The Pyre of Yesterday - A Diary

As I embark on this my second trip to India, I have decided to keep a diary of my travels. The words that I record here are my attempt to capture the essence of each day before it is reduced to ash on the pyre of yesterday. And so I gather what remains illuminated in the dying embers, before it becomes mere dust. Sifting through hot ash with my bare hands, I bring forth what may come.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

The American

 Thursday, November 17th

I arrive at the domestic terminal of Delhi International airport at 3:0am. I have 6 hours before my flight. Fortunately, I spot that the coffee shop is open.  The ticket counter is teaming with activity and I join the queue, hopeful that I can check my luggage this many hours in advance of the flight. The ticket clerk indicated that I should place my suitcases on the scale and then informed me that I was 28 kilos over weight, this was a domestic flight after all.  The excess fee was three thousand rupees  (approximately $70.00).  I argued that I was an international traveler, and that this was within the weight allowance I was permitted to bring into the country. He looked at me knowingly and said you're from America, aren't you. Only Americans travel with this much luggage. I had nothing to say in my defense.  I handed him the money, cursing the fact that I was lumbered with so much unnecessary stuff.   He looked at me sympathetically, and without saying a word, he handed me back five hundred rupees.  I decided then and there, that by the time I leave Pune, I will have one suitcase less!

The flight was uneventful and within minutes of landing, I had my suitcases loaded onto a trolly.  All I had to do now was call Premal's friend to let him know I was enroute, so that he could meet me with the key.  I reached into my bag to retrieve the cell phone Premal had entrusted to me, to deliver to a friend, on my departure from Pune, and the phone was dead. I had forgotten to charge it.   Exasperated, I located the public phone booth outside.  A small glass cubicle had two of the largest telephones I have seen; appropriately bright red, which sat on a shelf that extended out from the service the service window.  When I finally got the attendants attention, she indicated that I should simply pick up the phone and dial the number.  The moment the line was engaged the meter started counting down in seconds. The call cost 5 rupee.   The owner of the apartment, was already at home waiting for me.

 I approached a crowd of taxi drivers and was immediately accosted by a man in a brown uniform.  He quoted the fare,  and although I thought it  little on the cheap side, I agreed. He elbowed the pressing crowd of drivers out of his path, and hustled me cross the expanse of parking toward to the exit, where I was told to wait.  I thought it odd, and didn't make sense of his directions till he arrived in a brown and beige colored rickshaw. Now the uniform made sense.  He wressetled with the suitcses until he had rammed them into the carriage of the vehicle, leaving me to clambered into what remained of the seat.   As soon as we entered the main throughfare we were, immediately engulfed by scores of motorbikes.  They moved like a great army of black beetles, swallowing up the surface of the road.  In Pune, the motorbike is king!

We arrived outside the apartment complex with out incident to be greeted by Premal's friend.  I quickly settled into my room, and he established house rules and provided me with pertinent information about amenities in the immediate vicinity.  The other tenant arrived, and I was invited to join them for lunch.  This however would be the exception, as I was expected thereafter to find my meals outside.  Access to the kitchen was limited to preparing breakfast in the morning and a light snack in the evening.  I was happy with the arrangement, as this was more luxury than I had been afford the ashram.

After lunch Sasha walked me over to the Osho meditation center, where I registered and signed up for the welcome session scheduled for 9:30am tomorrow morning.  Once I had completed the paper work, I was taken to the on site shop to purchase the requisite red and white gowns that are mandatory, and must be worn by everyone barring the maintenance team.  It was a bit surreal, but I was here for the meditation program, and so had to comply. Dressed in my red gown, felt a bit like the first day at school. The grounds are large and impressive and it will take me time a day or two to get my bearings.  The Resort, also boasts a large swimming pool, tennis courts and a sauna.

I venture around on my own to get the feel of the place before heading back to the apartment.  On the way I stop to have dinner at a restaurant just two blocks way. This will likely be one of my regular haunts, as there are only three decent restaurants to select from.  Koregon Park, is not exactly the center of town and I have yet to discover if this is a good or a bad thing. Pune like its denizens, seems moody and pensive; a city aspiring to a goal that is forever outside of its grasp.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Flight

 Sunday, November 14th

I purchased my ticket to Pune. I fly from Delhi on Thursday morning.  I had hoped travel to Delhi on the overnight sleeper train, but it was fully booked. It is customary to book train tickets a week to ten days in advance if you have any hope of securing an AC car.  I book a taxi instead. The car will pick me up on Wednesday night and deposit me at the airport in plenty of time for my 9:00am flight the following day.  Over the next couple of days I washed all of my dirty clothes and cleaned the room that had been my home for the past six weeks.  It was time to move on, and I was more than ready to embark on the next adventure. I say this facetiously off course, as meditating can hardly be construed as high octane sport. But there is always a story contained within every experience.

The next couple of days pass in a blur of activity.  I spend Tuesday morning with my very special friend Amodini, whom I have not spoken about before now. I met her right at the start of my stay here, when Angelo told me he had met the most remarkable astrologist and impressed upon me that I should go. I did and we immediately struck up a friendship. The astrological reading itself took approximately eight hours.Yes, it was a veritable marathon. In that time Amodii, who is herself, a vast tome of knowledge, pretty much read my life inside out and beyond. Of this experience all I can say is that I will tell you this story and share her predictions at some later date.  I visit her apartment for her special tea; a wonderfully alchemical blend of fresh basil, cardamon, clove, and an infusion of mint. Not surprisingly, the visit extends into lunch and I leave armed with the names of places I can visit both in Pune and when I travel further South.

In the evening I meet up with my friends for a farewell dinner at Muksha cafe which serves great   Korean food.  There are seven of us at the gathering, and several of us will be moving on with in the next couple of days.  I exchange email addresses with Maya and Hari. Aya, I will meet again in Tiruvannamali, where we will both be attending a ten day silent retreat with Mooji in December.   Hari, and Yog have been so more than magnanimous with their time these past there weeks and have asked for nothing in return.  So, as a parting gesture I pick up the tab for every ones meal.

Wednesday, November 17th, this is my final day in Rishikesh, and though I am sad to be leaving friends I glad to finally be in motion.  My suitcase is packed and I have nothing to do the the next four hours till the car arrives. I head over to Maya's and we go out for a final meal. Maya has given me her contact details and told me that if should need anything, a wire transfer (should I lose my purse again), information, advise, support, anything at all, to give a shout out...

Its 9:00pm and I am on the road to Delhi!


P.S

At this point I am sure that at least half of my audience has fallen into the abyss of boredom, or have simply tired of logging on and finding no new entries. Those who may yet read these pages, please accept my abject apologies. This project really began as a way to compel me to write. Those who know me well know that for years I have claimed to be a writer, however, till now there has been no evidentiary material to corroborate this fact. 

So write I must!!

More Goodbyes

 Saturday, November 13th

I bumped into Chidananda earlier in the week and I let him know that I would be coming by to visit him today.  I had already decided two weeks ago what to buy him as a parting gift. I recalled at our first meeting he spoke about wanting a solar lamp so that he could read at night and I had found en electrical shop that carried them. It occasioned two trips to Rishikesh  to buy it as initially I went on market day and the shop was closed.  The lamp cost just under forty dollars and I also purchased the usual sweets and fruit to offer to Kali; the deity he prayed to.  I arrived at his hut to find him anxiously awaiting me.  He had been expecting me for more than half an hour, and I had to explain that I was delayed in town making my purchases.

