The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Read online

  When Swami Nanda spoke to me, she did so in an almost inaudible whisper.

  ‘Maya, it’s nice to meet you. Welcome to Moksha Ashram.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered, wondering why we were having to be so quiet when all around us there was so much raucous chanting going on.

  ‘I expect you’re exhausted from your long journey. Let’s get you checked in and then I’ll show you to your room. Do you have any questions? Only, once we leave the privacy of this administration room, we must continue to honour our noble silence. This means that in the ashram we are only allowed to speak after lunch through to our lights-out time at 9pm.’

  I was quite taken aback. ‘Erm … excuse me? No talking … all morning?’

  ‘It’s a ritual to help you connect with yourself and find peace while you are here.’

  I shrug but accept that I can live with this rule. I did come here to find peace.

  Though I’m sure I have many questions, I’m suddenly feeling incredibly tired and overwhelmed that none came to mind in that moment. So she took a copy of my passport and I’m given two sheets of printed paper and a bottle of water. I notice that one of the papers contains the programme of structured activities for the week.

  I immediately spot (with a little concern) that ‘morning bell’ is at 4.30am.

  The day starts in the shala at 5am with an hour of communal chanting. After which there is bell ringing (to clear the air of the chanting) followed by a class on how to breathe properly and then an hour of mindful meditation. Well, who knew there was a proper way to breathe?

  Maybe I’ve being doing it wrong for the past fifty years?

  And all before breakfast at 7.30am.

  After breakfast, there’s something called a ‘Karmic Cleansing’ followed by another hour of meditation and then the first yoga practice of the day. I decide I’m really looking forward to a good yoga stretch after sitting for so long on the bus.

  After lunch, which is at 12.30pm, conversation is then encouraged.

  In the early afternoon, I see a rota of activities offering more specialised forms of yoga practice, a yoga philosophy session, and something called Satsang. All these sessions and study classes are held in the shala. There is even laughter therapy. Really? Laughing as therapy?

  No. No thank you. I can’t imagine myself feeling happy enough to laugh ever again.

  Other options on the surprisingly full programme include the study of Ancient Sanskrit and Chakra Healing with Swami Nanda and a class on Cosmic Ordering, with the ashram leader, Guru J. I’m excited to see the esteemed Guru’s name on here because it’s also been written down on one of Jon’s Post-it notes. He’s also in an old Polaroid photo in Jon’s travel wallet.

  In this incredible photo, Guru J has a big, bushy beard and enormous eyebrows supporting his elaborate turban. Everyone in the picture is wearing flowing white Indian clothing, yellow flower garlands around their necks, and happy smiles on their faces.

  Jon, holding on to a sitar, is sitting in the middle of the group, next to the Guru.

  On the back of the photo is written Guru J Rishikesh 1979.

  This Guru is undoubtedly the very same holy man who taught Jon and The Beatles enlightenment and who will now teach me how to deal with my sorrow and grief and cure me of my terrible sadness.

  Afternoons from 3pm onwards in the ashram can be spent as freely as one wishes.

  Suggested activities for free time include: reading in the library, helping out in the garden, going into town, walking in the hills, meditating at the river, bathing in the river, or taking up activities in the ashram workshops that include learning pottery or soap or candle making.

  ‘All classes until mid-afternoon are mandatory, with the exception of your first day, as we find most people just want to sleep,’ Swami Nanda says with an understanding smile. ‘So, take time to rest, but also try to join us on the terrace for breakfast and for your lunch. And, if you feel you’d like to take a walk with us later, we’re all going down to the river to meditate.’

  The other sheet of paper lists the rules of the ashram.

  I glanced over this list anxiously. I hadn’t expected there to be rules.

  Or, at least, perhaps not quite so many of them.

  I trot behind a surprisingly sprightly Swami Nanda as she leads the way up a wide and sweeping stone staircase with an impressive and elaborately carved balustrade that looks like a giant undulating serpent. Baba insists on trotting behind us with my backpack.

