7/24 - 5 Unforgettable Days in Morocco - Casablanca, Mequenez, Fez, Tanger. VIEW PHOTOS

6/18 - Tango, Beaches of Sitges, and mountains of Monsterrat - all near Barcelona VIEW PHOTOS

6/28 – Gongotri: 5 days of Chasing Ganga to Its Source VIEW PHOTOS

If going back to the source of I AM doesn't always work, it might be useful to explore sources of holy entities, such as the Himalayas (foothills found in... yes, Rishikesh) or the Ganga river that starts in the glaciers of Gongotri, around I think 300 km away from the baby mountains. Oh, Mother Ganga, Ganga-ji, the liquid Goddess that descended onto the Earth down Shiva's dreadlocks... While in Rishikesh, it seductively kept changing its color every day - from bright green to muddy brown as if inviting to go see where these color transformations actually start – and they start so close yet so far away...

In retrospect, had I known all the details of the upcoming pilgrimage, I doubt I would have undertaken it alone. But the heart wanted to pay homage to a holy place; with the help of Hortario, who planted this hindu itch in me to do a yearly yatra.

Shared jeep was the name of the game – 7 hours from Rishikesh to a town called Uttarkashi. Spend the night there, and then another 4 hours to Gongotri. Although it doesn't quite end there. Gongotri is a summer butterfly that only lives 6 months out of a year; the other half, it hibernates under the thick blanket of snow. One can only admire how a whole town can be set up to exist only a few months at a time; the whole infrastructure of this village turns on and off like a light switch – from the grace of the climate and the presence of yatris (pilgrims). Gongotri is the “base” of the treck to the actual source of the Ganga, which is a 18 KM treck through the stern Himalayas, tiny streams that join the River through its many sanghams (joinings), and aromatic medicinal mountain flowers.

7 bumpy hours to Uttarkashi was shared with 10 lovely folks who didn't speak a word of English. Outside bathroom or not (Hari Ohm, dear Sachdeva), those 4 lessons of Hindi went a long way when I needed to find out the price of the ride, ask for a toilet stop, and find out how long the ride was going to be. The eye candy was the scenery along the way. Forget the famous Leh/Manali road I had gone on last year; this was a non-ending National Georgaphic special – the Himalayas, with the beautiful still lakes down at their base.

Having arrived in Uttarkashi, I took a look around me, and didn't find anything particularly worth sticking around for. Besides, it was only 2 in the afternoon, and my impatience to get to the final destination took the better of me. I walked down the end of the street, and an hour later was on another jeep ride to Gongotri. About half-way, I realized why folks had advised me to spend the night in Uttarkashi – i started getting dizzy, my heart rate went nuts, and the head felt like it was about to explode. I think that's what you call altitude sickness. The pounding of some cheesy banghra tune in the jeep is not helping; I think the driver is doing a fantastic job trying to deafen himself. Perhaps it's too disturbing to notice oneself think... I don't remember how I finally got out of the jeep, how I walked to the ashram where I was to spend the night, how I made it through the dinner that the ashram swamiji had whipped up for me, but I do remember being a hair away from fainting when I was carrying a bucket of steaming hot water up to my room. The trek the following morning was pretty much out of question, so this delay slowed me down to explore the beauty and charm of this little made-up town. Surprisingly untouched (i suppose mainly due to “the other” six months), this place has a little market street (how can any Indian town be without one) and a few dozen cute guest houses adorning the EXTREMELY LOUD torrid Ganga. The water here is so loud, one actually has to shout when speaking to someone. I take a short walk through the woods to the Pandhu cave, where the character from Mahabharata is said to have mediated. I shared that experience with him inside the cave's ohming walls. There is so much rugged charm to this town, I can easily see coming here for a month or two to chilling on a guest house balcony drinking chai (from the brought-over powder milk), looking at the Himalayas, and listening to the music of the river. Fantasy aside...

After a day of exploration, and spending a few hours with volcanically-insane swamiji, I decided to ditch a guide (swamiji's challenge to me), and head out on the trek solo. Swamiji left me with lovely memories of his lecture on meditation on the toilet (why bring magazines in there, or wait till you go to the meditation hall - meditate on the toilet; stuff is coming, you are in meditation, he says), and the following morning, he shut down the ashram to disappear to Rishikesh, to his “other” ashram and to meditate on the toilet, I suppose. Ah, India, you never know which angle it will come in at you...

