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Riso Bianco - Part III, LIFE AT ANADPUR SAHIB
This is a continuation of Riso Bianco - Part II from our Apr 2008 issue.
The first day
We leave our room all
dressed in white, smiling, calm. It looks like a college for wealthy
girls. But
we’re really looking for peace, for something that leaves everybody
unscathed
while annihilating the past.
We study the lives of
the Gurus. On the first day we study the life of Nenak, sign of the
zodiac:
Aries. Ironic, nice, he felt very lonely as a child, him too. I like
the lives
of the saints, the lives of heroes, people who highlight other people
and their
good qualities. We have our favourites, those to whom we feel closer,
an image
of greatness that concerns all of us, no one excluded, no exceptions,
not even
for a few seconds.
We take a break at noon
and have a fake lunch; a cereal or a vegetable soup. Everything is
spicy hot
and scant. The sun is high. Those who come first earn spots in the
shade and
pass the time getting to know the place and measuring up their fellow
travellers.
Tiredness prevents me
from talking. I go to my room and try to get some sleep. Maria Luisa
seems to
follow orders. She wakes up, sleeps, obeys. How does she do that?
2.30 p.m. Lesson on the
Japji Sahib. An inborn sense of duty pushes me to get up when I was
about to
fall asleep. Now it’s broad daylight, somebody is missing, it’s time
for an
afternoon nap. Paolo lies down and falls asleep. A lot of us would like
to do
the same, but we keep listening, because you never know. Everything can
be
useful. We subdivide everything. Avtar’s Italian sounds horrible, but
how can
you resist such a beautiful prayer? “Ik Ong Kar Sat Nam Karta-purakh
Nirbau
Nirvair.” If it’s true that we were sound, I’d like to remember this
chant that
goes inside the memory of memories, the land we can’t forget, that
pulls us in
every direction and you never know why you’re crying, calls you at
night, goes into
your dreams, mixes up faces and love and never dies.
4.00 p.m. yoga class, a
short one, we are worn out. We’ve put such a long distance between us
and our
homes. We chose distance to go on a journey to our hearts.
It’s warm. There are
fans but our bodies are about to give up. At the end of the class
Sadhana
explains to us some notions of yogi numerology. You give an order to
your birth
date to probe into the plans of the universe, because numbers are the
bricks
and beams of every house.
Chaos breaks loose.
After a nice yoga class there’s nothing better than to keep control. We
ask all
together. Our voices overlap but we insist.
“I’ve one in my soul.”
“In my karma.”
“In my knowledge.”
“In my gift.”
We get restless, excited
and frantic. We want to know more. We want more. We take notes of
others’
characteristics, hidden judgements and thoughts give a silent comment
upon
others’ business, some beauties can’t belong to those who are not
pretty, some
other beauties, ours, don’t seem to be very important or only a few
people
listen to them.
“What do you have in
your soul?”
“And in the gift?”
Sadhana answers
hurriedly, passes over, pleases and disappoints. He is saved by dinner
at 17:30
and it will be India, new food, yoga, our journey, thoughts. In turn
we’ll lose
ounces and pounds. Somebody is happy. Somebody else isn’t.
The sun sets upon our
plates. Words and speeches fade away. Michelle and Franciane serve us
dinner,
they smile at us, they’re here temporarily, they’re touring India to
practise
yoga, to heal their pain, and receive dreams and silence. Tonight we
are too
tired to go anywhere. The night falls and people are still praying in
the
temples. We turn our eyes to the stars. I can’t understand what we’re
saying. I
go to bed to get accustomed to the new time zone and to start all over
again
tomorrow.
Second
day
We get up at 4.a.m.
“Wake up.” Sadhana wakes us up singing. Lucky him.
It’s dark, the only moment when it’s cold. I
try an ice cold shower. I have to as long as they don’t fix the
thermostat.
Besides, according to the yogi philosophy it’s an outstanding remedy.
My effort
puts me in a very bad mood. Maria Luisa is like a little soldier. She
gets up,
washes and is ready.
“Hi.”
“Good morning.” We
mutter a few indefinite words when we meet the others taking our sleep
and our
blankets with us. Somebody has a sheepskin, something which keeps
affecting me
even though it is supposed to protect you from negative magnetic
fields. It
still reminds me of the sheep in the nativity scene.
The room for our yoga
class is upstairs on the same storey where we eat. We drink the silence
and
that chant still coming from the Gurdwara. That chant has never
stopped. It’s
like a heart throbbing, the waves, the last sound I hear when I fell
asleep and
the first when I awake.
“The Sadhana feeds our
aura, it enhances our psychophysical abilities.” It sounds particularly
true
here in India, in a country where time slows down and rhythms change,
where
time is divided between prayers and poverty. It’s a blessing waking up
at 4
a.m.
Who are we? A group of
Europeans practicing yoga, people with their stories, a song, dreams
and
expectations, fears and doubts, desperation and needs just like any
other human
being on earth. But we are here and it’s a privilege but I don’t know
how all
this will contribute to the economy of the universe, that subtle
economy where
good and evil mix together in dosages that we ignore. Can my prayers
produce
any good? Or maybe my hands, my smiles or my money? What can produce
good?
