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.