The 18-hr trek has 2 legs – 14 KM to the stop-over point called Bojwasa, and another 4 km to Gomuck: cow's mouth. Or Ganga's mouth, to be exact, because that is actually it – The Source. Although some say that the actual actual actual source is a few hundred km up the Himalayas. Who knows... This is what the Hindus believe to be the source, so I was treating it as such.

Every kilometer of the way, the weather really meant what it was doing. Starting in the morning with the pouring rain, thick fog, then scorching sun, and finishing the day with some sub-zero temperatures. About 1/3rd of a way through, an old Varanasi pilgrim in orange robes invited himself as a companion on the trek. He doesn't speak a word of English. “Meh betah; ahb matah” he says - “I'm the son, you are the Mother”, said baba and made me frown in mistrust. He followed my 31-year-young bones and a 10-KG backpack with only a wooden stick and a wool blanket to his name. “Hari Ohm, Maharaj”, folks kept greeting him along the way. “Hari Ohm, Matah-ji”, he keeps saying to me. Those old decrepit sadhus (renunciates) were putting us high-maintenance city folk to shame, climbing the Himalayan stones barefoot or in thin rubber flip-flops. “Hari Ohm is the greeting amongst the Gongotri yatris. I was remembering the Jai Bole's of Amarnath 2 years ago. Many folks come in groups and families, and for some it's the 1st and only long trip in their lifetime. The don't have the luxury of hanging out here for days – they literally touch down the source and pull off the entire trek in one day.

The sun is high, the day feels like retiring, and the big cow mouth is finally in front of us. Shallow but powerful bubbling waters spilling out of a big stone opening covered in bright blue ice. The last 4 km of this trip, I covered on a pony. The hourseman's name is Sundhar (beautiful), horse's name is Happy, and she hates my guts. So, Liz, Beautiful and Happy – Beautiful yanking Happy and making all sorts of crazy sounds to encourage her have reached the Source. 500 meters in front of it is where you have to dismount the animal (she really is Happy now that I get off her), and cover the rest by foot – over slippery stones, right above the roaring river. If you wish to, of course. The current is so powerful, many end the journey here – it's enough to see the source. People regularly parish in these waters trying to get close to the glacier. I try my luck until about 20 meters from the mouth – any further seems crazy. I look up from where I am and see a sadhu up on a stone waving at me: “Ferenghi locita” his eyes say... Nearby is a small shrine with Shiva's attritubes – trishul, lingham... Who maintains this, in the middle of nowhere, I wonder. Could be the sadhus from the nearby ashram. I fill up a small vessel with the Ganga water – the current almost kicks the bottle out of my hand. Maharaj brought 3 2-liter containers. He's prepared to carry this load on the way back – not the sleeping bag or wool socks... There is something so magnificent and bigger-than-life in these Shaivist places; they fill up your heart with vastness and roar, and put the little stuff way out of your universe... I look around for my companion; he stays behind to hang with his sadhu buddies.

Happy and exhausted, it's another 4 kilometers (hour and-a half), back to where yatri's spend the night: a little stop-over by the name of Bojwasa. Amarnath's tent was palatial quarters compared to this ground-level room, with an honorable location right next to the bathroom. “Don't dirty”, it says outside the ashram. Ahem, too late for that. The good thing is that it's too damn cold at night for cockroaches to roam around. Although there is something sounding suspiciously like a mouse messing about the room. Dinner is ashram style – outside, seated on the ground in two rows in front of each other, plates put in front of us right on the cement. A dollop or rice, a dollop of lentils, a dollop of curried veggies, endless chapatis, bottomless chai – all in silence. With a stomach full of dhal/chawal (dhal & rice), tired out of my mind, it's not hard to sleep even on this cold cement floor, and with the 1st streak of light through the window, I'm out of bed for the return trip.

Walking back, I'm collecting all those never-happened's who were supposed to be my walking buddies before Maharaj took the available spot. Here is the fella who overslept for the trek. He's walking now hoping to make it back and forth in one day. Here is another one who started with me, but got sick along the way, and had to spend the night without ever seeing Gamukh. Poor thing is holding on to the horse for dear life as it's dispassionately carrying him back to Gongotri. I take many luxurious stops for chai – to practice Hindi, if anything. One baba offers me a hit of his chilum. This is just like in Amarnath, I think, where we exchanged the holy smoke for energy bars with a couple of Shaivist sadhus. Except this time, I give him my dried figs, and keep on walking, smokeless. I'm high enough without it.

