A Direction Home

Maria and I had been in the Agama Yoga course for almost two weeks by the time Mike got back from trekking in the Himalayas. "You should definately come to our yoga class tomorrow, it's amazing!" we both told him. "Eh ... we'll see what happens" Mike answered in his typical non-commital, non-attached manner of speaking.

Two days later Maria and I decided to set an intention to take their Advanced 500 Hour Yoga Teacher Training Course in Thailand next January. Mike's experiences over the last few days had him sold, he was planning on heading to Dharamsala to continue with the 2nd month of their training. But after one more day the world flipped again. Maria decided there was no point in putting it off, her other travels could wait, she was signing up to take the course that started in May, just over a month away. Mike decided to forget wandering around India for a while, put off the Vipassana retreat, and fly to Thailand to continue studying at Agama's main school for an undetermined amount of time.

I however, was still flying back to the US in 3 weeks. Still planning on making to to Thailand in January for additional training. But first I allowed myself to dream a bit first. I imagined it vividly. I could fly to Thailand and just keep developing my practice. The curiculum at Agama offered an amazing amount of depth, 13 months of training in Hatha Yoga, followed by another 12 months in Kundalini yoga, followed by 2 month of training on each of the first 6 chakras, culminating in a 4 month training on sahasara, the crown chakra. Then the advanced levels began. You could basically spend the next 10 years of so developing you practice, following this tantric path wherever it lead.

The school is at Koh Panang ... the infamous spot of the Full Moon Parties in Thailand. Where once a month the south side of the island was overrun hooligans from around the world, tripping in shrooms and ecstacy, drinking alcohol out of buckets, dancing to techno music and partying the night away. At the Agama school however, every full moon is celebrated with a group meditation. Student come from around the world to practice, to teach, to study.

Our instructor Khush told us about the cottages you can rent right on the beach. 150 Baht a night would get you a bed, mosquito net, a hose and a bucket ... all I would need for the forseeable future. He told us about where you can buy a cheap scooter to get around town. I already knew about thai cuisine, knew enough thai from my trip last year to get around. It wouldn't be hard.

I would spend my days studying yoga, practicing 4-5 hours a day. The mornings swimming, watching the sunrise. On weekends and days off I could take little trips to Krabi to go rock-climbing, finally go visit my buddy Hetal in Cambodia. I would eat spicy curries and fresh seafood. Life would be grand. I would meet amazing people from all over the world, and we would figure out how to solve all the problems of humanity over fresh fruit smoothies and brown rice and tofu.

But I knew it was all just a day dream. Mike and Maria are a different spot than me. They left behind what they needed to in the US, are happily floating along the sea of life. I made sure to keep myself somewhat tethered back to a place I call home. I think about the friends with whom to reconnect. Playing with my nephews. Mending the fences that were left bruised and battered. Siezing the opportunity to serve at that special place in San Diego that jumped in my lap. And most exiting of all, the as-of-yet unknown possiblities of what is is to come. Thailand and all it entails will be there for me when I am ready. May 7th, the journey home begins.

When the Student is Ready, a Teacher will Appear

One of my main motivations in coming to India for such an extended trip was to train and deepen my yoga practice. I had founded my yoga practice in San Diego, and while I felt blessed to have been learned so much from so many wonderful teachers, but I knew there was more knowledge out there. At times the classes and workshops I attended seemed like mere social gatherings. Many practitioners were so obsessed with their flexibility and depth of their asanas that they seemed to have forgotten that yoga is a means to connect with The Divine. Sure, partially I wanted to study in the birthplace of yoga, and of my parents, to see how it was actually practiced in its native context.

I decided before I left not to worry about where or how I would train, that the Universe would put me in the right spot at the right time and all would be clear. But Rishikesh, the self-proclaimed World Capital of Yoga, was very high on the list of possibilities. My first full day there I walked randomly, examining the posters splayed all over the city streets. I asked everyone I met with a yoga mat where they were practicing, what they thought. I stopped into a few ashrams and examined their schedule of classes. It didn't take long to become overwhelmed with the options, all the different styles of practices.

I sat with the head yoga teacher at the Vedanta Ashram and asked about his classes. "You see many people these days want to take bits and pieces of traditional Hatha Yoga and change parts of it, they don't respect the traditions." He complained. "Do you think that is a problem?" I asked. "Yes of course" he replied. "Correct yoga means practicing just as the ancient Yogis did, not evolving the practice." I thanked him for his time and politely excused myself.

That didn't sound like my own approach towards spirituality, or life in general for that matter. I loved being able to take bits and pieces of whatever spoke to me from whatever traditions I found and use those to create my own path. I had a perfectly good religious tradition, Islam, on which I was happy to fall back on if I ever decided I needed that in my life. But I had no inclination to adopt Hinduism instead, religion wasn't what I was searching for.