Once we were seated and he had lit the gas stove, to prepare hot black coffee, I presented him with his gifts.  To say that he was overwhelmed is an understatement, he really had not anticipated receiving the lamp and he kept mumbling about the cost.  I assured him that it was a gift from the heart and that he did not have to prepare me a special meal in return.

The coffee was strong and sweet, the way I like.   After giving him details of my planned departure, he finally got round to telling me his story.  He had been born into a relatively poor family. His parents had ensured that he and his three siblings attended school, however his fathers salary as a pharmacist dispensing drugs at the government hospital, could barely meet the expense of supporting a family. This meant that he would often go with out food for as many as three to four days at a time.   What he remembers most distinctly about this time, is that when the other children returned to school from home after eating lunch, he could smell their hands. Their hands still carried the scent of food. There is pain in his eyes as he recounts this. It was a dark time in his life and he still carries the wounds.

Perhaps this is what molded him to be a very determined student.  On completing his exams he immediately at eighteen, he went directly to the office of a large manufacturing firm and demanded that the manager give him a job as a trainee manager. So impressed was the manager by his forthrightness and unflinching determination, that he hired him , despite his youth.   This marked the beginning of his career as a corporate manager, and for many years he enjoyed a success that far exceeded his parents expectations. He lived a very comfortable life, and wanted for nothing, yet there remained a vacuum in the center of his life that he just could not fill.  After a long tenure as a corporate manager, one day he simply quit. The spiritual path was calling him and he could no longer ignore the unrest in his soul.

Chidananda, has no regrets about his decision. He has a greater peace now that he ever knew in his former life and he believes that all of his needs will continually be met by the "Mother".   Two hours had lapsed, it was time for me to go.  I said goodbye, promising to look him up the next time I am in Rishikesh.  He was reluctant to let me go. The grip of loneliness was evident; I reconciled myself with the knowledge that this life of isolation is one of choice.

In the afternoon, on my way to Sanskrit class a young man on a motorcycle offer me a ride. On a whim I accepted and climbed onto the bike.   I didn't have far to go before long we were traversing the footbridge leading to Ram Julha where my class is held.  He introduced himself and informed me that If I ever needed a ride I should contact him. He scrawled his name and number onto the back page of my not book and then disappeared in the dense crowd of pedestrians.  He couldn't have been more then twenty three years old.  My suitors are getting younger by the day.  The really shocking thing was that I got on the bike at all, as I have always held an irrational fear of motorbikes.  Perhaps due to the fact that my father used to take me out on his bike when I was about four or five years old;I must be holding some unconscious negative association from that time.  I wasn't exactly traveling at warp speed along the highway, but I feel I conquered my fear, at least in part.

Farewell

 Friday, November 12th

Immediately after breakfast the taxi arrived that would be transporting Premal to Delhi.  I went out to see her off and reassert my promise to stay in touch.  it was another parting and this made me a little sad, but I did not allow myself to linger in morbidity.  I had my own trip to plan for and I had a lot to do before I set off next week.  This morning will be the last meeting of the workshop group.  I arrive and without preamble, we get straight into the session.  No tea and chatter this morning.    At the end of the session Harri calls me int the other room, as he intends to complete the treatment that he started last week. I know that it will be excruciatingly painful, and I brace myself.

Hari is not gentle, and he kneads and prods my left calf until I am again screaming in pain.  When it is over, he allows me to rest while he makes tea. We are alone in the apartment as everyone else has gone.  This gives us the opportunity to have another long talk.  We share our uncertainties about the future and I ask him if he thinks he will ever give up celibacy and marry one day.  The future is uncertain he says, and he cannot predict what he will not do.  He can only take charge of today, and do what is before him to do.  Answers are never simple with Hari.

When the throbbing in my leg has abated, I give Hari a hug of thanks and head back to the ashram to rest.   Although I am in pain, my legs feel surprising weightless.  I happily crash onto my bed and sleep. Maya is hosting a dance party on her roof tonight and I intend to be there.  I meet up with Hari and we are the first to arrive.  Before long the others have joined us, and we dance to hypnotic Sufi music on the roof of the temple where she lives. It is warm tonight and we dance barefoot on the concrete surface, until we are all exhausted.  It is late and approaching curfew, by the time I walk back with Hari and Yog and his girlfriend who live near by. 

It has been a good day and I go to bed feeling content. Even the howling dogs cannot disrupt my peace.

Completion

Thursday, November 11th

Today for the last time I accompanied Premal to Sanskrit class. I have been attending every day, and I am truly and utterly in love with this eighty nine year old man.  I have learned from a long standing student that many years ago, Swami G had traveled to Germany where he had offered a lecture series on metaphysics. These days, however he is too old and is disinclined to travel.  She herself has known him for over twenty years and visits him on an annual basis.  He is a humble man, but one who is widely respected for his intellect and his standing in the community.   Today a group of people have come to visit him. The two women and a man, sit uncomfortably amongst our group. They must partake in our daily ritual of biscuits and chai, before he will entertain their petition.  The women speak in turns, whilst the man sits uncomfortably, fiddling with his cell phone .

They speak in Hindi, but it is clear that they have come to make a request of him.  The process is slow and they must interrupt their conversation each time that one of the us approaches him with our notebook.  I note a look of frustration registered on one of the women's faces.  There are long pauses in the exchange and after an hour they rise to leave genuflecting before the figure of this man.  I am uncertain if the outcome is good or bad as their expressions do not impart this knowledge. But I know that my teacher is a man with influence.

Swami G is not impressed with my efforts today, and each time I present him with my notebook he scores each column with red ink.  I am contrite.  Despite my best efforts to imitate his clean strokes on the page, I continue to fail miserably.  On my third attempt, he simply looked at me and says "You're no artist." it should be noted that I am the only one making mistakes and the eight year old within me is mortified.   Thankfully, attention was drawn away from me when a sanyasin came to the door begging for money.  Swami G politely brushed him away. But the man was persistent and began to speak in a whinning voice.  Not put off by Swami G's dismissive offer of sweets, he persisted in his plea.  Swami G flew into a rage and began to shout at the man.  His words were unintelligible to me, but I caught the word bank and surmized that Swami G had asked the man if he looked like the bank.  The exchange lasted for about five minutes until, exasperated Swami G, simply ignored the man. The whole thing was rather comical, and it turned out that this character shows once or twice a week to ask for money.  From where I sat I could smell alcohol on his breath, and it was clear that he had fallen away from the spiritual path a long time ago.

Tonight Premal called her friend in Pune and as luck would have it he had a room available for the three week period that I would be in town. He gave me a discount as I was a friend of hers.I now had accommodation, and I would be starting my journey to Pune the following Wednesday.

