Read Online The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) by Erin Reese - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erin Reese
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goddess flows fresh and clean, straight from the Himalayan source.
Returning to the “Yoga Capital of the World” was beautiful. I saw Rishikesh through new eyes. I felt so much more “Indian”—more accustomed to the people, the ways, the gestures and subtleties that let you know you are really “a part of” a place. My heart burst with joy at the sight of the clean Ganges. The village of Lakshman Jhula was bustling with tourists this time around, unlike the abandoned “local” feel during the winter, but that was fine by me.
Rishikesh was a perfect place for me to spend my final days in India—a way of truly coming full circle. And, there was another reason I returned to this place. His name was Anil, meaning “air” or “wind” in Sanskrit. Anil is about the closest thing to a guru I’ve experienced on my journey.
During winter, I’d spent about six weeks learning yoga in Rishikesh. I’d met Anil, a 24-year old Iyengar-style yoga instructor, after I had tried three other Indian teachers. Anil was the one for me. His energy was clear, there were no “ego trips” involved, and he had the right balance of challenge and gentleness. Anil moved like a willow tree. He was as flexible as a contortionist, while exhibiting strength and passion for the technique.
I loved being in Anil’s presence, especially before we started class. In addition to practicing hatha , Anil appeared to be on the bhakti path of devotion. He had surrendered his life and his love to Krishna. Early mornings, as the three or four of us regular students straggled in and settled into the icy cold, small and simple practice room, Anil would already be seated in silent meditation before his altar. Anil had a deep connection to God in the form of Lord Krishna, and he was channeling that love and faith to us by teaching us yoga asana. Anil accepted incidental payment for the courses as an aside; once, he told me that money wasn’t necessary if one couldn’t pay. His main purpose was to pass something on of substance—if a student took back just a little something back to the West after studying with him, he had accomplished what he set out to do, and that was to share the gift of yoga.
After I had been studying with Anil for about a month, he fell ill seemingly out of nowhere, and quickly exhibited a rapid turn for the worse. Starting out with a cold and fatigue, then a swollen throat and painful neck, his beautiful body and light began to deteriorate before our eyes. He never complained, and he would shake off any inquiries. One morning I showed up for class and Anil, looking pale and gaunt, said to me, “Erin, today you be my body to show the new people. I can’t do head stand or shoulder stand.” The next day, and the day after that, his yoga studio was locked. The landlord told us students that Anil was too ill to teach further. Every day I returned to the studio, but Anil never returned. I wished him the best, then headed south for the Rainbow Gathering and better weather for my own health.
Two months after I had left Rishikesh I was sunning myself in the south when I received a terribly unexpected email from my friend Chris, a Canadian fellow yoga student who was still in Rishikesh: he had just been informed that Anil had passed away suddenly in the night. He had no further information. I was stunned.
Looking back, it seems to me that Anil’s beautiful glow, his etheric presence was a spiritual preparation—consciously or unconsciously, it doesn’t matter—for entering mahasamadhi . Mahasamadhi, according to Hinduism, is a God-illumined master’s conscious exit from the body at the time of physical death. It is as if Anil “knew” on some level that he was soon to leave his body.
During the very first class I took with Anil, I had an experience that indicated the depth of his spiritual development. Since I was about seventeen years old, at very random occasions, I have been able to see currents of white light—an
Returning to the “Yoga Capital of the World” was beautiful. I saw Rishikesh through new eyes. I felt so much more “Indian”—more accustomed to the people, the ways, the gestures and subtleties that let you know you are really “a part of” a place. My heart burst with joy at the sight of the clean Ganges. The village of Lakshman Jhula was bustling with tourists this time around, unlike the abandoned “local” feel during the winter, but that was fine by me.
Rishikesh was a perfect place for me to spend my final days in India—a way of truly coming full circle. And, there was another reason I returned to this place. His name was Anil, meaning “air” or “wind” in Sanskrit. Anil is about the closest thing to a guru I’ve experienced on my journey.
During winter, I’d spent about six weeks learning yoga in Rishikesh. I’d met Anil, a 24-year old Iyengar-style yoga instructor, after I had tried three other Indian teachers. Anil was the one for me. His energy was clear, there were no “ego trips” involved, and he had the right balance of challenge and gentleness. Anil moved like a willow tree. He was as flexible as a contortionist, while exhibiting strength and passion for the technique.
I loved being in Anil’s presence, especially before we started class. In addition to practicing hatha , Anil appeared to be on the bhakti path of devotion. He had surrendered his life and his love to Krishna. Early mornings, as the three or four of us regular students straggled in and settled into the icy cold, small and simple practice room, Anil would already be seated in silent meditation before his altar. Anil had a deep connection to God in the form of Lord Krishna, and he was channeling that love and faith to us by teaching us yoga asana. Anil accepted incidental payment for the courses as an aside; once, he told me that money wasn’t necessary if one couldn’t pay. His main purpose was to pass something on of substance—if a student took back just a little something back to the West after studying with him, he had accomplished what he set out to do, and that was to share the gift of yoga.
After I had been studying with Anil for about a month, he fell ill seemingly out of nowhere, and quickly exhibited a rapid turn for the worse. Starting out with a cold and fatigue, then a swollen throat and painful neck, his beautiful body and light began to deteriorate before our eyes. He never complained, and he would shake off any inquiries. One morning I showed up for class and Anil, looking pale and gaunt, said to me, “Erin, today you be my body to show the new people. I can’t do head stand or shoulder stand.” The next day, and the day after that, his yoga studio was locked. The landlord told us students that Anil was too ill to teach further. Every day I returned to the studio, but Anil never returned. I wished him the best, then headed south for the Rainbow Gathering and better weather for my own health.
Two months after I had left Rishikesh I was sunning myself in the south when I received a terribly unexpected email from my friend Chris, a Canadian fellow yoga student who was still in Rishikesh: he had just been informed that Anil had passed away suddenly in the night. He had no further information. I was stunned.
Looking back, it seems to me that Anil’s beautiful glow, his etheric presence was a spiritual preparation—consciously or unconsciously, it doesn’t matter—for entering mahasamadhi . Mahasamadhi, according to Hinduism, is a God-illumined master’s conscious exit from the body at the time of physical death. It is as if Anil “knew” on some level that he was soon to leave his body.
During the very first class I took with Anil, I had an experience that indicated the depth of his spiritual development. Since I was about seventeen years old, at very random occasions, I have been able to see currents of white light—an
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