Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (8 page)
Returning to the “Yoga Capital of the World” was beautiful. I saw Rishikesh through new eyes. I felt so much more “Indian”—more accustomed to the people, the ways, the gestures and subtleties that let you know you are really “a part of” a place. My heart burst with joy at the sight of the clean Ganges. The village of Lakshman Jhula was bustling with tourists this time around, unlike the abandoned “local” feel during the winter, but that was fine by me.
Rishikesh was a perfect place for me to spend my final days in India—a way of truly coming full circle. And, there was another reason I returned to this place. His name was Anil, meaning “air” or “wind” in Sanskrit. Anil is about the closest thing to a guru I’ve experienced on my journey.
During winter, I’d spent about six weeks learning yoga in Rishikesh. I’d met Anil, a 24-year old Iyengar-style yoga instructor, after I had tried three other Indian teachers. Anil was the one for me. His energy was clear, there were no “ego trips” involved, and he had the right balance of challenge and gentleness. Anil moved like a willow tree. He was as flexible as a contortionist, while exhibiting strength and passion for the technique.
I loved being in Anil’s presence, especially before we started class. In addition to practicing
hatha
, Anil appeared to be on the
bhakti
path of devotion. He had surrendered his life and his love to Krishna. Early mornings, as the three or four of us regular students straggled in and settled into the icy cold, small and simple practice room, Anil would already be seated in silent meditation before his altar. Anil had a deep connection to God in the form of Lord Krishna, and he was channeling that love and faith to us by teaching us yoga asana. Anil accepted incidental payment for the courses as an aside; once, he told me that money wasn’t necessary if one couldn’t pay. His main purpose was to pass something on of substance—if a student took back just a little something back to the West after studying with him, he had accomplished what he set out to do, and that was to share the gift of yoga.
After I had been studying with Anil for about a month, he fell ill seemingly out of nowhere, and quickly exhibited a rapid turn for the worse. Starting out with a cold and fatigue, then a swollen throat and painful neck, his beautiful body and light began to deteriorate before our eyes. He never complained, and he would shake off any inquiries. One morning I showed up for class and Anil, looking pale and gaunt, said to me, “Erin, today you be my body to show the new people. I can’t do head stand or shoulder stand.” The next day, and the day after that, his yoga studio was locked. The landlord told us students that Anil was too ill to teach further. Every day I returned to the studio, but Anil never returned. I wished him the best, then headed south for the Rainbow Gathering and better weather for my own health.
Two months after I had left Rishikesh I was sunning myself in the south when I received a terribly unexpected email from my friend Chris, a Canadian fellow yoga student who was still in Rishikesh: he had just been informed that Anil had passed away suddenly in the night. He had no further information. I was stunned.
Looking back, it seems to me that Anil’s beautiful glow, his etheric presence was a spiritual preparation—consciously or unconsciously, it doesn’t matter—for entering
mahasamadhi
. Mahasamadhi, according to Hinduism, is a God-illumined master’s conscious exit from the body at the time of physical death. It is as if Anil “knew” on some level that he was soon to leave his body.
During the very first class I took with Anil, I had an experience that indicated the depth of his spiritual development. Since I was about seventeen years old, at very random occasions, I have been able to see currents of white light—an aura-like field—surrounding my body, with no particular rhyme or reason as to when it appears. The light stream only lasts for a short instant; I can’t control it nor define it, yet, whenever I see it, I feel it’s a validation of sorts that I’m definitely in the right place, at the right time, heading in the right direction for my soul’s evolution. Even if I’m feeling low, or scared, or uncertain, when I see this “etheric halo,” I get the message that all is well and it’s all unfolding perfectly. About halfway into my first yoga class with Anil, while I was holding
trikonasana
(triangle pose), I saw this light emanating off my body and got the message: my soul was happy in this class. I was in the right place at the right time with the right teacher.
