My Week Within
1.India
– a Beautiful Chaos
Mention
you’re going to India, and faster than you can say ‘poppadom’, someone will
roll out a story ending with the adage: you know what India stands for, don’t
you? To which you have no choice but to sigh and say, ‘yes, it stands for I’ll
Never Do It Again.’
In the past
twelve months I’ve visited the UK, France, Portugal, Singapore, Borneo,
Thailand, USA, Mexico and Cuba and not once have I had told a story that ends
in an acronym. What is it about India that urges people to dare you not to
enjoy it?
As a
consequence of the negative PR, I had little idea what to expect when I decided
that, ahead of a visit to the Osho Ashram in Pune, I’d spend a night in Mumbai.
Having departed Singapore at night, I awoke the next morning to the
announcement that we were due to land in 50 minutes, and braced myself for a
severe case of Place Lag: that feeling of having moved too quickly across
various cultures for your reasonable mind and emotional state to catch up. Some
trips highlight Place Lag much more than others: travelling from Germany to
Italy, or from Hong Kong to rural China, say. I have to state, I think dinner
in Singapore, breakfast in Mumbai might just win the golden statue for Place
Lag (trying to picture what that statue might look like, as an emblem for the
frankenchild of calm and chaos…)
Upon
disembarkation, Mumbai airport was calm. I cleared customs without issue, my
baggage was on time and I was able to withdraw cash with ease (unlike in Cuba!)
and book a prepaid air-conditioned taxi. I could have been anywhere in the
world, which is the mantra of most large city airports (with the exception of
Satan’s personal airport: Heathrow). The taxi was clean, and as advertised, air
conditioned and I was feeling the smug calm of a traveller who has been dealt a
flawless trip. And then we hit the Mumbai traffic. Imagine the love child of
the traffic of Rome and the traffic of New York, set in a muggy city with a
population greater than those two combined. There appears to be an etiquette
regarding the honking of horns, with signs on the back of trucks urging drivers
to do so, but I’m unable to fathom what this custom might be, as random as it
seems. Shanty towns the size of cities cluster under huge modern high rise
buildings. There are as many scooters and motorbikes as there are cars, with up
to four people on each (five was the record on my trip in – a whole family,
including what looked like a six-month old child wedged in between the mother
and the eldest brother). One scooter had two men and balanced between them:
three giant panes of glass. There are people everywhere, doing all manner of
things, from selling food, to sweeping streets, from sitting in the gutter
talking to buying lassi from a wobbly truck. By the time I arrived at the
hotel, which took over an hour, I had such sensory overload, I had to lie down.
Early this
year, I joined the Intercontinental’s Ambassador programme, which basically
means the hotel chain make an extra fuss over you, lavishing you with gifts and
a room upgrade. Since my elevation to this elite status, I’ve enjoyed an
ever-increasing range of perks, including a giant suite in Vegas, endless
bottles of liquor in Cancun and the best (complimentary) breakfast of my entire
existence in Bangkok. In Mumbai, as well as a room upgrade with a sea view, I
received something different: lavish attention. The hotel manager greeted me,
and within minutes we were sharing photos of our Royal Enfield motorbikes; the
concierge personally escorted me to my room and made sure I had every scrap of
information I could possibly need; my sea view suite was filled with flowers
and fruit. After three splendid cocktails on the roof top bar, watching the sun
set over Mumbai, I fell into a blissful sleep on (pre-ordered) feather pillows.
The next
morning, after a breakfast of Darjeeling and Idlis, I took a cab to Pune. Once
again, the sensory overload was intense. As we climbed a mountain, I counted
the number of overheated cars on the side of the road (14), the number of
people selling all manner of things amongst the traffic (22) and the number of
road signs that were actually obeyed (one – the stop sign). In three hours, I
was in Pune, and half an hour later, I was at the gates of the Osho
International Meditation Resort.
First, I
had my bags scanned. Then, I was taken to the Welcome Centre where I was
greeted by a man with a smile so beatific, he took the concept of welcoming to
a whole new level. After processing me, and announcing he will call me “Chris”,
I was led to a counter to exchange my money for vouchers, and then directed to
a shop to buy my robes. The process of choosing a robe was fairly
straightforward: I picked one that would cover my arms, rather than one of the
floaty, strappy ones favoured by much slimmer girls. That was that. Or so I
thought. Fifteen minutes in, I felt weird. Stripped of my identity, which is so
clearly tied up in my ‘style’, I felt anonymous. I realise that is the point of
any uniform, including the robes, but I felt much more bereft that I imagined,
and vowed to dress mine up with a funky belt, before being informed that this
was strictly verboten. Deflated, I went for lunch, which was delicious but
caused me to bloat to the point where I was actually glad of the waist-free robe.
photo courtesy of osho.com |
The rest of
the day was taken up with welcome inductions and ploughing through the
literature on the immense selection of courses available. Once more, sensory
overload led to napping. When I awoke, it was time for dinner and the evening
meditation. The ashram requires attendees to don white robes for the evening
meditation, which is because of their increased energy, or something. I have to
say, it was rather awesome, watching a mass of white robed people head to giant
pyramid to partake in a meditation given by a dead guru (via video, obviously).