At
4:30 a.m. the Sadhana starts. It will end at
7:00 a.m. The night fades away. Crickets come back as well as the
workers and
the sun. Monty comes with his yogi tea, the hills, the smells,
Franciane,
Michelle, Suria, even those who slept in arrive, the cleaner tables are
being
set for breakfast which will be served at 8 a.m.
At this time of the day
houses and hills are still misty but it takes a very short while for
dust and
day to arrive. We hang about till 8, someone goes back to her room to
wash.
Words mean nothing.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s marvellous.”
Travelling monads, we have our things to do and our reasons to be here,
we do
our best. We have preferences and idiosyncrasies, somebody knows
already where
to sit, others don’t care, breakfast is being served. Chapati is always
being
served, fresh and dried fruit, a bottle of water each and flowers that
Monty
gives to everybody. I can’t overcome my shyness, but I eventually
decide to
speak English, no hurry. Whatever the language I prefer to listen,
follow the
tones and rhythm of words, follow the soul.
I see a clearer picture
now. Monty, a tall and lanky American intrigues me. He looks at me with
gleaming eyes and his hands are joined in prayer. He looks for me as
soon as he
sees me. Franciane, noble and refined, Michelle who always looks as if
she has
just come out of her sleeping bag, Suria, the commander of this Indian
kingdom,
the cook, the boy who cleans, the worker. I can’t resist human beings.
As much
as I try to avoid them, they fascinate me.
10 a.m. Yoga class on
the second Guru: Angad. I like him. He chose to serve everybody without
distinction and took care of children, the little people who will grow
up one day,
who will draw the future in their games and are not afraid of their
hearts.
At noon break we all
realize that the watery soup will be served each day and we become fond
of
chapati. I sit anywhere as long as it’s in the shade. A tiny peace
reigns in the
guesthouse.
Going back to our rooms
becomes a ritual, but I can’t fall asleep, too many inducements. I stay
in bed
listening to the crickets, looking at the orange curtains and talking
to Maria
Luisa. Silence passes by telling stories. We go in and out our rooms,
perfect
and quiet wombs to take in the best that life can offer without taking
any
risks, at least not now.
At 2:30 p.m. lesson on
the Japji Sahib, but this famous sense of duty what sense is it? It’s
neither
one of the five senses they taught us in school nor an extrasensory
perception.
Still it makes you get out of your bed when you don’t want to, a kind
of
reverse force of gravity.
At the end of each class
we always find yogi tea ready for us on a small table as we walk out of
the
room. Monty tries to please everyone with glasses and flowers.
“Is there any tea
without milk?”
“Is there ginger lemon
tea?”
“Perfect.”
“Thank you.”
Our friendship begins
over tea, smiles and thank yous, looks and care. Monty has tapering
fingers and
a mellow face like that of a child. He takes care of me as if I were
something
precious. He touches me once in a while to remind me that he’s there.
Another yoga class at 4
p.m., more difficult and higher impact, muscles hurt, they always seem
too
many, while breath resists the mind gets confused. We have a lot on
ours minds
but we don’t give in, I don’t give in, my breath accelerates and my
body shakes
without control in the posture of the moment. As soon as this blessed
energy
awakes it dances inside, reminding me of old journeys. Because yoga is
a story,
a story of the memory that goes back in time, gets hold of pain and
suffering,
of tears shed over meanness. It tears apart our fear of being close to
God and
of our indignity that never lets us feel blessed.
Third guru: Amar Das.
Became Guru at seventy-three, an old man who served Guru Angad night
and day,
so humble that he was scorned at, so strong that people avoided him.
There were
a lot of women among his disciples and this makes us already fond of
him. He
had that kind of faith that impresses me and used to leave justice in
God’s
hands.
We wait for the
numerology moment to enter once more into the fray and look for some
traces of
our destiny.
“3.”
“5.”
“6.”
“In the karma.”
“4.”
“8.”
“5.”
“9.”
“In the knowledge.”
“4 in the gift.”
It’s strange to think
that knowledge and destiny have the same number. Camilla has beautiful
numbers,
Elda is perfect, Paolo seems a master, Maria Luisa a wise woman, I’ve
the
numbers of a guru, Sandra can make miracles, Livia is like Amar Das,
Dharma
supports hearts. Then how come then we have to struggle between our
mediocrity
and our fears?
Dinner is good and
generous, boiled rice, vegetables, even less familiar vegetables, a
very tasty
tofu, legumes, hot and spicy flavours.
Jaswinder shows up but
his eyes are not clear. Sadhana has talked so well about him that I
forget
about it.
“He prays alone by the
river.... gives thanks to God... Helps and treats everyone.” Judging by
this
description he seems a prophet. After dinner he guides us to the
village and to
the temple. Outside the enchanted kingdom it’s all darkness, dust,
dryness and
the usual stench that seems to cover India. We walk on an extremely
narrow road
where any vehicle runs, trucks, bicycles, small carts, motorcycles and
I’m surprised
we don’t get run over in the darkness. A continuous blowing of horns,
an
irregular and never ending voice. It’s so dark that I can’t see the
stars. I
walk behind everybody else, a torch in my hand to be seen and I realize
that I
have the sheepdog’s dog syndrome. Elda walks next to me and we begin to
talk.