During my yoga studies, Anil explained to me that when he first started practicing Iyengar-style yoga at the age of eighteen, he was not a strong man and far from super healthy. He could barely touch his toes! After about four years of intensive training with his guru, Anil opened his doors to western students. He told me that when he first had the impetus to teach foreigners in Rishikesh, he could not speak English. He could understand the language, but when it came to speaking, something was blocked. As he tells it, God unblocked his throat chakra so that he was ultimately able to speak adequately and clearly enough to pass on the valuable teachings of yoga.
Something about the simplicity and definitive compassion in Anil’s teaching voice imprinted his instructions into my brain and into my cellular memory. Long after I’d left Rishikesh and headed down to the south of India, I could hear his voice telling me to “Inhale, exhale!” and “Keep
prana
inside!” and “
Rise
up the chest!” and always, “Keep back STRAIGHT!” as I muddled my way, solo, through the routine on the beach. Even before I’d heard that Anil had been deathly ill, I had been sending him
metta
, loving-kindness and vibrations of light and gratitude in my daily meditations.
According to the email I received about Anil’s death, no one was particularly clear on the actual “cause.” At the young age of 24, my light-bodied yoga teacher was gone. What a strange sensation—a definite reminder of impermanence, to have your personal “example of health” leave the planet so suddenly!
Needless to say, returning to Rishikesh toward the end of my India journey has given me a chance to say goodbye to Anil in my own way. I attended another teacher’s yoga classes—getting a little inspiration again. And I made sure to pass by Anil’s former studio to pay my respects. “Thank you, my teacher,” I whispered, as I hung a garland of marigolds on the door in gratitude for the lessons of a lifetime that he shared with me so selflessly. A bittersweet farewell, a direct experience of impermanence mixed with everlasting legacies.
Off to Delhi to catch a red-eye to Thailand. But this is far from the end. Thank God I have a ten-year visa—courtesy of the U.S. consulate and the envy of every non-American Indophile in the Western world.
6
th
of April, Bangkok
Landing in Bangkok, I was shocked. Friends who have traveled this route before told me that after India, Thailand would seem like the West, or “the future.” Still, I wasn’t prepared for the extreme contrast to my grungy, raw, beloved India. I’ve had to give myself a tough talking-to in order to not compare. After all, I did plan my journey this way, to have a one-month “holiday,” living the Thai island life after five months backpacking through India. Even if my rational mind doesn’t think I need recuperation or integration time, my subconscious, heart, and soul have timetables of their own.
First impression of Bangkok: unbelievably clean and well-organized. My system and psyche were taken aback by air conditioning, cell phones, toll plazas, shopping malls, skyscrapers and Skytrains. I didn’t sense a Third World bone in Bangkok’s infrastructure.
I felt my heart break a little, a sense of sadness in saying goodbye to India—a land where the last thing one needs to bother with is “looking good,” or buying this, that, and the other. In India—at least in the circles I moved in—it’s natural to look beautiful by the smile in your heart and the way you move through the world. The lack of a “consumer culture” and less consumption choices leaves more room for honest expression; there’s more room to focus on the person beneath the facade.
Upon arrival, I was privileged to stay with friends of a friend from France—a married expat couple—in their gorgeous penthouse apartment overlooking the Thai capital city. I sat down carefully on their white upholstered furniture, afraid I might muss something up. I felt absolutely filthy lying on the crisp, clean white sheets. In my first real shower in months, I wondered if my feet would ever get clean. After several scrubbing attempts, I decided to give up and wait until I am back in the States to break out the heavy exfoliation artillery.
The next morning, I ventured out to a proper department store to buy a new bathing suit for the islands, which threw me headfirst in the deep end of the consumer culture pool of buy, buy, BUY (and shop some more while you’re at it!). I caught myself standing aimlessly between the Estee Lauder and Chanel counters, staring into space like an Indian milking cow, wondering how one could possibly ever shop in such a store with so many choices.