The next day I was able to sit with the teacher at the Brahman Yoga and Wellness Center. Their approach was refreshing, they made a special point emphasize their inclusiveness on different practices, Hatha yoga, Kundalini Yoga, Ashtanga Yoga and so on. But I noted they also offered courses in everything from Reiki to Indian cooking to Vedic astrology to Aryuvedic treatments. I wondered if a school that offered such a wide-range of knowledge could possibly provide me with the depth that I was searching for.

I allowed myself to become a little frustrated, wondering what it was exactly that I was looking for and if I would ever find it. Maria was arriving in town the next day and was also interested in deepening her yoga practice. It also just so happened to be in time for the introductory lecture at the Agama Center, the posters and the trikas had caught my eye. We woke up early and got some breakfast before heading to the talk.

The head instructor, Khush, began by speaking about what yoga actually is. Sure yoga might help you lose weight, reduce stress and make you more flexible ... but those were all side affects from the true purpose of yoga, which is nothing short of attaining complete Nirvana, union with The Divine. The tantric practice of yoga actually pre-dated it's intermingling with the Hindu relgion. Tantra, like other esoteric traditions stood orthogonally to Hatha yoga, much like Sufism did to Islam, Qabalah to Judaism, Taoism and Zen to mass Buddhism. They all offered a means to access God directly stripping away the dogmatic beliefs, without the hierarchies of the established order, the intecessories that stood between you and the Universal spirit. Tantra was presented as an empirical science verifiable through direct subjective experiences. There was no theology to adhere to, only actions and re-actions explained through the laws of Karma.

It offered a way to live in the world without being of the world, as opposed to the Buddhist traditions that required renunciation from the things we attach to in order to attain Enlightenment. Tantra offered a path of transmuting the human desires we all have and using them as a means to access the Supreme Consciousness. As Khush continued I found myself nodding my head in agreement over and over again. I noticed Maria doing the same. It was as if someone had taken all the thoughts in my head and finally presented them in a coherent manner which I could support.

Attaining Enlightenment has never been one of my goals for this life-time. If it happens, wonderful, but for me the truth is indeed a pathless land. Becoming a better, stronger person, burning some Karmic seeds, those are the things that motivate me. Tantra was presented as a short-cut to the most austere requirements of other traditions, but for me even it's teachings may prove to be too strict. Regardless, having one more foundation to draw from, one more source of knowledge from which to strengthen my own practice, shall prove to be indispensable, no doubt. The classes start tomorrow, and I can't wait to put this knowledge into practice.

The Point of Convergence

Shortly after pulling into Rishikesh my new cellphone that my Nani had given me rang. My travel companion Mike who I started this trip with a month ago hastily gave me directions on where to meet him, at the taxi stand near the Ram Jhula.

I hopped in a tempo and pretty soon Mike was showing me around the streets of Rishikesh, stopping to note the good spots to eat, pointing out the fake "sadhus" slanging ganja and filling me in on what he had been doing for the last two weeks. As we wandered down the streets we heards bits and pieces of conversations like "I saw her aura was yellow tinged with blue so I embraced her etheric body ... " and "No, we knew each other in a previous life, I was his nanny at boarding school during the war ..." And a smile started forming from right under my chin extended up the corners of my mouth.

Along the way we ran into Pete, the yogi we met in Varanasi who had just opened his crown chakra. Pascal was staying at the same guesthouse as Mike and as always, had few words but his presence said all that needed to be conveyed. At yoga class the next night I ran into Rose, who I had taught a few useful Hindi phrases to in Kushinagar. The following day we saw Karl just walking down the street, and he told us about what a great deal he got on the ride to town. This made the 4th time we had randomly run into Karl in 4 different cities. We didn't even bother looking for each other anymore because it just seemed like we were bound to cross paths.

Maria didn't show up until a few days later but she was full of tales of how wonderful Nepal was. "What about Rishikesh!?!" I tought. I wasn't sure what, but there was something about this city that made me fall in love with it immediately. Maybe it was the way it was nestled in the rolling foothills of the Himalayas. Maybe it was how the Ganges, close to it's source, flowed cleanly and powerfully right alongside the city. Maybe the mellowness, it was on a lower-key in terms of sights, sounds and smells, but still definately India. Maybe it was the abundance of yoga, tai chi, tarot, massage and just about any other "New Age" spiritual practice you could imagine within this city.

But actually I think it's the notion of being in a place where not everyone thinks you're a freak for following daring to tread off the beaten path. At lunches and in classes everyone we met and talked to had similar tales, similar points of view. Had at one point or another in thier lives had decided that doing simply what was expected of them was too easy and did not serve their soul. And most of them had tales of how much grief they had recieved as a result of it.

