, demands a quietening of the body as well as the mind. Today I follow the movement of my breath with single minded focus and again enter into an ocean of silence. My senses reach out, seeking the familiar clamor of mental chatter, but encounter only the ambient noise of the room.

There is a sense of falling, and I allow my self to float, adrift in the silence. The pain that still pulses through my body, no longer sits in the foreground and registers as a dull sensation. This has been my destination all along. At last I am letting go of my aversion to pain and discomfort. I am exploring my edge and making the discovery of what lies beyond sensation.

To my great relief there has been a marked improvement in the food. A variety of dishes are being served up that have not previously graced the table. Curry tofu, aloo mattar, lentil stew, pakora, rice pudding, and fresh fruit. And now there is salt and spice, adding flavor to the food. But, I have acquired a taste for chilli peppers, and they are a necessary compliment to my meal. Life on a whole is good and I really couldn't ask for more. I have reconciled with the absence of certain amenities; their absence is barely noticed. What I don't miss is the TV and radio. I am completely disconnected from events taking place in the world, and the world is doing just fine without me.

Another night of celebration as people sing and dance through the night. Restless, I attempted to write but the words eluded me. I gave up and lay on my bed contemplating how to get past this writers block. I am left wondering if my attempts to write a blog isn't just a big mistake. It is beginning to feel like work, as I try to find something interesting to write about. How to achieve this, when my days are punctuated by the monotony of routine. These are that thoughts that clutter my mind, as I drift off to sleep.

The Sadhu

Sunday, October 10

Today I did seva, by volunteering my services in the kitchen for two hours. This is quite a common practice at most ashrams and I felt duty bound to make a contribution. It was perhaps penance for yesterdays bad behavior. I worked along side Prema, who hails from Brazil, but has lived in India for more than fifteen years. She is a regular visitor here at the ashram and is keen to teach me the protocols.

We set to work cleaning the kitchen appliances and agreed to go out for coffee later in the afternoon. The benefit to working in the kitchen is that I could ask the cook, Chita how to prepare the dish I had eaten for breakfast as it was particularly good. Dalia ( pronounced Daleea) is a traditional Indian dish;it has the consistency of porridge, but is quite spicy and very filling. Following is the recipe:

Dalia

One cup millet

1/2cCup finely chopped vegetables

1 small onion finely chopped

1 chopped tomato

1 clove garlic

Chilli peppers ( optional)

Pour two cups of water over the millet in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Add ghee, salt, turmeric, mustard seeds and let simmer for ten minutes.

At the end of the two hours, I had scrubbed the kitchen walls and washed down the kitchen surfaces and it felt goods to be able to get to know the staff who work here more intimately. I met Prema at the front gate and we set off on foot for the German Bakery Cafe in town. It is one of the central tourist hubs and Prema's favorite place to go man hunting. The key she said is to venture there alone, and sit quietly sipping tea, signaling that you are alone and wait for some one to take bait. There are so many thing yet to learn on the road to Nirvana.

We each ordered apple pie and I had to chisel through a large wedge that could easily have served for two. Prema made a quick scan of the cafe and not spotting any potentials, turned to give me her undivided attention. She shared with me the story of her here in India and was keen to impart all the do's and dont's of living here. She lives a very interesting life, as she is constantly traveling and seems to move on to a new place every few months, as her spirit leads. She has the kind of carefree spirit that demonstrates complete trust in the universe. I find this quality enviable, as I have never experienced that level of freedom.

We saunter over the bridge and walk through the market, where Prema stops to purchase fruit for a friend. She is taking me to visit a sadhu that she has befriended. The sadhu are men who have renounced everything to devote themselves to a completely spiritual path, in the hope of achieving enlightenment. Her friend has lived in a cave above the beach for the past four years and she makes it her duty to visit him regularly when she is in the area.