The first streets of the
village, the sewage, skinny dogs, shops selling antique things but I
can’t tell
what they’re selling, grains, fabric, holy books, colourful sweets,
Indian
saints, legumes, rice, open doors to a small misery, entrances that are
rooms,
houses and smiles.
We are close to the
temple, leave our shoes in the shoe deposit, a free and kind service.
Suddenly
in this dark night we see a large clearance of white shining marble in
front of
us, a tree in the centre, the floor polished by too much walking. We
wash our
hands and feet, the will to be clean. The temple stands powerful and
still, a
stone rising towards the sky. We must cover our heads and never point
our feet
to the altar, an offence to God. White walls, no iconography, shapes,
figures,
old chipped walls, an altar in the centre and the Guru Granth Sahib,
the holy
book, God’s words, and musicians next to the altar with blue turbans.
That
chant again that vibrates inside your head, creeps under your skin and
travels
faraway. We sit around the altar with the others, veils and turbans,
the
callous soles of people who have been walking for long, an old carpet
soiled
with every kind of stain and drenched with prayers. An ancient warrior
comes
by, an orange piece if fabric, a spear, wrinkles all over his body, a
dagger.
He is with two small children kneeling in front of the altar. All that
thinness
and devotion stay still, alone under God’s words. They leave and I feel
sorry,
I get fond of gestures belonging to prayers and devotion.
Leaving the temple we
take the offer, that greasy and sweet mush that runs through your hands
and
that my stomach can’t take. At least it reminds you that God is always
generous.
We put on our shoes. The
night goes on, as soon as we leave the temple a few children gather
around us,
teenagers, young people. “Where are you from?” Laughter. They’ve never
seen so
many white women altogether. They ask but don’t understand. They talk
and we
don’t understand. Excitement spreads and space narrows. They’re
swarming now.
Sadhana tries to stand taller. The B group has left already and at the
top of
that climax Suria comes along and with a few clear words and a “shoo
shoo” with
her hands drives them away.
We return over wet,
dirty roads. I follow Monty who gets lost but I trust him beyond doubt
and we
end up in an even dirtier courtyard. We find the right direction again,
I can
tell by the dust, so our first conversation starts. He speaks a loud
American
and I a rusty English in an Indian night which seems timeless, the
night of
nights, in which you’re alive forever.
It’s 4 a.m. It’s night,
almost dawn. I get up reluctantly, another cold shower. Yesterday an
Indian
worker came to see what the problem was, found out and left. The room
and its
smells, wood, dirt, oils; I changed time zone and I’m getting used to
this
college lifestyle.
Ready for the sadhana,
my left knee is hurting, but I convince myself the pain will stop
eventually.
A new dawn at the end of
the mantra “Guru Ram Das Guru”, faces look familiar now, you can tell
immediately who’s there and who’s not.
The Camille are a tight
group, a gymnast team made of steel. Marisa and Paolo come and go,
clinging
together. Elda falls asleep during the mantras. Breakfast is wonderful.
Monty
has made a thicker porridge with lots of raisins and then fruit, yogurt
and
corn chapati, unbeatable. Franciane asks me to go with her on a walk
along the
river.
“It’s wonderful, you
have to came.”
I
review my schedule.
“I
hope early” hoping to find some time “tomorrow morning”.
My
schedule is too full, yoga and India overlap.
Simona gets worse and
worse everyday, intestinal colic, she says and sticks to this diagnosis
and to
an appropriate diet. The pain punishes her and changes her day for the
worse.
“Eat this.”
“Eat that.”
“No, better this one.”
Natural remedies, good will, many ideas but her face is still drawn.
Monty starts to tell me
strange things.
“You are an angel.”
When even Franciane
tells me that, I’ll start considering moving to India. Fame easily goes
to my
head.
10 a.m. yoga class,
fourth Guru: Ram Das, I always mistake him for the previous one. The
most
fascinating, no one could resist him, clear ideas, open heart, ready to
give
and take. He starts to build the golden temple at Amristar. We look
closely at
the pictures of the Gurus on the wall, their faces, their clothes,
their
postures in order to remember a detail, an idea that will define them,
a look
to spy on holiness, that peculiarity that overthrows every scheme.
Sadhana has no pity,
classes are now very demanding, we pull and bend our bodies in every
direction,
even the most unpredictable ones.
“I give up now. I can’t
take it any more.”
“Hang in there! No one
is giving up, three minutes more, the worst is over.” When he says that
we know
he lies, the worst is yet to come. We resist all the same but we don’t
know
why. Inside our struggling bodies, our souls listen and await another
exercise.
Today’s watery soup is
made with some cereal floating on liquid ketchup. I would eat anything
right
now. Monty tells us he doesn’t know what kind of cereal they are. He
bought
them at the market, an area packed with bags, baskets and human beings.
“Wheat, corn?” We
investigate a little then we eat. We always have the impression of
having
little water, two bottles each but as soon as you turn around somebody
steals
them so we begin to stock up.
I take a half-hour nap
while Maria Luisa tells me something in the yellowish light of the
curtains,
among crickets and workers on the same lawn.
“No, not today I won’t
do the Japjj Sahib.” I get up and go against my will, a supreme act of
disobedience. The flies and the heat make this class unbearable. I take
notes,
read the text, useless repetition of concepts. Sandra sits in the front
row,
pays attention. She’s accurate. She’s the good pupil you can copy from.
