The Backpacking Bride Read online

  I needed to keep my vigil next to his open casket in the tiny, cold, stone chapel.

  Understandably, his family want Jon laid to rest in his hometown back in the UK.

  But for some reason, I’m not being consulted over any of the details of his funeral. It’s just not fair. They don’t seem to understand that I should be his wife right now – his widow. Instead, they’re treating me like I’m nothing at all, just a woman in love with a dead man. His family seem to have already forgotten that I ever existed.

  My brother-in-law Peter and the girls are flying back to Manchester today along with Jon’s aunt, uncle, and cousin. His brother, Malcolm, is returning with Pia, Jon and me tomorrow. Only, darling Jon will be travelling in a casket in the aircraft’s hold.

  This morning, Malcolm broached the fact that, as the marriage never actually took place between Jon and me – as if I needed a reminder – he is still legally Jon’s next of kin.

  He tells me that it’s his duty to make the decisions he knows his late parents would have wanted and expected for Jon. I’m feeling really angry right now. I’m incensed with Jon for leaving me and I’m furious at him for not having the decency to wait until after saying his wedding vows to have his aneurysm. I’m infuriated with his family. I want to yell at them.

  Now that might sound terribly unreasonable, but I feel I need to remind them that Jon and I loved each other very much and our love should bloody well still count for something now that he is dead. I should absolutely have a say in what happens to him!

  I should at least be consulted on how he is laid to rest.

  Jon would not have wanted traditional hymns played at his funeral.

  His family want ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and ‘Jerusalem’ for heaven’s sakes, when I know he’d much prefer some Bach or a beautiful piece of Elgar.

  ‘I’m sorry, my darling.’ I say to him, as he lies in his casket wearing his silver-grey wedding suit and looking like a wax mannequin version of himself. ‘I don’t mean to be so terribly angry. I can’t help it. It’s just that I want you to have ‘Air on a G String’ and ‘Nimrod’ instead.’

  I also know Jon would have wanted a citation from the Dalai Lama and not a reading from the Bible. He would have preferred a green, eco-friendly funeral with a hemp coffin rather than a traditional pine box and he’d have wanted a tree planted in his memory rather than a headstone. It’s just not fair that his family have prioritised what they require instead of what Jon would have wanted.

  That night, my own body feels rigid from sitting all day in a cold chapel of rest, as I wander back through the warm and narrow streets to our hotel and lie down in what was meant to be our honeymoon bed. But I don’t sleep. I lie awake thinking about what might have been.

  I actually think I might be going mad. I imagine our wedding day over and over again.

  But now it plays out in my mind as it was supposed to have happened and with the outcome that we’d planned together. I imagine us past that terrible moment when both our hearts had stopped beating. I imagined us standing there in the cloisters smiling at each other in the streams of sunshine of that sacred special place that we’d chosen to say our vows to each other.

  And, with my eyes closed, I see how tenderly we are holding hands as Jon slides a gold band onto the third finger of my left hand. I hear our minister saying to Jon, you may now kiss the bride, and, with our fingers entwined and joy on our faces, I see us leaning in for our first kiss as a married couple. Then we turn together to the cheers and congratulations from our family and we walk away to the joyful music of Mendelssohn to enjoy our celebrations and a wonderful meal that we’d planned on an outside private terrace at a gorgeous little restaurant. I imagine the laughter. The speeches. The inevitable jokes. The one about how long it took for us both to find each other. The raising of glasses. The delight and all the happiness. A whole lifetime of happiness.

  And then, on our wedding night, in this very same bed, we’d have made love to each other and fallen asleep happily wrapped in each other’s arms as man and wife. But none of that happened. It was all cruelly snatched away from us. And I don’t know why. What did I do?

  Why have I lost the love of my life so soon?

  I tuck up my knees and fold myself around the pillow that I’m clinging to and I press my face right into it so I can muffle the sound of my desperate screams of heartache and anguish. I’m so very lost and I feel so horribly cheated. What am I meant to do now?