Rishikesh is nestled in the foot hills of the Himalayan mountains, and as we exit the market, the climb becomes steeper. However, it is not long before Prema points to a small hut on an out crop of rocks, half way down the bank of eh river. I follow her as she clamber down toward the tiny structure. A man seated on the steps of the small brick structure stands to wave a greeting. He quite tall and looks rather distinguished, with a silvery gray beard that is well groomed and short cropped hair. He has a handsome face and intelligent eyes, framed by a pair of steel rimmed glasses. But for his bare feet and naked chest, he could easily have passed for a college professor. His only clothing is a lapa of orange cloth tied at the waist. He greeted Prema warmly, embracing her like a long lost cousin, as he escorted us into his tiny little hut.

In his voice I detected a distinctly British accent, that suggested in his earlier life, he had likely been educated abroad. He held himself with a quiet self assurance that did not match with his meager existence. The hut contained a small metal cot, a camping stove and a few pieces of crockery. These, a blanket and a few changes of clothes, were all that he possessed. Immediately as we entered, Prema did her inspection of the walls. There had been heavy rain fall through out the month of September, and the walls which she had had painted last year, were now damp and peeling.

The sadhu whose name fails me at the moment, suffers from inflammation of the joints and Prema has real concern for his welfare. She pressed a package of pain killers and lineament into his hands and admonished him to use them. He nodded in agreement, and set about preparing coffee for us. The water he used was stored in a small stainless steel pail that he kept covered with a metal tray. I was unsure about the safety of it, but at worst I would end up with a bad case of dysentery.

After a brief introduction, he and Prema exchanged stories bringing each other up to date and I simply listened . The sadhu informed me that he felt a deep connection to Prema, as she had embraced “the very nerve of India.” The ability to live a life of meditation and to walk the spiritual path with unquestioning faith. In his view they were on similar paths and he regarded her very highly.

He was pleased to have guests and I sensed a deep loneliness in him. I asked him why he had chosen this path of austerity. He didn't answer me, instead, he invited me to come back and visit him. We were running late for evening prayers and had to say our goodbyes. Reluctant to let us go, he only did so after Prema had promised to visit again soon.

Once we had made our way back up the bank, Prema confirmed that he had been a business man before he renounced everything. But she wouldn't share anything more, leaving it for him to tell me himself. I have made a mental list of the things he needs and will buy them when next I go into the main town of Rishikesh. It is by the good will others that the sadhu survive, as they have no no source of income have little or no possessions. Even the huts in which they live are a temporary domicile and many simply roam from place to place begging alms. It is a harsh existence.

After dinner, I spent the few hours left before lights out at 10:00pm, chatting with Sunil and Chandra. It was another sleepless night in Seattle and I was too frustrated to even bother to write. Instead, I lay in bed cursing the barking dogs, and wrestling with myself, until I fell asleep through sheer exhaustion.

Routine

Departre

Monday, October 11^th

This morning I learned that Baba had left for another state earlier in the day. He had to attend the funeral for one of the principals at the ashram school. Disappointment hung in the air, as we all realized it was unlikely that he would return. With his departure, something in the atmosphere had diminished. His presence is larger than life, and when he enters a room it is as if he tears a hole through the veil of the etheric, creating a portal to the unknown. And we who are aspirants on the path of self realization, move towards the flame of his aura like moths to a candle.

We fly so close that we risk searing our wings, if only to gain a deeper understanding of ourselves. And so it is, that I am experiencing an even deeper sense of loss, as I do not know how I will traverse the gnawing emptiness that fills me without the illumination of his incredible wisdom. David, who is a resident here, informed me that he waited here in Rishikesh for two months so that he might meet Swami Shankarananda (Baba). Such is the magnetism of this man.

The Guru undergoes years of discipline, self sacrifice and austerity, in order to gain mastery over the self. And to come to know himself as one with God. He is able to move between the veil of the manifest and the un-manifest and is imbued with a profound wisdom. This the result of an un-individuated relationship with God. His is a world filled with deep mysticism, the substance of which I can only seek to grasp with my intellect. And so in homage to my teacher I write this poem.