Livia,
her “classmate” corrects and supports Avtar and her Italian. But only
when all
this becomes sound, praying voices, my misery ends and I take some rest.
The yogi tea is already
prepared before the other class. I sit on the step in front of the lawn
where
the workers are still working. One of them is older, a piece of cloth
around
his waist, experienced gestures, doesn’t look or talk, does what has to
be done.
He looks like Jesus. The tea is still hot. Children, fathers, husbands,
brothers like us but most of all children; the only condition that
makes us all
the same. We’ve been thrown on the earth, a people without a promise
land.
The class starts. Monty
caresses me and I go inside. Guru Arjan, incorruptible poet, had to
deal with
an unfaithful and traitorous brother. He collected the holy chants of
Gurus and
Saints in the Sacred Granth. He was repeatedly tortured by his enemies.
He used
to say, “Sweet is thy will oh God.” I don’t know, feed the beasts with
our
bodies. Surrender. Grind the need. I don’t know why life and death
fight
against each other. I don’t know.
Every time I stress my
left knee, tears come to my eyes. I guess at my diagnosis and decide to
rely on
Jaswinder who in the meantime examines Simona. He wants to take her to
the
hospital. “Screw that. I won’t go to an Indian hospital.” She takes her
medicine and waits. I
don’t
interfere. Jaswinder
speaks English with an Indian rhythm. It’s almost impossible to
understand him,
but he understands and takes a look at my knee. He puts an ointment on
it and
will come back tomorrow with an adjustable brace. He’s tall and
handsome. The
light of the sunset cuts across the room and in those seconds that the
soul
suspends I am defenceless to his deep Indian stare.
Dinner is the best time,
not only because we eat at last but for the sunset, for tiredness that
mellows
words, for colours that create beauty, for feelings of familiarity. At
this
time we know each other pretty well and if sometimes it is a question
of
judgement, other times it’s benevolence. Before the night falls we tune
our
hearts to the chants from the temple.
Tonight we’ll have a
meeting around the table, even though no one knows what this meeting is
about,
whether it’s a sensible and wise speech or a show of some dialectic
art, it has
always irritated me no matter what it was, a solemn moment with no
solemnity
whatsoever. Fortunately, we end up talking about Sandra and we have a
good
time. Now the play starts where everybody tries to convince Sandra to
teach
yoga. Each of us plays a role; the wise, the sympathetic, the teacher,
the
sister, the tough one, the listener, the idealist, the indifferent and
she
plays along.
She defends herself,
counterattacks, gives in and starts again.
“But you...”
“It has nothing to do
with it.”
“It’s like that for
everybody at the beginning.”
“Give it a try!”
“You have nothing to
lose.”
She finds shelter in
doubts, plays a great move, “I can’t do it right now,” and all
possibilities
are open.
“Goodnight.”
Chit chat in the night,
scattered groups, two or three people, a final whisper that sums up
ideas and
still I prefer silence that resounds inside me like a bell and makes me
pray in
the corners of the world.
Fourth Day
“Wake up!”
Maria Luisa gets up,
goes to the bathroom, a minute-long cold shower, comes back to get
dressed. I’m
not moving. My left knee hurts and I’m tired of this paratrooper’s
schedule.
The door opens and closes. Finally I get back to sleep without feeling
guilty.
At 7:30 a.m. Maria Luisa rushes into the room.
“Quick, we’re going to
the Indian temple. Breakfast will be served later.”
Getting up in a hurry
and no breakfast is even worse than getting up at 4 a.m. I put a nice
deep red
Indian shirt on to hide my poor state of conscience and I’m out in the
first
dust. We gather together into the jeeps and leave. This crazy change of
schedule
cancels my walk with Franciane. No big deal, we’ll see each other later.
We drive along the
river, women washing their clothes and laying them on the grass, they
look like
flowers. A child wearing only a T-shirt stops to stare at us, a bustle
of carts
and beasts, men with turbans, walking canes, carrying loads on their
shoulders
or their bicycles. India is awake by now. I will never forget these
loads
carried by hands, heads, dragged, pushed, borne. I’ll never forget all
this
debt with life. On the opposite side the bank is red, a few trees, a
hint of
hills. We keep on driving along this wide river that renews his promise
of
water.
Now the jeeps start to
climb a narrow and winding road. There’s not enough room for two
vehicles, but
they pass all the same. Their horns create an opening where there is
none on
the overhang and I turn to fatalism, a destiny that exists beyond any
decisions, a heavenly business that takes your life away.
Faraway on the top of
the hills you can see the white Indu temple. An old woman, as thin as
the
sticks she’s carrying, stretches her hand to receive something, but
gets
nothing. The jeeps keep on climbing. The borders of the roads in this
country
bring tears to my eyes. There are no fender strips, no reflecting
lights, only
men, poor men standing at the edge of the road as guides, in case we
get lost.
We get off in a small
square among a few stalls of fruit, pilgrims, beggars, to start our
climb. I
don’t know how many stairs we have to climb but each one is a prayer
and an
assignment. At each side of the stair is a long line of small stalls
where you
can buy pictures of saints and pistachios of every kind. Monkeys are
numerous
here, sitting on houses and huts, roofs, and stalls. They present their
babies
with bewildered looks which are repeatedly photographed. Women and
pilgrims
climbing and descending smile and greet us. Sadhana tries to gather us.