After spending a full day in Bangkok, it hit me: now I knew how immigrants, refugees, or visitors from undeveloped nations go into absolute shock upon arrival to the U.S. It’s paralyzing. When your whole life is based around a much, much simpler model, your frame of reference is simpler as well. Arriving in the West, it’s got to be a sudden onslaught of overkill: too much to choose from—sensory overload and confusion. It’s got to take a long, long while for eastern foreigners to integrate—if they are ever able to. And now I understand why immigrants from undeveloped nations tend to stick together in little Chinatowns, or other such ethnic communities. There, the world just makes more sense.
After wandering around the department store and soaking up the air conditioning, I finally found the proper “Ladies Wear” floor and bought my bikini. I told myself I needed to switch gears and stop all this useless pining for chai and chapati; it was time to get to an island and have a holiday. And besides, Bangkok was hotter than hell, and simply unbearable without a surf to jump into.
16
th
of April, Koh Phangan
Life
is good at the moment. I find myself on the island of Koh Phangan in the Gulf of Siam. Turquoise waters, white sandy beaches, palm trees. Daily Thai massages with a lot of muscle that simultaneously provide a chiropractic adjustment. Pineapple-mango-papaya shakes, and
padh Thai
noodles with lots of peanuts and lime.
Oh yeah.
Most travelers I’d talked to warned me about this island—full of crazies and too much loud dance music (it’s the island most famous for its Full Moon Party extravaganzas)—but I’ve rarely been one to heed the opinions of others. A backpacker island appealed to me, anyway. I needed someplace cheap, with diversity and interesting freaky folks to befriend. And, of course, the option to dance: besides my brief time in Goa, I’ve had a serious deprivation of dancing in conservative India.
It took me a while to get my sea legs on this island. The average traveler here must be about 22, and it’s a whole different backpacker ballgame in Thailand than in India. I can’t say it entirely suits my fancy, yet I’ve definitely made the most of it, filling my soul with tourist fun and sun. After a couple of false starts, I finally found a bungalow on the quiet, western side of the cape of a beach area called Hat Rin. At my little nest, Poseidon’s Cove, I sit on my terrace and watch the most beautiful sunsets—it feels like a differe
nt island from the “sunrise” party side.
Turns out, I am paying unexpected homage to my yoga teacher, Anil, here on this little island. The first evening I arrived, I met a very tall, corkscrew curly-haired Swiss woman by the name of Chantal, and we shared a meal. After we ate, though it was quite early, I excused myself and explaine
d that I had to get up early the next morning before the scorching heat in order to get back on track with yoga. Chantal immediately asked if I would teach her, as she’d never done yoga before and was quite eager to learn. “Of course!” I replied.
Chantal was definitely motivated, and adjusted her leisurely holiday schedule to meet me at 7:30 a.m. under the palm trees (out of the way of falling coconuts—apparently one of the major causes of tourist deaths in Thailand—really!).
Another gal, Sylvia from Austria, had also joined our evening dinner conversation, and she wanted to participate as well. That morning, I accidentally blurted out a giggle as she stumbled out of her bungalow, walking across the lawn toward us with the first morning’s cigarette dangling from her mouth. Well, perhaps this loud-mouthed American girl had a little bit
too
much of a laugh at her smoky approach to Sun Salutations: we heard that Austrian Sylvia left the island the next morning, never to be seen doing yoga with us again. Oops.
Chantal’s apprenticeship was much more successful. Our first yoga lesson turned into a one-week intensive. Together, we got ourselves up with the sun and practiced those moves that Anil had drilled into my mind during the cold Rishikesh winter. I felt such joy and gratitude sharing in Chantal’s progress. Chantal had to head back to Switzerland after seven days, yet the smiles stretched across her face were everlasting. After a year of traveling round the world, she said it was the best send-off present she could have ever hoped for.
As they say: “We teach what we need to learn.” I am by no means a qualified yoga teacher, let alone a full-on
yogini
; yet, it feels so “right” to be given this gift, and the more I share what Anil taught me, the more it’s imprinted in my own being. With each day, the postures become more natural, more of an inseparable part of my daily routine.
Now THAT is the kind of stuff I wanted to bring home from India in my back
pack!