Ten Thousand Hours Times Ten

Ten thousand hours times ten

have you committed to chanting a litany of prayers

Till you fell down exalted

Ten thousand hours times ten

have you known the ravages of hunger

Ten thousand hours times ten

have you known the torment of suffering

Ten thousand hours times ten

Have you battled with the demons of the mind

Ten thousand hours times ten

have you extolled the name of god

Ten thousand hours times ten

Have you sat in meditation

to distill the essence of your being

Ten thousand hours times ten

That you might pass through the eye of the needle

I spent the evening in the company of Chandra and Sunil. After dinner we sat outside in the cool night air talking about life in India. Chandra informed me that yoga is offered free in the parks of Delhi and that the concept of paying for yoga is a relatively new one; largely arising from the growing tourist industry. Years ago you would have seen scores of people in the park practicing yoga, but now few if any even bother to show up for the government sponsored classes. People are losing interest and moving away from the practice, even as we from the West flock to it. She fears that the growing commercialism will irrevocably alter life in India, as more and more people abandon the traditions.

Chandra is definitely the talker of the two, and Sunil usually sits quietly on the sideline, happy just to listen. She shared an old Indian proverb that says, if you give one paisa (thousandth) of a rupee, then you will get it back ten thousand fold. And so people are happy to give alms to the nomadic Sadhu as they believe that they will be rewarded.

I am learning so much more about India through my conversations with Chandra and Sunil, and we are developing a friendship. I have promised to look them up when I travel to Delhi en route home, at the end of my trip. They are both very interested in knowing my story and we spend the remainder of the night speaking of my life in America.

I am feeling more rooted here now and sleep comes more readily. But, just to test my resilience, the gods have divined a nine day festival in honor of the Lord Ram. Festivities begin at 11:00pm each night and go on well into the night. I am serenaded by the rhythmic beat of the drums as voices are raised in chant. And I simply allow it to wash over me, as I fall into a peaceful slumber.

Playing Hookie

Saturday, October 9^th

It is 2:00am in the morning and I have given up on any attempts to sleep. Insomnia, the thief of sleep torments me, and though I am in hot pursuit of it, sleep continues to elude me. Companioned by the howling of a stray dog, the sleepless night holds no comfort for me. His loud barks are met by silence, and in the pregnant stillness, I imagine he is listening for an answering call. We are both haunted by restlessness, and our wanting fills the the vacuum of darkness.

I have found refuge from the monotony of waiting for days first light to pierce the envelope of night, in these pages. It is proving to be a good time to catch up on my diary entries, as my days are are swallowed up. Time here has the quality of timelessness and yet moves as swiftly as the wind. I will need to start capturing images of Rishikesh, and of new friends, as some of them will be moving on in the next day or two. This said, I cannot promise that I will be able to add them to these pages, as it is a technical hurdle I am yet to surmount, but I will try.

I hear the first sputtering of life, as a rickshaw chugs past with the familiar choke of its exhaust. It is 4:30am and people are beginning to stir. This signals that it is time to get showered and dressed for 5:30am meditation. And so begins another day.

My teacher, fondly referred to as Baba, is an unassuming man. Of average height, his face is framed with a long grey beard and long grey hair that has receded. He is in his early sixties and has developed the rotundness that often accompanies middle age. It is his eyes that are most striking. Eyes that see what we do not yet perceive within ourselves. Dressed in the traditional saffron orange robes of a sage, he moves quietly in our midst. At once present and yet aloof form the daily routine of the Ashram.

The demands on his time seem greater now than three years ago when we first met, and the casual debates that used to take place spontaneously, now fall within the stricture of scheduled appointments. Eager to spend time with him, I manage to place my name on the top of the list. This however, is not a guarantee that I will get to have an audience with him.

This morning as with every day, Baba enters the meditation hall shortly after we have all assembled. His movements are slow and graceful. I watch as he stoops to brush the entry steps with his fingers and bow his head in homage. And in that small gesture, I witnessed an all consuming devotion god that articulated itself in every ounce of his being. It struck a chord within me and I found myself wanting to know this brand of love, that can only arise out of a complete surrender.