A couple of kilomters before the gran rentree into Gongotri, a horseman point me to a lonely tent amidst the Himalayas: a Russian couple put it up there and has been living in it for several weeks now. Forget the tent, but a comfy guest house in this town will keep me here for weeks. Rishikesh is calling me back. My shaivist duties well fulfilled, I hop back into the jeep to bring a hello to the Himalayas from the Ganga.

PICS OF A STROLL BETWEEN TWO BRIDGES IN RISHIKESH

6/19 - A Bit of Bathroom Humor

For those of us who have been to India, we know that bathrooms (or tahilets, as they call them here) have a special place in this country. That place is basically everywhere. After the first couple of weeks of the initial shock, it's just a part of any road scenery that someone, usually a man, takes a luxurious unembarrassed leak (or the 2nd version thereof) right on the side of the road. The only consolations from the stench on the streets are:

1. the 2nd week of the rainy season (1st one lifts the natural layers off the streets, the 2nd washes them off)
2. a thought that this organic substance nourishes nature much better than the US-banned DEET that they freely use in India for crops. Go organic! Bring on the human waste!
   

So, I finally committed to taking Hindi. Intense 2-hr a day private instruction with a local super-intellectual. Satchdeva is a well-educated man in his... oh, i don't know... late 40's, with refined features, dignified spine, and a long-thin dried-up body. When he laughs, the yellowness of the tongue that shines through the cave of his mouth gives away the addiction to endless cups of chai. He's the nervous type – with a quick mind, and many sharp edges; they sit hidden unless you go against the grain, and then the hedgehog wakes up. He is stunned with my progress thus far, so I'm curious how I could ruffle his feathers. The opportunity came easier than I imagined.

One day I showed up to a class after a 30-minute walk and 2 liters of waters. About half-way through the lesson, I could no longer think straight, and the 2 liters have to make their way out somehow. So, I posed an innocent question: “Satchdeva, could I use the toilet?”. Something about the look on his face and the situation brought me back into the kindergarten times. Silence for a few seconds, eyes scurrying around, no answer... Ah, he pretended he didn't hear. My bladder wasn't interested in those politesse games. So, I blurted out again – almost shouting now, so there is no possibility of further pretense.“Satchdeva, could I use the toilet?”. He fidgets in his chair, confirming my suspicion that he lied about not hearing me the 1st time, looks left and right, as if looking for the answer from the walls, and not finding any, mumbles something like “outside”. Outside? Hmmmm... perhaps he has an outside toilet – not uncommon in India. But where? Outside is the street. I raise my eyebrows... Of course! How could I have forgotten about the balcony! “I s h e f o r r e a l ? ”. “Don't worry, no one person is coming, and we use water to wash it off”, he says. I take another look at the balcony, which would separate me from the street with only a waist-level wall. And the badly placed wooden door with many thumb-size holes is the only barrier between the study room and the future toilet. My mind is running through options – I could do it the easy way and find a restaurant across the street, but taking a leak on my aristocratic teacher's balcony, in the middle of a bustling street – I wouldn't miss that for the world! “So, Satchedeva, do you have the water”, I ask. “Don't worry, I'll get it later”, he answers. Which basically means “drip-dry, Lizzie!”

I venture outside. When I walked through this balcony before the class, I could have never predicted I would end up here again for this reason. The street-peeing mechanics are well-forgotten at this point. I squat down, forgetting to check out the slant of the pavement, and let out a few nervous streaks. I realize that if I'm going to release all 2 liters, I'll have to relax and pick up the pace. Just as these Rameshian thoughts occur, I look up to see a group of ogling fellas enjoying this HBO Live Special from the neighboring house. I stare directly at them, and we each play our roles brilliantly. Basically, to my dismay and their delight, we know there is no way in hell I can now stop mid-piss, so it's best to just pretend that we didn't see each other at all. I keep on wizzing; they keep on watching. The nervous piss now seems endless. I miscalculate the slant of the balcony floor, and now have a nice streak going all over the bottom of my beautiful silk kurta (tunic) and sandals. As my head turns away from the fellas and towards the door on my left, I see the huge gaps right into the study room that would give my teacher a full well-lit view of my monumental behind.