  Along the way, I peep inside the open doors along the upper level corridor and see these are all hostel-style sparsely furnished dorm rooms, containing rows of neatly made up bunkbeds. I’m shown to my room at the end of the corridor. I’m not quite sure what I had expected. Did I perhaps think an ashram was going to be like a hotel with all sorts of holistic treatments and spiritual endeavours on offer from which to pick and choose?

  I certainly hadn’t realised facilities would be so basic with mandatory classes and rising at four-thirty every single morning. As a honeymoon destination it’s certainly alternative! But Jon must have known what he was doing in organising this for us and I’m sure he would have looked up what authentic experiences the ashram was offering people these days. I’m feeling determined to put my own reticence and misgivings aside in order to experience this fully and to see all the things Jon had enjoyed about Rishikesh.

  I was looking forward to everything Jon had planned for us on this ‘magical mystery tour’ and I was particularly looking forward to following all the – sometimes strange – scribbled notes and reminders on the numerous yellow Post-it notes.

  And, despite Swami Nanda giving me permission to skip classes on my first day here, I’m determined to beat my jet lag and take part in this morning’s activities as listed on the schedule.

  After bell ringing – which I can hear has just started – I’m hoping to clean my karma and learn how to benefit from breathing properly and then I’m also hoping to discover all that lovely peace and tranquillity that was promised to me through real yoga and true meditation.

  When I do eventually lie down to sleep later, I’ll hopefully be able to stop having the terrible recurring nightmares about Jon’s death. I’ll finally be able to stop my mind from torturously replaying our ill-fated wedding day over and over again. Then, perhaps, in all the noble silence and time of quiet reflection, I’ll be able to stop harbouring all these feelings of anger about being cheated in life and in love. Able to calm the relentless voice of fury in my head that demands to know from the universe why this happened to Jon and what I’ve ever done in my own life to deserve to feel such terrible pain and heartbreak.

  ‘This is your room,’ Swami Nanda mimes with a sweep of her hand in her noble silence.

  The booking receipt showed that Jon had booked a private double room. I was surprised to see this one was hardly bigger than a broom cupboard with only enough space for the not quite double-sized bed and a small side table. There was no wardrobe and no space for one, just three coat hooks on the wall on which to hang my clothes. There was also just one small, high window, so the room is oppressively dark until I switch on the single bright bare lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling. I wonder where the draft I can feel is coming from before noticing the window has a fine mesh in its frame instead of glass.

  I take a deep breath and try to push aside my detrimental thoughts and my disappointment about this looking more like a prison cell than a guest room. I decide to be thankful that it’s at least a private room. I’d once shared a room at university with a friend who snored like a drunken sailor. Plus, I hadn’t fancied sleeping in a dorm bunk, as I doubted I’d have been able to get to the loo in the middle of the night from the top without tumbling out of it, or to get a wink of sleep in the bottom bunk knowing that someone else was sleeping above me.

  I decide it might be basic but it does look spotlessly clean and so it is absolutely fine.

  After all, I hadn’t come here for five-star ac
commodation.

  I’d come here to feel India.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I mimed back.

  The communal bathroom, however, might take some getting used to as I can see no western-style toilets. They’re all Indian-style squatting latrines – basically a hole in the ground with footholds on either side. Interesting. And, for me personally, a little intimidating.

  I take a quick shower to freshen up after my journey to the sound of enthusiastic bell ringing in the air. I did try to message Pia to tell her I’d arrived but couldn’t get a signal or a connection and I’d forgotten to ask Swami Nanda the password to connect to the ashram Wi-Fi.

  I drag on a pair of leggings and a baggy t-shirt and make my way downstairs.

  Bell ringing had finished and Ujjayi Pranayama or ‘breathing class’ is just about to begin.

  I’m feeling both excited and a little anxious as I cross the yard to the communal area where everyone else is already sitting cross legged on the floor in the lotus position. I slip in quietly to sit at the back to observe and learn. The lotus is a seated pose that I’ve attempted several times before in a yoga class but which I’ve sadly never managed to find comfortable.