As we enter into the silence of meditation , I remember witnessing a similar gesture of devotion at the Golden Temple, in Amritsar. Climbing the many steps within the temple, to arrive at the main prayer hall, I saw a man on his hands and knees slowly making his way back down to the entrance. At first I had thought he was cleaning, but them I noticed that he was in fact brushing each step with the palms of his hands, as though gathering up the blessings held in the very bricks. This he did at each step, as he slowly descended the stairwell. His hands moved across each step with a reverence that was almost sensual, and my curious gaze felt like a rude intrusion. I had been witness to something profoundly intimate.

And again, recently in Rome when I visited Vatican City, as I stood on the piazza leading to St. Peters Basilica, it struck me that it was our footsteps that paid homage in this sacred city. By the hundreds of thousands we came and even as we reached for our cameras to capture digital images of this magnificent medieval edifice that is an hourglass of time; the souls of our feet brushed the cobblestones till they glistened like polished stone under the afternoon sun. And It was the souls of our feet that whispered our prayers and made silent offerings.

These observations make my own attempts at finding stillness and any semblance of devotion, mere empty gestures. And I began to experience a longing for something that remained outside of my reach. An emptiness that gnawed at me, as I tried to enter more deeply into the meditation. Two hours later I emerged from the hall feeling defeated. Back in In my room, hoping for sleep,  I collapse onto the bed fully clothed and hugging the stone like pillow, I am asleep within minutes. Several hours later, I am wide awake and ready for what ever the day holds for me.

After lunch I head into Laxman Jhula accompanied by Michael and Unolv, who are also staying at the ashram. They both know the area better than I, and are keen to show me some of the tourist haunts that they know. We stop for coffee before they head back to the ashram. Bored with the litany of routine, I linger on in town. Eventually, it is time to return and I decide to take the short cut back. On the way, one of the store owners calls to me and invites me to join him for chai. At first I am a little suspicious, and try to put him off by saying I am allergic to milk and can only drink black chai, which by the way is a rarity here. Not put off, he happily escorts me to the adjacent cafe and places the order.

The black Chai is unexpectedly good. It has been sweetened with sugar and a twist of lime juice has been added. For some inexplicable reason, it reminds me of the sweet mint tea that I had favored when in Morocco several years ago. Ravi, my new friend, it turns out is not the owner of the store, but the shop manager. He tells me his employers are based in Delhi and that he frequently travels to Europe on business for the company. He shared the story of how scared he was when he took his very first flight. Terrified that the plane would fall from the sky, he had prayed from the moment of take off till landing when he knew he was safely on the ground. And his greatest pet peeve is that you have to pay for the public toilets in Europe. He is plagued by the cold weather, and finds that he has to urinate frequently, which means a significant amount of his allowance is spent on going to the loo.

He considers himself to be a people person and is keen to make new friends. Rain began to fall quite heavily, as we sipped chai and talked and I was happy for the distraction. I soon warmed to him, and it was an hour later before I realized the time. The rain had stopped and so I hastily said goodbye, with the promise to visit again soon. Just steps from the front gates, I ran into Sunil and Chanda. They had decided to forgo the evening program, and were headed down to the river for Arti. Invited, I had no choice but to say yes. Sunil took charge of negotiating the fare with the rickshaw driver, and we were speeding away from the ashram, headed toward the river.

Arti is the most beautiful fire ceremony carried out daily in temples throughout India. It is the sending up prayers and petitioning of the gods for blessings. We joined the throngs of people who had already gathered on the riverbank to watch the spectacle. Temple disciples resplendent in golden yellow robes, adorned with green sashes, led the crown in chanting the prayers. And as the energy built up, I found myself clapping and singing along, wholeheartedly. At the close of the ceremony, the three of us went to sit at the feet of the host Guru who was offering Sat sang (usually takes the form of a Q&A on the meaning of life). No way I was missing out on that!

We made our way back to the ashram just in time to have a late dinner . The meal was the usual rice and dahl with vegetables that is served up twice a day, but I had had a brilliant day and nothing could dampen my spirits. Tired, I flopped into bed and was able to sink into the welcoming arms of a dreamless sleep.

