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 Netherlands

Debby, 18 March 2008
 Netherlands Den Haag

The lit path of a sick and un-chique seeker

My last week in India had not quite turned out as I had imagined it to be; instead of finishing this trip off with a great sense of bliss and developing a deeper body-mind relationship, I ended up with fever, dehydration and the only relationship I developed was with the toilet where I spent most of my time hunched over clutching my stomach trying to not let the groans escape over and under the door…
I was at Phool Chatti Ashram. Ellen and I visited this very peaceful cluster of buildings surrounding a courtyard filled with flowers, a temple, dogs Shiru and Lili and an orange clad Swami, 2 months previous when we walked 6 km up the Ganges river from Laxmanjhula, Rishikesh.
Back then I decided it would be the perfect place to spend my last week in India, at one of the scheduled one week yoga retreats lushly described in their colourful brochure, so I signed up pretty much then and there.

I arrived on the day the retreat was to start, paid and unpacked my bag in the room which was a lot like my room at the dhamma Sota center where I had done my Vipassana; small, basic, tidy and luckily next to the toilet which unfortunately, considering future events, was to be shared with other students…

We had a round of introductions when the course kicked off and began what the brochure promised would be a full 5 days of cleansing, pranayama breathing exercise, yoga asana practice, contemplative walks, chanting and noble silence up until after lunch! Wonderful!
There were a lot of Israeli’s in our group, young people carrying guitars and poi; a Japanese Sushi chef who unfortunately wouldn’t be able to teach me the tricks of the trade due to the vegetarian nature of the ashram; a beautiful African-American dancer/actress from New York with a wicked sense of humour, a skinny Canadian guy with his hair permanently in braids Native American style and the most piercing blue eyes; two female Russian fitness instructors one with what could only be ADHD and the rest a mix of British, German and Spanish.


Overall it was lovely; the setting of the ashram on the bank of the Ganges river with the beginnings of more fierce mountain ranges sloping up on all sides providing us with lush views in all shades of green; the noble silence, really only broken by the Russian ADHD girl, who soon gave up talking to me and others when she realised we would ignore her anyway, instead spraying her verbal fountain only in the direction of her very quiet friend; the practice of cleansing your nasal passages by pouring warm salted water up one nostril and letting it run out the other, along with whatever it encounters along the way…followed by pranayama breathing exercises, amongst other things designed to remove stale air out of the lungs we under-use and fill them with fresh air.
Unfortunately there was a huge language barrier, with the very basic English of our teacher and the overall equally basic English of the majority of the students. I feel a lot more could have been clarified had there been more instructions of the things we were doing, before we actually started doing them.
I mean: explain pranayama before you start the first session; explain the purpose of yoga. It appeared some people thought yoga was seeing how far you could stick your nose up your butt-cleavage but in fact, asana (the postures performed on the mat) are merely only part of yoga. Yoga means union. Union of body, mind, breath, spirit, the whole kit and caboodle. This kind of got lost in translation, or rather lack of explanation and I saw a lot of confusion and frustration building up on the smooth olive skinned faces of the Israeli’s.
Also, being a 200-hr qualified yoga teacher (I keep forgetting that about myself because having not kept up my asana practice as I should have, I am fairly stiff and not as strong as I could be…) I saw a lot of room for potential hazards in the form of injuries, since even the simplest basic instructions like ‘don’t twist your head to the side when you are in shoulder stand because you can damage your vertebrae’ were lacking.
Alternative postured were not given for the not so flexible, thighs were not being asked to be engaged/pulled up in the postures in order to prevent damage to the knees.
Due to this, the Russian girls started pretty much taking over the class on the afternoon of the second day, turning an Ashtanga class (Ashtanga yoga and the idea behind it was also not explained) into a fitness session, showing off their strength and flexibility by performing postures creating a longing and envy in the novice students, followed by a frenzy of giggling bodies trying to force themselves into similar positions…creating ego instead of letting go of it…
Yes, this annoyed me. The teacher didn’t intervene.
Anyway, I needn’t have worried because the next day nature intervened and caused me to carefully come out of my parivritta trikonasana and slink out of the yoga room not disturbing others to then run like hell to the loo!
I had no way of getting in touch with my doctor friends as the location of the ashram didn’t allow for mobile phone reception and the first few days I tried to cure myself with homeopathic pellets from the dancer’s travel kit.
But it only got worse and eventually I started antibiotics as I was anxious about travelling back to Delhi by train and then onward home the next night.
Once within mobile range following hurried goodbye’s and so-longs when the course was completed I sms’d my good friend and physician, Dr. Ghori in Dubai explaining my symptoms. ‘Stop the antibiotics you are on immediately and take ciprofloxacin and metronidazole! You have dysentery!’

Earlier that morning, during our closing fire-ceremony where we chanted the shiva chant 108 I remember telling myself not to get worried about the journey back on the train that night. It would all be ok. And it was. Miraculously I decided to leave Rishikesh slightly earlier than planned, figuring I would strategically position myself next to the toilets in the ladies waiting room at the station, and as I waited along the roadside preparing myself for a long debate with rickshaw drivers over the price of a ride to the train station in Haridwar, which I felt way too weak for, one pulled up beside me.
‘Haridwar?’ I looked in and saw a young couple, they told me to hop in.
Ronny and Uri came from Israel and were on their way to Delhi, also taking the Shatabdi express. To cut a long story short they ended up having the seats next to me! What are the chances of that happening! They were a blessing to have there and looked after me, offering me a blanket, since I had foolishly shoved mine in my backpack which was shoved behind several other backpacks and checking I was ok every now and then. They put me on a cycle rickshaw once I got to Paharganj around midnight and I never saw them again…my angels…

