14 ~Living in an Ashram. Part 2: Through the storm.

December 22.

The next morning, we started yoga class at 6 a.m.

At that hour, the Ashram was completely deserted. There was no one in the hallways except for the blue statues of the Hindu gods, who never abandoned us. It was winter. It was still dark and quite cold.

Yoga and Pranayama—breath control—were the classes that motivated me the most, so I would attend with my notebook, writing down all the important details. This was the only class not led by the nun. Probably because the nun was too old for the yoga poses.

The woman who taught the class was younger. Her name was Indu.

She was an Indian woman with long black hair tied in a bun, and a red bindi on her forehead called sindoor, which indicated that she was married. She had two small children and lived in the Ashram with her family in one of the upstairs rooms, on a terrace full of plants guarded by a thousand monkeys. Whenever we went to her room, her husband had to stand at the door with a stick to keep the monkeys from trying to attack us. She would come out shouting:

"Take care, take care!" and point to various strategic spots to watch out for. Finally, someone who was more afraid of the monkeys than I was.

The yoga she taught was quite traditional. There was no music like in the Western classes we were used to—no flow, no incense, nothing. Just classic Indian yoga, a good warm-up, and lots of sun salutations, the favorite asana sequence in every yoga class. We also practiced pranayama, breathing exercises to manipulate prana—the vital energy that keeps us alive.

"What's the teacher's name?" I asked Elke, who had a lot of experience in retreats and knew everything.

"Indu Ji," she answered.

"But wasn't the nun's name Ji?" I replied.

"The nun is Mata Ji," she explained, "but that's not her real name. 'Mata' refers to the figure of a mother in India. It's used to show devotion and respect, which is why it's used for older women. The nun is 'Mata Ji,' and the younger woman is 'Indu Ji.' Indu is her real name, and 'Ji' is an expression you'll hear a lot here in India—it is used to address someone respectfully."

Wow. I still felt a bit strange calling the nun "Mother." My atheist instincts squirmed in the depths of my mind. Ideologically, it still seemed too much—I have only one mother, and she's enough for me—so in the first few days, I avoided having to address her directly. Anyway, I had decided to take it easy and give it time, as Kaare suggested, so that's what I did.

The place still made me uncomfortable. Not the monks themselves or the Ashram itself, but my own prejudice, which questioned the popularity and commercialization of the place, the "school-like" program, and some fellow participants who seemed to be at the Ashram on vacation.

And, in fact, they were.

Many had flown to Rishikesh just for the 10-day retreat and would leave India afterward. Among my fellow participants was a woman from the USA dressed in her Nike sports gear, whom I still couldn't quite understand what she was doing there. Another was an Indian businessman who, while attending the retreat, continued his work calls at all hours and occasionally skipped classes to get Ayurvedic massages or go shopping.

To me, they didn't seem very committed to the situation—at least not in the way I was.

"They don't take it seriously," I thought.

Clearly, they didn't share my extreme reality of having left everything behind, nor my urgent search for help.

Why should they?

And here was my ego and my prejudices once again present.

"But who do you think you are? Mother Teresa of the poor?"

"It's my ego..."

"Why don't you focus on yourself instead of criticizing your peers? Isn't that why you came here?"

"They're not my peers yet, and I'm still angry."

As if being angry gave me more rights...

I took it very seriously because that's how I am, and because I was desperate.

During every free moment, I tried to practice the chanting. I didn't understand how that was supposed to help with my anguish and existential questions, but I was already here—I had to give it a chance. So, I would go to the gardens in the sun, with my mate, my notebook, and my English translator. I studied Yoga philosophy and tried to memorize the Sanskrit chants for the lesson with the nun.

The garden was the quietest place in the Ashram and perhaps in all of Rishikesh, except for the monkeys who also seemed to enjoy solitude in India as much as I did—with the crucial difference that they had arrived first. My red yerba packet- the argentinian tea- caught their attention. I believe that was the beginning of our bad relationship.

One afternoon, while I was studying in the garden, one of them came too close. I tried to stay calm and handle it maturely like an adult woman, but at some point, the situation escalated. He was too close.

His proximity forced me to stand up from the ground, exposing my backpack. Huge mistake. The monkey, cunning, took advantage of my distraction and began rummaging through everything inside, trying to find food. I tried to scare him. He did the same to me—but his fangs are bigger, and he probably has rabies while I, for now, did not, so we were not on equal footing.

He bared his fangs and jumped toward me, attempting to intimidate me. Of course, he succeeded. I was alone, so I started screaming. One of the workers grabbed a stick hidden in a strategic spot and came to my rescue.

Foreigners usually underestimate the danger of these little creatures of God, but those who live in India know very well how aggressive and treacherous they are—and that, aside from having a stick nearby, there isn’t much else you can do. It seems that the locals are the only ones who take them seriously, while tourists foolishly try to feed them with bananas of death, unaware of the risk they are taking.

That would become my new conversation flag.

"What can I do next time?" I asked the caretaker. "How do I defend myself? If I try to scare him, he attacks me. So what should I do?"

"Nothing. You just give him what you have," he replied.

"But... how?!" I exclaimed, furrowing my brow. "What about our dignity? And our wallets, too?"

His answer annoyed me a little. Obviously, we are not used to that kind of surrender. We, the superior beings who think we have everything under control.

Monkeys know nothing about wallets, valuables, passports, or laptops inside a bag. They are looking for food, and they will attack you if they need to, and they will dominate. It’s the law of the jungle. And unless you have the courage to assert yourself and sustain it, the jungle rules apply. We are in their territory—being "human" doesn’t make us superior here. They couldn’t care less about your appearance or your fancy clothes, so your sense of superiority is put to the test.

