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.
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