I’m back on Aussie soil. It’s hard to
believe it’s true. As I catch my breath, attempt to re-calibrate and make sense
of the familiar, I close my eyes and drift back to that final week. Ah India. I
miss you like crazy. Like separated lovers, we’ve been forced apart. I’m
counting the days.
Days at the ashram passed by with a
feverish peacefulness. My body wanted me to stop. It shut down with a nasty
lurgie. I had kind friends knocking on my door and passing in tea and various
remedies, then backing out as quickly as possible. I don’t remember the last
time I was that sick. I hacked and coughed, spat and blew, slept and cried,
read and wrote. For days.
I would hear the bells for various meals
and prayers but was too weak to gather myself. Though I’ll never forget one
particular sunrise over the Ganga (Ganges), when Mum’s beloved Unc – Uncle
Aylmer, her father Charlie’s little brother – he flew by to let me know
everything would be okay. It was early in my stay and I could feel the razor
blades down the back of my throat and it felt like a heavy man was standing on
my chest. I knew I was going down.
I had taken part in the morning Aarti
(prayers) and wrapped myself up in every sort of shawl and blanket I could
find. It was so, so quiet. Just the odd animal sound peppered the misty morn,
as I made my way along the path to swing open the gate into the scrubby forest
that separates the ashram from the Ganga. The previous day I had ventured down
and been met by a wizened, smiley western woman in full, rather faded orange
sadhu garb. She had welcomed me with a smile, grabbed her stick and insisted on
showing me her favourite place to sit. After exclaiming that she was Matterji’s
older sister, she’d laughed and stuck out her tongue at me before turning tail
and waddling back towards the ashram.
That day I’d scrambled around for a rock. I
always collect rocks wherever I go. Currently my main collection of
knick-knacks is stuck in my Aunt and Uncle’s garage in Surrey, 12 years of
travels is not light. I’d discovered some pieces of a rock that were perfectly
severed. I poked around in the Ganga and uncovered the entire rock broken into
four slender shapes. They slotted back together perfectly, to create a
satisfying whole that sat perfectly in the palm of my hand as I walked the
short, well worn path to the knobbly tree trunk. By the time the golden slivers
appeared, all three of the ashram dogs were bounding along the paths, getting
their morning exercise.
A stout, glorious – could it be a
Kingfisher? - flew straight in front of me and settled on a long branch a short
distance away. The light was still a bit dim, so I strained my eyes. I am no
twitcher, but I could tell that it was indeed Uncle Aylmer’s sacred bird. He
was welcoming me to his home and for a full ten minutes, we stared at each
other. I thought of my family and sent them my love, tried to let them know
that I was in a safe place of immense beauty. I clutched the rock pieces as one
in my hand. They felt secure and connected me to the river. I was loathe to
make my way down the bank again, as I had the day before, and put my hands in
the icy cold water. The ashram is so close to the source of the river, it runs
clear and already various figures were bathing in its sacred waters.
My stay at the ashram was a positive
experience, because the people were so incredibly kind and caring. But the
lurgie took hold of my lungs and my head and some feverish days passed into
nights of coughing, until I thought I couldn’t possibly cough again. There were
moments where I wished I were home, but I got the chance to rest, read and
write like no other period of my trip. My illness forced me to stop, to stay
still (something I’m never good at) and just be – with no phones, no internet,
no questions, no expectations, no judgement.
Due to the heavy rains, the internet was
down at the ashram so I finally had to drag myself up the street, to let family
and friends know where I was. Plus the day of my return trip was fast
approaching. Was it possible that I could actually get my infected self to
Delhi and onto a plane back to Oz? Sitting in a dusty little internet café in
the tiniest town outside Haridwar, I just couldn’t see how that could happen. I
felt sweaty and weak, like a soggy twig that could be crumbled in between two
fingers.
The email backlog was overwhelming and the
computer kept freezing every few minutes. Every time I’d try to send something
it would either kick me off, or bounce back or disappear. I began to wonder if
I was still delirious or if there was a gremlin in the computer torturing me. I
had to keep going outside to cough up gobs of nastiness or gulp some fresh air.
Every single vehicle that went past seemed to beep its hideous horn just
outside, and every single one pierced my brain like a torturous, barbed whip. A
fat little kid grasped a recorder in his bulbous little hand and he was blowing
it with all his might.
My hands whipped to my ears. I sucked in my
breath, ripped into another lozenge and breathed deeply. As he launched into
another round of tuneless honking, I wrenched the curtain back and stared at
his chubby little face. His eyes widened and I snarled at him, wanting to pick
him up by his ankle and turf him over the nearest wall. He stopped for a
nanosecond, then launched into more and I hissed and covered my ears. Turns out
he belonged to the owners of the internet café and thankfully, they felt my
pain and shooed the boy away. Needless to say he came back a few more times and
the honking didn’t abate much, but I managed to deal with a bunch of missions
and race back to the sanctuary of the ashram.
So, I had my answer. I had to leave for
Delhi as planned. My heart sank, but I rallied. It was sad to say goodbye, but
I know I’ll return to that special sanctuary outside Haridwar. The Dalrymples
welcomed me to Mira Singh and although William was off on his book tour, all
the kids were back from school and I finally got to meet the eldest Ibby.
Olivia was so kind, welcoming me despite my dodgy state and providing me with
medicinal red wine. We had a raucous dinner with the kids, who are all so
bright, sparky and hilarious. The boys disappeared to play video games, while
Olivia, Ibby and I settled down to watch the bio-pic of Frida Kahlo’s life.
My final day was rather chaotic, but I
boarded the aeroplane home with relief, as the documentary that I’ve been
working on for four years about the Barlow clan, finally has a screening date
and location set. Incredibly, it was when I was last in India that my
old friend Andrew emailed me about whether I’d be up for making a film about
his family. Four years later, we are to unveil the epic documentary to his
family. It seems a fitting homecoming. As India constantly reminds one, family
is the most important thing. It’s why I’m home. And why I’ll go back. Until then,
thanks for all your support and encouragement.
Warmest wishes,
Laura x
No comments:
Post a Comment