The streak is finally thinning, and this torture might come to a successful end, except that it's pretty much impossible to pull the pants back up WHILE you are in a squat. The next moment confirms my total, ultimate,and complete understanding of Ramesh's teachings – no guilt or shame of any kind – I get up from the squat, now well above the balcony level and moon the entire Laxman Jula road with my lace french nickers and the peed-over white pants.

Now having arrogated the teacher's abode with the vitamin and mineral-rich fluids, half-relieved (no pun intended) from finishing the ordeal, half-victorious from having actually gone through it, I re-enter the room. Sachdeva looks up at me expressionlessly, takes the same bottle of water that he was just drinking, steps outside, and throws a few splashes over the dark streaks on the floor as his head defiantly turns away from this low-level clean-up job. “So, the way to conjugate verbs in Hindi is...”

6/13 - Kids...

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Every day a bunch of poorest and happiest kids come to pick up plastic bottles for recycling under my balcony. When they collect a few hundred tons, they might get a few dozen rupees that the parents will promptly take away. They catch every bottle I throw down like it's a precious toy, with a look of mixed gratitude and delight. They have fleas, one pair of pants a year, and radiant eyes. They are my gurus...

My landlord, who humbly asks to be called Master (I don't know his real name; perhaps Servant?) is a master tailor, a construction worker, a shop owner, a lover of a bottle of whiskey at the end of a work day, and an affectionate father of 2 boys. Sahil, the youngest, is 4. Little body with enormous eyes. So enormous, they command you to notice them first when you look at him. On a hot Wednesday afternoon, he inventively punctures a hole in a plastic bag, fills it with water, and is very determinately, as if he's getting paid for it, spraying the back of his Dad's pants with two well-aimed streaks. Master is too busy with work to notice. Grandma is not. Without a hint of hesitation, this sweet woman serves Sahil with a weighty slap across the face. Stopping the game for just that brief moment, he recovers instantly and continues right along, completely unaffected. It is no more of a shock than an expected sneeze. Clearly, the squeezing game is worth the risk of a few smacks. “yeah, grandma, if that makes you feel like you've done your duty”. And that's all it is – everyone doing their duty.

Half a block down the street is a girl sitting outside on the curb, holding something. She's so little, she looks more like a living doll rather than a dolled-up girl. 'Ahloh, ahloh', she says to me. If you want to survive in this town, better learn to speak the rich folks' language. She's just old enough to have learnt to speak her native Hindi, and here is the almost-native “one rupee?”. I look at the doll she's holding in her toy-size arms. The doll moves. Ah, it's another dolled-up girl. The more miniature, malnourished version. A doll holding a doll, a human holding a human. Child as a mother.

6/10 - Only a fever

10 in the evening. I barely made it home from the dinner at a nearby garden restaurant. The streets looked surreal, and the lights were stabbing my pained eyes. I drop my achy body onto the bed – clothes on, contacts in, and acknowledge my suffering with a good out-loud moan – I have a fever. There is no position that's comfortable for the body – my mere existence hurts. Next morning I skip the yoga practice, but the body is well enough to walk around and even desire food. It was only a fever...

Same day, later in the morning, I come for the daily pancha karma treatment. One of the therapists, Laxmi, a woman my age, but belonging in face and life to a generation older, has just returned from two days in Delhi. What was in Delhi? Sister-in-law's 7-year old daughter died. Pain in one leg, hospital, fever, body swelled up, body gave up. All in the span of 3 days. (Laxmi's older son is also 7. She dropped the usual stoicism for today; her eyes are glossy with about-to-happen tears). It was only a fever...

My next door neighbors are a mixed couple – Indian fella of Bombayan origin, and a Quebec Canadian girl. Vijay is struggling to make it on his own to support himself and his wife-to-be. Why aren't you living with his parents in Bombay for now? Naïve question... “Parents? Emilie answers with a question and a raised eye-brow”. He split away from his Dad a decade ago.” And Mom? Oh, Mom died when he was 7. No one knows from what. She just had a fever.