I had no idea what to expect, despite having read the literature three times
over dinner.
Inside the
pyramid was a giant hall, with a cold marble floor that felt hard and
wonderfully cooling at the same time. We had been issued with mediation chairs,
which were bliss, and not having been given any further directions, I found a
place to sit, and just waited. Indian music commenced, and slowly people stood
up and started dancing. The vibe was really powerful and I was surprised how
quickly I got into the dancing, which was incredibly rhythmic. We were told, in
the literature, that this phase was about letting oneself go, and not looking
at, or focussing on, others. The nosy-parker journalist in me was utterly unable
to adhere to this, and I found myself watching with awe as an elderly man with
a long beard spun round and round, with ever increasing velocity, without
falling over once. Periodically, the music would stop and the room would bellow
out the word “osho” before commencing dancing again. After 15 minutes, and four
‘oshos’, people began taking their seats and a video of Osho, aka Bhagwan Shree
Rajneesh, began. I found the Bhagwan a very confusing speaker: on one hand he
is observant, playful and erudite, and on another he seems confused and waffly.
I realise it’s not my place to be judgy, and as I try and absorb what he’s
saying, I find I enjoy him more and more. Unfortunately, my throat doesn’t
agree, and the urge to cough becomes unbearable. We were warned in advance that
any coughing or sneezing would result in our having to leave the room, upon
hearing which my throat decided to become a rebel. After five minutes of
battling with it, I let out a short bark, which prompted the man next to me to
admonish me and tell me to go outside. I stared him down, with a whisper of
“I’m fine now, thank you.”
photo courtesy of osho.com |
After about
40 minutes, there was a sound of a drum, and the whole room started wittering
in gibberish. After my initial shock, I gave it a go, and couldn’t believe how
much I enjoyed it. It was incredibly liberating, and produced laughter from a
place I seldom access. After the gibberish, we froze, and remained in silence
for a few minutes, whereupon Osho said ‘let go’ and everyone fell to the floor.
I found myself in a terrible position, pressed against the cold floor with too
much pressure on one side of my face. I rode it out and once more the music
started, with clapping and increasing tempo, until everyone shouted ‘osho’ and
left their hands in the air in silence until the music recommenced. After four
‘oshos’ the music abruptly stopped, and people began filing out of the
auditorium and down the stairs of the pyramid like storybook ghosts.
I’m left
not sure how I’m feeling, but set an alarm ready for the six am meditation
tomorrow morning. Unlike the India of the naysayers, I will indeed do it again.
2. Osho
– the Non-Guru
Everything
hurts. I ache - but not as expected, in the heart or in the soul, or even in
the mind - I ache in my poor, underused body. Not since the Hoffman Process
have I used so many different parts of my body, and each and every one of them
is groaning at being suddenly yanked awake.
The morning
meditation - the 6am Dynamic Meditation – was, as advertised, dynamic. This is
the meditation for which Osho is the most famous, and certainly the one I’d
heard about pre-visit. It is claimed – by Osho - that westerners lack the
patience and inner calm for the intense meditations of the east; their lives
are not geared from childhood to sitting still, to patiently waiting, to calm
acceptance. As a result, he devised the dynamic meditation: one that focusses
as much on movement as it does on silence. Practised first thing in the
morning, the aim is to set you up for the day.
The first
stage is ten minutes of chaotic breathing through the nose (which they suggest
you blow first, lest we drown in each other’s bogeys). The aim of the breathing
is to build up energy, which is then released in stage two: exploding. Here,
you’re encourage to let everything go and behave like an escaped lunatic from a
Victorian asylum. There’s screaming, shouting, crying, laughing, even
yodelling. What surprised me was my own sounds – half way between a horror film
baddie and a really bad porn movie. Strangely guttural, my sounds reminded me
of childbirth, perhaps even a cow in childbirth. The point, though, is to let
go not analyse, which is always my sticking point with any meditation, with the
process becoming hijacked by my constant pondering on why I’m doing things in a
certain way. The third stage gives no space for analysis, as one must jump up
and down shouting ‘hoo! hoo!’ with every landing. This was a challenge for me,
as I certainly don’t have a figure made for jumping, and not having brought a
sports bra, had to adapt my jump, or spend the ‘hoo!’ holding on to my boobs. I
found a sort of heel banging that worked just fine.
The fourth
stage was a freeze, at which I cheated by not freezing when my hands were in
the air, knowing that the pose is to be held for fifteen minutes. Having found
a sturdy frozen position, I embraced the freeze, and even though my mind
wandered like a weed, I was able to bring it back to the present. The final
phase was a gentle dancing, which I really enjoyed, especially as the whole meditation
is conducted blindfolded, or with eyes closed, preventing me from a) seeing how
ridiculous I look b) comparing myself to the less ridiculous unfavourably.
