The Ebb and Flow

Numbers are dwindling at the ashram as guests head off in different directions. The Irish lad (who had quit the pharmaceutical industry and retrained in adult education) came here for a few days of reflection; the gentle Swiss pastor has headed back to tend his flock, the Australian ladies have gone to other ashrams, and there is just the Italian couple from Tuscany with their 10-year old son. They leave on Saturday and I thought I would be alone, but then half-a-dozen Non-Resident-Indians (NRIs) arrived at dinner-time tonight: an extended family, I think. In a country where class and caste are still very important, I wonder how the head of the household will fit in peeling onions tomorrow.

The penicillin took effect on me like a sledgehammer, and I have been going back to bed after breakfast and lunch and sleeping for a solid extra hour. But it is working. My calf is back to normal size and the skin looks much healthier. I get the impression that the doctor decided to give me a true knock-out dosage, as he gave strict instructions that I should have no more antibiotics for at least 12 days, (by which time I should be in Madurai on the next leg of my trip.)

The big impact of a stay like this is that you can stop thinking about anything apart from why it was that you decided to crash out like this. There is no point in planning what to do – because there really is nothing beyond the very rural village. You don’t plan where to go, because you’re not going anywhere, and you don’t plan what to eat or where to go out for a drink, because neither is an option. You are totally – voluntarily – institutionalised. You don’t need to think, and it is a real strain learning to do that. I am not good at it: some people seem able to sit cross-legged and empty their minds, but I find I am planning a Sunday lunch party next month, or working out how to deliver the training contract I have just been given. All very useful, but not the State of Bliss one is meant to be able to access in true meditation.

Hindu shrine being processed through the village

The village is worth a colourful hour or two. As I arrived for my last doctor’s visit, a Hindu shrine was being processed down the street. 

The drummer and clarinettist provided the music and a young boy carried a flaming log – fire is always part of Hindu ritual. As we drove on down the street most houses had patterns in front, traced out in coloured powder. 

The local women drew a beautiful pattern in front of the chapel at Saccidananda on New Year’s Eve, but then, in the wee small hours of January 1^st there was a rainstorm, and it was all washed away.

Just like the steady change of guests at the Ashram. You learn to live and love the transient nature of life here.  

Packets of coloured powder on sale for creating patterns to decorate the streets.