6/1 - Rishikesh

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VIEW THE GANGA ARTI VIDEO

Noise took over the once-quaint Rishikesh like a conquering army. It's everywhere, pervading every thinkable and unthinkable corner. It defies the time of day, the thickness of walls and pays no respect to the noble efforts of the meditating and praying souls. Even the Himalaya foothills and the Ganga succumbed.

The whole town is laid out on the two sides of the holy Ganga river, with two monumental bridges stringing the two banks together – Ram Jula (jula means bridge) and Laxman Jula. About 3 km apart, one could easily spend days and days in this town walking between the two bridges. Some do. This yoga capital of the word has an ashram on every corner and a yoga teacher in every building. Sometimes several in one building. You could do everythihng, or you could do nothing. You can stuff your days with classes, or you could just chill in one of the garden cafes. Or you could live in an Ashram and taste the monastic communal life. Of find your own blend in seeking happiness.

Foreigners are few this time a year, but this is the high season for the Indian yatra (pilgrimage) travel. These days, it's armies of Rajastanis. It's easy to tell them by the men's turbans and women's disneyland-bright saris that cover their foreheads or faces. They wear heavy bangles on their ankles and supposedly even sleep in them. Women and men walk separately. The former groups only speaks when spoken to by the latter. Otherwise, ladies communicate to each other through their eyes.

So, practicalities first – after spending 3 nights in a lonely-planet recommended hotel (read: the prices upon publishing immediately double or triple, rooms overbook, and quality of accommodations leaves much to be desired), i found a 100-rupee ($2) a night spotless room with a million-dollar view of the Himalayas and the Ganga from the window and the balcony. How do I spend my days?

Guruji Prakash, a direct disciple of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi invites one of his students to teach asana in the morning to me and french girl who's taking the course with me. An interesting blend of hatha yoga with Sivananda, Iyengar, and something else. Good intense practice, with lots of sensitive adjustments, chanting before and during practice, and heaps of enthusiasm from the teacher. Afternoon are spent in segments of the 21-day pancha karma treatment, then back to guruji in the afternoon for the philosophy and meditation class. From the beginning, he struck me like the real deal, speaking softly, humbly and confidently in Rameshian words about the soft and effortless nature of yoga and meditation, about letting things come to you rather than chasing after them, has clear knowledge of the vedas and the sutras, and generally gives his knowledge in the form of different types of meditation and inspiring philosphy talks. He's humble and accommodating. It's only this time a year when you can have the luxury of daily private classes with someone like him. Afterwards is the highlight of the day – the Ganga Arti, dinner, and... oh, it's past 10. Off to bed. You can see how with such a schedule even the most minor of the errands, like making a phone call or visting an internet cafe is a BIG BIG deal....

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5/26 – Delhi to Rishikesh

Driving through small towns is one of the most intense experiences in this country – especially at night, and especially during the monsoon that dresses India into a different color and mood. You couldn't sleep-drive through these villages even if your eyes were closed. Lining the streets on left and right are 2 endless rows of small stalls – each one screaming for attention in its own peculiar way, as if trying to out-do each other in peculiarity. A stall with a canary-yellow sign on a bright turquoise background lit up by an omnipresent office-style neon light, selling packaged mineral water, EverReady (i.e. Never ready, always out of juice) batteries, glucose biscuits that are so bad, they are actually good, and Listerine mouth-wash. Right next door, and completely unknown to its neighbor if you ask, is another stall, called Provision Shop. There is a comment - “Shop of Everyday Needs” right below, just in case you wonder what Provision goods are. And they are: shampoo, soap, detergent, packaged mineral water (although of a different brand, 3 rupees more expensive thanks to Coca-Cola's involvement), the expired version of the biscuits in the first stall, SIM cards for mobile phones and Fanta. Just figuring where to go to get what you need could give you weeks of entertaining pursuit. Doesn't matter that it's after 10 pm at night; the traffic on the street still drowns you with noise. My driver that picked me up from Delhi to take me to Rishikesh occasionally lets go of the horn during this 7-hour ride, but those moments are rare and far in between as without it, he feels completely unnoticed in the crowd of cars. We are entering a quiet part – the road narrows, the rain washes off stale dust off the tired trees, no other car in sight, and we are rolling to the sound of the rain and crickets. The dear driver finds himself in such dismay at this silence, he makes eye contact through the rear view mirror and screams, (only because he is so used to screaming, not because there is a need) “do you like Indian music?”. Before I have a chance to say yes and then bite my tongue, the rain and the crickets are overpowered by some second-rate banghra tune at max volume. So much for the quiet moment.

