The Trinity Of Pilgrimage u4x56

The TRINITY of PILGRIMAGE

Anita Shah Illustrated by Ashok Z Shah

Copyright © 2020 Anita Shah.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press A Division of Hay House 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.balboapress.com 1 (877) 407-4847

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the

information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Illustrated by Ashok Z Shah

ISBN: 978-1-9822-8083-3 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-9822-8084-0 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 01/21/2020

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thank you to Mary Marbourg, Usha Devi, Siddhartha Krishna, Dirk Krämer, Ralf Krämer, Sagi Azulay, Brett Allison, Dean Griffiths, Inga Van Rijswijk, Jiray Seropian, Shariffa Keshavjee, Ketan Ram, Kripali Manek, Karen Proudlock, Najia Sabeen, Niraj Shah, Ashok Shah, Ella Shah, Madhu Diamond, Thomas Hémery, Seema Shah, Debra Johnson and Bijal Damani. This book would not have been possible without your kindness and generosity.

INTRODUCTION

The Trinity of Pilgrimage is a personal narrative about spiritual journeys. A severe impairment rendered me a struggling body in what I perceived to be the battlefield of life. In a desperate search for healing, I felt an intense compulsion to leave everything behind and walk.

* * *

My first pilgrimage began on a glorious summer’s day in June 2016 in the picturesque market town of St Jean Pied de Port. Couched in the foothills of the Pyrenees in southwest , this historic capital marked the foot of the through the Pyrenees between and Spain. The pilgrimage I embarked on, El Camino de Santiago de Compostela (The Way of Saint James), is a network of trails across Spain and the rest of Europe. Like tributaries of a river, all these trails flow to Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of the apostle Saint James, the patron saint of Spain, are thought to be buried.

The 776-kilometre journey, which took me thirty days to complete, led me through the historic Basque country, the lush hills and valleys of Navarra, the rolling vineyards of La Rioja, the hot wide-open planes of the Meseta, and the cool mountains of Galicia. I slept in a different village each night and carried my belongings on my back.

As I walked in tune with the rhythms of nature, interacting with inspirational pilgrims along the way, I pondered important questions: of identity, of the various dimensions of sight, and of inner peace and contentment. The magic of

the Way of Saint James reminded me of the values of simplicity, presence, forgiveness, kindness, and surrender.

On my last night in Santiago, I was treated to a beautiful and unforgettable ballet in the sky. When I stepped into the pilgrim office on rua Carretas to collect my Compostela (traditional certificate of completion), I knew that my true walking had just begun. A search for healing had morphed into a bigger search for inner peace and lasting fulfilment.

* * *

Since I was a young girl, I had dreamt of traveling to Tibet on a pilgrimage to see her. At that time, I knew her as Mount Kailash, the stairway to heaven. Shiva, the lord of yoga, sits in eternal meditation atop her peak. Towering over 6,600 metres, she is revered by four religions: Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism, and Bon (Tibet’s pre-Buddhist, shamanistic religion).

I revered her. I personified her. I gave her a gender. She jutted out of the earth: tall, steady, unshakable, a mass of black rock, the centre of a lotus flower, petaled by six Himalayan ranges. Exteriorly weathered by the elements, by the age of time, she was, at her core, strong, protective, and wise. The perennial beauty of her four faces (ruby, gold, crystal, and lapis lazuli) harmoniously morphed with the seasonal shifts of light. Crisp white layers of snow clothed her stepped, sloping pyramid—a pure, magnificent lotus untainted by earth.

Pilgrims circle the mountain on a circumambulation or revolution (kora) that is fifty-two kilometres long. The kora is made in a clockwise direction by Hindus and Buddhists and in a counter-clockwise direction by Jains and Bönpos. For the Tibetans, the goal of pilgrimage is less to reach a destination than to transcend, through inspired travel, the attachments and habits of inattention that restrict

awareness of a larger reality.

On this journey, my guide, a former monk, unveiled the rich symbolism and teachings of Tibetan Buddhism. I learnt the tranquil quality of peaceful acceptance. Humbled by the sacred mountain, my ego was shattered, and I experienced a profound sense of the interconnectedness of creation.

* * *

My search continued. Rishikesh, set in the foothills of the Himalayas in India and known as the yoga capital of the world, is the starting point of the pilgrimage of the four small abodes (Chota Char Dham). However, I chose to forgo this pilgrimage. I went there on a different kind of search—or rather, to embody a different kind of searching.

