The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Page 8

  India is a country that I can feel but it’s also a country I can smell and taste.

  I immediately have to remind myself that being pathetically untravelled and unworldly is simply no excuse for comparing what I see here with my own cossetted and comfortable western lifestyle. That what I observe as being different isn’t necessarily wrong. I tell myself I’ve come here to nurture my spirituality and not my preconceptions and it feels wholly disrespectful to be judgemental while witnessing all this devotion and praying and bathing and yoga and meditation. In taking myself to task over this, I now feel horribly guilty about drinking the illicit coffee and conspiring with Belle in escaping this morning’s karmic cleansing class. I can’t help but wonder what has brought a woman like Belle to Rishikesh. What’s her story?

  I’ve quickly come to the realisation that everyone who comes here must be searching for something. Nobody in their right mind comes here just for a holiday.

  But, now I have coffee and a friend, I decide to give India one more chance.

  We head back to the ashram to arrive just in time for breakfast.

  This morning, we are offered some kind of big steamed spicy vegetable dumpling.

  On Belle’s recommendation, I ask for a bowl of porridge instead, and after breakfast I feel a little more energised and ready to attend my first, much anticipated, real yoga session. Jon had always spoken about yoga like it was a superpower and how there was no better place to learn it than in India, because India was the actual birthplace of yoga. He was also adamant that only in an Indian ashram could you gain a true insight into the physical practice that embodies the philosophy behind authentic yoga teachings.

  If you think that’s a bit heavy, then I admit I thought so too.

  But Jon had insisted that there are two types of yoga. One is physical exercise that is practiced in the west for strength and flexibility and then there’s the ‘real and authentic’ yoga that’s more of a spiritual experience and mindful medicine.

  It’s the latter I’m interested in.

  I need to go from feeling mad to feeling mindful and I only have a week in which to do it.

  I’m sitting on a yoga mat right at the back of the shala in a space next to Belle.

  Our noble silence is being respectfully maintained once more and our teacher this morning is Willow again, the tall blonde-haired woman from yesterday whose long, slim legs are encased in a pair of billowing trousers and whose perfectly toned and enviously fat-free torso is on display in a cropped yoga top.

  The sun is shining through the misty ambiance of the garden, casting beams of golden light across the shala. The air feels warmer now as we sit in a relaxed pose, inhaling the gently curling smoke from all the incense sticks and the sweet scent of jasmine being carried on the breeze. I’m really trying to get into the yogi mindset.

  I focus on all the sounds around me from the windchimes tinkling on the porch, to the birdsong in the surrounding trees, the rapid-fire clicks from geckos, and the high-pitched shrieks of monkeys in the forest beyond, to the sound of people breathing on the mats all around me.

  Then suddenly everyone’s up on their feet, stretching and reaching up with their arms.

  At least, lurking at the back here with Belle, I can benefit from watching and learning from her and from copying everyone else’s seemingly effortless moves as the stretching becomes bending. Everyone folds their bodies forward to touch their toes. Heads and chins are tilted up and eyes are looking straight ahead at our yogi teacher. I feel stiff and unbending and completely awkward and I’m aware of shooting pains in my lower back, but I do my best.

  I see the person directly in front of me is the tall blonde guy with the oaty-goatee beard.

  He’s removed the blanket from his shoulders now that the shala has warmed up and he’s bare chested, wearing only a rather immodest pair of white silky shorts. His body is long, lean, and strong, and he moves like a ballet dancer. I watch him as he transitions gracefully from standing to bending. His loud breathing is starting to get revved up again as he folds his body.

  His skin is pale and pink and already glistening with sweat.

  I enjoy watching him until I see one of his testicles – also pale and pink and sweaty – hanging out of his shorts right in front of me. And, now I’ve seen it, I know I can never un-see it.

  In alarm, I look sideways towards Belle, who is holding her pose with her eyes closed.

  I do an urgent sounding little cough and her eyes pop open and suddenly she sees it too.