Arrival

Wednesday, November 10th

The day passed rather uneventfully. I attended the morning breath work session and then had tea with Maya and Aya.  I arrived back at eh ashram to find that Premal was in full swing as she prepared to return home to Brazil, having lived in India for more then fifteen years.  I spend as much time as I can with her as her departure is immanent, she leaves for Delhi on Friday.  She feels that I should live in Brazil and she is determined that I  should  come and explore the opportunities available for me.  I promise to keep in touch and to consider the possibly of making a trip there sometime in the coming year.  Just like me, almost everyone I have met here is at a crossroads and facing the challenge of re-defining their lives. 

In the afternoon I set off for the evening workshop session, but halfway there I turn back. I am physically exhausted from the earlier session, and I decide it would be better to rest.   When I arrive at the ashram, there is a courier waiting for me to sign for a package.  It is my bank card, at last!  I signed for the package and quickly tore open the envelope, to confirm that the card was enclosed. Once I held it in my hand, it was as if someone cut a restraining cord and I literally felt myself exhale.  I was finally free to plan the next leg of my trip.  And though it will be another week before I finally depart, I am left with a sense of being in the drivers seat.  It is an exhilarating feeling.   

On Thursday, I again went to the breath workshop and Hari and Yog took the three of us present through the exercises lengthening the sequence.   At the end of the session, as usual we laid down and I found myself crying. The tears came unbidden, at first slowly and then in great waves that wracked my body. Nobody approached me, they simply allowed me to release the bottled up emotions. It was only when I lay spent, that Yog kneeled beside me and gently stroked my face.  I hadn't anticipated this, though I knew it to be a part of the process.  I was filled with an overwhelming sadness that was pervasive and all consuming.  It held no particular association, and yet it contained a quality of expression that was hauntingly familiar.  Once I had recovered sufficiently, Hari sent me home to rest. I spent the remainder of the day wrapped in this cloak of sadness. Yet, I maintained a certain distance, as if observing it from afar.  A composite perhaps, of all the sadness I have known throughout my life's journey.

Tonight I did not participate in the evening meditation. Instead I allowed myself to assimilate the conflicting emotions of elation at receiving my bank card, and the concurrent wave of sadness that still clung to me.

Passing Time

Monday November 8th/ Tuesday November 9th

My new friends have traveled and will be away for a few days. Premal, has gone into the seclusion of deep meditation and prayer.  I am alone for the first time in weeks, and I am completely at odds with myself.   I go into town, in hope of finding some distraction. I have a brief chat with Ram, but today he is busy and has no time to indulge me in lengthy discourse.   I head over the bridge and find myself at the Ganga View. I lounge around for a while and eat a leisurely lunch. But, I am restless, the absence of company makes me moody.  I find this surprising, as I am generally at ease in my own company.  At the root of this is a sense of being rudderless.  I am ready to move on and having very limited funds, leaves me with a distinct feeling of powerlessness. 

I head back to the ashram and meet up with Michael.  He invites me to join him on the roof for yoga practice.  He is young and athletic and so gravitates to the more physically challenging  form of asthanga yoga. He insists on teaching me some if the balancing postures, which turns out to be a quite comical as I have neither the the agility nor the physical strength required.  Conceding defeat, he left me to my own  gentler practice of hatha yoga.    We remained on the roof till the sun receded; the evening chill signaled that it was time to make our descent to our respective rooms.

This evenings meditation brought me a temporary peace, but this is quickly eroded by a growing restlessness. I  am concerned that my bank card may be delayed as I am unsure how reliable courier service is here in India.   After dinner I head to my room, to escape into a book, but even this is short lived.  I am in bed by 9pm and very quickly I am asleep.

The days are bleeding into each other, and I can hardly distinguish one from the other.   It is Tuesday morning, and I make my way to the Ganges river, maybe she can wash away this melancholy that clings to me.  The water is cold and I must force myself to plunge in, immersing my entire body.   I experience a spasm of shock and tremble uncontrollably for several minutes. Soon my body has acclimated to the temperature and the water feels warm.  I have come to offer my prayers to the river;petitioning Mother Ganga to cleanse me of unwanted emotions. My secret hope is that in an act of great benevolence she will dispel the karmic debts that I am holding.  My prayers, co-joined with that of countless others, now rest in the basin of this centuries old practice.      

 Lunch today is suprisingly good and I make a point of complementing Chitta. Inspired, perhaps by the good food, one of the monks who has been here for a couple weeks, again broke his silence, and entered into an animated philosophical discussion with those of us in present.  Later that afternoon, I left the ashram intending to find a secluded corner at the German cafe where I could read and while away some time.  En route, I ran into my friends, they were back from their trip, and so we arranged to meet up this evening at their apartment.  I arrived at 4:30pm to find Hari alone.  He ushered me in and served up lemongrass tea sweetened with honey.  He explained that the others had to run an errand would be back in a short while.   So we we talked mostly about his life.

The apartment we are in is a temporary rental for one month, and so the living room is bare, with the exception of a single futon mattress on the floor.   I recline next to Hari, as he tells me his story.  He is one of five siblings, and very early in life he was exposed to mysticism and spirituality by his grandfather who was held to be a saint.  He remembers as a child, listening to his grandfather's discourses with the many seekers who came both to study with and be healed by this man.  His family was not rich, but they lived had land and enjoyed a comfortable life style.  He was an A student throughout school, but on arriving at university he quickly became disillusioned and decided to drop out.  He started his own venture, and established a small manufacturing firm. Within a few years the company had grown to employ more than three hundred employees. Hari had all the trappings of wealth and wanted for nothing. But he was constantly plagued with a sense of disquiet, and his material success brought him little or no satisfaction.  

One day whilst driving home from a company meeting, he heard a voice in his head say "what are you doing?" In that moment he knew that he had to change his life.  He immediately dissolved the business, but it would be nearly two years before he had a clear sense of direction. In that time he simply drifted, traveling around India. Then he had a clear impression to go into seclusion and meditate.  He did this over many months for weeks at a time and in his travels he met Yog. Together they entered into six months of seclusion in the jungle, living in complete silence.  It was a profound  and transformative experience for him.   One that tested his sanity and his resilience, but he was compelled by his own inner spirit, and in a sense he was powerless to do otherwise.

Dharamasala in the Himalayan mountains, many hundreds of miles from where he was.  On arriving, he checked into a guest house, and in the morning encountered the woman who had been the object of his thoughts for the past two weeks.

He did not question their meeting.  He learned form her that that day at the cafe she had had a an argument with her boyfriend and a few days later they had split up and she had made her way to Dharamasala alone.  Hari was not sure if he influenced these events, but having met the woman at the center of his focus, he now felt free of the desire.  He spent two weeks in her company before returning to seclusion, but at no time did they share any sexual intimacy.  The power of his singular focus upon this woman, was seemingly the catalyst for these inexplicable events.  This was only one of the many experiences that he had, many of which compelled him to battle with his own demons and know a kind of madness.

At the end of six months, he had gained may insights into the workings of the human mind and the nature of our existence.  He had gathered all of this he said, from nature itself, and so much of what he discovered aligned with the mystical principles he had learned so long ago at the feet of his grandfather.  He has temporarily emerged from out of seclusion to share with others like myself what he has learned, but he does not consider himself a teacher.  Hari asked me to tell people to embrace their darkness. Darkness he says and I paraphrase, is the source of everything.  Light itself emerged out of the darkness.  How then can we make the self discovery, if ourselves if we don't embrace the very source of our existence.  If you should experience sadness, then allow the part of you that is awareness of the sadness, to be happy that the mind is sad; experience this sadness fully without attachment.  The watcher is always present, and through the breath you bridge the gap between awareness and the unconsciousness of habituated patterns of behavior. 