The dynamic
meditation lasts exactly an hour, after which we were released into the day,
with the sun having risen, and the prospect of breakfast a firm reality. I was
immediately surprised by how calm and present I felt, considering the mania of
the meditation. I was aware of myself and my movements, and perfectly content
with them.
photo courtesy of osho.com |
After
breakfast came the welcome meeting, which is an in-depth induction for the
newbies. Our group consisted of me; a very enthusiastic and kind faced German
girl who had fallen in love with India and was mid internship in Pune; a
beautiful lady from the Tamil region; an American man from California; a young
man who appeared to be Indian, but arrived late and thus missed the intros; and
two middle aged Indian men, one of whom spoke no English but appeared to grasp
everything just fine. We were led to a room where we formed a circle and were
told we were each going to dance, for the group, to music specific to our own
country, which is my worst fear personified. I would rather crawl through
quicksand infested with cockroaches than dance in front of other people, but I
was thrown in at the deep end, and before I could formulate a bolt, the
familiar strains of Land Down Under commenced and I had no choice but to go
with it. Each country of the group was represented, with each person from that
country leading the dance. What I learned was that no-one gives a fuck about
how badly other people dance, and that Indian dancing is the coolest thing
since lassi.
Ritual
humiliation complete, we were then walked through the various mediations and general
rules of the retreat. I booked in a few courses and massages, had lunch and
then found time for a nap ahead of dinner and the evening meeting. Dinner saw
me throw caution to my Indian-incompatible FODMAP diet, where I ordered Masala
dosa, which is a giant crepe type (wheat based) delight, stuffed with potatoes
and (FODMAP unfriendly) onions, with a coconut dip. It was pure bliss, and I
once again gave thanks to the all-forgiving, waistbandless robes.
The evening
meeting started off as a challenge, due to my creaky, achy body. I commenced
the dancing slowly and found a new way of getting into the rhythm (as much as
someone like me can) without exerting too much stress on the muscles. After
fifteen minutes, I was glad when the sitting part came, and found the
meditation part much easier than last night.
The Osho
video was incredibly interesting, and struck a major chord with many thoughts
I’d had in the past. The premise was that belief, and blind faith, are
self-defeating and limiting. That to believe in religion, for an example, is to
sell oneself terribly short. Osho went on to denounce all religions, and to
claim that the best way to liberate oneself is to free oneself from doctrine
and belief and live a life of intense experience. These are thoughts I’d had,
but never really articulated, that resonated with me in a big way. The idea of
claiming my own flawed, but fully owned, individuality made sense naturally, in
a part of me I’ve come to know and claim. I realised there and then that by
declaring this as a wish for the attendees of his (original) commune, Osho was
in fact a non-guru: by his very nature he was asking that each Sanyasin find
their own experience, and embrace that as a way of living, rather than
following a doctrine laid down by him. This certainly explains why his lectures
are often contradictory as well as strangely disjointed and playful.
Osho went
on to implore us to live completely, intensely and mindfully, and that in
living a complete and full live, we can meet death with the same fervour. As
someone who’s been troubled by death, due to a lack of blind faith, this was a
soothing concept. As the gibberish stage commenced, I felt liberated and
present, as I did through all the stages of the evening meditation.
It’s only
when I attempted to stand up did I realise that for, perhaps the first time
ever, my spiritual state outranked my physical state (largely because I’ve been
bereft of a spiritual state, not because I’ve ever been in good physical
condition). As I limped back to the guest house, I realised that whatever had
led me here was opening up to me, and certainly worth more exploration - after
a few Ibuprofen and a good night’s sleep.
3.
Looking in; Becoming a Watcher
When the
alarm went off at 5.30am, I felt like I’d been in a fight. As a dragged my
weary carcass out of bed and into my Handmaid’s Tale-esque robe, I nearly
rolled right back in. I don’t know what stopped me, but somehow I managed to
hobble to the pyramid and up the stairs for the dynamic meditation.
As soon as
the music began and the snotty breathing commenced, I felt lighter. By the time
we were in the second stage – going mad – I was in my element, screaming like a
banshee and experimenting with my voice. There is absolutely nothing like being
able to let go in a room full of screamers, wailers and howlers; no one is
listening and your own noise is just thrown into the cacophony. I have never
let myself just rip like that before and it was utterly liberating. The ‘hoo’
stage was particularly challenging this morning, due to the aches, but I found
a groove and went for it. I left the meditation feeling stoned, unlike the
morning before where I felt a calm invigoration. After a massive breakfast, I
fell asleep on my bed, on top of the covers.
After the
dancing, drenched in sweat, we took a seat on those amazing meditation chairs
I’ve come to love, and Beatific Smile got straight into the seminar. The first
section was on stress, and almost immediately we were asked to pair up and
decide who would be A and who would be B. As everyone seemed to know each other
(you can tell by the length of the hugs given. One girl gave Beatific Smile a
hug so intense, I was certain they’d had sex that very morning) I waited for
someone to pick me. I was chosen by Paresh, from Jaipur, who asked me to be A.