Sure they came in all shapes and sizes. Those who used their "spirituality" as their own ego. Those who adopted the dress and phrases of a culture far removed from their own in order to run away from who knows what. But that just made them all the more human. What made them interesting was that they did what they did even though it was not the path of least resistence. And I was happy to be among them, excited to explore this wonderful city and all it had to offer.

A Homecoming of Sorts

I sat in the cafe in Kushinagar and ate breakfast with Harry, Anna and Paula, the trio of English gap year students, sipping chai thinking about their offer to join them for a bike ride through the rice paddies outside of the village. We'd had a wonderful time hanging out the last few days, but something felt just a little off.

I've started to become aware on this trip that not all offers of friendship and help are equal. Sometime people feel compelled to give out invitations not out of a genuine desire to offer support but rather out of a sense of duty or obligation or perhaps as a means to cover the guilt that they themselves feel for desiring what they desire. The less-authentic individuals among us extend such offers with bated-breath, hoping they will be rejected. This gives them a chance to have the best of both worlds, keeping what they want, but at the same time being able to tell themselves they are generous for having offered.

The problem arises when those of us who are open to receiving the free love that is available throughout the universe do not have the wisdom to distinguish between these false, non-genuine offers and those which are given without conditions. A bait-and-switch is presented, where one thinks one is accepting something given freely, but in reality the ground has been set for bitterness and resentment. It would be much simpler if we all lived in a world full of authentic people, where people only put on the table that which they were able to give freely. But, unfortunately, that does not happen to the be universe in which we reside. So it becomes our obligation to make sure that the gifts we receive are truly offered freely and not out of some sense of societal politeness.

I thought about what I should do and reflected on the last words of the Lord Buddha, uttered in this same village 2500 years ago right before he passed into mahaparanirvana ... "all things must pass" ... it had been one month since our group of three had left the safe confines of a city full of family for an adventure, and one more week since I had started wandering on my own. I looked at the group of Brits and let them know that it was time for me to return to Lucknow.

It took me another 36 hours of hard traveling to work my way back to Lucknow. Shared jeeps, rickshaw, trekking with my packs, one bus, a long train ride and finally a tempo and I was at back at my Seema-khala's house. She took one look at the dirt and grime collected on my body, my bags covered in filth, my hair pulled back in my choti and told me I had lost too much weight and looked like a sadhu, followed by a threat to disinfect me from head-to-toe. I felt terrible, physically exhausted and emotionally drained. It was good to be amongst loved-ones.

By a simple twist of fate my cousin Shaad and his wife happened to be in town, and Seema-khala's daughters Ghazal and Sana were arriving the next day. My Nani was staying with Nayara-khala and we had a chance to chat when she came to pick me up the next day to see her. Likewise she commented on my weight and found herself with mouth agape at a loss for words when I regaled her with the stories of my solo travels.

"Why do you do these things?" She asked. "Do you need more money?" It wasn't about the money I assured her. It was about living freely, embracing adventure, having faith in the universe to set things right, overcoming hardships and adversity to become a better, stronger person. She nodded like she understood, but I wonder if it made any sense to her at all.

Ghazal and Sana also commented on my weight loss, but I didn't really think much about it until I stepped on a scale. 61 kgs I thought ... hmmm ... I had to do some math before I realized that meant 135 lbs. which meant I had lost almost 20 lbs in the last month, putting me at my weight range from freshman year of college. "How did you do that?" asked Sana, genuinely curious I suppose. "Well, probably by meditating a bunch, doing tons of yoga and qi gong, not eating meat, not smoking, not drinking and walking an average of 5 kms a day. Oh and the food poisoning probably didn't help."

This trip through Lucknow proved to be much more relaxing, the newlyweds were back in the US and my friends were off in other parts. Just me, visiting loved ones, allowing myself to be nourished back to healthy by rich Mughlai cuisine,. Putting into practice that which I had learned, accepting that which was appropriate and politely declining the rest. After one week I left again, headed off to the foothills of the Himalayas, back in good health, ready to challenge myself ... armed with my backpacks and a bag with a prepared dinner and breakfast from my Seema-khala and cousin Sana, in need of nothing else.

Holi Sh*t!

When I mentioned my idea of heading back to Varanasi for the Holi festivities to Pascal, he warned me against it. "It can be very dangerous" he said in his french accent "people go crazy in Varanasi." My ears perked up. After the next two people told me pretty much the same thing, I booked my train ticket the very next day.

Holi is one of the most popular Hindu festivals ... probably because it involves large groups of men getting bhaanged and drunk out of their minds, then engaging in a water color fight all over town before finally ending the night dancing in the streets until the wee hours.