“Let’s
keep together.” But we separate immediately. Some of us are ahead.
Others
trudge behind, nowhere to be found. Avtar is the first to disappear. I
find
myself alone. I’m going to meet those unknown gods with the utmost
calm. I
don’t know how to behave, the warmth and the begging never end. I
breathe as
much as possible to remember everything. Smell has always been my big
memory,
the story where you can find any other story.
Avtar is already at the
top of the stairs. Gradually we find each other. There’s also the B
group and
Sadhana. Even this time no one gets lost. Livia, experienced as she is,
buys
small bowls with flowers to offer to the gods. We follow suit, leave
our shoes
at the deposit and are ready, heads covered, to walk inside.
We need to follow a
path. An Indian offers puffed rice and crystals of sugar. We should eat
them.
It’s god’s gift to us but we decide to distribute it equally to the
gods
instead. They’ll know what to do with it. Beside Ganesh, who always
soothes me,
the other gods are disquieting to me. The black one, possibly Kali,
doesn’t
promise anything good. There are many gods, and they all have a
purpose. We pay
our respect to them because knowing each other they probably speak to
one
another. Better to leave a good impression.
A picture of our group
and we leave the temple; I’m hungry but look suspiciously at the food
displayed
on the stalls. I have only a drink. You can buy anything, blessings and
sacred
signs to put on your body, words, incantations, an instant of
happiness, why
not?
We drive down with our
jeeps. Nobody wants to sit close to the B group. So much for our
breakfast.
It’s lunchtime now and there’s nothing but the usual watery soup and
tea. The
water heater is working now, a miracle by the Indu gods and the Sikh
plumber. I
rest in my room and write in my little black diary. I jot down
scattered
thoughts on my journey, the silence, my fellow travellers, Jaswinder,
the River
and God who never gives me any rest.
Japji time, we are fewer
and fewer. I’m daydreaming, following a fly and I’m missing words and
explanations. I’ll copy from Sandra. Eventually we recite the prayer, 23rd
verse.... and listening to that sound I get some rest.
Tea before Guri
Hargobind, a saint and a warrior. He walked around with two swords and
was a
rule-breaker. I’ve always adored anarchists! He’s connected to the arch
line,
that nice aura which is gold around saints. I think ours is fading but
we can
find a solution. It’s our protection against evil, a space for God to
operate,
a space for intuition and beauty.
I always get excited by
the lesson over the sixth body. I recover my strength. We are tight
together,
ready, attentive and even athletic. Even Paolo looks handsome to me. As
soon as
we move on to numerology we start to fight again.
“5.”
“8.”
“10.”
“In the projection.”
“In the basis.”
“In the strength.”
Prima donnas fighting on
a stage, after all we want to show our beauty and surely this doesn’t
hurt. At
the end of the class Jaswinder shows up with the brace that I have to
use on my
knee, ties the straps, then he tells me to regulate it by myself.
“No way.” I want to be a
patient this time. He asks me how much pain I can bear while turning
some
knobs. I feel like a thousand needles are digging into my knee. It’s an
appliance for diadinamic and it would have been better if I had
regulated it
myself. Then he sits on my bed and something unexpected happens. A
series of
deep Indian stares. The light of the sunset fills the room. Lights are
off,
yoga, India, beauty, before love comes trust, a simple open door.
I don’t disturb the
silence and collect without touching the two tears running down his
face. He
tells me about his feeling: “I don’t know.” The same feelings he
experiences
when he prays or treats patients. I don’t know what is going on, either
an
unscrupulous ambition of the heart, or eternity systems, or just an
instant of
perfection? Those two tears were the worst things that could have
happened to
me. I give up all my defences. We’re late for dinner and I’ve lost my
peace of
mind. From that moment we start to talk, impossible for me to
understand his
English, but somehow I do. It begins with what I’ve always feared:
words.
The sunset is over so
it’s dinnertime. Somebody goes to the village to telephone or buy
something.
Others disappear. The stars come out and Avtar, who’s always out of
place,
comes to talk to Jaswinder. Now like during the entire journey, she
manipulates
space and time that doesn’t belong to her. I wonder if she does it on
purpose
or if she doesn’t understand the terrain of intimacy. I can’t remember
anything
of that night, only night and darkness and I can’t hear the resounding
prayers
any more.
Fifth
day
“Wake up.” Another
sadhana and the passing of the dawn. I must avoid those postures that
strain my
knee, limitation of the body, of an earth bound being. After reading
the Japji
Sandra gets on the footboard, coughs and fixes her headscarf on her
head, she
would like to stutter, but she has too much dignity so she starts the
class. At
the beginning warming up postures, later well-being postures, those to
heal you
but when you do them you can’t help asking to yourself: “Why am I doing
this?”
Resolute, kind, Sandra
takes us gently from one posture to another. “Stretch your arms, look
at your
third eye, breath of fire, stretch as much as you can.” We’ll call her
yoga the
“humane face of yoga”. It’s not competitive but good all the same. It’s
morning. We get up satisfied.
“How did it go?” she
asks to understand, hear and be accepted. Need of love, it will never
end, we
will never have enough of it, it could fill the entire world.