I commenced with my long monologue of stress, after which he said, “it sounds
like you have been very lucky in life.” As I awaited his turn, I anticipated a
story of misery and hardship, which would put my middle class white lady life
to shame, but in fact Paresh is a successful businessman who had very similar
stresses to me. When he commented on my life, he meant so without judgement. It
suddenly became clear to me how much I needed this course.
photo courtesy of osho.com |
The next
section was about awareness. Osho spent a great deal of his talks teaching
awareness, as he was of the belief that other teachers had it all wrong. To
expect students to simply be able to meditate was absurd; to be told to simply
sit and clear the mind and not accept thoughts, ridiculous. Osho teaches that
one must begin with the small things: being aware of the natural pattern of
breathing, understanding that the function of the mind is to produce thoughts,
and so when they come, it’s just the mind doing its job, and to observe that is
part of the process. We conducted some exercises in awareness, including
walking around being mindful of our selves, drinking water consciously and
sitting down and observing our inner selves. Osho claims we spend so much time
looking outside of ourselves, that it is a lifelong practice in learning to
look in.
The next
stage was the most valuable to me: personal responsibility. Here, we listened
to Osho tell us how we are only responsible for ourselves. No one is worth more
or less than anyone else, but no one is the same, either. We are all unique
individuals, and it’s our life’s work to own and embrace our own selves. Our
experience brings us closer to knowing ourselves; in taking responsibility for
ourselves we are true. Judging others comes from insecurity; if you take
responsibility for yourself acceptance will replace judgement. We were again
asked to split off into pairs and were given a series of exercises to
demonstrate this: this time I was a passive listener, while Paresh first spoke
to me with stress, then with anger, then with manipulation and finally with the
straight forward facts. The message was that we are not responsible for other
people’s stresses and angers and do not have to absorb them or use them to
allow us to become defensive. Everything everyone does is about them;
everything I do is about me. Three years of psychotherapy had prepared me for
this, but there was nothing like having someone shout in your face while you
stand there passively observing to teach you that another person’s anger is
really very much about them.
After lunch
(where we were challenged to remain as watchers of ourselves) we continued with
more exercises highlighting the importance of communicating our true selves and
not our unfettered emotions. We were asked to write an angry text to a loved
one, but not send it. We were then told to close our eyes, relax and take a
huge breath out, and then reread, and if necessary, modify the text. Amazingly,
the anger had disappeared and been replaced by the reasonable negotiator I know
I can be (and sometimes am!) It was fascinating to watch anger evaporate and
become replaced by forgiveness and calm. It became clear that I don’t need to
justify myself to anyone else’s anger and as a consequence, I felt strong and
proud. I’ve always suspected that we can’t change others, only ourselves, and
these exercises illustrated this perfectly.
In summary,
I learned that the more aware of, and responsible for, oneself a person is, the
more they are protected from the toxicity of others and are open to compassion
and forgiveness. While we are far from saints or beacons of patience, we only need
to take a deep breath and a mental step back in order to retain our own
personal integrity.
The course
concluded with lots of hugging (for the others; we were told on our induction
day that if we’re not comfortable with it, it’s perfectly fine to refuse it. I
am not yet comfortable with it, although I did hug Parrish, the man who shouted
in my face, and Sparth, the girl with whom I had to fake an argument). As an
extension of the course, we were invited to the Kundalini meditation, which
began straight away. Having arrived a little late, I missed the instructions,
and failed to bring a blindfold, but managed to get along by watching others.
The first stage involved shaking, which started slowly and lightly and
concluded by appearing to be in the mid stages of an elliptic seizure. I found
getting into this state very natural, and there’s a lot of me to shake; I found
the wobbling of flesh very therapeutic and the 15 minutes of shaking, followed
by the 15 minutes of dancing, went fast. However, I misread the next 15
minutes, and laid down instead of taking a seat. By the time the following 15
minutes arrived – which was of course, lying down – my back was agony and I
could barely keep still on the cold marble floor. After the session was over, I
hobbled to dinner like a little old lady. Top tip: read about the meditation
before attending.
I prepared
myself for the evening meeting by taking a pillow and a chair, and found a
method of dancing that allowed for my new old lady look. The talk was very
funny, and also very on point, being about owning yourself and not looking to
others for validation. Osho was in a jokey mood, telling stories about spiders
eating each other after mating, and a blue joke about flowers, sex and a vase.
Feeling tired but invigorated, I hobbled out before the gibberish and fell
asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, at nine pm exactly.
4. Zen
Massage and the Feeling of Existence
You Cannot Step in the Same River Twice
That hour
of sleep was sorely missed when the alarm went off at 5.30am, but I observed
with pleasure that my body is no longer aching. Dynamic was fabulous this
morning, especially the ‘mad’ stage, which I’m really embodying. The still
stage was still agony; the first ten minutes are fine, but the last five are excruciating.
Walking to breakfast with Paresh, we continued our discussion on poverty, and
he asked about Australia’s criminal background, which was interesting to
discuss with a person from such a different culture. I also mentioned the
‘White Australia Policy’ which is another blot on our history. He asked me if
Australia is racist, which would have been such an impossible question for me
to answer pre-Graeme. Now I can attest it is, but surely it’s not as bad as it
used to be?