So that was that. The next night, feeling slightly better but completely depleted of energy since I had not taken any food for about 5 days, I was in a taxi on the way to the airport.
My plans of roaming Paharganj with my camera this last day, having a cappuccino and raspberry shortcake at Costa’s in Connaught Place, searching for the somehow very elusive hard to find Street Children’s project to donate some money on behalf of Ellen and a last Tabla lesson with Suchet, woosh...down the drain. I did manage to say my goodbyes at a jewellry shop owned by two young Kashmiri cousins.
'Hello! Come sit, have chai!'and 'You look terrible!' they greeted.
'No chai thank you' 'I am sick' I added, afraid of offending their generous offer of sipping the spicy Indian tea with them.
The more handsome cousin of the two leant over and flashed his perfect smile in my face: 'You are'"sick" or you are Christian?' ...and then burst out laughing, throwing his head back causing his long black locks to do a dance around his head. It took me a few seconds longer than it would normally have taken me, to get the joke...

At the airport I once again suffered through the worrying and trying on different faces and lines to use at the check-in counter in order for the person behind the counter not to notice my excess baggage. With the help of the amazing musician Suchet whom I met in Delhi, I purchased a set of Tabla drums, which alone weigh 10 kilo’s in it’s box…But I needn’t have bothered. The lady in front of me kicked up such a fuss about having to pay for HER extra luggage by about 40 kg’s that my extra 10 kg’s slipped through unnoticed as the attendant fiddled around with the ladies credit card.
In line for boarding I was once again confronted with the Indian tradition of elbowing your way to the front of lines, disregarding anybody that might have been standing there patiently for hours. I had trolley wheels run over my feet, laptop bags bruising my calves and toddlers appearing from between my legs, my wide stance (for balance in all the pushing and shoving) providing a great route for the under 2ft tall and giving the impression I was giving vertical birth to two year olds…
Once I would have gotten annoyed. Once I would have made a remark. This time I decided to shift my mindset to: ‘so be it’ and ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’, and I elbowed happily along with them. And guess what? I was one of the first ones on the bus taking us to the plane! And although in my mind I had already said goodbye to the Indian traffic - lacking rules and logic - when I’d stepped out of the taxi on the crowded and congested departures curb, I still got a bit of an encore as the bus pulled away from the terminal and almost collided with an Air France 4x4 vehicle, a Sky Chef catering truck and a truck with mobile stairs. The driver tooted his horn vigorously, wobbled his head and carried on without a blink…

On the plane I was sitting next to a fresh bride in a bright pink and blue salwar suite, burgundy and gold bangles up to her elbows, her hands covered in beautiful henna flowers.
It was, of course, an arranged marriage. ‘Where is your husband?’
‘Idli’. At first I thought she was referring to the small round breadlike savoury cakes you eat with chutney and sambar, Idli, but she meant of course, Italy.
‘Are you happy?’ I ventured.
‘He very nice man’. Good. I still can’t get over this arranged marriage thing, but maybe it isn’t such a bad thing after all…It would have been simple for my parents. My dad would have been satisfied with any guy up for a beer…

In front of me sat a Sikh. I love the Sikhs. They are just so straight and proud and the turbans give them a very distinguished look.
And the best thing about being a Sikh male is that, as you age, you take on the look of either a powerful wizard or a cute gnome, depending on posture, stature and physique. This due of course to the whitening beard which they all have since Sikhs do not cut their hair as part of their faith.
The best thing about this particular Sikh is that he didn’t move his chair back throughout the flight. Not once. First I thought he probably didn’t need to, his back ramrod straight…proud, but maybe he just didn’t know where the button was…

I didn’t really realise I was flying home. It seemed very surreal and removed. Until we landed in Milan and I was confronted with fashionable couples: men in Armani suits sporting sunglasses perched on perfect hairdo’s talking on flashy mobile phones, hand bending back and forth at the wrist, thumb touching fingertips in the ‘ma che cazzo dice!’style…and their slender women apparently poured into high heeled patent leather boots, skinny jeans and fashionable jackets with wide belts, large sunglasses hiding most of their face, but not enough to not show a mouth set simultaneously with boredom and impatience as they waited for their partners to finish their animated conversations.
I immediately felt a familiar pang of inferiority and insecurity at my own appearance: my hair hanging over my shoulder in what had been a neat braid 12 hours ago, tufts jumping out at all angles of my skull; my face red with the heat of the wind jacket and my too heavy bag on my back, yoga mat bag slung over my shoulder and my camera bag hanging off my belly. The remains of the effects of dysentery etched in my dehydrated skin and tired eyes.
Then I let that feeling go as soon as it came up and I became aware of it. I straightened my back as much as I could against the weight of my bags and smiled, all of a sudden feeling incredibly good about myself. I might not have had at that moment what it is that most people seem to crave in this world today, what seems to be so important to many: physical/outward appearance and good looks, material possessions, but damn, I was happy! I had just completed yet another leg of my incredible and baffling ‘journey’, of which I don’t even know the destination and I feel so fortunate and lucky! And looking around me at the droopy faces of the people waiting with me in line for the transfer security check, flashing glances of waiting-in-line rage, I must have been the only one feeling like that!
What comes around goes around. You create your own karma and you are what you radiate.
And I must have radiated something because a very nice looking security official who had just scrutinised the contents of my hand luggage on the screen in front of him, flashed me a flirty smile….and as I strutted off on my well worn, dusty Meindl hiking boots and met his eyes again, I flashed a flirty one back…

Hare OM!

Pictures from message

Gopal the tabla maker

chanting at the ashram

Delhi streetlife

Rajubaba of Rishikesh with his drawing

Ram Jhula

Temple worshipping

Suchet performing with Mystique

At the railway station

Paharganj main bazaar, Delhi

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