death comes as a friend

A pregnant cow, a dead butterfly, ashram jail and the burning ghats of Varanasi.

The Little Buddha Cafe

A space for creatives, mystics and hippies to merge in the Lakshman Jhula area. This was my sweet escape. A place where I would eat my food slow. Release the week. Spread out in the little nooks with 360 views of Ganga, shoes off, sitting in lotus naturally (something I always did, even before yoga was a part of my life), write, create, listen to music and experience the revolving door of character connections.

On more than one occasion, I found myself sitting at the little Buddha from open to close. The people I would come into contact with, felt very familiar, like our past lives were reuniting. Rishikesh has this quality for sure. It’s like a place where souls meet “again”.

I would share my space with newcomers to the cafe. We would engage in intense one-hour long conversations, gazing into each other’s eyes, then I would go off in my space for a few hours, then again, another one. This is the kind of interaction I could handle at this point. It’s less of a commitment and more experiential with room to process.

I met an Ayurvedic doctor who has travelled the world, Bonnie from Nepal, Jos from Tunisia, Paul from London just to name a few. The Tibetan owners were always there, smiling and stopping to exchange pleasantries. The music would change according to the time of day. In the morning it was chants, then beach mix, then jazz, then chill club. Smoke would fill the room by the evening and I never felt like I stayed long enough.

***

Varanasi

I arrived in the middle of the night. A friend of a friend picked me up from the airport and then dropped me at the hotel where he was waiting. It all felt very surreal — to be there, with him, after a week of getting to know one another — in Varanasi of all places.

On the first day we wandered the streets allowing the energy to guide us from one temple to another, then down the small alleyways to the ghats. He got a massage on the banks while I made friends with the boy who rented small boats, trading YouTube music videos and talking about our interests. I love this the very most about India, the people.

We kept walking from ghat to ghat, each one exuding a different energy, a different intensity. Ratneshwar Mahadev Mandir, the crooked temple, was not submerged in water and I was lucky enough to go inside. Every breath in Varanasi was a kiss to the cycle of death and rebirth. The sights, sounds and scents enveloped my entire existence. Even writing about it puts me back in this place of totality, of wholeness.

The sky began to turn and a storm was brewing in the distance so we walked inwards back to the narrow alleys for shelter. The scene of ancient temples, buildings and symbols turned even more mysterious with the streak of lightning and storm clouds. Camels in a row on the other side of the river. Just by walking we were getting high. In the south alcohol is a thing, but here the babas and the sadhus get high off bhang, edibles made from cannabis leaves. Men carried deceased bodies wrapped in orange clothes on their way to the public burning ghat Manikarnikain from all directions. There was this constant buzzing of energy and celebration of death at every turn.

On the second day we woke up at 4am to catch the morning Aarti — watching the sun rise over Ganga in meditation and prayer is the feeling of aliveness and purpose. The day continued on with my friend showing us around local spots as well as some hidden gems. Durga Kund Mandir was the one place I knew I had to visit, while everything else was open for exploration. Entering the cherry red temple felt like I was stepping into a portal. I walked around, paid reverence, offered a garland of roses to the Mother then sat in meditation in the centre of the open area of the temple.

The evening came and although exhausted from the day I knew I wasn’t leaving Varanasi without knowing more about the burning ghats. We took a boat from Durga Ghat to the evening Aarti, the mosquitos in full attack. The view from the boat was quite spectacular and you could really see the differences in all the ghats — Assi Ghat not as crowded with locals bathing in devotion to Lord Shiva, Darbhanga Ghat with its glowing soft lights coming from the restored windows of the luxury BrijRama Palace hotel, the burning bodies at Manikarnika Ghat exiting the karmic cycle of life on Earth and our final stop, Dashashwamedh Ghat where the evening Ganga Aarti takes place.

I posted up in the front row of the Aarti, receiving and giving. The priests show their devotion to Ganga with fire, sound, incense and vibrant flower petals. We, the crowd, share in this devotion on the river steps. There are people everywhere, mostly locals, and the entire thing is just absolutely incredible.

We walked to Manikarnika Ghat and stood by the side. He expressed earlier to me that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get close and I respected that. I was interested in the knowledge and understanding but wanted to enter with total respect. So we stood, feeling the energy, the darkness, the death and then a man came up to us. He worked in the hospice above the ghat and asked if we were interested in learning about the burning the process. We talked for about 20 minutes as he shared — Hindu’s from all over India come to Varanasi for cremation to be relieved from the cycle of life, Moksha. The ghat has space for 36 bodies at one time and the burnings occur 24/7, 365 days a year. It takes three hours to burn a body and burns begin with the Eternal Flame, or Shiva’s flame which is over 3500 years old. The bones are then washed in the Ganga by family members. Some people do not get burned in the ghats as they are considered pure; children under 10, pregnant women, sadhus and those by death of snake bite. Instead, they are sent to drift along the river.

All of this is happening out in the open, right in front of us. Then the man asks if we would like a walk through and there was no hesitation in my mind. My companion also realised that this was most likely a once in a lifetime opportunity so we followed suit. 27 burning bodies all around us. I didn’t think to take a moment to energetically protect myself but at the same time I felt very safe and that I was humbly entering this beautiful space of death. He took us up to the top in the temple, and there were four bodies that had just been prepared. We stood there overlooking the river, flames in all directions. This wild energy came over me and I just kept listening, and listening and listening. My body felt weightless, my mind floating in ethereal space. In the distance a man washes the pelvic bone of a relative and two feet away a woman’s earthy body engulfed taken by the flame, her face disappearing turning to ash.

