Compelling Trails

Anticipating my arrival into Rishikesh; I envisaged a small village in the foothills of the Himalaya, a step away from the hustle and bustle of city life, quiet and mountainous as my heart so craved. Yet arriving into this metropolis, my expectations were crushed. Boisterous streets were teeming with people, cows, dogs, pigs, rickshaws and scooters; the sounds were constant and piercing. I felt besieged, my senses tormented; rapidly my body became heavy, exhausted. I feared there would be no solace, not even the ashram I was to spend the next month could give grace to the chaos beyond its walls.

The exterior of the ashram was constructed with brick, painted in concrete, and like all buildings in the area, piece-by-piece flaked to reveal the layered interior. The entrance housed steel gates, which lead to an immaculately well kempt courtyard. The white tiles large and cool, the corners lined with nurtured pot plants; small patches of grass and raised garden beds brightened the place considerably. Paths were directed by the subtle life of these plants to building entrances or corridors branching off in several directions. The courtyard, perhaps an afterthought in the collective construction of homes and halls working the outer edges of the block, the remaining internal space became an inner sanctuary for these buildings. I was guided to my room, up the stairs to level three, which gave vantage to the city beyond the walls of the ashram. The buildings were under constant revamp; materials salvaged brick by brick during the tedious demolition by hand, recycled materials were stacked in neat piles awaiting their next use. The sounds of throbbing hammers and power tools floated their way through the streets, climbed beyond the walls and seeped their way through windowpanes of homes.

Being the first to arrive of my group attending the month long yoga course, I was just one foreigner within the walls of the ashram. For me, the grounds were inexpressive and soulless, with few sounds of life within the walls; and I anticipated the arrival of my peers to help transform the ashram into a hive of personality and homeliness. I sought to find some comforts in my surrounds; and made for the tourist district located a couple of kilometres up the road. Calculating divergent steps around manure, piles of rubbish and gapping gutters, I hailed down a rickshaw to take me the rest of the way. It was quite thrilling taking to the lively streets, my senses were in overdrive, my eyes darting between the exotic colours of people, the frantic movements of vehicles, the compaction of stalls, shops, temples and homes. My ears spiked by the constant hammering of horns, and my body ceased with the short and sharp jolts as the rickshaw manoeuvred between dips, bumps, and the traffic on roads.

It was in amongst the chaos of the tourist district at Lakshman Jhula that I found some peace and quiet to begin reeling in a connection with the place. A quaint café, hidden from the street by a set of steel stairs, lead me to an open interior made largely from bamboo overlooking the city and river Ganga.

The café was decked out with chairs and tables, and booths layered with cushions for larger groups. The air was fresh, and easily worked its way through the open trusses of the café. It was seated here, taking in the hordes of people moving about the city below, watching raft after raft funnelling their way down the wide river, admiring the steep hills folding their way into the distant Himalayas, I felt myself soften, my muscles relax as I eased my way into the mayhem of India.

The ashram began building life towards the commencement of the course. A flurry of excitement began washing over us and we focused our way into the structured days and variety of coursework. Similar to the solace found in Lakshman Jhula, I sought comforts in the streets that surrounded the ashram. Accompanied by a friend, we routinely wandered around the corner between our first two classes of the day for an insatiable cup of chai.

The stall owner was hard working, he spent all daylight hours manning his post, selling breakfast and fresh brews of chai masalas’ at a price far less than their worth. His genuine nature was unchanging; day after day we were greeted with an immense smile, a polite bow of the head, and honest palm laid across his chest, as he gestured towards a seat under the shade of a tarpaulin sheet.

We sat on metal benches watching the sleepy streets of mornings awaken for the day. We observed the locals feed the wandering wildlife; the cows with their abundant girth, happily roamed their way up and down the streets; while dogs ran in frantic circles, playing amongst friends. It was the perfect setting to reel in the beauty of India; the health and happiness that surrounded us as streets built towards the pinnacle of day.

Within the walls, the ashram became a retreat from the chaos beyond the walls. Even the sounds that pierced their way through to us, softened in the way of our practice. The grounds were filled with personality; a premise for memories to bloom. It was a place that pushed our comfort levels, delved us to dig deeper, and try new things we didn’t think possible. The ashram united people of different walks of life from across the globe, it gave us space to learn and grow with beautiful souls. This was the beginning of my time in India, and as I journeyed through the training of yoga, I faced the even greater immersion into the culture and philosophy of India.

If you’re interesting in learning more about the yoga course, follow this link 🙂