Hari does not consider himself a teacher, and shy's away from the idea of teaching large groups of people. He knows that he will have to go back into seclusion soon as his spirit is pulling him in that direction. And he finds himself overly sensitive to other peoples energies.  Hari is just Thirty four, and he possesses a wisdom, understanding and compassion, that is way beyond his years.  Speaking of his family he tells me that some years ago his eight year old sister was lighting fire crackers in celebration of Diwali and her clothing caught fire. By the time family members had put out the flames she had suffered severe 3rd degree burns. She died that day.  It was he said, very pragmatically, simply an act of fate. "There is in nature stability and within that stability exists instability and all is in balance.  And so tsunamis occur as an expression of the instability that is inherent in the very stability of nature."

More than an hour has passed, and Hari and I are lying face to face with our fingers interlocked.  I feel an out pouring of love from him, the intimacy we share in this moment is beyond the realm of sexual desire and holds a beauty of its own.  This communion through touch is not uncommon in India.   when we have been out as a group and Yog has held my hand as we strolled along, and interchangeably, held that of Hari and of his girlfriend.  It is also quite commonplace for men to hold hands as they walk along he street, as a way of communicating friendship and camaraderie.  Something that is an anomaly in our cultural lexicon.  Even if it is that I am enjoying this intimacy because I am a foreigner, I fully embrace the experience;welcoming the touch that I am so starved of in America.   And I am left wondering why it is that men and women don't share more in this way, outside of sexual relationships.  But then I guess it gets complicated.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Sanskrit

 Sunday, November 7th

Today, after the lunch I accompany Premal to Sanskrit class. The teacher, an old man, takes no money for his services, but asks that his students bring “Prasad” sweet foods that have been blessed  and then are shared out to the students. I take a packet of biscuits along as my contribution to the class. We arrive at the post office in Ram Julha. The class takes place in a room adjoining the main service window.  I step through the mouth of the entry way and it as if I have entered into an alternate reality.    The class has already begun when we arrive. Following Premal's lead, I kneel and bow before this man,  and extend my small offering which disappears into a pile of treats beside him. I take a seat on the last available cushion and someone hands me a board for my writing pad. We are a small group of nine international students, largely from Germany and Japan. The opening prayer is about to commence. Swami G, as he is endearingly called, begins a litany of prayers, and the established students join in the refrain.  after this, small silver plates and tea cups are laid out before him; he generously deposits a handful of biscuits and sweets on each plate, and pours hot chai to the brim of each cup. The prospect of having to consume this volume of sweets and milky tea each time I attend the class, is daunting even for me, a lover of sweets.  We eat in a respectful silence and when everyone is finished, one of the students gathers up our disused plates and cups.  Taking a basin of water she goes out to the steps of the riverbank to wash the dishes. It is a privilege fiercely guarded by his prized students.

Swami G is a diminutive man of approximately five feet in height, with a very slender frame. He wears large framed glasses with lenses the thickness of a magnifying glass. They dwarf his face as he places them on the bridge of his nose to peer at the notebook I have handed him. He painstakingly writes the first letters of the alphabet across the top of the sheet and scores the page with columns. He then sounds out the letters and prompts me to imitate him. After three repetitions, he is satisfied with my pronunciation, and I sit down opposite him to copy the symbols he has drawn on the page. There is silence in the room, broken only when a student approaches him.  he in turn dutifully scrawls additional words into our note books. The whir of the ceiling fan is the only natural sound in the room;it is a metronome measuring time, in an epoch of timelessness. 

I am eight years old all over again, and I feel a rush of pleasure each time that I present my paper for review and there are no corrections. An hour and a half lapses, before Premal indicates it is time to go. Again we kneel before the old man and bow as we take our leave. He presses a few sweets into our hands hands and nods his acknowledgement.  I tell Premal that I am in love with Swami G, she simply returns a knowing smile.  She is leaving India in the coming week, and wants to purchase gifts to take home with her.  She leads me to the near by shops where I purchase a dress and a shawl; I don't need any more clothes, but I can't resist, and the price justifies my indulgence. We head back to the ashram clutching our purchases, arriving just in time for evening meditation.

Diwali



Friday, November 5th/ Saturday November 6th

After morning meditation I headed down to the Ganga View to meet up with Sachin. He showed up half an hour later weighted down with fireworks for the evenings celebration. We ordered chai and lingered in the cafe for a while, before setting off for his mothers house. We clambered up a steep hill to reach the mountain road;both laboring for breath as we reached the crest and collapsed onto a mound of rocks to recover. Sachin took charge of the negotiations with the drivers, However, today fortune did not smile on us. We had to wait more than an hour for a driver to finally agree to take us as many were holding out for bigger fares.

We arrived at Tanmaya's home just before lunch. I presented her with a box of dried fruits and nuts in celebration of the holiday and Sachin dutifully handed her a box of sweets. She received these small tokens graciously and set about making chai for us. There were two other guests staying at the retreat center, who were here for a special naming ceremony that will take place tonight. I introduced my self to the two men, they smiled politely, and very quickly they fell into an animated discussion in Hindi, with Sachin.   I sat on the sideline, happy to sip tea and bask in the afternoon sun.

Lunch is ready and we sit down to eat in the open courtyard. The meal is a simple one of dal and chapati and we eat in relative silence. Afterwards, I meander into Tanmaya's zen garden, where I sit contemplating the future. Tanmaya has invited me to stay for an indefinite period of time, and I wonder what the quality of life would here in the seclusion of this retreat. Oddly, the idea appeals to me, but a part of me knows that this would simply be a form of escapism. It would only serve to postpone the real decisions that I need to make about my life. I am at a crossroads, and the impulse to completely change course is undeniable. Yoga teacher, Reiki practitioner, or Sage; I feel ill suited for any of these.  Masked behind this gnawing uncertainty, is a fear of stepping into the unknown. 

The sound of drumming brings me back to the present, as Sachin warms up in preparation for tonight's celebration. I rejoin the men in the courtyard, and find Sachin attempting to instruct one of them how to play the bass melody on the drum. Not having much success, he asked me if I wanted to give it a try. I said yes, and under his tutelage I was able to keep to the rhythm. We played till my palms became sore and I was greatly relieved when we stopped for a break.  It was clear that there would be no vocal lesson today, but playing drums was almost as much fun.

Sachin and I climbed up to the roof to recline on the matting that had been placed there. He shared tales about his class reunion in Delhi, then our conversation veered off, as all the thoughts teeming in my mind spilled into the space between us. He listened, but offered no advice, except to say that I should be open to what opportunities may come; with no preconceptions. The day evaporated into evening, and Tanmaya gathered those of us present, to begin the evening meditation practice. The entire courtyard was illuminated with candle light that flickered like the winking stars that danced above our heads; brightest among then was Venus.  The two men and I gathered in the courtyard to be guided by Tanmaya as she led us in the meditation. We danced with a wild abandon, equally matched by Sachin's uninhibited beating of the drums, giving rise to a rhythmic pulse that connected us to the ground beneath our feet.  When the the music died down, we came to a quiet stillness, in anticipation of the ceremony that would now take place. As new initiate into the Osho meditation practice, one of the men was to be given his new name. Tanmaya a disciple herself for more than twenty years, will officiate the ceremony with all the weight of her established tenure and acquired wisdom.