I arrived in Varanasi one day before the event. As I walked down the ghats on the side of the Ganges I saw evidence of the impending mayhem. Kids filling plastic bags with colored paint water; multicolored cows, goats and dogs meandering through the alleyways; the vendors selling waterguns and colored powders ready to be mixed with water.

I found a cheap guesthouse by the Manikarnika Ghat, the Burning Place. After I checked in the manager warned me about the festivities. He advised me to stay inside the next day, told me he was locking the doors and not letting anyone in or out. I let him know that I had come to Varanasi on Holi specifically for craziness. "Well, I cannot be held responsible it anything happens!" he told me in what I was sure was his most condescending voice. My own voice changed to my rebellious tone, but it wasn't until I heard the words coming out of my mouth that I realized what was going on. "Don't worry, I'm a big boy and I don't need you to take care of me. This is a hotel, not a jail cell. And you are a hotel manager, not my father!"

Simply rebelling against everything you are told makes you no more of an authentic person than unquestioningly following orders. In either case the circumstances around you dictate your behavior, as opposed to looking within your own soul to determine who you are and choosing to put into action what you believe in.

Armed with that new bit of insight, I began my own preparations for Holi. I purchased the cheapest kurta-pajama outfit I could find but decided against arming myself for the war that was to start in the morning. I figured I would take whatever colors were thrown my way, and seize whatever opportunities presented themselves to return the favor.

There was no need to have set the alarm the next morning. The sound of mayhem in the streets was plenty to wake me up. I slipped on my new duds, threw 400 rupees in my pocket and headed out the hotel door and turned right. Within 2 seconds a gang of young boys spotted me and my new and clean clothes and pounced. Two of them held me down while the others smeared colors all over me. Holi had begun!

I decided to just try to find a cup of chai to start with. As I walked down the alleys of Varanasi I dogged water balloons hurled by children at the tops of buildings; turned corners to find buckets of colored water thrown at me; avoided open bonfires in the middle of the street; was greeted by more hooligans who ripped my shirt off my back; pinpointed for assault by water guns on the backs of passing by scooters.

The insanity truly erupted once I made it down to the Ganges, walking down the ghats which lined the river side. I found a few kids to chase, trying to steal their satchel of ammunition. I found out how truly difficult it is to catch a water balloon hurled in your direction with your bare hands. And I sighed as I watched countless Western White Women attempt to play with the Indian boys and come away yelling at throwing punches after being groped and disrespected. "Welcome to India" I said to a few as I walked by.

All the respectable business had closed up shop for the day. Pretty much anyone on the streets was considered fair game. If you didn't want to Play Holi you should have stayed home was the prevailing attitude of the gathered mob. Once I made is to Dashaswamedh Ghat, the main ghat of Varanasi, I truly saw the size and scope of the festivities and it was simply mind boggling fun! There was nothing to be done but to immerse myself in it, and just play along with all the others.
By 3 PM the playing colors had come to an end. Women and little children slowly started to return and a few stalls opened up, but Holi was still young. I went back to the guest house, colored blue, red, yellow and green from head to toe. My clothes had been ripped to shreds, but my key still safely tied to my pajama drawstrings. And I spent the next hour washing up preparing for the continuation of the festivities that evening.

When I returned outdoors all I had to do was follow the music to find the party, which was everywhere. Groups of men, still riding that Holi wave of intoxication, danced together, openly displaying their best Bollywood moves, bumping and grinding on one another, showing absolutely no shame. And what was I to do but run in the middle and find my own bit of Holi, letting it all go, freeing my body to express the joy and celebration all around. I bounced from group to group of dancing men, stopping for the occasional chai or samosa break, until about midnight.

I thought it odd at first. All these men, gyrating against one another, and not a woman to be found amongst them. I contrasted it with the scene I'd seen so often in clubs in the West. Women on the dance floor, guys standing at the sides, too cool to participate, pretending not to be interested. And I realized how odd that truly was. Perhaps the two cultures put together could represent an open and free expression of true emotion. The truth was we are both repressed in our own ways.

As I walked back to the hotel at the end of the night I stopped for a while and watched the ceremonial bonfires still taking place. I watched a few bodies being brought down to the Burning Place. Watched family members lament as the sons washed the empty shells of loved ones in the Ganges. I watched the workmen arrange the pyres, place the bodies upon them. I watched as the flames were carried from the mandir above to begin the process or returning ashes to ash. Watched as the flames grew large enough to eat through the ceremonial coverings and garlands and finally through the flesh of the departed.

India. Just when you think you've got your finger on it, you've kinda got it figured out ... it managed to slip out from under your thumb and pop-up in a completely different place.