Rishikesh is supposed to be so hot, that the spoilt western brats have already made a mass exodus into the cooler Dharamshala. But instead of scorching heat, the town meets me with a cool, refreshing monsoon – a thick spongy cloud in the crying sky. The town of Haridwar on the way – like a Hindu Venice – temples laid out right on the bank of the Ganga, and an enormous iron Shiv with a menacing trishul (trident) rising up from under the water. This will be the site of the 2010 Maha Kumbha Mela – biggest religious gathering in the word, with millions of Shiva-worshipping Hundus taking a dip in the Liquid Goddess – the Ganga.

Traces of the Western backpacker invasion are everywhere – “PanaRamic views, rooms, really home-made food, yoga, meditation, and enlightenment” (without leaving the building) – is what one road sign for a new hotel suggests. Here is a herbal beauty parlor with “meniequr, and pediequr”. If you need your entertainment for the day, skip lunch and drop by an ayurvedic Pancha Karma cleansing on the nearest corner to get stuff out rather than in. On the way, don't forget to contribute a few rupees for chai to one of many bearded orange-robed babas (old renunciates) – a small price to pay for the soulful Hari Ohm and a bit of karmic redemption in return.

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5/25 - Ramesh's 90th bithday

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Having arrived at Ramesh's shortly before his daily no-holiday-no-weekend-break 9 am satsang, it was tempting not to take a picture of several layers of sandals piled up in front of the doorway. That's how many people climbed the 4 flights of stairs, took the lambada-playing elevator, traveled cross-country to Bombay, and flew across the world to the subcontinent to celebrate guruji's 90th birthday. The last couple of weeks, satsangs had no more than 20 folks.

I opened the door to meet the mushy resistance of a few human bodies behind it – even the hallway was jam-packed. A 50/50 split of locals and foreigners, about 100 people in total, and Ramesh in the midst of all this – not one bit concerned about his birthday, but looking eager to party. The only thing different about him was a different color punjabi from his usual white. That was the extent of his interest in his own birthday – the rest of the fru-fru: decoration, food, etc – was other people's doing. Several people sat in the not-so-hot-a-chair to say heartful words about the beloved guru; those who wanted to speak but couldn't, cried. It was truly a reunion of his long-standing devotees. Ramesh had a joke in response to every speech – the more exalted the speech, the sharper the joke. There were locals and foregners who had quit their jobs and moved to bombay to spend their mornings with ramesh at the satsang, and then hang with the gang at the tea shop afterwards. Their whole lives revolve around this. If there is a word to describe the celebration, it's heartful – smiles, gifts, tears, hugs, giggles. Guruji gave so little/much importance to the gifts, he had a bin prepared for them next to him. We hung around until 11, and then headed out for a long chat over tea across the street. Nothing special and everything special.

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May: Bombay
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Even while planning the trip to India, everything inside me was getting worked up with excitement. It felt like an over-due return home. I was pre-tasting its food, pre-smelling its strange smells on the streets, pre-seeing the saris, pre-hearing the noise of the rickshaws. I landed in Mumbai with the “I'm finally home” feeling. Everything about India brings you right into the present. It all came rushing back - the god-awful choking sounds in the morning that are nothing but an innocent kriya of clearing the throat. And the terrifyingly-bleeding gums and mouths are just a result of daily chewing of the red beetle stuff. Then the cries of some unidentifiable animals in the morning - perhaps a crazy bird or a deranged monkey that sounds no better than its throat-clearing human counterparts. I feel so much love for this place, my previous western-tourist neurosis of fighting for every rupee and suspecting everyone in trying to cheat me has disappeared. Now if I catch a cab driver trying to overcharge me, we both end up laughing at this locals vs. tourists game...