The ceremony commences with several prayers and incantations.  Dressed in a long white gown with a matching shawl, Tanmaya is the embodiment of grace.  She makes the pronouncement, bestowing the new name and reaches out to embrace the one whom has just taken on this new identity.  I look up at the night sky with its glistening points of light, and know the magic of this moment, to be forever recorded in the movement of the stars.  The initiate is beaming with joy and I join in with the others to congratulate him. With the ceremony completed, we move to the communal room for the evening meal that Tanmaya has prepared. 

Rajmas with rice and vegetables, is followed by sweets in celebration of Diwali. After dinner we all 
spill out into the court yard to watch the fire work display. Sachinwatch music videos on my laptop computer. 

The day had come to a natural close and it was time to retire.  It was decided that all of the men would sleep on the beds in the music room and I was shown to the guest room, slightly apart from the main building. I settled into my room and lay in the dark listening to the rush of water from the near by river. Sachin came to see if I was settled in ok and make sure that I had a torch in case I needed to find my way to the bathroom during the night. We chatted for a while, before he slipped away to spend time with his mother, as this would be one of his last remaining nights with her.   It was 10:00PM, still relatively early for bed, but with the dense blanket of darkness that enveloped the landscape, it felt appropriate.  Sleep came easily, and I didn't stir until the first strains of light came pouring into the room early the next morning.

Tanmaya greeted me with a cup of chai and shared with me the story of how she had come to create this retreat center.  After many long months of searching for land in several different states, she had found this location, and determined that it  was to be her new home.  she was one of the very first people to settle here more than five years ago she.  Completely isolated, she lived in a make shift tent; she cooked on an open fire and made the best of the many physical hardships that came from having no running water or electricity. What she possessed however, was a powerful vision of what she intended to create here. With assistance from many of her friends and supporters, she succeeded in constructing the Osho Zen meditation center of her vision. I am secretly in awe of her, knowing I possess neither her courage nor determination.

At 7:00am the music began to stream out of the speakers. It was time for meditation and once again. The two men and shake off the remnants of sleep as we begin the meditation.  It demands movement, and we shift sequentially from shaking, to rhythmic dance, to stillness. Seated on the ground motionless, I allowed myself to drift.  Suddenly I am no longer this corporeal body. Instead I have become the bright yellow of autumn leaves. Leaves that swirl in a vortex of energy to take the shape of my seated form.  disembodied, I am the light that dances between the leaves, existing outside of time and space. The wind wends itself around my dissolving form, to swallow up these leaves;the only form I now hold, and carry them into the labyrinth of its gaping jaw.  The cold of the concrete floor where I sit, seeps through the thin matting and the numbing chill brings me sharply back to reality.

After breakfast I said farewell to Tanmaya. Sachin has errands to run, and so the two of us set off once again along he river bank, to make our way back to town. At the Ganga View, we share a last cup of chai before saying our final goodbyes. I feel a little sad to be saying goodbye, as he has been a good companion, but I know that this is the way of life on the road. There have been many new acquaintances and an equal number of partings.  However, many I know will become lasting friendships.  Shaking off this momentary sadness, I head back to the ashram.

Monday, November 15, 2010

The Treatment

Wednesday, November 3/ Thursday, November 4th.

There is an air of excitement as Diwali, the festival of lights approaches. It is a very special day , celebrated through out the country, in much the same way as we celebrate the New Year. The day marks the return of Lord Ram, the conquering hero who has defeated the demon, and returns after fourteen years in the wilderness. Everywhere there are Christmas lights illuminating shop windows and holiday lights have been mounted in the main squares. The local grocery stores all display special holiday boxes of dried nuts and fruits, along with special sweets to be given as gifts.

Every day bus loads of people arrive, and their numbers swell as we get closer to the holiday. They come in celebration of Diwali, to offer prayers at the temples temples, and to bathe in the Ganga. Many have journeyed far, on a pilgrimage to the banks of the sacred Ganges river. I watch as large family groups excitedly snap pictures of themselves, and buy tourist books featuring the local landmarks. The vendors are out in full force. Selling popcorn, ice cream, warm nuts, fresh fruit salad and my favorite, channa masala. Chickpeas that have been seasoned and pressed into flat chips are poured into a funnel made of newspaper and topped with diced red onion, chopped tomato, cilantro, a squeeze of lime juice and salt. It is as quintessential as hot dogs and apple pie.


My days have been spent attending the breath workshop and getting to know Yog and Hari more intimately. On Thursday, Hari decided that it was time for me to undergo the “treatment”. This involved my lying on the floor whilst Hari applied pressure to my calf muscle with his thumbs. The pain was intense. I found myself laughing, crying and screaming all at the same time. Hari ignored my very obvious distress, and advanced to treading on the back of my lower thigh and kneading the leg and calf with his feet and ankles; as if my leg were the bow of an instrument. I was screaming and crying in earnest, but he would not relent; till finally after what seemed an eternity, but was probably no more then fifteen minutes, he released me. I lay on the mat sobbing. From a great distance away, I felt very soft hands stroking my forehead. With the tears spent, I lay hugging myself in a fetal position. Hari had made ginger tea to revive me. I sat up, and Hari shared the impressions he had picked up, relating to my past emotional traumas. He was disturbingly accurate in his evaluation, and I was left in awe of his ability. Unwittingly, he had opened a flood gate of memories that left me feeling incredibly vulnerable.

Hari learned this technique from his grandfather, who had been both a healer and a mystic. In fact, people had traveled from far and wide to meet and study with this rather unassuming man. His grandfather had been heralded as a saint by many, and was endowed with very special qualities. Hari I suspect has similar qualities to his grandfather. I am told to go home and rest;I say good bye and promise to return in the afternoon. My leg continued to throb with pain, as I lay on my bed. Drifting off to sleep, I wondered why pain always begets pain. And like the vile tasting medicine that cures; I must swallow the undigested pain of yesterday, in order to let it go.

The afternoon session is brief. Everyone is hungry, and so we go out in search of food. It is a lovely balmy evening, and we take a leisurely stroll through the town. We stop at a vendors stall, to purchase Chana chips. It is delicious and we all lick our fingers when the last of it has been consumed. We head to a restaurant in Ram Julha, that Yog has recommended. Along the way we stop again; this time to purchase sweets. We eat the very best Bhindi Ladoo that can be found in Rishikesh.

Dinner was a raucous affair with lots of laughter, and when the conversation becomes too serious, Hari steers us back on course;declaring that we should cut the bullshit talk and have fun! We walked back along the river under skies illuminated with the brilliance of fireworks. We could not help but to be infected with the electricity that charged the night air. Tomorrow is Diwali, and the celebrations will be even more magnificent.