Ashnram Life

 

Friday, October 8^th

I did not sleep well last night partly because I found the bed to be incredibly uncomfortable. It is a simple wooden box frame with a shallow recess, that houses a 2 inch deep mattress. The pillow is long and narrow cushion, and frankly felt like a stone under my head. The room as I have discovered is more like a monastic cell and offers little comfort for the spoiled and pampered. There is no desk or chair in the room and so I have transformed the second bed into my apothecary(as it is stacked with my supplements and anti- dysentery medicines; my pantry for fruit and snacks; my desk as the only electrical socket in the room is mounted on the wall above the bed.

The bathroom has an open shower with the drain imbedded in the marble floor, however there is no hot water on tap. I am told that I can brave the clod water or opt for an “Indian Bath”. For this I have to fill a 5 gallon bucket full of water and then immerse a heating rod into the bucket that hooks onto the rim. Then simply wait ten minutes for the water to heat up. These rods are as I discovered super efficient. On my first venture, I thought I would leave the rod in a little longer, to insure that the water was well and truly hot, and I damn near scalded my hand.

Life here is already throwing up challenges, but I am adaptable. And an afternoon of venting with Musette who is from Denmark, was sufficient for me to get over my need to have certain creature comforts. The day begins at 5:30am with the morning meditation. One of the temple disciples sounds the horn; made of a large conch shell, three times to call everyone to prayer. Blurry eyed and craving sleep, we all file in to the meditation hall.  Most of the residents are Westerners, but there are several visitors native to Delhi, who have come to be initiated into the meditation practice. In all we are a group about thirty.

The meditation opens with prayers and it is some two hors later before we emerge, to make our way to the dining hall for breakfast. We then have two hours of free time before commencing another two hour session of meditation. I headed for my room and blessedly was able to sleep. I am hoping that this insomnia does not become a pattern whilst I am here. 

The second meditation session is long and arduous. Seated crossed legged on the floor; it is no time before my back is screaming and my knees are aching with pain. My mind is focused on my discomfort and I cannot concentrate on channeling the breath along the spine. This is the moment when I begin to wonder what I am doing here. I feel unprepared for the long hours of sitting in meditation that lie ahead.

Lunch is a welcome relief and after shoveling down the rather tasteless fare, Musett and I make our way into Laxman Julha to explore the shops and the many temples. The streets were crowded with people, and we had to walk on the very edge of the road, as there are no pavements to defend against the rickshaws, motor bikes trucks and cars that speed by. The streets are familiar, as I remember many of the shops and even the taxi stand from my previous stay here. We meander in and out of shops pricing items that we want to purchase, savvy enough to know that you never buy the first thing you see.

We crossed the suspension bridge that took us to the opposite bank of the river Ganges. The bridge is narrow and is restricted to pedestrians. However, this does not stop motorcyclist from using the bridge as a short cut. Forcing those of us on foot to press our bodies onto the supporting rail to make way for them, as they attempt to speed along a path that is too narrow for all of us. But, is the cows that win the day. Held as sacred, the cows roam the streets at will. And so it was not surprising when on our return journey, Musett and I found our path blocked by a cow who had decided to sit in the middle of the bridge. She sat with her legs folded beneath her; her dark brown skin glistening under the sun. Regal is not a word that I generally associate with cows, but as she cast a look at us mere mortals, with a lazy glance over her shoulder she was the embodiment of grace. We quickly sidled past her and I decided that living life as a “Fat Cow” wasn't so bad after all. 

The two of us, Musette short and white, me tall and black, made for a rather odd pair and so we attracted a lot of attention. However, we both noticed that eyes tended to linger on me, as people with my hue, are less commonly seen here; but there was not hostility behind their curious glances.   And most smiled shyly when our eyes met. We returned to the Ashram just in time for the daily Hatha Yoga practice, which would lead straight into the evening meditation.  

There is a rhythm to life at the ashram and for me it is punctuated by meal times. As we entered the third and final meditation of the day, all I could think about was the meal to follow, albeit that it would be the same bland fare of yesterday. So much for my search for meaning. For now I am content settle for a plate of Dhal and rice.