Ramesh:

I found Ramesh a little dessicated in the body, but in the best of spirit. Those eyes full of fire were sending penetrating rays into everyone with whom he was speaking. There are about 20 folks in the room, mostly local Bombayans, spending their day off with the Guru. It was a bit eery and satisfying at the same time to hear his new spin on the concept, as it was exactly my recent re-understanding thereof. I suppose Ramesh stays in constant telepathic contact with his disciples. Here are a few more pieces of the puzzle:

• Throughout our upbringing, we were taught to treat “the other” as the enemy or rival, who might potentially harm us or get what we were supposed to get. One can change that attitude by realizing that if everything is a happening, “the other” could not possibly hurt us.

• There is a difference between an Observer and a Witness. An observer is the one that watches our actions, words, and thoughts and makes continuous judgments on them. A Witness is the unbiased non-judgmental observer.

• We don't know what the next moment will bring, so all we care for in life is happiness. However, hunting after pleasure soon makes us realize that happiness is not rooted in it, because even pleasurable moments we can't often fully enjoy. So, the Truth is in acceptance of every moment no matter in what circumstances life put us.

• Meditation is kinda necessary now, it seems. He says if you meditate, you may or may not get enlightened, but if you don't, you definitely won't. Damn, and there I thought I was off the hook. To be verified...

A local Indian fella sat in the hot seat at the satsang today without realizing he was about to be pressure-cooked. Ramesh does this thing once in a while, where he picks at someone until that person crumbles in their neurosis or insecurity, thereby being an ironic example of not fully understanding the concept. And then, like a cat who's had enough playing with a scared-to-death mouse, Remesh lets them go with a grin on his face and the standard: “Don't worry. We are just both instruments of God's will and Cosmic Law”. Of course, by then, especially if it's a Hindu for whom the guru-disciple relationship is sacred, the poor chap is beside himself from being smacked around by Ramesh.

It's a different crowd now from what I'm used to - just the super-devoted ones who closed their eyes on the fact that it's the hottest month of the year in Bombay. Streaks of sweat rolling down your legs is a norm, but somehow no one cares... I used to come to Ramesh wanting to catch all his precious words; now it kinda doesn't matter what he has to say – it's just nice to hang around him, and other folks at the satsang. I have absolutely not doubt of his enlightenment when I see this vast emptiness in his eyes without a trace of a reaction to whatever he is saying, or what is said to him. He is truly like a channel that gracefully delivers God's message to you – with the wrapper and wording appropriate for you. There is the energy of a big exhale in the room as devotees admit with relief that they no longer have to search, and can just enjoy their life now.

I lucked out with a place to stay. Googled “paying guests in Mumbai” and found a room to rent from a family in their apartment – the modern Bombay household. It's a wopping 5-minute walk to Ramesh's 8-). Nice Husband/wife duo with two spoilt brats sons in their early twenties. Everyone speaks only English to each other, with an exception of the servant. He's a sweet guy who constantly has something to say to me – in Hindi. Tired of giving him a blank stare with my English gibberish, I've decided to expand my Hindi beyond “shukria”. The room has a gorgeous view over the Chawpati beach and the Arabian sea – tradak for afternoon meditations.

Spending days between the satsangs, the long discourses at the tea-shop afterwards, reading in the air-conditioned Borders-type bookstore called Crosswords, and the yearly Youth Art Festival in the evenings. Pics are uploaded – it's the young artists from all over India – singers, dancers, musicians – each one with half-an-hour to do their best. A series of four-hour concerts every day for two weeks on the famous Marine drive is a real treat this time a year in Mumbai when the Arts are on hiatus.

View video 1 from the concert

View video 2 from the concert

Gave two cranio sessions already. Finished the first one with the guy mumbling something about being relaxed and topping it off with “Thank you anyway”. Ahem... The other was a nice balance though, with a feeling of deep rest and quiet. This work is no walk in the park...Then two days later, gave a cranio session to Ramesh himself. If there was ever a stonger experience! This was the first time I felt a body so free. There were no muscle knots, no resistance in tissues, no emotional hang-ups, no problems whatsoever – basically his teaching embodied. If I ever had a doubt that he was enlightened, the session put the questions to an end. After I finished, he said something about feeling good and energy flowing in his body. I suspected it was a little soft BS to pat me on the shoulder, because the session was basically for me. I walked around completely blissed out for a few days afterwards.