After
breakfast, I caught up on my missed sleep before heading out for my bliss
massage. I was introduced to Khalwati, who had originally emigrated from Japan,
but had lived on the ashram for over five years, leaving every six months to
renew her visa. Khalwati’s bliss massage was like nothing I’ve ever
experienced. As a veteran of Thai massage, I had forgotten there are other
massage styles in existence. It was a real pleasure to receive a massage from a
masseuse who so obviously cares about her work. It was so intuitive and kind. After
a lengthy hug, she asked me to remain in silence for the next hour, and I
floated out to the Zorba café and had a blissfully silent lunch of beans and
rice, alone and totally content, watching the others chat and mindfully
enjoying my food. I felt so calm, so content. I could feel my existence in a
whole new way.
photo courtesy of osho.com |
I decided
to make a trip Outside, to get some cash. On the road, I met a man selling
maps. He had pretty good English for a peasant, so I should have taken him as a
hustler, but he was polite, and intelligent and asked for money ‘without
begging’ (his words) before offering me marijuana, which I declined, it being
illegal in India, and with me standing on the street in maroon robes, more
obvious than a man with no nose. He offered to help me cross the road, and as I
thanked him, I told him I was a well-travelled woman who had crossed many
roads. Only after I said it, and was crossing the road to the bank, did I
realise I’m now speaking in metaphors!
On my way
back for Kundalini, eating a samosa, which is my favourite Indian snack du
jour, I realised how at ease I feel here; more so than China, more so than
Cuba, maybe as much as I do in the USA, or Thailand. There’s something about
the beautiful chaos that just makes sense to me, and it was with that feeling I
commenced the shaking stage of Kundalini, becoming so absorbed in it, I was
surprised when the 15 minutes was up. I loved the slow dancing, too, and so was
disappointed when my rebel cough emerged in the sitting phase, forcing me to
leave.
I decided
to use the quiet time to read the book I’d bought today at the Osho bookshop
(the whole shop dedicated to books by and about Osho) – The Art of Dying. What a mind blowing book, striking a chord with
so many things I have felt but not articulated. The idea that like day and
night, man and woman, black and white, is life and death: there is no one
without the other. To have a great death it is necessary to have a fully lived
life, for which only you are responsible. The Western idea of death (the heart
has stopped, the breath has ceased) is not in line with Osho’s concept of
death, which is that because we are not the heart and not the breath, merely
the body and mind have stopped; we are consciousness, and there is no proof at
all that that does not exist after a physical death. We cannot know, of course,
and if it doesn’t, well, having lived an intense and splendid life is still
going to make death less fearful, as fear is caused by regret.
So
enjoyable was the book, I stopped on page 60, taking it Outside with me and to
have dinner alone (or in the companionship of death). I found a splendid café -
buzzing with young people - which turned out to be vegan. I had a delicious
dinner of soba noodles and veggies followed by jasmine green tea and homemade
French dark chocolate truffles, which I enjoyed slowly, only reading between
intervals to see if I could be mindful of eating. The more delicious the food,
the easier it seems to be. As I walked home, I could hear a live band sing
James Blunt’s You’re Beautiful in Hindi, which I actually preferred to the
original version. I felt happy, peaceful and excited as I navigated the wobbly
pavements, back to the very unwobbly ashram. As Khalwati said today, “it’s not
India in here; it’s its own world entirely.”
5.
Chakras, Tarot and Cosmic Snakes and Ladders
Having
fallen asleep at nine pm, I was surprised to be woken by my alarm at 5.30am.
I’d slept straight through. I felt calm, and my body aches had largely
disappeared. I made my way to the pyramid like a new person.
This
dynamic meditation was the best yet. I got into the groove of the snotty
breathing, which is deep and non-rhythmical and was in my utter element once
again in the mad phase, truly finding my voice across a much larger range and
scale than I could have possibly imagined, and only slightly distracted by the
man next to me who gave an eerily accurate impression of a sheep. The ‘hoo’ was
still hard, but easier than yesterday, but the holding still was much harder
(I’d been caught with my arms uppish) and I broke about one minute before the
end. But, as I learned yesterday, there’s no point in guilt, so I simply
accepted it and moved on to the dancing. I felt magnificent, and had my usual
hearty breakfast of granola, almond milk and a hard-boiled egg.
At 10.30, I
had a Tathata Zen Tarot reading. I had no idea what this was, but thought it
sounded interesting. My reader was an older gentleman from Brazil, who asked me
to hold his hand as we walked to his room. I’m not kidding, I could actually
feel the energy coming out of his hand and into mine. His room was in a new
part of the ashram I’d not yet explored, which looked very mysterious and
pyramid-shaped and was obviously the place for groups not listed on the formal
agenda, judging by the screaming and howling. The room contained a giant
elevated cushion, upon which was laid a giant plastic sheet with what looked
like a cosmic game of snakes and ladders, containing dice, four different types
of cards, crystals and a very small rose quartz ball. I was very comfortable
with my reader Goloka, and as he asked me to pick up the dice and throw them on
the board, I felt perfectly at ease. He explained that I am more feminine than
masculine, and that I have a tremendous female energy, but also a very earthy
side. He asked me to place the dice on the chakras, and then moved them across
the snakes and ladders board. I hit two huge ladders and he exclaimed, ‘wow,
you’re straight to the top. You’re an incredibly lucky and fortunate person,
you really can do whatever you want.’