Monty is making
breakfast, I observe his kindness to learn it, by observing the divine
qualities of some people I’ll learn something. Once again I have to
cancel my
walk with Franciane, the intervals between activities are really too
short.
It’s a day of commercial
discontent. Suria is vague about the prices of the clothes she’s
selling She
says a price, then changes it, gets paid and forgets about it. She asks
for
money, doubts discussions and critics. Suria’s sign of the zodiac is
Pisces. So
is it about her carelessness or is it just her sense of business?
Livia, a sly
old fox, is aware of everything, never gives in and most of all: “I
don’t want
to be screwed.” I should be with her more often.
Rooms are now tight
teams of members supporting each other, Elda, Manuela and Elisabetta, a
frivolous and loud trio. Sadhana and Avtar, teachers, patterns, Sikh.
Maria
Luisa and I, intimate, calm and clairvoyant. Paolo and Marisa,
symbiotic,
lovers, absent. Simona and Camilla, willing and proactive, Manù and
Paola,
flexible and seraphic. Sandra and Livia, always attentive, curious and
critical. We don’t always get along, nor do we understand each other,
but we
couldn’t do without one another and it’s not only because we are
faraway from
home but for the games of the heart that don’t care about differences
in
character. Today when Paola, Camilla, Manù and Livia went to Chandigar
to
collect tokens of Le Courbsier’s talent, I missed them. There was too
much
space. I missed their voices, their movements, their actions, their
jokes and
comments, in the class, on the lawn.
We
missed them.
Simona is getting worse
and worse. She has a strong colic that neither a proper diet nor
Ayurvedic
remedies can cure but she won’t go to the hospital
It’s hot and sunny. We
have a lesson on Guru Ar Rai, a pacifist, an animalist, gentle and
sensitive,
the seventh guru, the seventh body, the aura, our protection, the
ability to
forgive. The aura of a woman is thirty-six times more sensitive than
that of a
man’s. It’s not an advantage but an always open account that won’t ever
balance.
At the end of the class
I want to snuggle with Monty. I can’t believe in so much affection!
“No milk.” He knows I
can’t drink milk and makes me some wonderful customized tea using my
favourite
technique: tenderness. The Indian workers have worked at an
unbelievable speed.
They’ve almost completed the two small houses and the oven. We could
use them
for Sadhana’s birthday.
Our stay at the
guesthouse is drawing to an end. It’s almost impossible to perceive our
expectations for change while our worry for the eighty-four steps is
rather
conspicuous. Our worry is of what is coming next and that we could have
only
imagined so far.
Time doesn’t relax me
very much. Jaswinder starts to occupy a space that was all mine up to
now. What
a distraction! I don’t like to surrender my freedom, a living sacrifice
for
which I gave up the gifts of life, a family, a partner, children, for
an
ancient search that leads me to rough distant roads, to think about my
soul,
heaven and men, wizards and angels stealing whispers to flowers and
indifferent
spirits, an alchemist who makes potions that I can’t even explain.
In the afternoon Maria
Luisa sitting on the bed of our room takes her pendulum and questions
the
invisible. Her looks change, her words gain power and just like an
oracle she
talks uninterruptedly, no breaks, no inflections. She’s turned into
somebody
else.
“He thinks of you as his
woman but he won’t do anything. He’s not the man you’re looking for.”
The tone of her voice
upsets me, comes from faraway. I can hardly recognize my roommate but I
recognize the voices of the invisible, their power, their danger, their
constant intruding into our lives. Her eyes are wide open, her voice
rising and
falling, the pendulum keeps swinging, going back and forth to search
for truth
but I don’t want to know anything else. I wait till it stops and go
back to the
yellow curtains and the cicadas.
The
man I’m looking for, sometimes it’s an angel, sometimes Jesus, or
a distant walker but no
one leaves footprints on the ground. I let them go, lovers and love,
they were
occupying too much space. Peace is over and so it’s love. It disappears
quickly
into the void of needs and implodes, an ancient Big Bang repeating at
every
instant; loving care and memories, sea and love.
Jaswinder comes in the
afternoon for the lesson on the Japji Sahib so we can hear the gurmuki
pronunciation. He’ll teach us the Indian rhythm. We cover our heads and
pray; I
try not to see what I don’t like in him. There are no flaws in fairy
tales. I
pray.
Break with tea. Lesson
on Guru Teg Bahadur. He does everything: master, disciple, warrior,
ascetic,
lets himself be beheaded as an act of supreme sacrifice. Everything
that
happens is sent by God and has to be accepted.
Franciane doesn’t speak
a lot during dinner. I can read in her eyes the story of that man,
neither good
nor wise, a guest who has robbed her heart and while I’m telling her
this, she
cries because she hasn’t done that before, because I read secret
information,
because sunset ends the day and perhaps tomorrow it’s going to be
better.
Because the air is sweet and lawns are still resounding, I collect her
pain, I
hug her and while the heart is still moving Paolo comes between us.
“Paolo it’s not the
right moment.”
He looks at me.
“Idiot.” He walks away.
Franciane didn’t notice
anything. She stays still holding me.
Sixth
day
“I’ve seen the ten Gurus
coming from the sun and talking to me.” I can understand just a few
words, her
vision continues, “What we’re doing is good. Our journey is protected.”