  And where do I go?

  It’s not like I can just go home to England and lock my door and hide – which is what I want to do – because now I’m homeless as well as hopeless. This is all such a terrible mess. After we’d returned from our honeymoon, I was supposed to move into Jon’s house.

  To that end, I’d recently sold my own house in Stockport.

  Contracts were signed and exchanged. It’s all done and there’s no going back on it.

  The people who’ve bought my house are moving in tomorrow.

  To make matters worse, as the legal executor of his brother’s estate and his financial affairs, Malcolm has asked me to return the key I have for Jon’s house. He really doesn’t seem to care that he’s literally throwing me out onto the street. He’s told me he has no choice but to ask me to vacate the house so he can ready it for sale.

  He says the house has to go on the market immediately.

  He says it must be sold to facilitate the paying of what will be ‘substantial’ death and inheritance taxes. To me, it all seems like Malcolm is keen to get his greedy hands on Jon’s assets as quickly as possible. Pia kindly stepped in to help as soon as she heard this preposterous news and she has offered me a room at her house until I can get myself sorted.

  Sorted? What does that mean? How will I be ‘sorted’ ever again?

  I feel like a burden. I know it will be an imposition for her because shell have to move both her girls into one bedroom in order to accommodate me. And, I’d only be able to take a small suitcase with me, because the bedrooms of her modern town house are tiny.

  What am I supposed to do with my furniture and personal belongings?

  They’re already unpacked and in situ at Jon’s house.

  All my furniture and household items I’d wanted to keep and use in my new married life!

  ‘Maybe I should just move in to a hotel for a while?’ I suggested to my dear worried sister.

  Of course Pia wouldn’t hear of it. She’s absolutely set on doing her best to help and support me. It’s so very generous, especially as I know she’s also struggling and incredibly distressed herself, after seeing poor Jon collapse as she’d reached forward to take my bouquet.

  ‘Maya, I’m your sister and right now you need me. I’m your family!’

  I’m so overwhelmed by all of this and I really don’t know which way to turn.

  ‘You can rent a storage room for all your stuff temporarily,’ she told me sympathetically.

  So, after flying back to northern England from Italy and spending a sleepless night tossing and turning in my niece’s tiny My-Little-Pony-themed bedroom, the next morning I head downstairs, following the enticing aroma of freshly made coffee, to hear my sister on the phone arranging for a removal van to meet us at Jon’s house to pick up my stuff.

  Then I hear her arranging for us to go into the local estate agent together to register my interest in seeing any suitable properties on the market in this area. ‘My sister’s a cash buyer,’ I hear her telling the agent, as if that should bag me somewhere straight away and then life can somehow resume. I know she’s trying to help but how can I possibly cope with all this?

  How can I even think of packing boxes right now when I’m supposed to be packing my suitcase for my honeymoon?

  Chapter 5

  Moksha Ashram, Rishikesh

  I’m brought out of my distressing dream by the tinkling sound of a bell. I open my eyes to find that meditation class is over and my bottom is completely numb. My poor legs are aching, st
iff and unyielding, from sitting cross legged on the cold floor for a whole hour.

  I unfold myself and somehow manage to unlock my knees to stand and follow everyone outside onto the terrace, where I see there’s one long table with bench seats set out for breakfast. I realise that this arrangement would have been conducive to some conversation, except that, of course, due to the noble silence no one is allowed to speak yet. I engage in a friendly smile to those around me, but no one seems remotely interested in making eye contact. I see everyone still has vacant expressions on their faces and dreamy looks in their eyes.

  I guess they must have all successfully reached an enlightened meditative state?

  Oh gosh … I do hope I hadn’t been snoring or shouting out Jon’s name in my sleep.

  Pia told me I’d been yelling and cursing and thrashing about in my sleep at her house.

  She also told me I’d been using the really bad swear words she didn’t ever expect I’d know.