Great yogis and Vedantic masters speak of the pure, omnipresent light of consciousness that resides in our hearts. They tell us that this is our true nature, and we are simply unaware of it. This is what I wanted to explore—this inner geography of body and mind. It is perhaps the most difficult pilgrimage to undertake. I could not study the history, people, and cultures of the place. No map had been drawn up and handed to me.

Although I doubted that someone could ever clearly describe to me what the state of eternal bliss or self-realisation was like, I knew that someone could help me further along the path to having that experience myself. I could not have divined a better teacher, who graciously instructed me in the eight-limbed path of yoga. My teacher, a force of nature, personified perseverance. Having overcome unthinkable adversity, her life was a living testament to the power of yoga. In Rishikesh, the wings of disciplined practice and renunciation propelled my flight on the yogic path.

* * *

In Spain, I had walked to a sacred relic; in Tibet, I had circled a sacred abode; and in India, I had travelled to the tip of a sacred place deep within the core of my being. I did not wish to leave the sanctuary of the Himalayas. I was not ready to venture back out and live once more by the externally dictated rhythms of brutal modern life.

On my return home, I understood that a profound transformation at physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual levels had occurred. I had met a unique cast of characters, whose collective insightfulness and humour deeply touched and radically changed me. I had learnt invaluable ways of being in and looking at the external, and more importantly the internal, world. Another wonderful journey had ended, but a new one was beginning—one with no definite endpoint, with no guides or maps, with no pilgrims, monks, and teachers. It was a journey on the pilgrimage of life to a place where only I could teach myself to go.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1 The Way of Saint James

Struggle

Identity

Presence

Simplicity

Divine Sight

Forgiveness

Kindness

Surrender

A Unified Perspective

The Ballet in the Sky

Chapter 2 To a Sacred Mountain

Mount Kailash

Acceptance

Faith

Dissolution

Humility

Chapter 3 A Journey Within

A Sacred Sanctuary

The Yogic Path

Disciplined Practice

A Meditative Practice

Perseverance

Renunciation

Venturing Back Out

1

THE WAY OF SAINT JAMES

STRUGGLE

I had to find the airline counter. The counter numbers were displayed on an elevated screen, completely invisible to me. I furtively looked around before sliding my telescope out of my bag and using it to scan the screen for counter E.

The airport was busy like a small town. There were crowds of holiday-makers, bags of all shapes and colours, children scampering about, a plethora of airlines with their insignias, and bustling restaurants. I wandered across the length and breadth of the space, eventually found counter E, and ed the snaking queue.

I then proceeded to security. At one point, the lady behind me tapped on my shoulder. “He is calling you,” she said rather impatiently. The official had been waving at me to proceed.

Finally, I hastily gathered my belongings and looked for the screens—again elevated, illegible, and out-of-view. I reached for my telescope. “Gate 33, now closing.” I raced off toward the gates but quickly slowed to a stop. Where was the sign for the gates? After circling the departure lounge, I found a sign and continued running. In front of me at the gate was a tall, well-built man in a blue T-shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. He was reading a guidebook with a cover similar to my own.

The flight attendant screened my British port and scanned my boarding . “Have a nice flight,” she said robotically.

Rushing onto the plane, I fumbled for my reading glasses and held the boarding close to my nose. I found my seat and collapsed into it. I pulled out my guidebook and glanced at the names of provinces stretched along the breadth of the map. I struggled to pronounce the foreign names correctly: Navarra, Rioja, Castile, Leon, Galicia. The 776-kilometre journey I was about to embark on would take an estimated thirty-three days to complete on foot. I would cross the cities of Pamplona, Burgos, and Leon before finally arriving in Santiago. I would sleep in a different village every night and carry my belongings on my back.

As a young child, the world had seemed universe-sized—a place too vast to comprehend, shrouded in wonder and amazement. The only way to see it all was to spin my brilliant, ocean-blue globe with its two thousand lustrously coloured places. I watched it blur then slow, revealing the dark arrows of strong ocean currents and the bumpy relief of tall mountains. Each time it came to a halt, I stuck out my finger and went on an adventure, filled with romance and discovery. In Italy, I lived in a Tuscan villa and made butternut ravioli and salted caramel gelato. In Buenos Aires, I tangoed in a red dress and married a tall, handsome Argentinian artist. In Egypt, I sailed on the Nile and rode camels to the pyramids that shone in the sun.