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5/6 – 5/11: Last Craniosacral Segment
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Yay! I finally graduated!!! Franklyn lovingly called us “colleagues” and sent us off with buddhist blessings and a big mustachy smile on his face. We all spent the week “honoring” each other with absolutely brutal and hilarious hand-made cards for everyone on the course + the tutors. On one of them, Ghandi was giving a cranio session to a horrified patient whose head was cut-out from one of Goya's war paintings. On another, the client's head was blown away with a charge of potency from the practitioner's overzealous "intention". Despite having been on my best behaviour the entire two years, someone glued to the front of the card a magazine cut-out that said “psycho”. Go figure...

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5/1 – 5/4 Paris
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Paris just has this... je ne sais qoi that gives off this alive, vibrant, elegant, and creative vibe. It was just fantabulous 4 days. Nice weather, great tango dancing EVERY EVENING, a couple of phenomenal privates with Sebastian and Mariana, being taken around to non-touristy places, such as Paris' oldest accordion shop, a hidden organic food and wine market with an adjacent restaurant, a hot Parisian haircut, an insane exhibit by David Lynch, and just lots and lots of walking the streets. Staying at Julie's in the familiar Montparnasse was like being at home again...

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4/27 – 5/1: Milonga des 4 Saisons: Tango festival in Sisteron (South of France)
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This was easily the most relaxed and enjoyable tango fest I've been to yet. My dear friend Julie – the brain behind this once-a-season gathering in the French Alps took me under her wing and into this paradise. This was the first time I was at a place that let me harmonize the conflicting parts of me – that one that enjoys the secular and sexy until-5-am dancing, and the one that longs for the mountains and getting lost in the sub-continent. 80 or so folks from all over Europe, in a comfortable yet stylish guest house smack in the middle of the red-spotted poppy fields and breathtaking vistas of the Alps. Everything from the food to the rooms done in the best of French taste by the sharp dueña named Dominique hit the spot. The entire weekend, people were fluidly transitioning from the beds or tents to relaxing strolls in the mountains, to the dance floor, to a glass of wine. There was space to breath, to enjoy, to embrace, and by all means to get the tango “fix”. So, instead of taking smoke breaks, I would step outside the dance cottage to take moon and mountain breaks. No pressure, no struggle, no crowds, no “working the room” – for the first time not worrying with whom and how much I dance, and ironically having the best dances... Julie hooked me up with teaching the Yoga for Tango workshop. The room filled up with about 25 folks, full of interest and enthusiasm doing twists, lunges, pigeons, and of course the “mula bondha”. Would love to come back in the Fall

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4/23 – 4/26: Duncton Mill, England. Craniosacral Training...
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So, there it is, the start of another open-ended world tour with an arbitrary 6-month mark attached to it. On the surface, everything about it resembles my '04 escape – the quitting of the job, the intended itinerary, the duration; but on another level, it couldn't be more different. Now this feels not like an act of recklessness and breaking from the norm, but rather a natural expression of what now is the norm, that is happily suffering from more freedom and unknowing. Plunging into those waters is what I do now, with the hopes that I'll learn to swim in them some day...

That 3-day refresher with Mike Boxhall couldn't have been a better tone-setter for the trip. For one, this course is intended for those post-post-post graduates who have already done most of his courses, and come back occasionally to be reminded that working at the level of the Spirit will never leave the rug under your feet. He's the U.G. and Shiva of cranio...So, I'm starting post-graduate training with him before graduation from the Foundation course at Karuna. I'm also starting this 3-part course, substituting the first part with a Refresher – basically, without having anything to be “refreshed” from. “Yeah, you've got just about everything wrong”, Mike said with a gentle grin on his face. It was such an honor and joy to be amongst those who've been doing, feeling, loving, suffering, thinking, creating, re-creating and still practicing this work for many years, and some even for decades... Rooted in buddhist principles and pungent English humor, we explored:

• Apparently, the Buddha saying “Enlightenment is in the Body”

• the Relationship doing the work. It's not about forgetting yourself, and just devoting all to client, but being equally aware of both yours and client's processes to let the work arise from the Relationship.

• Eastern vs. western idea of Health. Death is not a failure...

• At the time when we notice difficulty of our own processes arising strongly, rest with the Noticer, and not the noticed stuff

• Hands-off work. Bringing the field of the room into the session

• Allowing for things to reveal themselves to you, rather then searching for something with pre-conceived ideas.

• “Session as a gift” - short session without any discussion/feedback afterwards...