Your ego slowly begins to crack along with your illusion of control. It’s all part of a macabre plan. In India, things are inverted. Everything is meticulously designed to break you—not you, but your ego. They call her Mother India because she teaches you, whether you want to learn or not.

I was always eating bananas. Those who know me are aware that bananas are the foundation of my diet—healthy and easy to eat for the fast-paced life I used to live. I used to place them in the open side pockets of my backpack to keep them from getting squished. I also love sitting down with a mate- the argentinian potion- in open spaces or while walking. So, I don't need to explain why I was easy prey for the monkeys.

They were forcing me to change my habits—and, of course, they succeeded. We had a personal battle, and they easily won. I quickly declared my defeat.

I hate monkeys.

Little by little, I started getting closer to Gulnara. After the chanting class, we would go together to the Ganga to purify ourselves and because we both loved the winter bath. The water was freezing, but we were two girls from Copenhagen—we swam in the Nordic waters of the Baltic Sea, so the Ganga was a piece of cake for us. We descended the steps like the Indians did, held on to the chains hanging from the floor to prevent the current from sweeping us away, and slowly submerged ourselves in the water. Proudly, we stayed there for a long time, feeling the river cleanse us.

Indians don't like the water much; most of them don't know how to swim, so they looked at us as if we were superwomen. We were. A woman traveling alone in India always comes back stronger.

We performed the ritual that everyone comes to do at the sacred Mother Ganga. We submerged ourselves three times under the water like they did, and afterward, we simply contemplated the beauty and the mountains. We started repeating it every morning, and it became our morning ritual—and for me, the best part of the day. The icy water gave my body a sense of peace that I couldn't find throughout the rest of the day.Afterward, we would enter the Ashram through the main gate, cross the water fountains with a towel on our heads, and change for the next class.

Every morning, I tried to wake up better, less sleepy, to attend the Yoga class. I began implementing the practice the monk had taught me—wetting certain body points to balance my chakras, to meditate better, and basically to stop being a zombie until breakfast time arrived. I would wet my armpits, the back of my neck, my face, and my genitals with cold water, and then I would walk out completely covered with a pashmina over my head in the Indian style. During the retreat, we were required to wear only white clothing, which made us feel purer in our own eyes and also in the eyes of the divine.

Every morning, immediately after Yoga, we had the Havan, the fire ceremony, in the inner courtyard of the Ashram. At that moment, the teenage monks moved back and forth, preparing the music, the fires, and the offerings. They would roll out a thousand red carpets for us to sit on, setting them up and taking them down every morning. The mini-monks, barely three feet tall, would sit between the two giant trees with hanging vines, close their little eyes, and begin to chant the mantras. Every morning was the same: we would leave Yoga, find our spot around the fire to decorate with flowers, and begin another day. Every morning, without fail, we purified ourselves with fire, the smell of incense, the trees, and the burned seeds.

The Ashram Guru used to lead the ceremony at the main fire. When the ritual ended, the Indian national anthem was sung with respect, and we cheered with our fists raised at the final victory phrase, which, after a couple of days, I also adopted. Then, we would all approach the Guru to bid him farewell. He was the one hanging from the yellowed picture frame in my room. He had a beautiful energy—we soon began to love him.

When the ceremony ended, he would walk away from the courtyard, making eye contact with each of us as we stood forming a kind of human corridor. He would hold your gaze for about 3 or 4 seconds, and in those moments, he gave you everything with just a look—love, peace, calm, and understanding.

He was only about 1.50 meters tall, but his energy made him immense.

After he left, we would all approach his fire, which was the purest because it was his. We would walk around it three times, kneel on the red carpet, extend our hands toward the fire, and then touch our heads with our hands in a gesture of purification.

There was always the bald monk with the huge smile—I was almost friends with him by now.

The monk's name was Swami. It wasn’t his real name either, but that’s what Hindu monks or spiritual leaders who dedicate their lives to spirituality are called—kind of like the male equivalent of Mata Ji. He had a particular freshness and energy, moving quickly and with hints of an American demeanor. One day, during lunch, he shared his story with us.

He was from New York and had been living at the Ashram in India for several years. He had struggled a lot with alcohol and drugs. He had tried to quit several times but always ended up going back.

" The last time, i lost everything and ended up alone. No one could keep up with my pace toward a slow death."

One day, he came to India, and like many others, he stayed to live at the Ashram.

I find the nature of spiritual awakenings fascinating.

These monks we see praying with a peaceful aura full of light—most of the time, they weren’t saints or believers or "righteous" people living calm, exemplary lives. Most of them were "normal" men who suffered so much that the only way out was to surrender to the idea of another possible world—one with less suffering. It’s what we’re all looking for. Whether through drugs, spirituality, or whatever else we choose, all we want is to stop suffering, to find a little peace, and to make the world more bearable.

A reality that feels less harsh, as Freud would say.

The other Guru was an American woman who came on vacation and also ended up staying here. She was a psychologist, which gave me a little more hope.

After spending some time at the Ashram, sitting on the benches, and listening to the various stories people brought with them, I thought—just for a moment—that this might become my destiny too. To leave everything behind and stay here.

It’s impossible for that thought not to cross your mind at least once when you come to India. Everything here is lived so intensely.

Honestly, I wasn’t that far off—I thought about it more than once. But for now, it seemed the universe had another path in store for me...