He then
asked me to draw a card, and once again exclaimed how fortunate I was, and that
how this card was a very powerful symbol of spiritual growth. He told me I was
in a great place after much upheaval and that I had many connections with
Osho’s people and I would be back, perhaps even to take Sannyas. He proceeded
to tell me over and over that I am in the best place I have ever been in my
life, and that I must take care of my body, because it is the door to my being,
which carries much joy. He repeated that this was an incredibly powerful
reading, and that I have great times ahead, but that I must be kinder to
myself, especially my feminine side. I felt very buzzy throughout the whole
reading, and it was over in a blink (even though it was a full hour). At the
end, he ‘read my chakras’ which meant lying down while he moved a crystal over
me, whilst exclaiming, ‘wow, what energy! My, what a big powerful heart!’ He
concluded with a giant hug, and I floated out of the reading as if by magic
carpet, buzzing with an unfamiliar energy, that didn’t wear off until naptime.
At lunch, I
decided to remain alone and enjoy the buzzing energy, when I began to notice
lots of people at the ashram looked exactly like other people I know. I saw my
mum (the image of her!) Adam’s dad (about seven times, in seven different
people) an Indian JimBax, Chopper Richard, an old lady from the coffee shop in
Manly and a girl who looked like a grown up version of Graeme’s daughter Ivy.
Maybe it was a sign that I am among my people…
After
lunch, I had some sad news about an aviation colleague, a female flying
instructor I admire very much. She, along with a favourite client of mine from
Cirrus, had been severely injured in an incident after take-off and was in a coma.
I skipped Kundalini and reflected on how strange and random the world is.
I realised
I was supposed to meet Paresh at Kundalini, so waited outside as the maroon
robes descended the steps. I told him I very much needed a beer, and we agreed
to meet halfway through the evening meeting.
Forgetting
the gates are closed during the evening meeting, we each had to charm our way
out of our respective gates. Having managed that, we hopped in an ‘auto’ (a
motorbike driven rickshaw) and headed to the city centre, where I had my first
Indian experience of beggars. We found a restaurant that was heaving, and I let
Paresh take care of the ordering, which resulted in lots of seafood, all of it
delicious. We spent the evening comparing cultures, whereupon Paresh asked me
how many countries I’d visited. A quick tally came to 31, which utterly amazed
him. He pledged there and then he would too travel (his daughter is a
competitive shot-putter who has won a scholarship to a university in Texas,
prompting a conversation about how important it is that are children are
broader and more adventurous than their parents). It was a fascinating evening,
where I learnt so much about India, concluding in a debate about poverty and
whether everyone has an equal chance in life (they don’t, regardless of
Paresh’s arguments). Home in bed by ten thirty, I may lose an hour of sleep,
but I gained an insight into India I simply would have not had, had I stayed
within the walls of the ashram.
6.
Quinoa, Chakras and Cointreaupolitans
For the
first time since I’ve been here, I woke up before the alarm. Just ten minutes
before, but I was alert, awake and ready for dynamic meditation. As I was
walking to the pyramid, I heard birds that sounded like monkeys, and when I
stopped to listen, I realised they were saying ‘hoo! Hoo!” just like I would be
in fifteen minute’s time.
It was a
great meditation this morning, full of energy, the type of energy that leaves
you open to anything. Paresh and I went for breakfast at the vegan restaurant
next door, where I tried quinoa and broccoli (for breakfast!) along with a
coconut and matcha smoothie bowl and quinoa oatmeal pancakes. If the old me
could see me now, she’d walk straight past me! Paresh talked me to attending
the chakra sounds meditation instead of taking my morning nap, so we headed
straight there to find out what it was about. I have to admit, before the
session, I had no idea where my chakras were; luckily there was a demonstration
video ahead of the meditation, which highlighted the seven chakras in a
diagram. The meditation started with a low hum, from the lowest chakra (at your
genitals!) which went on for around two minutes before switching to the next
pitch up for the next chakra (just below the belly button) and moving up a
pitch per chakra until you reach the crown of the head, whereupon you descend
again. The whole movement is conducted three times, and then you lie in peace
for fifteen minutes (with a sore throat, if you’re me). Interestingly, people
started falling asleep, and the sounds of snoring and farting kept me
entertained whenever my mind wandered.
After the
meditation, Paresh wanted to attend the dance ceremony, but I declared it too
hot to dance, so decided upon a swim. Having a love/hate relationship with the
water (I loathe being wet or cold, but love the feeling of floating almost as
much as I love the feeling of flying) I was pleasantly surprised to find the
pool both empty and at a perfect temperature. I had a magnificent float for
around half an hour, when Paresh turned up, announcing he cannot swim. Having
never met a grown man who can’t swim, I expressed my surprise and Paresh
explained it’s not uncommon in India, especially for those who grew up in the
country. I think I may have dented his ego, as he became determined to float
(but, like a lot of men, I suspect he is a sinker) before mastering the art of
kicking and flailing enough to swim a width or two, which I applauded heartily
(meditation retreat or not, all men have their pride!)
photo courtesy of osho.com |
After my
blissful nap, it was Kundalini time, where I noticed on the shaking stage that
there is less of me to shake; not much
less, but less nonetheless. Kundalini was followed by the evening meeting,
which was Osho’s splendid discourse on psychology, which I will not repeat
here, suffice to say it was amusing, erudite and on point with many things I
had, once again, thought but never articulated. The main take out from the
meeting was that our bodies are truly amazing, and work perfectly without our
minds interfering – in fact Osho pointed out it’s a good job it’s not up to us
to take care of our own breathing, that our body does it for us, for we would
surely become distracted, forget to breathe and die. It made me realise I
really do need to take care of this body of mine, because it really is the only
one I have.