This game of exploration, which delighted me so much as a child, became my adult reality. I had a career in humanitarian assistance, which hurried me to different corners of the world at a speed that at times felt faster than my spinning globe—Nairobi, London, Port au Prince, back to Nairobi, Beirut, Colombo, Delhi, Islamabad, Addis, Nouakchott, and back to London. I often marvelled at how someone like me, who struggled daily to navigate busy streets, read food labels, and hold eye , had become a citizen of the world.

Stepping off the plane, I bumped into the man with my same guidebook.

“Are you walking El Camino?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied decisively in a thick Welsh accent. “To honour my mother, who is extremely ill. These are her last days, and I hope she will live until I return.”

His blunt, truthful way of speaking was striking, tantamount to a blow; it left me speechless. Finally, I uttered, “I’m so sorry. I hope that she lives long enough for you to see her again.”

“Do you have a lift to St Jean?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” I replied.

“Bien Camino,” he waved—woefully upbeat, given the circumstances. I stood waiting for my shared taxi to arrive.

IDENTITY

I began my Camino Francés in the picturesque market town of St Jean Pied de Port. Couched in the foothills of the Pyrenees in southwest , this historic capital marked the foot of the through the Pyrenees between and Spain. I stepped inside from the narrow, cobbled street of Rue de la Citadelle to for the pilgrimage and collect my pilgrim port. At first, I was dazzled by the beams of sunlight that lit up the room, glistening on the official’s bald scalp.

Slowly, his face came into focus, round and moonlike. His spectacles were perched on the bridge of his nose. I could not make out the colour of his eyes. He began filling in a new row of a large book.

“What country are you from?” he asked in a French accent.

I paused for a moment, reflected, and then replied, “I am from Kenya.”

“Kenya. Is that in Africa?” he asked, perplexed. “But you look Indian and speak like the British!” Then he asked, “Reason for walking? Religious?”

I paused, not knowing how to explain it to myself, much less to another. I surrendered to a nod.

“I will you from Kenya,” he said. “You will be the first Kenyan to walk for religion.”

This pilgrimage I was about to embark on, El Camino de Santiago de Compostela (The Way of Saint James), is a network of trails across Spain and the rest of Europe. Like tributaries of a river, all these trails flow to Santiago de Compostela, where the remains of the apostle Saint James, the patron saint of Spain, are thought to be buried. I walked down a cobbled street alive with the chatter of pilgrims and the clamour of walking poles.

Soon, I found my albergue. The reception desk was a simple wooden table with a chair and a bell. I lightly pressed my finger on the bell. A few moments later, a large man with a broad smile and a freshly stained white apron appeared. He smelt of fried onions and roasted peppers.

“Bonsoir et bienvenue,” he announced, his enthusiasm occupying the largely vacant vestibule. “You are in room five, bed three. A pilgrim meal will be served in the dining room at seven o’clock. I have walked El Camino many times, and I want to give back. The first part tomorrow as you cross the Pyrenees is very tough, but it gets easier.”

He busied himself with the book before adding cryptically, “On the Way, you will learn many things. Just allow the path to unfold and reveal itself to you.”

With that, he led me up a creaky wooden stairway to a small, dark dormitory of twelve bunkbeds and pointed to the communal showers. As I unrolled my sleeping bag, I could hear his heavy footsteps pounding down the creaky stairway. I wondered what his journeys had given him. I searched for my bar of Dettol soap and used it to wash myself and then my clothes before hanging them

up to dry. This was to become my cleaning ritual for the next thirty-three days.

It was still light, and I decided to walk before supper. Standing on the Pont de Eyheraberry, a romantic Roman bridge overlooking the Nive River, I noticed something etched over the doors of the houses but struggled to make out what it was. As I stood closer, one inscription above a bakery listed the price of wheat from 1789. Here, set in stone, was something as changeable as the price of wheat. I understood well the desire to set in stone that which cannot reliably be set.

As I watched the sun make way for the moon, I reflected on how I saw myself. My origins were Indian. In a search for economic prosperity, my greatgrandparents set off from the shores of Gujarat, crossing the Indian ocean on a ship destined for Kenya. Following the creation of the East African Protectorate, British East Africa, in 1895, this was a popular migration route for Indians. Many Indians undertook this perilous journey to escape famine, poverty, and disease. British colonialists also imported thousands of Indian indentured labourers to Kenya to construct the Uganda railway.

My grandparents, parents, and I were all born and raised in Kenya. My maternal great-grandfather was a visionary philanthropist nicknamed paya na patthar in Gujarati, which translates as “layer of foundation stones”. He established schools, social and cultural centres, and famine-relief projects both in India and Kenya. He travelled across Gujarat in a bullock cart from village to village raising funds to philanthropic ventures.