Sachin is back in town and is waiting for Maya and I at our usual spot, the Ganga View Restaurant. We say good night to the others and make our way there to find Sachin seated at a table strumming a guitar. We join him and take up the refrain, by humming along to his soulful tune. The restaurant owner has recently learned to play the guitar and he joins in. The three of us eventually fall into silence. We listen as the the owner shyly plays a solo Then the two are playing together, music with a soulful, haunting quality that is typical to the ragas of India. Sachin has invited Maya and I to spend Diwali at this mothers house. Maya declines as she has another engagement, and he and I agree to meet at 10:00am the next morning. What I love most about Sachin is his passion. Music is his raison d' etre and his enthusiasm is infectious. I return to the ashram late. I have missed the evening meditation, and it is just minutes before curfew. The rebellious streak in me is definitely asserting itself, and I enjoy the liberation it brings.

Tuesday, November 09, 2010

Ghiza -i -Rhu

Tuesday, November 2nd

This morning after meditation, I encountered Manus alone and I quietly asked him to explain the events of yesterday. He informed me that the artist Suresh, whom I had interviewed last week, attempted to commit suicide. I was shocked at the news, and Manus quickly assured me that he was ok. He had been discovered in his room near by, with his wrists cut, and  had been admitted to a local hospital. His family had been notified and family members living in the area were with him.. Suresh, was a frequent visitor at the ashram, and had been working on a project here. He is a very talented artist and I had been very impressed by the quality of his work. We had spoken at length about vedic paintings which utilized color in relation to the five elements and the use of sacred prayers, that were chanted into each piece.

His had been a story of relative success. He knew very early in his life that he wanted to be an artist, and had earned a degree in fine arts. He spent much of his professional career moving around and had finally gain a permanent job working for a university. However, this is where things had began to fall apart. According to what I understood from Suresh, the university had commissioned him to paint a large mural of the Gods. Once it was completed, Suresh discovered to his horror, that the wall was to be the location for the public urinals.

The mural had taken a great deal of time to complete and was inculcated with many sacred prayers. It was sacred art and was to have have been some thing spectacular. But instead, this defilement of the Gods, was to be his undoing. He left the university more than three years ago, and has been plagued with bad luck ever since.  He has not maintained a stable job, and can barely earn enough money to sustain himself, let alone send money to his wife and children. A wife he has not spoken to in more than three years, and children he has not seen. His is a tale of woe. He is clearly tormented by the bad karma he believes he inherited from this incident. His lack of knowledge as to how the university would employ the mural, could not absolve him of his guilt.  Innocence, is stained with culpability; he cannot escape his fate.  Suresh is a very gentle man full of nervous energy, and I pray that he may recover from the terrible mental anguish that he is suffering.  Even having found a temporary refuge here at the ashram, ultimately, could not save him from the torment of his own demons.

Today I am meeting Maya, who has invited me to attend a free breath workshop. I arrive at the location of the workshop and join the assembled group who are seated on the floor. Chai is served, and after a brief introduction, we climb up to the roof carrying blankets and mats. It is cool this morning and we move to a spot where the sun sheds its warmth. The two facilitators begin to guide us in a series of breathing exercises. The movements are strenuous and demand a lot of stamina. Each sequence takes a minute with a minutes rest in between. I find myself sweating despite the early morning breeze.   Each time stand in stillness, I allow myself to be gently carried by the wind. Soft and gentle, it tugs at my clothes, and at once I am a kite, flying high in the sky.  I am drunk, and I completely surrender to this feeling. Each day India gives me another reason to be intoxicated by her.   

The exercises become more intense and at the completion of the sequence, we are instructed to lie down on the blankets. The wind continues to gently pull on my clothes and now fingers of air, attempt to brush open my eyelids. The wind dances across me body, to the haunting melody of the music that is now playing. It is a slow and beautiful lament that speaks to the eternal longing of my soul.  This wanting transcends the boundaries of the known; the music now the connecting thread to the immutable voice of God.   To the Sufi's' it is Ghiza-i -ruh, food for the soul.  The music pours itself into the center of my being,  and I know a boundless and infinite joy.  My revere is broken by the sobbing cries of the young woman lying next to me. Like a pebble dropped into a still pond, her tears move out in waves of expanding circles, until they wrack her body with convulsions. Those of us who are still lying down, sit up to silently take hold of the fringes of this cloth.  Our invisible arms,  reach out to embrace her. Encapsulated in this moment of space and time, there is wind, and there is music, and there is freedom, and there is beauty. Spent of all emotion, she reaches out to her boyfriend and places her head in his lap. Quietly, the rest of us tip toe back downstairs, leaving the couple together on the roof. 


The facilitators explain that the breath work can be very cathartic, and let me know I may experience some release of emotions. The next session is scheduled for 4pm this afternoon. The facilitators, Yog and Hari, have spent the past six months in intensive meditation in the forest. Often sleeping for as little as 1 to 2 hours a night. From this experience they have developed ht techniques that they are sharing with us, and they hope to travel around the country sharing the process with others. The two are very humble and unassuming, but I suspect that they are quite advanced souls.

4:00pm arrives and I return to the apartment where the workshop is being conducted. We are a small group of six people and and the two facilitators. Hari



I realized that she was the first American I had spoken with in more than three weeks, and immediately conversation had become a battle ground, as it so often is at home.   Our bloated  ego's vied for dominance in this minefield of words.  Words I discovered contain their own potential for violence and can be directed in such as way as to tear a hole in the etheric body of the other person.  There was in this exchange a note of aggression that has been absent from all of my other encounters. I was disturbed by the fact that I had  lost my equilibrium, and I made a mental note to myself to be more mindful in the future.  I had lnothing to prove.

At The Feet of the Guru


Monday, November 1st

Today I decided to try yet again to contact my bank, as I had not had any success getting through to the 800 number last week. Finally, the connection is made and I speak with a representative to confirm the replacement bank card has been shipped. The person I spoke with informed me that unfortunately, the card had not been sent to India due to security reasons; he suggested that I identify someone in the United States that they could forward it to, who in turn could send it to me express mail. I was completely stunned, as I had been assured just days prior that they would ship directly to India. I provided them with the only address I knew off the top of my head and hung up feeling totally defeated. The This would mean a delay of at least another week. My patience is beginning to wear thin, and I can find no mitigating reason for my continued presence in Rishikesh.

I feel a growing sense of powerlessness and can do nothing to change it. I have had to borrow money, and I am awaiting emergency funds from London via Western Union.  And only later do I learn that my sister to whom I directed the card, has had to travel to London to attend a funeral and won't be home to receive the package. The whole situation has declined into a farce. I make urgent contact with my sister; she will be home on Thursday and can forward the bank card on by Friday. It is in the hands of the gods now, I can do nothing more.

I head to town to escape the churning of my own mind, and en route I run into two women whom I had met at the ashram a fortnight ago. They invited me to lunch, and commenced to regal me with tales of their adventures. As it turns out, they had been invited to travel in a small private party with a well know guru to Gangotri, a place of pilgrimage some 200 kilometers away, where they had been received like royalty. From there they had traveled further to Ranikhet, where they again sat at the feel of a the guru, and were lavished with gifts. I could feel the bile of jealously rising inside of me. Again I wondered what cruel twist of fate had left me stranded here, whilst others were being blessed with amazing experiences. My life merited no such grace, and I wondered if there wasn't something inherently lacking within me. Yet, even as these thoughts arose; I could not deny that grace moves through my life at every moment. I have only to open my heart and and my mind to witness its presence. It is in the judgement that someone else is receiving more, that I lose sight of it.