  I really don’t quite know how either of us managed to get through the rest of the morning.

  Chapter 8

  The Moksha Ashram, Rishikesh

  Over the course of the next few days, Belle and I lurk at the back of the early morning classes together and continue to communicate using our mantra rap or by lip reading or using a type of Morse code that we’ve developed for ourselves using a series of finger taps on the inside of our freshly henna tattooed wrists. We also continue to sneak out of the shala using the guise of the pre-dawn darkness to aid our escape at the end of meditation, in order to indulge in contraband coffee and escape the dreaded karmic cleansing class.

  We make sure to dodge scrotum man at mealtimes, who always sits with his legs apart and eats with his mouth open while breathing in and out like Darth Vader. We also avoid those in the ashram whom we both agree are a weird mix of strangely crazy and oddly introvert and those who never shower, probably because they prefer to bathe every day in the holy but dirty river instead, to their smelly detriment.

  Belle and I seem to have the same innate temperament and dry, cynical sense of humour, as well as a freshly developed disapproving attitude, that we both blame on coffee and alcohol deprivation. We had bonded like transatlantic sisters over the various aspects of the ashram that either bored us or frustrated us. Neither of us could admit to actually achieving a state of mindful meditation no matter how hard we tried or pretended. And we’d both quickly developed a waning interest in bell ringing, chanting mantras, and karmic cleansing, while gaining an increased aptitude for anarchy and rebellion.

  We colluded with each other after lights out too, even though this was of course breaking yet another ashram rule. Belle would slide out of her dorm and sneakily tiptoe down the corridor to my room where we’d sit together on my bed discussing our disenchantment with the world, while drinking vodka disguised with orange juice and eating milk chocolate biscuits.

  Belle had managed to get hold of the contraband alcohol while I was busy attending an optional afternoon hatha yoga class. Like everyone else, I had been under the mistaken impression that she’d developed a quirky interest in making natural soaps and perfumed candles in the ashram workshop. But, as it turned out, this was just a clever ruse to sweeten her way into helping sell the handcrafted produce on the ashram stall at the market. She’d heard that a tribe of local raconteurs were selling supplies of bootleg booze and cigarettes from underneath stalls of hippie clothing and incense sticks at the market, and all she’d needed was a way to infiltrate their trusted ranks to get hold of the vodka.

  Whenever I admitted to my feelings of guilt over breaking the ‘noble rules’ of the ashram, Belle came straight back at me with so many reasons of justification. She insisted that everyone was ‘at it’ as she’d seen evidence of illicit egg eating by the supposedly strictly vegan kitchen staff. She said she’d watched them secretly burying the eggshells in the ashram garden.

  She also told me that she’d seen one of the most highly revered yogis – said to be so practiced that he was able to control his own heartbeat in meditation and regulate his body temperature – smoking a Marlboro and swigging from a bottle of Officer’s Choice behind the ashram kitchen. She said she’d even seen Guru J checking his phone and texting. I don’t know which of these exposés shocked me the most.

  But I think it’s perhaps that Guru J must know the ashram Wi-Fi code.

  So, if anything, meeting and spending time with my new an
archist and rebel friend Belle, had only encouraged my own personal rebellion and reinforced my errant thoughts about there being absolutely no reward in keeping to the rules and regulations, either in life in general or here in the ashram.

  Once again, I was questioning the whole point of me being here, especially on Belle’s last day when she said she was planning to take the train back to Delhi. I was seriously considering leaving with her even though I still had two more days left.

  As we had done over the past five mornings, Belle and I escape the ashram just before the end of meditation to facilitate our illicit coffee drinking and once again, we sit on the low wall overlooking the early morning action on the riverbank. Having arrived by bus I’d been planning to take the train back to Delhi when I left here to honour Jon’s Post-it note that said, Take the train to Rishikesh from Delhi. I didn’t think it would matter if I did the journey in reverse as long as I actually did it.