Following
the meeting, Paresh and I went to a bar for dinner, where we had lots of prawns
and I had two Coitreaupolitians. The bar was a fine example of youth anywhere
in the world: interesting, witty décor, an old school DJ (who played all the
stuff I love: Led Zeppelin, Guns n Roses, Jimi, etc), and lots and lots of
youth, young enough to be my kids. Nevertheless, it was splendid to be Outside
for a bit, making me aware that tomorrow is my last proper day, and becoming accustomed
to The Outside will soon become a necessity.
7.The
Answers are in the Silence
Have you
ever wondered about the people you pass on the street? Ever considered what
would happen if a crisis threw you together, perhaps being held hostage, or stuck
in a lift? Have you ever thought that you may have walked past a potential best
friend, lover or life-long partner? That on every street corner, there is a
person you could know, who could enrich your life, and you theirs?
My best
friend from childhood and I were thrown together by birth and proximity; born
six weeks apart, we grew up on the same street and have remained best friends
since, despite the twists and turns in our lives placing us on either side of
the world. My ex-husband and I met in a pub that neither of us wanted to go to
that night, having been dragged along by a friend, and realising we had walked
past each other, and noticed each other, on several occasions beforehand. My
boyfriend and I met in group therapy in Bryon Bay, even though we live only one
suburb away from each other in Sydney. How many people have I not met who could
be meaningful to me?
I was
wondering about this, as I looked around the room of maroon robes, curious to
know why I became friends with Paresh, and no one else during my week here. Had
we not be on the same course, we perhaps would have never spoken. I wondered
how many of the people standing in this room, about to commence the snotty
sniffing, might have been potential friends, and whether an ashram is a place to
meet people, when you’re so absorbed in trying to meet yourself. Unfortunately,
my pondering was hijacked by my first attack of ‘Delhi belly’ and I was forced
to leave as my stomach began impersonating a whale, just five minutes into the
silent meditation stage. Having made it back to my room in the nick of time, I
passed out on the bed to strange feverish dreams. When I woke up, nearly three
hours later, I felt fine. Perhaps because everything moves quickly in India,
the bugs do too.
photo courtesy of osho.com |
On my way
to my massage, I bumped into Paresh, on his way out of a tarot reading with
Goloka. We agreed to meet for lunch and then I had a massage so blissful, not
only did I fall asleep, but I woke up in my own dribble.
Lunch, at
the vegan café again, was splendid (I’m saying this about a quinoa biryani!)
where I expressed my fears to Parrish about leaving and re-joining the Outside.
With typical equanimity, he assured me that the meditation was inside and would
go with me where ever I went. After he left, I googled Osho groups in Sydney as
a back-up.
Strolling
back from lunch, a lady ran out of the bookshop, and asked me to come in.
Perplexed by her actions, but believing there is perhaps a bond amongst
booksellers, I went in to discover I’d been overcharged on my last visit, by,
as it turns out, Osho’s brother (the man who looks like JimBax). I spent a
happy half an hour choosing extra books with the money I’d ‘saved’.
At
Kundalini, I heard a voice inside me declare, ‘the answers are in the silence’.
In the sitting phase, I allowed my mind to wander to some simple questions, and
the answers were, indeed, in the silence. Simple things like do I take my
flight to Mumbai tomorrow, or go with Paresh in his friend’s car? Answer:
Paresh. You have too much luggage to bother with an internal flight. When will
I find my perfect house. Answer: when you are patient. How can Graeme make his
one-bedroom flat work for Mason too? Answer: an image of exactly how that could
work. I’m not sure if this cosmic Q&A is the tenet of meditation, but I
think it might be teaching me to look within for the answers, because they are
right there, inside me. In the fourth phase, lying down and listening to the
farting and snoring, it dawned on me that I have a habit of making up slightly
unkind names for strangers. Since I’ve been here I’ve encountered She Who Talks
to Trees, The Man with the Sleeve Tattoo, The Man Who Bleats Like a Goat, The
Waxen Man Who is Dying of Cancer, Indian Uncle Fester, She Who Says “hoo-ah” in
Place of ‘hoo!’ (I call her ‘Hoo-ah” for short) and Alex Who Looks Like He
Should Be Called Nick. It dawned on me that this is maybe why I don’t make
friends easily. Perhaps just as people subconsciously know they’re being
watched, they subconsciously know they are being named.
I decided
to have an evening of quiet reflection, and took my book to a local restaurant,
spending the evening in the company of one of the wittiest and erudite men in
India: Osho.
As I
chortled through the chapters (a funny book on the art of dying!) I received a
text from Paresh, saying he’d like to keep me company. Already two glasses in
when he arrived, we fell into a confessional conversation about our lives,
which was the perfect ending to an intense week.