Her
story upsets me, the intrusion of a world that I know. “And together
they were
riding towards me.” Sometimes, I’d like to have an ordinary life. I
want to
leave the room. The lesson is over.
Jaswinder arrives with
the taxis and we go to visit a few gurdwaras of the area, then we go to
eat in
a langar, the refectory of a temple. The temples are small, separate
from one
another, white, rising among hills, a few Indians around, the holy
words of the
day written on a blackboard, words that Jaswinder speaks with devotion.
I still
believe in him. I don’t think it’s possible to spoil prayers. The sun
is following
us. We arrive at a larger temple with a long white stair climbing to
the sky.
In the middle of the stair there’s an old Sadhu, a guardian and a
prophet of a
wasteland. He smiles and draws the attention of every photographer.
Elisabetta
poses with the old Sadhu who smiles and collects money asking for more,
experienced and persevering. He doesn’t miss an opportunity. Maria
Luisa
approaches him. They talk using their own languages. Then he leaves and
goes
through a small door to take a nice blue piece of fabric for a turban.
“He gave
it to me as a present.” Maria Luisa chirps like a little bird. She
shows it
around and doesn’t realize that somebody else is paying for it. She
strongly
believes that fate is acting in our favour. Despite any religious
belief Paolo
and Marisa buy it for her, and this is the true miracle.
We get on the jeeps to
go to the temple where the langar is. It’s a gurdwara on the lake, an
ancient
view, the water, passing reflections. I’m hot, I took the warm shawl
this
morning and inside the temple you always need to cover yourself.
Jaswinder goes
inside and comes back with a burgundy and golden damask piece of
fabric, still
smelling of every head that has worn it. I don’t dare to say anything,
I think
of lice jumping on my head. I accept his kindness and go inside. The
ritual of
kneeling down, circling the altar, sitting cross-legged in front of the
Guru
Granth Sahib, every Gurus’ wisdom,
the recorders of God’s words. More monkeys, we hope that they won’t
take our
shoes. We take some pictures, look for a bathroom, which is not worse
than a
latrine in a forgotten war zone. It’s time to try the langar, the
refectory of
the temple that Amar Das decided to establish to give everybody
something to
eat. It’s a daring undertaking after the easy life at the white and
clean
guesthouse.
Jaswinder tells us what
to do, where to sit, heads always covered. I’m temporarily as meek as a
sheep
and follow him step by step. Again I get upset about the filth, in the
refectory western detergents haven’t been used enough, quick
associations,
everybody has eaten on those dishes. The mat is covered with stains and
smells.
It’s still wet in some spots.
“Don’t drink the water!”
From a rusted can an old
man serves us lentils and chapati. “Sat nam.” We pray, purify our food,
no one
will get sick. Out of sympathy they give us some spoons. We’re not able
to use
chapati as cutlery. We wash our dish and it would have been better if
we
hadn’t. It’s the same water used for who knows how many dishes, a
questionable
foam, and another tub to rinse the dishes, with still not flowing water.
We go out, the sun
cleanses everything. Gurusandesh drags along her warriors, takes
pictures and
chats. We get in our cars and drive to an Indian temple among blooming
trees
and stalls of souvenirs. Jaswinder gives us a present: handkerchiefs
with the
sign of the shakti, no roses in this land of absence but signs and
prayers,
treacherous weapons for my heart. Colourful women and girls laughing,
they give
us plenty of smiles, even gods kneel to their words and their kindness.
We
zigzag through the souvenirs stalls, the most aggressive beggars
stretch their
hands; a huge clearance.
Another Gurdwara where
the ritual for the dead is performed. People turned into ashes are
scattered in
the river, flowers and tears will take them to a better world. I’m
tired and I
don’t want to stop. I want to go back home. We take different ways.
Some people
stay, the others go.
The gate of the
guesthouse, the guards, we need to write a birthday card for Sadhana.
We
decided to buy the Guru Granth Sahib at Amristar, an awesome idea. We
thought
we had the perfect present, but we didn’t know at that time what it
would have
meant travelling with the Guru.
Paola and Camilla will
cook pasta tonight. Great!
We rush the whole day
through quiet India, times overlap frantically, class on the Japji,
yoga class,
guru Gobind Singh, a warrior, courageous and fair. The last Guru who
left God’s
words to continue the mission, the Guru Granth Sahib, the exercises for
the
tenth body, the thin body that can change our destinies. We put a lot
of effort
in these exercises. We all want a dramatic change in our lives. Once
more I try
to give an order to my numerological design, but the synthesis isn’t so
clear.
Nonetheless, we all are surely blessed and loved by God. This is the
only thing
I’m always sure of.
We start to make
preparations for this evening, a long table decorated like a Christmas
tree,
with all the little lights and the flowers, that Monty loves, placed
everywhere. The Indian chefs are cooking frantically while Paola and
Camilla
have disappeared into the kitchen. The others are taking a shower and
think
about what to wear for dinner. It’s a real party.
After sunset the little
lights shine even more. The table is wonderful, we are beautiful, how
much
grace in this remote country. I get confused looking at Jaswinder, at
the
night, the faces, the stars, Sadhana deeply touched by our card.
Smiles,
hunger, Avtar is dancing on the lawn with grace and perfection, among
veils,
the smells from the kitchen, and an orchestra of cicadas. Peace.