We headed further down the river to find a quiet spot. I had this strong urge to meditate and to be in my own space. A small concrete block perched out with a beautifully carved canopy and small temple is where I settled. I allowed my body to completely feel the experience of death. I evaporated into the night and connected with each and every star above. I became the air, the water, all matter and all existence. In this space I sat for what felt like an eternity.

On the way back to the hotel we got lost. Varanasi at night is another vibe. At one point we took a selfie just to see how high we looked. Eyes glazed over, strange smiles and a happy state of perplexity. We eventually made it back and grabbed some food at the hotel restaurant bar. This was another favourite of mine. The restaurant at the Shiva Hotel was like the Indian version of the Wellington Tavern in the 90’s. Dark wood, low lights, cigarette smoke filling the room, half-wall of mirrors, pint glasses, card games and all men. I was still buzzing from the ghats, it was late and I was leaving at 3am but I couldn’t sleep. So I stayed up, stood in the shower for what felt like another eternity and then headed out into the night with forever memories of Varanasi.

***

One night L and I came back and saw a dead butterfly near our door. We both felt sad so we picked it up and laid in the flower bed and had a moment. To me, it signified the end of something. Sad but beautiful and divinely timed. I let go of an important relationship that day. I guess it was a long time coming. The following night I went out with Paul from the UK and had a great conversation about the art of travel and geopolitics. Ganga at night in the background. Today on the way to shatkarma class a cow was giving birth in the back of the ashram. Birthing something new is hard. A slow, and often painful death occurs.

The cow had been suffering all morning. We saw her twisting at 6:30am on the way to shatkarma class. After breakfast, three hours later, we found out she was in labour and the baby had breached. Local men were standing around her and women from our group were there too — the Canadian, the Brazilian and the Italian. L and I joined, skipping Raga class and feeling like this was more important. Things escalated pretty quickly. More people joined and now we had an audience on the balcony of the ashram. The poor cow was suffering so much.

The Italian puts on classical music from her phone and plays it by the cows head, and we crouched down to help her stay in place. The vet and doctors were called so it was a waiting game in the hot sun, doing anything we could to help bring our girl some relief. Ropes were tied around the calves feet awaiting moment of contraction, a wet shawl to cover her head from the sun.

Finally the doctor appeared. I knew he was the doctor by the way he walked into the space. The crowd parted upon his arrival, he rolled up his sleeves, his “assistant” placed a plastic covering over his head and got a large bottle of lubricant ready. A man who surely has done this before. I moved from holding the cows head to pulling on the ropes to pull the calf out of the mother’s belly. But there was a big problem and we all knew this. The calf was dead, it was too late, but we still had to get the baby out. The Mother was fading and time was not on our side.

One of the ashram boys quickly handed me his phone, then another one, and I realised I didn’t have any pockets and I still had to pull the rope so I stuffed them in my bra and kept pulling. Then the doctor’s phone goes off “Rockstar — Post Malone” as the ring tone and it wouldn’t stop. It rang every five minutes in the middle of all this intensity — the poor cow, the blazing sun, the dead calf, the Italian with the classical music, blood, placenta and lubricant all over the ground. Life, death, humour, pain, every emotion and then some, right there in the dirt floor.

Three hours later, with a final pull, strangers phones wedged in my bra, white knuckles around the yellow rope, in perfect sync we yell out “Jai shri Ram, jai Hanuman” and the dead calf fully emerges from the mothers belly. Butterflies appear from every side. The Brazilian, in tears, suggested that we move the calf to be near the mother, so I found some extra gloves and we lifted and carried the baby over.

Outside of the ashram gates a Bollywood film was being filmed. A story about Indian heroine. I was leaving for Chennai later that day. Aside from getting the scoop on the film from my friends who worked at the front desk, I didn’t leave my room until the cab came for the airport. I would hear our cow mooing in the back and I would periodically go check on her from the balcony of the ashram. She was under a tree, eating her placenta while her other cows came to check on her, including my beloved Daisy who is the star of this zines cover. Nature.

***

We lived in between intensity. The last time I saw him we were walking through 27 burning bodies and two weeks later, on the morning I was going to fly out to see him again, I was pulling a dead calf from her mothers womb.

Thinking about him felt complete.

Not dangerous. There was a comfort in the image of him.

A home where my heart had been waiting to rest.

Every time I arrived there, I exhaled.

***

Ashram Jail

I made the mistake of leaving the ashram for a few days without telling anyone. I thought I could go unnoticed. L was the only person that knew where I was and how long I would be away for. The school actually didn’t care at all — I got a few messages from some of the women that were there for the cow experience to check on me because that was the last time anyone saw me and they thought maybe my absence was linked to what we had gone through.

But no, I was pulling a Houdini to go and see my lover in Chennai, and I didn’t feel like I owed anybody that explanation as a 36 year old woman. And it was on our off days from school so I didn’t think it was big deal.

The ashram however, did think it was a big deal. When I returned I was immediately pulled into the lobby office and questioned. The whole thing was a big ordeal and then I was sent to treasury office, which I jokingly call ashram jail, where I had to sign back in with my passport, retake a photo/mugshot and be surrounded by 10 men, all wondering why on earth I would go to Chennai just for two days?

It didn’t feel appropriate to share the details of my visit — a lover, in Chennai, not married, or a couple — something by Indian standards that would not be favoured particularity in an ashram. They also brought up that Chennai is a high crime zone and I wondered, were they questioning the visit because they were worried about me or because they thought I was doing something illegal? I’m not sure… but in typical Indian fashion, we were all laughing about it by the time I left and the entire thing was comedic.