After
Paresh walked me home, I gave thanks to whatever it was that brought me here –
be it an instinct, an urge or a coincidence - to this country I felt ambiguity
towards, but ended up loving, for reasons I don’t have to understand, just
simply accept.
8.The
Outside
The next
morning started like any other, with a five thirty am alarm for dynamic. Aware
this was to be my last dynamic, I gave it my all, which is rather the point of
dynamic. It was a wonderful session, which I followed with my customary nap and
then breakfast. I had breakfast alone at the vegan café, remembering to eat
with mindfulness, and then slowly walked back to the ashram to pack. As ever,
my luggage appeared to have reproduced, with me having acquired a guard for my
Royal Enfield and a meditation chair.
Paresh
offered me a lift to Mumbai, where he was heading with his friend Kamal for a
meeting. After squeezing my excessive luggage in the back, I snuggled down for
the three hour visual extravaganza that is any car trip in India, listening to
Hindi radio and eating giant lychee purchased from a roadside lychee wallah.
Halfway through the trip, Paresh asked me to play a typical western song. I
chose Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, and enjoyed a rare moment of observing someone
have a virgin experience to the west’s most diversely famous song.
All too
soon, we were over the mountain, past the overheated cars, fruit wallahs and
colourful trucks (with one man asleep in the rear of the truck, perched on the
edge next to the goods, held on by a rope around his hand). I saw an enormous
train, with passengers riding on the outside of the carriages, a field full of
running pigs and a giant statue of Ganesh. Suddenly, we pulled over at a layby,
and Paresh informed me this was my spot. He called an Uber and amongst the
street vendors and a herd of Brahmin cows, we said goodbye. He seemed quiet,
and a little distant, and I wondered whether our conversation of the night
before was haunting him a little.
Within
thirty minutes, I was at the glitzy airport that is Chhatrapati Shivaji International, four hours too early to
check in. I settled into a café, sampled vadas and an Indian take on the
mojito, and settled in to text G, while watching the passersby navigate the
large airport and their mountains of luggage.
With four hours to reflect, and
three mojitos to bring my emotions to the surface, I felt a mixture of calm
content and sadness. A week in Osho’s ashram had not been enough; it had opened
a tiny tap in me that had started dripping, but I had wanted to stay to feel it
gush, maybe even flood. As a typical bolter, I always find the answers to my
questions on trips that take me away from home, and then I struggle to
integrate what I have learned with the life I live. I knew already that this
would be the case with my experience in India; that living in an ashram, only
having to take care of your spiritual needs, while food, clothing and residence
is provided, was going to be much easier than integrating my spiritual self at
home. But, I wanted to try. I had no idea how, but I wanted to give it a go, before
I forgot everything I had felt and experienced, and turned back into my manic
western self.
9. The Outside, Part Two,
Singapore
International airports act as
travel bubbles, cushioning the traveller from the harsh contrasts of different
cultures. Thus, I was able to leave Mumbai, and purchase tea, incense and spices,
and wake up in Singapore and visit the SilverKris lounge for a shower, while in
a hermetically sealed pouch. The change only comes when you step outside and
notice that the temperature, the weather, the air quality and the noise level
has altered dramatically.
I had decided to break up my trip
and visit a friend in Singers before heading back to Sydney. As I’ve said
before, there’s no bigger contrast than Mumbai to Singapore, and as my elderly
and polite Singaporean Chinese driver drove me to my friend’s house in his
immaculate taxi, I observed the beautiful flowers and the carefully clean
roads, pavements, street signs and shops that is Sanitised Singers, bemoaning
the lack of street wallahs crouched in every space, cooking, playing cricket on
the streets and raising whole families in lean-tos no bigger than the average
western pantry. I felt strangely wary of this clean new world, and missed the
beautiful chaos of India.
Having had a wonderful afternoon
with my friend and her children, I took another taxi to the airport, having a
vigorous conversation with a very curious taxi driver. Back at the airport,
back in the bubble, I noticed Liberal MP and Foreign Affairs Minister Julie
Bishop sitting in front of me. I tried not to take it as an omen for my return
to the west. Despite being in the very lap of luxury, I felt sad. Even the
cheese board failed to cheer me. I missed my robes, I missed paying for my
meals with a cardboard ticket and I missed the call of the birds that sounded
like monkeys. I know it’s ok to grieve, but I was afraid that soon, I would
miss my self.
After having succumbed to the
cheese, I flipped my seat into a bed and slept until Sydney. I landed on a drab
day, with my hermetic bubble protecting me from the exterior changes through
customs, baggage and quarantine. I arrived to the face of my very handsome
boyfriend who’d leapt out of bed at 5.30 am, not for a dynamic meditation, but
to pick up his lady-traveller from the airport on the first day of winter.
As I loaded my meditation chair
into the back seat of the world’s smallest car and I began to wonder if I would
ever use it again, I heard a voice from inside say, ‘meditation is not in a
chair; it is in you.’
LOVE this! what a fabulous opportunity you have had at this place and absolutely YES you have it all inside with you now wherever you go! Thank you for giving us a glimpse into the world of Osho, and yourself! Cheers from Sweers, lyn :-)
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