  And, it might be nicer and feel a whole lot safer if I was travelling back to the city with someone I knew. But what was holding me back was the fact that I still had some unfinished business here in Rishikesh. And I knew that two of those things – Chakra Healing and Cosmic Ordering – were on Post-it notes and included in my schedule over the next two days. Although I wasn’t quite sure what The Ceremony of Light was about, it was written on a Post-it note too.

  So, although part of me really wants to leave here with Belle, another part of me insists I must stay to follow the instructions on Jon’s notes. Although, right now, I’m still holding off on the one about bathing in the dubiously cleansing holy waters of The Ganges.

  Belle kindly advises me on train travel and personal safety for when I head back to Delhi.

  ‘Buy your ticket in advance. Swami Nanda can help you with that and, when you are on the train, make sure you sit with a family group or next to another woman. Avoid men. Don’t look at them and absolutely don’t speak to them. Don’t be polite. Don’t be nervous. Be cautious. Be confident. Be assertive. Wear your Indian clothes so you fit in and that way you won’t be a moving target for beggars and touts and, for goodness’ sakes, make sure your phone is charged.’

  I stare at her in horror. I’d managed to do the exact opposite of all those things on my way here and yet somehow I’d still survived. After spending these few days with Belle, I now suspect that despite her air of worldliness and her ballsy confidence, she’s actually more angry, anxious, scared and sceptical about the world than I am.

  ‘Okay. So, what’s next for you? What will you do back in New York?’ I ask her.

  She sighs and shakes her head as if the weight of the world is suddenly on her shoulders.

  ‘I need to find a new apartment as well as a way to pay for it. It’s gonna be tough.’

  ‘What happened to your place and your job?’ I ask her, feeling great sympathy. I too would be homeless and professionally adrift when I returned to the UK.

  She gives me an eye roll. ‘I was living with someone but we broke up. I needed to get as far away as possible and, as I couldn’t afford a ticket to Australia, I came to India instead.’

  ‘Oh, Belle. I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it? Would it help?’

  She’s silent for a while as she considers the option of a friendly shoulder.

  But her stony-faced reticence and her firmly gritted jaw also make me think I might have over-stepped the line here in even mentioning her past traumas back in New York City.

  Until this very moment, Belle and I had discussed almost every topic under the sun, except for anything remotely personal about what might have happened in our lives outside India.

  All week, it had been an unspoken rule to avoid addressing anything in any way private. Clearly neither of us had wanted to broach the subjects.

  I’d found it refreshing. To me, it meant we could just be who we are rather than being defined by our previous careers or our pasts. I’m sure Belle felt the same.

  Except that now, on our last day together, I’m really curious to know more about her. Belle seemed to me an intensely complicated, and also a rather belligerent person, a bit like an active volcano: simmering just now but highly likely to violently erupt at any time. I suppose I want to understand why that is. And, now that I’d asked the question, with her frown and resulting silence, I think she might be wishing I hadn’t.

  ‘Okay. I’m gonna tell you. I trust you’re not the kind to judge me.’

  I was shocked. ‘Judge you? No way. Never. You can trust me on that one, Belle.’

  ‘Well, back in New York, I was about to get married. But it turns out, my guy was livin’ a double life. An’ with Lord Shiva as my witness, I had no idea. No freakin’ clue. We’d even been living together. But the cheatin’ bigamist bastard had a wife and a kid on the other side of town. I only found out when his wife turned up on our wedding day.’

  ‘Oh, Belle. That is awful!’ I really didn’t know what else to say.

  Belle lit a cigarette and took a long slow drag of it. ‘I was so freakin’ mad. I ended up falling out with my family over it. I lost my job over it. Then I went crazy and burned up his precious car with all his stuff in it and then, well, I left town. I had to get away. Far … far … away.’

  ‘I’m sure your family must realise now that you didn’t know, and this isn’t your fault?’

  I didn’t like to ask if she expected to be arrested for arson the minute she got back.