We sat in a restaurant over looking the river where families came to bathe. The children played in the water whilst the women entered the river fully clothed in saris and discretely anointed themselves with the blessed waters of the Ganges. The men on the other hand stripped down to their underwear and liberally soaped themselves from head to toe. Coated in white lather, they scooped water into silver urns that shimmered under the afternoon sun; to wash away the grime and the soap, and perhaps a little karma. I was amazed to see that the elder women, grandmothers amongst the bathers, strip off their bras and enter the river topless. For a moment I held my breath, certain that there would be shouts of outrage from other onlookers, but their nudity was met with indifference. It was a perfectly natural occurrence, a liberty afforded to women once they had passed their prime.

Lunch was a long leisurely affair as none of us had any particular agenda. It was three hours later, when we had tired of watching the bathers, that we finally rose to leave. I hugged the two women and wished they well. They in turn extended an invitation to me to visit them in the Chez Republic and we exchanged email addresses. I slowly made my way back to the ashram. On arriving, I noticed that there was a policemen speaking with Manus and I had a sense that it was something serious from the tone of their voices. I wondered what was up, but quickly dismissed it as none of my business.

There was a weighted silence in the dining hall at dinner, and I realized that something very serious had occurred. However, when I asked what had happened, I was told not to worry, every thing was fine. I didn't press the issue, as I knew that I would eventually learn about the events that had transpired. The day had been an emotional roller coaster for me and I welcomed the solitude of my room. 

Monday, November 08, 2010

Raga


Saturday, October 30th

Prema and I leave the ashram almost immediately after the morning meditation, to have breakfast at the German Cafe. We are greeted like long standing friends and seated at our usual table. The lemon ginger honey tea served in a small glass, burns the tips of my fingers as I gingerly hold the rim of the glass and sip at the contents. The meal is a simple one of peanut butter and toast, but it gives me the feeling of home and I savor each morsel. We talk about horoscopes and love and of what the future may hold for each of us. Prema, a hopeless romantic with a tremendous capacity to love, is seeking a new soul mate. There is a wild, untamed, Bohemian quality to her that is a magnet for men young and old. With no inhibitions and completely at home with her sexuality; hers is a freedom that I envy. She looks into my palm and predicts that I will meet the love of my life sometime in the coming few months. Somewhere deep inside I imagine that this is true.


After breakfast Prema and I walk over the bridge into Taxman Julha to purchase a gift got the sadhu Chidananda. Along the way we bump into Sachin the musician I met yesterday. It seems that chance has thrown us together. We arrange to meet at the Ganga View restaurant at 2:00pm, and from there we will head to his mothers meditation retreat center several kilometers away. He has promised to give me at least one vocal lesson, but cannot promise more as he will be traveling to Delhi for a class reunion. I am happy with this, as it gives me an opportunity to explore my passion for singing.

We purchase fruits and sweets for Chidananda, and make our way to his tiny hut on the bank of the river. He is waiting for us when we arrive. Black tea and biscuits are in the offing, and thought I have just consumed breakfast, I cannot decline, as to do so would be to offend. Chidananda is in relatively good spirits, but he is not well. This time his anguish is based upon real physical pain. He suffers from rheumatoid arthritis and epilepsy, both of which go untreated. And so as winter sets in, his joints have become stiff and inflamed and he now has difficulty walking. To our expressions of concern he replies “the Mother always provides, and if I am to suffer, then she is with me in this also.” I want to scream, to shake some sense into him; show him how foolish it is to live in this way. Even as my mind rebels against his reasoning, I know that mere words or sentiment cannot alter the course of his unshakable conviction.

Conviction, naturally demands of us a certain brand of madness, and we must off necessity throw ourselves into the fire of passion and devotion that is all consuming. I have not in my life known this kind of madness outside of the strictures of love.  It is incomprehensible to me. Yet, I have a growing respect for this complex and simple man. Penance, karma and the role of intercessor on behalf of the community are so tightly woven into his life, as to be indistinguishable. I am reminded of the sin eater of the Native American Sun Dance. In this dramatic enactment, an individual elects to have the heads of a dozen buffalo harnessed to his back with ropes that pierce through his flesh. He then runs the gauntlet of the circle, as those on the outer rim direct all their unwanted karma to him. It is his burden to carry the sins of the community. And like the austerities of the renounciate, it is brutal and eviscerating. Deep are the tears into the flesh from the weight of this burden, yet the spirit remains indomitable.

We make our departure, and I am aware of a certain heaviness in my heart. Life is sometimes far too complicated. Prema and I part ways, and I make my way to the restaurant where I will meet Sachin. He arrives shortly after me, and we have hot lemon ginger tea before setting off. He haggles with several drivers, before finding one willing to take us the 8 kilometer distance, without ripping us off. Even though he speaks Hindi and is clearly from the region, he is viewed as a foreigner, and he must haggle for a fair deal. We clamber into the back of the jeep, sandwiched between eight other passengers. 

 We are fortunate to have seats, as other vehicles are carrying even more passengers than this. The ride is bumpy as we navigate the narrow mountain road that leads to his mothers house. We are unceremoniously deposited on a strip of road that has no distinguishing landmarks, and I am grateful to have Sachin as my guide. We walk down a steep incline towards the river and then make our way across to the other side, via a make shift bridge of zinc and sacks of rocks bolted onto heavy logs of wood. After a short distance we arrive at his mother's home and I realize that I would never have found it on my own.

His mother comes out to greet us, and welcomes me to her home. After a brief introduction, Sachin, leads me to the music room where his guitars and a couple of drums are housed. SA, RE, GA, MA, PA, DAH, NI SA. This is the scale that I must learn.   We repeat this scale  a thousand times, and each time he reminds me to listen for where the voice is coming from. It needs to emerge from deep in the belly.  Eventually, he hands hands me the guitar and shows me how to find the third fret and second string, to play the “C” note that is my range. He thinks that it would be good for me to explore playing a musical instrument, if I am really serious about singing.
“ In singing there is no destination, simply learn to enjoy each note and express it fully. In this way you will allow your natural voice to come through.” This was Sachin's advice to me, as we had practiced and after an initial shyness, I found myself really letting go. That is when I demonstrated real potential. After two hours our lesson came to a natural close. The sun was setting, and we headed to the roof to enjoy the warmth of the receding sun. Sachin smoked hand rolled cigarettes, as we chatted about our lives and our aspirations for the future. As evening drew a curtain of darkness across the sky, we were called to eat dinner. The meal was laid out in the music room where the three of us ate in relative silence. 

It was time to make our way back to town as I had to return to the ashram and Sachin was leaving for Delhi early the next morning. His mother, graciously invited me to return any time and to stay as long as I desired. She is a very beautiful woman, with penetrating light brown eyes that look compassionately out at the world. Her invitation is genuine, and I am touched by her sincerity. We head back along the path leading to the main road and arrive at the unofficial pick-up location, at a chai cafe just as the last threads of day light are swallowed up.  With no vehicle in sight, we decide to walk. Sachin is carrying a travel bag and his guitar.  Heavy burdens for what could prove to be a very long walk to town. We flag down a couple of passing jeeps, but they are full to capacity and fly past us. The next set off lights are from a private vehicle. It is an old ” Ambassador “ car which used to be the official car of India. We flag it down, and after a few brief words with the driver the front passenger climbs into the back to make room for us. The gods of fortune have smiled upon us and we both gesture effusively, nodding our thanks to the three passengers in the back seat.