  I do wonder how you are supposed to put your left foot on your right thigh and your right foot on your left thigh, stretch open your hips and flatten your knees and twist your ankles in such a way that you look like an open flower. And then stay there, possibly for hours, while trying not to cry in agony. The lotus flower features heavily here in the ashram and in Buddhism generally. I read up on this before I came here and discovered that because the flower grows in the mud, and submerges itself every night to then remerge and flower cleanly and beautifully every day, it symbolises purity and spiritual enlightenment and rebirth. I decide to cheat with a half-lotus (right foot under my left thigh) instead but just for today.

  I take a cue from everyone else by placing my hands lightly on top of my knees with the tips of my forefinger and thumb touching. I must look more like an old locust rather than a lotus flower with my knees sticking up and my elbows jutting out at odd angles.

  I try not to mind that everyone around me looks so much younger and more flexible.

  Despite feeling stiff and exhausted I try my best to relax.

  Our instructor is a tall, willowy western girl with long blonde hair and lots of tattoos.

  She bows to us and smiles and silently points to a white board with a bamboo stick.

  Ujjayi Pranayama means: Breathe Loud and Breathe Proud!

  Then with a pen she writes the word ‘namaste’ on the board and underlines it twice.

  We all bow in response but remain silent while she then dashes off her name with a flourish.

  ‘Hi, I’m Willow.’ She adds a row of friendly kisses followed by a heart.

  Then, suddenly, everyone around me starts to breathe very heavily and very noisily.

  I immediately feel uncomfortable. I really hate noisy breathing. I’m sure it can never be considered polite in normal society and I can’t imagine why this is supposed to be correct.

  All around me everyone’s sucking and gasping and rasping and hyperventilating and then blasting their sour before-breakfast breath out again to sound like a multitude of wheezy asthmatics. The guy in front of me is panting so hard he sounds like he must be imagining himself being chased by a bull across a field. The blonde instructor is looking at me specifically and she’s now pointing her stick to another poster on the back wall.

  This is a big poster with specific instructions on how one should breathe properly.

  Apparently, the purpose is to energise our bodies and to bring our focus to our breath.

  I try to do it – huffing and puffing and wheezing like I’m having an asthma attack. Then I’m so damn dizzy I almost keel over. This is totally ridiculous. Someone pass me a paper bag!

  Thankfully, after about twenty minutes of this everyone starts to calm down.

  The instructor once again catches my eye and she indicates another poster.

  Apparently, we’re going straight onto something called vipassana.

  I see this is the much-anticipated lesson in mindful meditation.

  The directions for achieving this seem simple enough. There are only six steps to follow.

  SIT comfortably.

  CLOSE your eyes.

  FEEL. BE AWARE.

  LET IT GO.

  BREATHE.

  Well, we’ve already established that I’m not sitting comfortably. The wooden floor feels very hard on my bottom and my leggings feel way too tight for sitting in lotus position for this long.

  I try not to fidget. I try to relax. I try not to feel perplexed or intimidated.

  I close my eyes. I try very hard to be aware. But what am I supposed to be aware of exactly?

  I decide to be aware of my innermost thoughts first and then I think about my physical surroundings. I think about how thrilling it is to be in the same ashram where Jon spent three months of his life back in the seventies. The very same place where The Beatles had come to meditate and to find their peace and enlightenment.

  Then I start to feel the thrill being replaced by feelings of sadness that Jon isn’t here with me during this planned return to Rishikesh. I know how much he wanted to come back here to experience the same spiritual connection he had found here before and to share it with me.

  With my eyes tightly closed, I try to imagine Jon is sitting next to me here in the shala.

  I try really hard to connect with his spirit and the shadows he once left here.

  In the very place where Jon had wanted me to come to feel India.

  I know I must let it all go, but how can I ever let go of Jon and the pain I feel in my heart?