Paola and Camilla have
cooked pasta that will grant them a place in Paradise. In this very
last night
new destinies are created that no one knows of. Days will pass, for
somebody
maybe months or even years, but who can read those sign in the sky with
all
those stars?
Seventh
day
Wrapped in our shawls we
reach the room for the sadhana. We sit legs crossed. We breathe slowly
and
deeply. There’s a change in our schedule. Simona had another fit last
night and
Avtar calls us to pray for her healing. We sit down like sleepy
Shamans, arms
stretched in front of us to bring about good while singing the mantra “Ra ma da sa, sa se so
ong.” Looking at
Simona’s ashen face I think that it won’t be enough, better a western
medical
technique. The nice vibrations though broaden the room and comfort our
hearts.
Half an hour, an hour? I don’t know. I just lower my arms and leave my
hands
doing what they have to do.
The sunshine takes us
back to the open air. We’re spending our last hours in this magic
kingdom,
we’ll leave after breakfast. In a few hours the rite of the eighty-four
steps,
much feared, desired and unconsciously sought after. This morning we
are less
noisy, departures always create a void. We’re concerned about Simona’s
health.
Suria serves us the leftover pasta for breakfast. Most of us are not
really
happy about it, luckily there’s something else to eat. The sun is
shining.
Monty will leave with us and this makes me feel better. He seems to be
the most
reliable man at this moment. We go to pack.
Jaswinder arrives, shows
one of his Indian smiles and goes to examine Simona. His decision to
take her
to the hospital for an X-ray takes us by surprise. She doesn’t have any
strength to refuse now. Sadhana goes with them.
Slowly we all get ready
and start to loaf around the rooms, the lawn, upstairs. It’s time for
pictures,
with and without turbans. I ask Gurusandesh to make me a turban. It’s
too tight
on my head. My ears are losing their sensitivity and my head is
choking.
Pictures with Monty, Suria, of our group, half group, pictures of Jogi
Bajan’s
House, of flowers, with Franciane, Michelle, the cooks and other weird
shots
for which we won’t become famous.
My neck is stiff and my
mood is uncertain. Even though life seems satisfying here, there is
always
something missing.
The sun is high. Our bus
is ready, Sadhana, Jaswinder and Simona are not here yet. Monty keeps
cutting
flowers to take with us. Franciane and Michelle will reach us at
Amristar. The
drivers load our suitcases and even the Camille are quiet. It’s very
warm in
the room. Our schedule has to be rearranged. When will we arrive at
Goindwal?
Sadhana, Jaswinder and
Simona come back. Worse than aggressive journalists we surround them
looking
for news:
“I’ve got kidney stones.”
Everybody
is looking at her X-ray. “And today I can’t leave with you. Doctor’s
decision.
I need some rest.”
Both Camilla and Manù
want to stay with Simona. They start a competition. Manù wins. She’s
always
been the good one. With that gentle smile of hers, she’s never a burden
to
anyone. Manù gets ready to say goodbye. Simona and Manù will join us at
Goindwal in two days. Camilla cries over their separation and Manù’s
sacrifice,
but she hides her sorrow behind her dark glasses and so avoids
consolation.
We must leave someone
behind. The bus is steaming hot. Monty’s small vase of flowers
overturns and
yellow marigolds lie in front of me. I never liked to see life fading
away.
Jaswinder sits beside me. The game of seats has just begun. My
companions
thinking, smiling and making any kind of comments will often leave a
free seat
to let us sit side-by-side. Every bus trip turns into a close encounter
that
begins to disturb my peace and doesn’t seem to have a future. Jaswinder sits down. While
staring at me
deeply, he takes my hand and reads it; a hand with thousands of lines
and he
doesn’t know where to start. He is touched, turns to look at the
landscape and
then tells me the truth written on my palm. My suffering, my past, my
exceeding
pain, the continuous loss of somebody or something. The future is
missing. The
reassurance of a good thing. Nobody ever says anything about it. During
faithful days everything is fine but other days neither peace nor pause
but knives
stabbing my soul which cannot even die. Jaswinder keeps examining my
palm. He
follows another line that goes faraway. He holds my hand in his long
hands, the
same hands he uses to treat people. It’s difficult to talk
Indian-English, but
I try all the same to investigate him, his youth, his lovers, dreams
and ideas.
He’s young and uptight. He doesn’t know anything about women.
“My mother, my sister.” He thinks he knows something. He’s still a naive and ignorant virgin. A tough nut to crack. I don’t understand. Why did I have to meet this most praised guy who dresses like a good guy and speaks words of perfection? Me, the one who tries to learn from experience the possibilities of love, who drives smells and flavours to the centre of the earth, who sweats and kisses and starts back again? But after all what do I want from him? A one-night stand or the warmth of a relationship? Sometimes all I need is a moment of love, hugging a body to remember what affection is like, a sip of water to cross the desert. I choose a soft approach, no initiative, an old-school approach, a form of romanticism that isn’t daring or seeking. I don’t want to upset his innocence.
Our shaky journey continues. The air conditioning is working too much or is not working at all. We hug our hearts and crouch in our seats and wait to see the road, a face, a smell, a flavour to remember forever. Or we simply wait to fall asleep. (Continues……)