The Road to Rishikesh

October 6th

I didn't sleep at all last night as I was both running on adrenaline and anxious that I would oversleep as I had not slept the night before. Instead I spent the time reading and composing my first diary entry. By 6:am I was showered and dressed and awaiting a taxi to take me to the airport where I would meet with the group who were also attending the meditation program in Rishikesh.

Over night the number of bugs that littered the floor of my room and that now lay scattered throughout the lobby had trebled. They were so numerous that you could not navigate a clear path, and I wondered who had the thankless job of sweeping up the aftermath of last nights invasion. Needless to say I was glad that my stay here had been limited to a mere few hours.

Seated in the narrow lobby that had appeared significantly larger in the photograph, I noticed the prone figure of a man lying on the floor of the adjacent room. On closer inspection, I saw that the man, fully clothed in a blue shirt and dark blue slacks was in fact asleep. Only a thin white sheet and a pillow separated him from the cold marble floor of what was the kitchen. I realized that it is a reality for many people here in India, who live and work in the same place and often have only one suit of clothing. It was sobering, and all my earlier judgements about the shabbiness of the hotel now seemed irrelevant.

The taxi arrived and we speed along the still empty roads as Delhi was only just beginning to stir. The morning sun sat like a ball of orange flames in a sky cloaked with fog and smoke. I could smell the acrid scent of burning wood in the air that I associate with Delhi. By day the towering buildings of glass and chrome seemed incongruent with the unpaved roads and crumbling pavements that were the viaduct to them. It was not until we were within the grounds of the airport that these gave way to manicured lawns and neat beds of trees and shrubs that are a triumph against the rot and decay.

It is as if India, irreverent to the gods of modernity, is resistant to the wave of change that is rapidly transforming the country, even as she stubbornly clings to the chaos of the past.

I met the group members in the arrivals hall and after a few brief introductions the twelve of us clambered into the waiting SUV's and began our eight hour journey to Rishikesh. Our destination, the ashram of my teacher, Swami Sankarananda Giri, who initiated me into the practice of Kryia Yoga meditation three years ago when I first visited India.

Of my teacher, I can only say that he is a very remarkable and magnanimous man who made a lasting and profound impression upon me; sufficient to compel me to be initiated into a practice of which I knew nothing at the time. This, despite that fact that I believed anyone going to india in search of a Guru, was at worst a cliché and at best slightly self deluded. I am still trying to figure out which of these I am.

We were underway and soon joined the now congested highway that would lead us out of Delhi. The constant sounding of horns emitting from bicycles, rickshaws, motor bikes, cars, trucks and even the lowly Water Buffalo; as each vied for position on the road. It was amazing to see two wheeled flatbed carts piled high with bulging sacks of grain, harnessed by thick ropes. The bulging sacks resembled overfull udders that spilled over the side of the cart. The oxen strained under the burden of the weight and had to be encouraged with the occasional thwack from a small bam boo rod. 

The trucks were also piled high with goods, and so lumbered along precariously. It was not uncommon to see trucks at the side of the road with a flat tire or half of their load scattered in a heap on the ground. The worst offenders were the motorized rickshaws that achieved a maximum speed of 40km per hour.   There were hundreds of these small green and yellow vehicles that fanned out like an army of ants. The road belonged to them, and they stopped anywhere they could to pick up a fare. I noticed that one of them had painted on it's back panel the name KutKut Autos and I immediately renamed it “PtuPut “ as all it could do was putter along, clogging up the roads. And so the constant noise of horns beeping are less a sign of aggression and more an invitation to “get out of the way”!

Once out of the city limits the through fare narrowed to two lanes and the surface of the road was less even. In fact there were many areas where the asphalt has eaten away all together and cars had to drive over the chipped rocks that were the foundation for the road. To avoid these long stretches of rocky surfaces, it was pretty common for drivers to mount the dividers or slip through an opening, to join the oncoming traffic lane, temporarily narrowing our side of the road to one lane. Everyone took this in their stride and simply waited for the opportunity to retake the lane and accelerate toward their destination.