  Maybe it’s simply down to a matter of training and discipline?

  Is that what all those rules are about?

  I’m guessing that ashram life is meant to be a difficult challenge both physically and spiritually.

  I know it certainly will be for me. I know I must learn to be open minded and accepting of the noble silence and all the other rules here that are meant to be of benefit to everyone.

  Did I mention the second, third, and fourth rules of the ashram?

  Every meal is vegan. Well, that’s a challenge for me because I like eggs and cheese, and I’m actually used to eating meat with my vegetables. Also, every day is alcohol free, when I’m rather partial to a glass of wine or Champagne towards the end of the day. No stimulants are allowed in the ashram, and I’m sorry, but I simply can’t live without coffee!

  There’s no getting around this either as apparently the whole town is meat and alcohol free.

  I don’t smoke and I’ve never taken illicit drugs in my life – who knew that coffee would be a banned substance? As a coffee lover and a caffeine fiend it seems wholly unreasonable to me. A little flurry of panic sets in as I contemplate there being no coffee shops or wine bars here. No morning lattes and no afternoon espressos. No evening glass of chilled chardonnay. I’ll admit to starting to feel a little disgruntled. I’m even feeling a tad rebellious.

  I really don’t like and hadn’t expected the idea of there being so many rules.

  I’m a grown woman and I should be allowed to think and do what I want!

  Hadn’t I already convinced myself that rules were for losers?

  That those who made up their own rules were the real winners in life?

  But I give myself a mental shake. I tell myself to stop sulking.

  I’m flying on to Hong Kong in a week to stay in a five-star hotel for goodness’ sake!

  I’m sure Jon hadn’t meant this to be a week of deprivation or a trial of survival.

  He had meant this to be a spiritual retreat and an opportunity to connect with the mystical.

  A time for us to experience something very special.

  And so, for me right now, this is even more important as a place of spiritual healing.

  Jon had told me that he came here when he was in p
ain and grieving and had needed to make sense of the world. He’d been upset and confused about life and death. He’d been feeling angry and lost and he’d needed answers from the universe. I can do this. I need this.

  It’s only for one week. Besides, a seven-day detox wouldn’t hurt.

  In learning how to believe in something, I might even be able to start believing in myself.

  And, in abstaining from that glass of wine every night and eating a healthier diet and doing lots of exercise, I might finally be able to shift that stubborn weight that has refused to budge from my hips. That can’t be a bad thing.

  I imagine myself looking calm and svelte and trim and I feel slightly less disgruntled.

  But then I realise I’m hardly being mindful or successfully meditating with all these errant thoughts crowding my head. I’m thinking far too much. I’m having a whole conversation with myself. This must stop. Okay. Start again. What should I be aware of next? My surroundings?

  I focus on the warm breeze blowing across my face and I listen to the tinkling windchimes.

  I can hear birds singing in the surrounding trees. I can smell the sweet scent of incense burning in this shala and then … I hear and smell something else.

  It’s that guy in front of me again!

  Didn’t anyone else notice? How disgusting!

  As everyone fully embraces the mindful process, I inadvertently join in with the hypnotic rhythm of breathing in and out, despite the smell, the hard floor, and my too-tight leggings. Ignoring the fact I’ve lost all feeling in my bottom, I’m soon feeling completely weightless. It’s like I’m floating on air and I’m drifting off. Not into a state of mindful meditation … but into a state of exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 4

  One week earlier …

  I stay on in Sorrento for three days following Jon’s death. After the shock and devastation and disbelief, I feel confounded and numb. I feel completely empty. It’s like there’s now a big hole in my chest where my heart had been. My head and my limbs feel like lead. It even hurts to breathe. My lungs feel stilted and suffocated and I’m exhausted with the sheer weight of my grief. I’d sat with Jon all day while arrangements were being made by his family to take his body back to Manchester, despite my dear sister’s gentle insistence that I should go back with her to rest at the hotel. I find I didn’t have the heart to leave him there all alone.