Well, it had to happen....I had to extract myself from the cozy nest of the High Bank Peasant's Cottage. Leaving Rishikesh was not easy--there was an autorickshaw strike AND the last days there I fell into a rhythm....--There were daily meetings with Dr. Suchit Katiyar to discuss the basic philosophy, diagnostic methods, and applications of Ayurveda for the 3 doshas. We'd meet at the Niketan temple and I would follow him away from the medicine shop down to the river's edge where the background sounds of ringing bells, sweeping sweepers, and the occasional "seagull" mixed into my hand held audio recording of his lecture. Following the lecture, against his recommendation, I'd stop off for a dose of butter cookies baked in a tin fired stove atop a travel cart. Along the way, each day, others' routines would etch their karma along the river. Holy and unholy bathing, the scrubbing and drying of clothes, gurus and fake gurus meditating while seated on smooth grey stones, the intentional sadhu picking up trash, children and strolling young couples keeping him eternally employed by mindlessly tossing wrappers on the sand.
I'd stop off at bookstores, browse for long periods of time at titles like "The Secrets of Pulse Reading" or "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" or "Tantra in 30 Seconds"... then I'd scurry across the bridge to make it to the 4:30 yoga class at the Sivananda Ashram. This was my favorite of my yoga poo-poo platter--a ladies only class led by a Japanese nun ("Gents" at 6am)----The nun and I realized our paths had crossed at the Sivananda Ashram in the Bahamas. (small world here in "Inja") Her classes overlooking the Ganges, were accompanied by chanting sounds and burning smells wafting from the river. Monkeys swinging on the window chains made headstands hard to hold. My routine would end with a quick chat with Diwari, telling me the news from his daily paper, and a spicy dinner of mixed curried vegetables and chapati in a garden under Japanese lanterns---as i said, it was difficult to leave. Now, I'm at the Sri Ram Orphanage-in Har"I"dwar (the city invoking the images of the name "hard" and "war")--After paying a kings ransom for a taxi (due to the rickshaw strike), I was greeted by a dying dog with his entire shin bone exposed, a group of suspicious and shy children, and Swapna, the absent-minded nurse who's maybe been here a little too long. Jury's out regarding how this will go--moving out of the head and hopefully, coming down further into the heart.