Therefore, a journey may take 6 hours or it may take eight depending upon what you encounter on the road. The long journey gave me an opportunity to catch up on some much needed sleep, and soon I was oblivious to it all . We stopped for lunch at a small resort and the food was surprisingly good. Little did I know that this would be the best meal I would have for the next two weeks. Once we had eaten we were on our way again. Far from the metropolis of Delhi, the road had now narrowed to one lane in either direction. We passed through many small towns and I noticed that there were new “luxury” housing complexes being constructed every where. Even here in the remote countryside, India shows signs of succumbing to the current of change. And though she is this incredible meld of ancient and modern that wonderfully coexists, I fear that many of the cultural traditions that underpin her complexity will eventually be lost. Reduced to mere anachronisms, in this new landscape of econimic growth.

On arrival at the Ashram we were all relieved to pile out of the cars and stretch our legs. I was shown to my room which is very spartan, but clean and has an en suite bathroom. Thank god for that! I quickly unpack and head to the dining room for dinner. The meal comprised of dhal and rice and vegetables was unexciting, as all foods here are prepared with out salt. I am a little disappointed as I love spicy food, and will have to resort to the hot chili peppers that are on offer, to add flavor. 

And so begins my life in an Ashram.

Day Two

Tuesday, October 5^th,
Today I depart London for Delhi, India to begin a three month oddesy. I boarded the plane and was pleased to discover that I had been assigned an exit seat and had leg room to rival even that of first class.   I settled in for what would be a comfortable journey. The passenger seated next to me was a young man from Cardiff, visiting family and friends in Delhi. We chatted animatedly through much of the flight about life, food and movies, and I promised to let him know how I spent my three months sojourn.

The new arrivals hall in terminal three was certainly more spectacular than I had anticipated, and is a dramatic contrast with the arrivals lounge of three years ago. The long carpeted corridors lined with travellators.  I could almost believe I had arrived at Heathrow, except that the dull brown and yellow carpets were a give away.  The seemingly endless rows of immigration desks made processing through customs quick and efficient.  The delay came with the long wait for my baggage to appear on the carousel, and so it was an hour and a half after landing, before I pushed my overburdened cart out to the curbside to meet my driver.

Three years ago I had been dazed by the sheer number of people who populated the arrivals hall which was considerably smaller than it is today.  Teeming with hundreds if not thousands of people jostling to be reunited with love ones, whilst anxious tourists strained to peer over the sea of heads, to catch a glimpse of their driver. Only to then encounter a maze of white taxis, parked haphazardly on the open lot . I recall being in of awe my driver as he navigated his way through this labyrinth of white metal and chrome. 

In stark contrast, today I very quickly spotted my driver, who directed me along a gleaming white marble corridor to the multi story parking lot where he was parked.  It was all very orderly and soon we were speeding along the highway toward my hotel. The highway was lined with hugh towering buildings that glistened, under the night sky. Aircel, Mercedes Benz, Ernst and Young, Standard Chartered, and Samsung, were some of the giants that boldly proclaimed their presence.

As soon as we had joined the main highway, I was greeted by the all too familiar bleating of car horns, as cars weaved in and out of lanes in an attempt to get a head of the the lorries. At 1:10am in the morning, the truck drivers ruled the road. Once we had entered the district of Gargoan, the road became an uneven dirt track; the only signs of life, the stray dogs sleeping on the side of the road and the wild pigs, half hartedly foraging for food.

We arrived outside of my hotel and I knew immediately that it would not live up to the glossy, airbrushed images it boasted on its website.  I signed in at the register and gratefully accepted my room key.  I was relieved to discover that though the room though stark and very basic, was at least clean. I would only be spending a few hours here before meeting up with a group and traveling by road to Rishikesh.

There was something both familiar and oddly comforting about my surroundings.  Somehow, it confirmed for me that I now in India, and at the start of an amazing and unpredictable adventure.