  Of course, the walls in her place are paper thin. In the adjacent bedroom, I’d had to listen to her and Peter talking about ‘what they were going to do with Maya’ and then them making love.

  I take a seat on the bench and look along the length of the breakfast table to see that most people here are a heck of a lot younger than me. I’m a little disappointed by this as I was hoping there would be a good mix of ages and, in particular, a few middle-aged people like myself.

  I also see there are more women than men and they look to be a varied mix of nationalities.

  Interestingly, many of the girls have long tangled hair and intricate henna artwork illustrations on their faces and their hands. Several of the boys have tattoos on their arms and also wear their hair long and in braids or hanging in dreadlocks. Many are wearing attractive costume trinkets such as crystals and beads and bells on anklets that tinkle when they walk into an otherwise quiet room. Of course, real jewellery is not allowed here.

  Rule #5: Leave your valuables at home.

  It’s a rule I realise I’ve already broken because I’m still wearing the solitaire engagement ring Jon gave me when he proposed in Paris. I’m loathed to take it off. In fact, I damn well refuse to take it off. There’s no way. They absolutely can’t make me.

  Rebelliously, I quickly twist it around my finger to hide the large diamond out of sight in my palm. I’m actually feeling a bit conspicuous and out of sorts sitting here in my plain t-shirt and contrasting neon Fabletics leggings that Pia made me buy before coming here. Pia had assured me – wrongly – that these were the very latest in yoga fashion. I’d trusted her because Pia is younger than me and she should know such things.

  But everyone here is wearing bohemian-style things with lots of Buddha images together with baggy cotton clothes in muted shades of dark red, deep purple and mustard yellow. Or they are sashaying around in kaftans or Alibaba-style trousers and head wraps adorned with shiny coins and trinkets. It’s a look that absolutely embraces the whole ashram aesthetic.

  I decide that as soon as I get half a chance I’m going shopping in town.

  I imagine myself wearing a flowing kaftan dress or a silk saree and some harem-style pantaloons with a cheesecloth blouse, sitting comfortably and bra-less in the shala, meditating in a serene lotus position or a soon-to-be-mastered super bendy true yoga pose.

  I wonder if I can get a shala selfie or get someone to take my photo so I can send it to Pia?

  But, of course, that would be contravening the rules.

  Rule # 10: No phones allowed in the shala.

  Everyone is, of course, also barefoot. There are no shoes or socks allowed in the shala even if your feet are cold. Mine are always frozen no matter the ambient temperature. I read that the reason we must go barefoot here is to allow our root chakras to connect with the earth.

  I’m not entirely sure what that means but there’s a chakra healing session later this week so maybe I’ll learn more. It’s optional, but as I’m sure all my chakras are horribly broken, I think I should go to it.

  Breakfast is a bowl of cold rice porridge made with soy milk. It tastes okay. It has a nice consistency and a good nutty texture, although I think it could have perhaps done with a little honey for sweetness. I suppose I’m noticing all this about my porridge because, like everyone else, I’m sitting here and staring intently down into my bowl, eating in silence.

  Which would have been absolutely fine except that it wasn’t an actual silence.

  I lift my eyes to glance about and see that everyone else is still either staring into their porridge or they have their eyes closed in a blissful repose while chewing it. Not that porridge normally needs chewing, but the ones with their eyes closed are really making a meal of it – pun intended – and it sounds awful. There’s one particular guy – it’s the Heavy Breather from the how-to-breathe lesson this morning – and he’s sitting opposite me with his eyes tightly closed and his mouth wide open. Chew … chew … chew.

  He has strings of soy milk and clumps of porridge in his goatee beard.

  I look quickly back down into my bowl because I can hardly stand to watch him. I’ve been brought up to chew my food properly and with my lips firmly closed.

  * * *

  After breakfast, we all file back into the communal area for our karmic cleansing class.

