I had been avoiding something that was gnawing on my mind for a few days now. I knew that when I came to Rishikesh, I would be doing myself a disservice by not staying in an ashram. An ashram is essentially a Hindu monastery. In the ashram, meditation and yoga are practiced, and a schedule is adhered to. They are an escape from the distractions of life, and they allow you to be at peace. There are rules in place to help achieve that state of peace. Some ashrams require you to stay on the premises and others allow you to roam freely. Some require absolute silence, others only require silence during certain hours of the day. Some charge a fee, others are free, and cleaning and cooking is part of the gig. No matter which ashram you choose, you are foolish not to surrender to the full experience. That is what I was avoiding. I did not want to do a full day in an ashram, meditating, sitting, doing yoga, thinking, walking, sitting, meditating, thinking, thinking, thinking. It seemed like a waste of a precious day (or more) to me. I certainly see the value in it, but I want to do things on this trip. I don’t want to do nothing for a full day.
My strong negative reaction to the potential of staying at an ashram sounded the alarms in my head. I knew that I was going to have to do it, because of how badly I didn’t want to do it. I knew it meant no exciting moments, no writing, no new sights. Full discomfort, but I needed to dive in completely. Comfort zone destruction. I must try things that I don’t want to try. So, I swallowed my pride and began walking around to find an ashram. I went to the first one, somewhat famous in town, and they told me they were full. I needed to book two months in advance. Makes sense. Then, a less famous one. Also full. No worries. This one should be fine – also full. I went to three more ashrams. All full. Heat and hunger began to set in. I had been walking around for two hours with my backpack. I took it as a sign of fate that I am not worthy of a spiritual retreat at an ashram in Rishikesh. I checked into a regular hotel. I felt like an outcast. A social pariah. Everyone was wearing their matching orange outfits sitting in the grass of their charming ashrams and I was kicked to the curb, on the outskirts of town. I felt like there was a party going on in town, and I was not invited to it. I could hear the meditating chants from ashrams as I walked down the streets, but I was the stranger left to roam. I felt jaded. I didn’t even want to be in the town anymore.
When I was walking around in the tar pit of my loneliness, I saw a moped for rent. It was a guiding light. I knew what needed to be done. I got the keys and threw on my helmet. Two wheels changes things. It requires you to dig deep. Supreme focus is a necessity for survival. There is no relaxation. When you first get a bike, it’s important to find its limits. I floored it hard down the main road. The ambitious little engine was screaming hot as I dodged cows, pedestrians, and rickshaws. I was driving with such incredible speed that people saw me pass, and then heard my departure a few seconds later. The handling is important. I rocked side to side hard. Sometimes off the road into loose gravel to see how she’d handle it. Quite well. I started climbing up the mountain. Leaning hard into the turns, dipping my knee a few inches off the hot asphalt. My mouth and lips immediately dried from the dust of passing vehicles. You must know your width. I would fly in between a car in my lane and an oncoming truck in the other. Easy enough, but I needed to find that limit. I shot gaps, so small that I’d have to pull my knees in tight so that a bumper wouldn’t catch and rip my leg off. People were staring, half amazed and half disgusted by my audacity. I drove far into the mountains where there were no people, just monkeys, frighteningly large in stature – perhaps chimpanzees, maybe even gorillas. I was in the thick shade of the forest where the air is cool and heavy. Small gaps in the trees allow enough sun to come through to remind you of the heat from the other side. The moped became my ashram. Instead of mantras and yoga poses, it was the labored hum of the engine and the sun burning my neck. There were no gardens or shrines. There were dhabas and taking a piss on the side of the road. It’s much less glamourous – grotesque, even. The two experiences are not too far apart. You must be water. Free to flow and move around any obstacle that comes your way. Look at that pretty woman walking by, well hello my sweet little angel – almost crashed. Resist temptation. Stay focused. Nice and easy. Eyes on the road. There it is. Feel the rhythm. This is what it’s all about.
I was invited to a meditation worship at one of the ashrams that rejected my stay. I showed up to the function covered in soot, smelling like cigarettes and gasoline. It was quite peaceful, but I thoroughly enjoyed my day. I know that my moped journey was a get out of jail free card, and that there will be hell to pay in the future. I still feel like I’ve missed out on something, but maybe there is hope for me.
Great photos, archaic Wi-Fi. The inconvenience of everything is beginning to take its toll on me. Nothing goes as planned. I need to sleep my frustrations away. Maybe the morning air will make me feel better.
I was given the gift of a very special bicycle (a Moulton) from a super cool bass player Tony Levin - many many years ago when I was young like you are now. I lived in NYC and knew that it would be stolen in a day no matter how I locked it up. So I decided to take it to Tokyo where stealing wasn’t a thing (I still used 3 hefty kryptonite locks). When I’d return many hours after working a fashion runway, there would be a crowd of men photographing my Moulton, or was it the locks? I’d unchain my magic carpet and fly - looking pretty great after a show. I’d ride through the busy streets and crowded back alleys at any time of day - even the docks at 3am when the sushi chefs were selecting their tuna. I was safe. And if it rained on me and my bike, my beautiful Yohji Yamamoto suit - my long red braids dripping - makeup streaming down the whitest of cheeks - I’d arrive like a rag doll at a civilized party of the most perfect people who each spoke many languages. I was soaking wet, I didn’t care. But I know that they did, because they stopped talking to me and I started to feel like an outsider amongst people I had been working with - some for years. But something had come over me. That bicycle changed me.
This is all to say - I have an idea how you felt on that motor bike.
Nothing quite like testing the limits of a rented two wheels and your own will to survive on foreign, unfamiliar roads to dial you in on the present and bring clarity to, or maybe just momentary bliss from, the purpose you helplessly seek from solitary independence as the surroundings seemingly fleet faster away from you along with the inner cacophony. This piece has, and using your words to capture my appreciation and respect, “resurrected long forgotten memories of joy!” Really enjoyed reading these and hope to catch up soon. Been too long!