We alight from the vehicle outside the Ganga View restaurant and hand the driver 50 rupees each for his trouble. Sachin has booked a room for the night at an ashram immediately next to the German cafe, so we head over there to sit and chat before the deadline of our respective curfews of 9:30pm and 10:00pm. We talk animatedly and illicit a few admonishing stares from other patrons. All too soon, it is time to go. I promise to contact Sachin when he gets back from Delhi to arrange a second meeting. It will be my final lesson before he heads home to Denmark.  I make my way back to the ashram, and arrive at the gate with just minutes to spare.

Wednesday, November 03, 2010

Remains of the Day

Friday, October 29th

Today at breakfast I bit into a piece of fruit and felt something crumble inside my mouth. Too late I realized it was my tooth. The filing had given way and a piece of the tooth fell away with it. This merely adds to my woes, as I must now chew only on one side and I have not the where with all to see a dentist.  Admittedly, I have been feeling a bit sorry for myself, and have avoided making entries in my blog.  So today I decided to spend the day in a cafe with my laptop, to dedicate myself to the task.

I casually saunter to Laxman Julha, with a nod of acknowledgement to the grocery store owner, the barber, the waiter at the cafe, and the many shop keepers whom I pass daily, in the narrow corridor leading to my destination. I have become a familiar part of the landscape, and it is I who now look upon the growing numbers of tourists as new comers to my home town.  My footsteps carry me past Ram's store and I stop to greet him.  The store is now open for business, and he is in the process of unpacking the last few items to be displayed.  He welcomes me with a warm smile,  and indicates apologetically that he must continue to work as we talk.

I watch him unwrap each item from the protective newspaper and using a paint brush, he removes the residue of dust that clings to the surface.    His movements are slow and measured. So much so, that even when a fly gently lands on his cheek, it is I who reflexively raise my hand to brush it away from my own cheek. He on the other hand, maintains equanimity, allowing it to simply fly away, which it does almost immediately. It is this quality of centerdness that attracts me to him.  Our conversation turns the nature of the search for God.  His answer to this is that in the same way he is committed to his business, he must commit himself to God. In the same way that he loves and desires his woman, why not an equal love for God.  And in the same way that a man must sate his hunger for food, why not this same hunger for God. Measure for measure, he seeks god in all that he does.    

I  leave him to complete the task at hand, as I have my own work to do. I head over the bridge to the Ganga view Restaurant. Prema and I had discovered it yesterday in our travels, and I had enjoyed both the food and the quiet. Unlike the German Bakery, which I have nicknamed "tourist central" it is removed from the hub, and offers me a peaceful retreat.  I find an empty table over looking the river and quickly establish myself there. I order lemon ginger honey tea, a new favorite, and unwind with a book, as the muses have not yet stirred.

Only a few pages in, I notice three people take the table opposite me. I nod a greeting and return my attention to the book. However, they are determined to speak to me, and within, minutes they have opened the conversation with questions about where I am from.  They are from North Delhi, vacationing in Rishikesh for the weekend. I can tell that they are professionals and from the affluent set of Delhi.  We  share a pleasant exchange, and as they stop to shake hands with me before they depart.    I return my attention to the book, hoping to avoid any further intrusions. However, this was not to be the case.

In fact, not ten minutes later, a man approached me and asked if I were reading Hazrat Inayat Khan, his favorite author.  I reply in the affirmative, and display the cover of "The Way of Illumination".  This was enough of an overture, for him to pull up a chair and introduce himself.  His name is Sachin and he is a singer and a musician.  I immediately ask if he is open to teaching me the basics as I have actually been in search of a vocal instructor.  He will only be in Rishikesh for nine days, before returning home, but is quite happy to set aside time for me.  We arrange to meet up tomorrow afternoon.

Naturally, the conversation does not end here.  We exchange stories about our lives, loves, books and music. Its a round the world tour. and two hours later, he finally makes his departure to keep a prior engagement.  He is a great talker and proves to be even more long winded than me.  I love his sense of humor sense and his ability to see things as they are.  Of average height, he has shoulder length curly black hair, and eyes that shine with laughter.  His face is framed with an overnight stubble that gives him an appropriately rugged look. Just what you would expect from a musician.  He gives me his cell number and email address, and there is no questioning the sincerity of his offer.

The morning has all but disappeared, and I have yet to compose a single sentence. But I am enthralled with the book, and cannot put it down. It gives me the perfect excuse to delay getting out the laptop.  Not even ten minutes and there is yet another intrusion into my solace.  A family arrives and is seated at a near by table. But the father is not happy and gestures at my table to the waiter. Getting no response, he marches over to me and begins to gesticulate with his hands speaking in Hindi.  What I did understand were the words, Ganga and river. With a final wave of his hand he dismissed me. Without a fuss, I  move the the table that they have just vacated and smile at the waiter, who looks on apologetically.  I had been enjoying the view for more then two hours, and it seemed selfish no to comply with his wish.  I gather he is a man accustomed to having people obey his command and  fortunately, I wasn't going to prove the exception. 

The family of three children, grandparents the man and his wife, took their seats. The wife sat a little apart from the table and a chair was placed next to her for her husband. He ignores the chair, orchestrating the seating of everyone else and handling the ordering of the food. He then stands over the table, like a Sargent Major, waiting for the for the meal to be served.  Eventually the food arrives.  Five plates of rice and a few savory dishes. He supervises the distribution of the food, and watches over children and grandparents, making sure that everyone has their fill. 

Throughout all of this, his wife remained seated on the sideline, with her eyes downcast.  The first to complete the meal is the grandfather. Of diminutive stature, he quietly walks over to the wife, inclines his head towards her in acknowledgement and then takes a seat beside her.  So much is held in that quiet, almost imperceptible gesture, that conveys both gratitude and love. The children and the grandmother have completed their meal, and file away from the table to make room for the parents.   The woman silently rises to finally take her seat and the husband follows suit. The two begin to eat the remains of the meal.  No words pass between them. Their silence is pregnant with the weight of honor and duty.

In this simple act, I have been witness to the indelible bond binding these three generations together.  It The strength of the family ties, that is so much a part of the culture and tradition here. And though I suspect that this man rules over his family with an iron fist, there is in this act of self sacrifice, a selfless love that is undeniable. It is the sacrifice that only a parent can know. One that is coded in the fibers of their being and ignited at the moment of parenthood.

The family departed to continue their sight seeing tour, and I moved to another table on the balcony, to bask in the heat of the afternoon sun. It is lunch time and I order a plate of vegetable noodles.   The meal when it arrives is hot delicious. I order a side of fresh chilies and attack into the meal with gusto.  Finally, my thoughts turn to the task at hand.  I pull out the laptop to begin at last, to hammer away at the keys.  My plan to spend the day in seclusion had been rudely shattered, but I was glad of this, and look forward to meeting up with Sachin tomorrow for my first vocal lesson.