  I’m really looking forward to learning what this is all about.

  You see, up until recently, I’d begun to believe in karma.

  I say until recently because, since Jon died, I don’t believe in anything anymore.

  Jon explained it to me once. Simply put, it’s very much about treating others in the same way you would want to be treated yourself. Basically, if you do good things then good things will come straight back at you and, conversely, if you do bad things – well, ditto – bad things will happen to you. Of course, back in the day, it was just called good manners.

  Because I’m in this very special place of healing, and connected with Jon’s spirit and maybe even the spirit of John Lennon too, if I can once again associate with karma, then I imagine this cleansing will wash away all the bad karma I’ve accumulated and make room for good and positive energies that I now need to bring into my life and my future. Perhaps if I can believe in karma once again and it has been cleansed, then I can somehow accept that Jon is dead. That he’s gone while I’m still here breathing and very undead.

  I also imagine that real karmic cleansing – like real yoga – is something that can only be done properly in India. And, importantly, with an authentic Indian guru like the old man sitting cross-legged on a cushion in the middle of the shala right now.

  Along with Swami Nanda, Guru J is one of the founder members of the Moksha Ashram.

  Today he is wearing a long white gown that looks like a bedsheet wrapped around his body, secured with a knot on one bony shoulder, leaving the other equally bony shoulder bare. He’s very small and very thin, in a Gandhi-esque way.

  I’m feeling absolutely sure that Guru J is the same Guru who once knew Jon.

  He looks exactly like an older version of the person in the photo. The very same guru who also taught John, Paul, George, and Ringo, in the late sixties.

  On entering the shala we all line up to wash our hands.

  A poster on the wall shows a giant pair of hands held together in a prayer pose and states:

  Wash to symbolise purity of body and soul.

  Swami Nanda is being aided by Baba. He is tipping a generous splash of water from a large pitcher into a row of hand washing bowls and she’s bowing and smiling at everyone and handing out soap and towels. After washing, I take my place in the circle, and this time I’m grateful to sit on a comfortable plump cushion. In front of me and everyone else there is another small bowl of water. I imagine this is holy water and I expect our karma will be cleansed with this water. I look around. I’m now really wishing I’d discreetly brought my phone along with me so I could take a quick photo to send to Pia. She’d love this. The whole room looks so pretty
with lots of flower arrangements and so many candles and incense sticks and golden statues. It’s so authentically ashram-like and looks like it’s actually glowing.

  But there’s also the problem of no internet connection in the ashram.

  Maybe that’s Rule #11? Except surely there must be internet in the office?

  After all, they do have email and a website and an Instagram page.

  I’m wondering if it’s possible to bribe Swami Nanda to give me the Wi-Fi code but then, no doubt, there will certainly be rules on the list in my room about corruption and bribery too.

  Just then, Guru J presses his hands together and bows his head in a silent greeting to us all before looking up and in turn at each of us. In the hush of the room, the tension is palpable.

  He begins to chant. ‘Om Mani Padme Hum. Ommmm … shanti shanti.’

  I watch as he slowly lifts up his water bowl, cupping it with both of his aged and bony hands.

  We all do the same. The bowl feels pleasantly warm to touch. I wonder if we are going to tip the water over our own heads in the same way as in a holy baptism? Or if we are perhaps meant to drink it and therefore cleanse ourselves of our bad karma in that way?

  But what actually happened next was neither of these things.

  Our esteemed guru simply cocked his head to one side and then tipped the water from his bowl into and up each of his nostrils in turn. Snorting and slurping up the water and allowing it – together with whatever dirt and mucus was up in his nose and his throat and his sinuses – to pour straight back out again into the bowl.

  I will admit to being terribly shocked and more than a little disgusted by this.

  To my horror, I then see everyone around me has also started to tip the water up their noses, snorting, slurping and blowing it all back out again in a gargling, bubbling blast of phlegm.

  I retch. Honestly. I couldn’t help it.