  She shrugs. ‘I guess there’s no goin’ back. I’m just gonna accept it and move on. I gotta try an’ make a new life for myself. I suppose I came to India lookin’ for a way to feel better about myself and to stop feelin’ cheated an’ so damned angry all the time.’

  ‘And do you feel better about yourself?’ I ask her.

  She shrugs again and pulls a face. I see she has tears in her eyes.

  I realise I’m shivering – the heat of the day has sunk through me and through the stone wall we’re sitting on – and I’m struck with the realisation that Belle and I actually have much more in common than I’d first thought. We’re both backpacking brides.

  Only, I don’t know which is worse – her story or my own.

  One thing I do know is that Belle’s response to what had happened to her on her wedding day – the feelings of intense anger and the resulting bitterness – were probably, in the end, going to be far more destructive to her wellbeing than the awful event itself.

  Looking at Belle right now was like looking into a mirror and seeing myself.

  I decide then and there that I don’t want to continue to be so angry and bitter and cynical.

  ‘Maya, I’m still strugglin’. It’s gonna take more than ringin’ a few bells and chantin’ a few mantras to fix me. But you’ve been a great friend this week. It’s been fun. I’m glad we met.’

  ‘Me too. Without your friendship, Belle, I don’t think I’d have lasted this long. I want you to know you’re not alone. I came here angry too. I was hoping for some peace to heal my pain. But the day starts before dawn with what sounds like a fire drill. Then I sit for an hour on a cold floor, feeling grumpy until I get my morning coffee.’ I laughed but it sounds hollow.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Maya?’

  ‘Sure. Ask me anything.’ She’d opened up to me and I feel I owe her the same.

  ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse. You don’t really strike me as the kind of person who doesn’t have her shit together. So I can’t help but wonder why you would choose to come all the way out here to stay for a week in an ashram in India when you could have just taken yourself off to a health spa in Switzerland or something else instead?’

  I stare at her for a moment while I consider both the question and the answer.

  Belle alternates her glance and curiously raised eyebrows between my face and the diamond ring on my finger. ‘I’m thinkin’ it’s gotta have something to do with that rock on your hand?’

  I twist my ring around and nod. ‘I needed to find a way to accept my fiancé�
��s death. He died on our wedding day. I thought the ashram and the holy river and being in India would help me feel close to him. Close enough that I’d feel able to say goodbye and let him go. But I’ve failed. I’m still incredibly lost and so unbelievably angry about losing him.’

  ‘Oh Lord. I’m sorry, Maya. If you ask me, anger is a kind of madness and feeling lost makes you kinda bitter about everything. I do hope you manage to find your way.’

  It’s my turn to shrug. ‘I guess we’ve both proved that ashram life isn’t a fix for everyone.’

  ‘Anyway …’ she says, attempting to lighten the conversation while lighting up another cigarette. ‘I’ve decided, I’m gonna take a yoga teacher training course back in New York City. I’m gonna make a fresh start. Open my own shala.’

  I tell her it sounds like a great plan and I wish her well. ‘I won’t say good luck because I don’t believe in it. I believe we make our own.’

  Belle is a talented yogi, yet I couldn’t help but think that with her attitude and fortitude, she might do better starting up her own martial arts club or a karate dojo. Not that I would ever have been bold enough to suggest it to her when her Warrior Pose was undoubtedly the very best in the shala.

  ‘I really hate saying goodbye …’ she tells me. ‘So Maya, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna slip away this afternoon and I’m just gonna say namaste. It seems more appropriate.’

  ‘Sure. We can always keep in touch on Facebook or Instagram. Namaste, Belle.’

  We hug each other.

  I’ve decided I’m going to give myself the benefit of my last two days here at the ashram. And maybe I can at least try to follow a few of the rules during that time …

  Maybe I could genuinely benefit from a course in Chakra Healing and Cosmic Ordering and perhaps even find The Ceremony of Light that was mentioned in Jon’s notes. I might not leave here unburdened of my grief or my anger, able to fully let Jon go and move on with my life, but I could at least honour him by ticking off the tasks on his precious Post-it notes.