Where to start.
Moments earlier I had been dancing off the water from my bare feet, hopping between an entirely wet bathroom and dry bedroom, wondering what neatly pressed item from my suitcase could best be sacrificed for use as a bathmat, when everything suddenly went black. A power cut. The ceiling fans, so necessary in this near 40-degree heat (not to mention my now fully wet bathroom), are also out. The entire ashram, and probably village, is out and all I can see from my mosquito-netted windows, are palm trees stencilled onto the dusky sky, blowing ferociously in the wind. The rain is bucketing down and it sounds like I have a river running past my door. My windows are flung wide open, but thanks to a wide-slanted roof that extends beyond my room, barely a breeze comes in. It’s very surreal.
First we had lightning, lots of it. Then great, long rolls of thunder. It went on for a long time, thunder, lightning, thunder, lightning. The ashram owners, clearly aware of what was to come, started collecting clothes off the washing line, while I was still casually filling up my water bottle, half-expecting the storm to pass overhead given its protracted build-up. Arriving at my room, I briefly contemplated the ashram-etiquette of leaving shoes outside, and opted to bring them in, at least for tonight. I headed in to take a shower, which in hindsight was not really necessary. I could have remained outside even for a second.
All of a sudden the storm burst into life. Great bolts of lightning hit the electricity lines, which lit up Back to the Future-style, fences were blowing around and outdoor chairs had long since gone. I hope no one’s out there, I remember thinking. It was hard to imagine anything left standing after this.
I am about six hours in to a six-week long ashram retreat in India, although right now, the word ‘retreat’ feels somewhat inappropriate. Location-wise, I am close to the foothills of the Himalayas, about 20km south-west of Rishikesh and quite, quite lost, geographically, emotionally and spiritually.
A recommendation from a former colleague, this ashram was sold to me as “the most peaceful place close to the Himalayas”. I am imagining her visit was a different time of year.
The ashram does come with an interesting backstory however. Shri Santosh Puri Ashram was originally the home of an Indian Guru and his German wife, an extremely courageous and determined woman (some might say mad), who at the age of 23 left her home and family in Germany and travelled to India in search of a bearded man she had seen in a dream. After a year of travelling across India by foot, in search of the man of her dreams, she finally found her Guru sitting cross-legged on an island in Haridwar (not far from the ashram’s present location), and sat down to join him. Ten years on and they were still sitting there. She lived with him and his herd of cows, managing to survive, despite the many physical and emotional challenges she faced and various illnesses she overcame. Finally, the Guru, ‘Baba-ji’ accepted her as his wife, they had three children and with the financial aid of her Mother, they all moved into what is now the Santosh Puri Ashram – ‘santosh’ meaning contentment.
Both Baba-ji and Mata-ji have since passed away, but the three children continue to run the property as an ashram – welcoming visitors into their home, offering yoga, meditation and pranayama practice, as well as an invitation to join their dawn and dusk ‘aarti’ (religious) ceremonies – chanting sanskrit and giving thanks and blessings to their parents, the Gurus and founders of the ashram.
When I arrive, two of the siblings are absent on a Himalayan retreat, which given the heat, seems a sensible idea. The one remaining dutiful daughter, Gangutri, is in charge. Her introduction is warm but lacking any ashram protocol, perhaps because it is her home. I later find out she is an Ayurvedic doctor and not usually left in sole charge of the administrative-type duties. However for an ashram first-timer like me, it would have been helpful. For the first 24 hours I am pretty much in the dark and not just literally, although I do wonder if that’s all part of the ashram experience. The need for visitors to observe (or move about blindly), mostly guessing about a lot of things, until eventually we learn to trust our inner guru – our intuition.
The four or five other guests are hard to find. I wonder if they even exist. I head to the library and choose some interesting books, return to my room and then find the ashram rules pinned to the back of my door, so immediately return all but one of the books, signing it out, as per ashram regulation.
When we do all convene for dinner, seated on the cool tiled-floor of the dining hall, no one speaks, as is the etiquette at meal times (thank Baba-ji I found those rules). My fellow ashram-ees chant a mantra before eating which I hum along to, hoping I’ll learn it a few meals along, and then I sit and wait and watch, looking for clues and trying to understand how things are done. The small team who support Gangutri serve the food onto large thali dishes placed at our feet, but don’t speak English. We converse with our eyes and smiles.
The feeling takes me straight back to my first foreign exchange at the age of 12, where everything felt so strange. I remember watching everything so closely, wanting to be able to communicate, to ask questions, tell jokes and make friends, knowing that one day it would all be so easy. The first day, just like today, was hard. And even though I am 25 years older, it doesn’t mean the mute and lost feeling is any less.
As the storm lessens and I am ready for lights out at 9pm, I feel some relief. I was meant to be doing ‘self-guided meditation’ from 8pm to 9pm, but given the Californian next door is still shouting down her mobile (to be honest I’m relieved she exists), I figure no one will mind if I write instead. Perhaps it’s not so strict here after all.
Now let’s just hope I make the 4am wake-up call.
