India part II : or the search for self.
At the time I left for India, I was doing a lot of yoga. I can no longer really say how this practice had come into my life, but it filled my days with a certain regularity. It was therefore quite natural that my attention turned toward India. In yoga studios, I could already perceive faint traces of it, no doubt altered, but enough to stir my curiosity.
From the first hippie travelers to this modest studio in Stockholm, something persisted in India, a kind of promise, a possible escape, for those who, in one way or another, were searching for themselves.
Around me, people meditated, learned pranayama. They took an interest in Hinduism, Buddhism, in teachings whose very mystery seemed to give them value. We spoke of dharma, of chakras, of ayurveda. What were we really looking for, if not some vague answer to the discomfort of the present, while we had begun to look at our own traditions with a certain indifference or disdain?
Shortly after arriving in Kerala, I took a train inland, toward a small, isolated ashram, set in dense, humid surroundings. I shared a large dormitory with about ten apprentice swamis. The days followed one another endlessly: meditation, chanting, long hours of yoga, and philosophy classes. I would wake around four, before the others, and quietly go down to the kitchens to ask for tea.
Then came the long hour of meditation. Sitting, eyes closed, on a hard and uncomfortable cushion, I struggled to forget the body, which grew numb and painfully stiff. The mind, meanwhile, never stopped running, clinging to trivial thoughts as time seemed to dissolve. I felt the urge to open my eyes and look for a clock that wasn’t there.
In yoga as well, I moved too much. The teacher, whose stern gaze I could feel behind me, would sigh: “You are not here to perform. You are here to bring order to your mind.”
With time, though, one grew used to this slow, repetitive rhythm. A certain calm would begin to settle. And something quite simple would happen: the more one withdrew from the world, the more attentive one became.
During this stay, I was sent to consult an astrologer. He spoke at length, confidently unfolding the main lines of my life, even evoking those that might have come before. I left with a list of recommendations, one of which, watching my cholesterol, still amuses me. A few days later, I went to see an Ayurvedic doctor for recurring stomach pains. I came away with two bottles of a thick black liquid to be taken morning and evening.
A few weeks later, after a long journey and a stop in Assam, I found myself at the foot of the Himalayas, near a small Buddhist monastery. On the paths, I would pass monks returning from the village, carrying sacks of rice. We walked side by side without speaking. A nod, and each went on their way.
One day, I decided to walk up to the monastery. A monk sitting at the entrance, bent over a ledger, barely looked up as I passed. Inside, a golden Buddha occupied a large niche, receiving the light of day. He seemed to look absently at the offerings laid at his feet.
I then went upstairs by a small wooden staircase. In a large room lined with books and loose pages, about fifteen monks sat side by side. Each recited texts aloud, at his own pace. From this came a continuous discordant murmur, yet strangely powerful. No one paid me any attention, and I stood for a while in the doorway, listening. I was later told they would continue their chanting like this for several days, until they had gone through all the texts.
In the evening, lying under my blankets, I let those voices return and carry me into sleep.
I do not remember ever having taken such an interest in Christianity, nor in the religions closer to my own environment. And yet, as a child, I had once thought of becoming a nun. It seems rather odd to me now, but there was, I think, a kind of pull, not toward God, but toward a simple life, set apart from the world. Of course, I had no real idea what religious life truly meant. The thought passed quickly, and I later abandoned any form of spirituality.
I had promised myself I would hold on to that calm once I returned. But life caught up with me. I no longer meditate, and I do less yoga. Even now, I still wonder: what was I meant to take from those experiences? Was I simply searching for myself, or for something more? And why did I have to go all the way to India for that?
It is a question that travel leaves behind.
Comments