India Bound - 2011

I have been traveling for nearly thirty hours and it’s now two in the morning, India time.   A circle of women in colorful saris standing beneath harsh white street lamps glance our way. Malnourished dogs run loose digging through scattered piles of trash as barefoot children laugh and play in the parking lot of the congested airport.

 Here at last in the bustling, dust-filled city of Chennai, two in the morning appears not much different than two in the afternoon except for the notable absence of a blazing sun overhead.   Suddenly my black slacks and winter boots feel uncomfortably warm and out of place.

The ashram has sent Pravi to fetch my friend, Renate, and me from the airport.  Though Pravi has never met us, he easily identifies our pale American faces in the crowds exiting the airport.  In no time at all our bags are packed in the rear of his cab and we are flying down the road, dust streaming through the open windows.

We head out onto the paved road, weaving in and out of construction sites, dodging buses, trucks, mopeds, bicycles, scooters, some with lights and some without, horns honking loudly, dust swirling.  Chaos.  My traveling companion, Renate, and I are now wide awake despite the late hour.  I soon learn that everyone in India drives like this, and after a few weeks into my journey I begin to notice a rhythm and flow to the apparent madness.  In fact, I have come to view the rather sketchy “rules” of the road as a playful, albeit dangerous, graceful dance.

Now, peering through the windows of our cab, my eyes meet a completely foreign landscape - cows standing and lying by the side of the road, men squatting at open air stands that sell hot tea, coffee and Coca Cola.  Make shift store fronts resemble bombed out shelters,  and amidst the wandering cows and fast food stands appear a multitude of temples, temple upon temple in every size, shape and color, as plentiful as the cows.

One such temple is perched atop a bullock cart festively decorated with fresh flowers and strings of colorful lights.  A procession of chanting devotees follow the caravan offering puja.  Traffic slows then comes to a complete halt in order to make way for the traveling temple to cross the road.  Pravi excitedly points to the caravan shouting, “God, God!”  The worshippers are waving, smiling and cheering.  We wave back, cheering them on.  Today God is colorful indeed!

We arrive in Tiruvanamalai, our final destination, in record time, i.e. under four hours. Tiruvanamalai, a city with a population of approximately 150,000, is located in the southeastern state of Tamil Nadu.  The town was built around a large temple at its center known as Annamalaiyar. It is a city filled with spiritual seekers from around the world as well as religious ascetics called “wandering sadhus” who traditionally shun worldly comforts and possessions in order to pursue the goal of spiritual enlightenment.  I suppose I am here as a seeker in my own right, for the purpose of deepening my meditation practice and to pay homage to the holy mountain.

The ashram staff has gathered at an early hour to greet us with open arms.  Under the direction of Jan, the ashram director, we are given a grand tour of the  grounds as we follow along a winding stone path lined with lush foliage and blossoming flowers.  My only concern is the absence of toilet paper in the bathrooms.  We are instructed how to clean ourselves using cups of water as is the custom in parts of India where the plumbing cannot handle paper products.

The interior of the ashram stands in sharp contrast to the conditions beyond its walls.  Though everywhere dust seems to permeate the air, not a speck of dirt appears on the polished tile floors.  An orderly atmosphere with loving attention to detail imparts a sense of hominess and ease.  I close my eyes, breathing in deeply the palpable stillness of this spiritual oasis.

Awaiting us in the kitchen is a prepared meal of hot oatmeal, bananas, walnuts and tea. The ashram is owned and run by Americans, so we are assured the food and water are safe for our consumption.  Before eating, however, I hurriedly make my way to the staircase leading to the rooftop in order to catch a glimpse of one of the most ancient of sacred sites in all of India, the holy mountain Arunachala, the beloved mountain that has called me here. 

 The “red mountain” as it is called, is said to impart a fierce grace upon all who fall within its magnetic gaze.   I marvel at its rugged splendor.  Overcome with emotion, tears of joy wash the dust of a long journey from my tired eyes. 

After breakfast I retire to my room, dozing on and off as a cool breeze gently flows through the ashram windows carrying with it the sounds and scents of a strange new land where all concerns of a busy life quietly melt away.  I slowly drift into a timeless dimension in which there is not a care in the world.