In Kenya, he settled in the village of Changa on the coast. His integration was so successful that in the early 1900s, the local Swahili people named the area after him—Changa’mwe or “the man of Changa”. When he ed away, the locals sewed a blanket of jasmine flowers and draped it over him before carrying him on a procession through the town to the crematorium.

I have many fond memories of growing up in a tranquil, tree-lined suburb in the heart of Nairobi. I spent family summer vacations bathing in the teal waters of the Indian Ocean, floating in an infinite aquarium of dolphins, sea turtles, and exotic fish. On safaris in the great Masai Mara, I gazed in awe at graceful giraffes, playful cubs, gentle elephants, and powerful lions. All peacefully roamed the vast savannah grasslands, which blended seamlessly into wide-open skies, with a lone acacia tree standing in the background.

Although I lived in Africa, my family maintained its Indian traditions. My grandmother and mother ed down diverse culinary delights: scrumptious Indian pancakes, Gujarati steamed vegetable gram-flour snacks, tender Indian flatbreads, aromatic curries, and comforting split pea and lentil stews. I discovered that the preparation of chapatis that I had taken for granted all these years was indeed an art. I learnt how to mix spices, make pickles, and prepare fermented batters. I loved the textural nature of cooking and learnt diligently, not daring to break the wisdom that had been ed down from woman to woman throughout the centuries of my family.

My grandmother was only 6 when she lost her mother, and by the age of 7, she had assumed all household duties, including cooking and caring for her siblings. She did not make it to secondary school and was married at the age of 16, only meeting her husband on their wedding day. On completion of secondary school, my own mother began working as a bank clerk and a part-time librarian. She was married in her late twenties and had only met her future husband once before the marriage was agreed upon. After marriage, she moved into the home of her husband’s extended family and took up the duties of their household.

My grandmother and mother were entirely dependent on the men in their lives for their survival and well-being. I, on the other hand, had freedom, choice, and a voice. I was dependent on and able only to myself. I saw myself as more liberated and empowered than any of my female ancestors.

I was a fusion of East, West, and South, and perpetually puzzled as to how to answer the most basic questions: Who are you? Where are you from? In Kenya, I was perceived as Indian, or Muindi in Kiswahili. In India, I was a “nonresident Indian” or even a foreigner. In the United Kingdom, I was classified as “British Asian/Asian other/ethnic minority”. I didn’t know how to answer these questions, and when I had been younger, I had wanted to fight, to stake a claim in a place, in a people, and gain a fixed identity.

As I grew older, however, I began to find great freedom in not belonging. Over time, pondering such questions as identity turned me into a spiritual seeker, and I slowly came to ask more profound questions: Who am I? What is my true essential nature beyond the realms of body and mind?

PRESENCE

I began my first day on the Napoleon Route, a tough climb from 200 metres above sea level to just above 1,400 metres, followed by a steep, slippery descent back down again. It was summer, but the weather in the Pyrenees can be unpredictable. I walked down the beautiful cobbled street of the old town and uphill through the old town gate, following the yellow markers.

Don Elías Valiña Sampedro,¹ the parish priest in O Cebreiro, created the iconic yellow markers reviving the French Way to Santiago. In 1984, he started painting yellow arrows to indicate the right way at various crossroads. When encountered by curious bystanders, Don Elías would joke that he was planning an invasion. In actuality, he felt the Camino de Santiago to be a space of communication and understanding for people of all nationalities. In addition to the modern yellow markers, I had the sun and the Milky Way.

I stopped at a charming café in Orisson for a sandwich. Eagles flew high above, and clouds floated in the valley below. I shared a table with two elderly Italian men. The younger one, age 65, was referred to by the older one as petit (“young man”). They could not speak English, and I could not speak Italian, so we spoke French.

The older man was bald, stocky, and round. He had a large belly. Despite his age and weight, he appeared to be fairly strong. Petit, on the other hand, had a full head of grey hair and a neat beard. His gentle eyes shone through his spectacles, and a red waterproof protected his frail frame. Petit said that he had once visited Kenya and could still recall the details of his safari. They asked if I might like to walk with them for safety. I thanked them, saying that I wished to walk alone and in silence. The older man powered off, swinging his walking poles in the air like giant pendulums. Petit trailed behind in his red jacket.

I continued through quiet country lanes to Biakorre; here, I ired a statue of the Virgin. I was told the views stretched into the distance as far as Pic d’Aspe and the Somport , where the Camino Aragones es from into Spain. Sadly, due to fog, all I could see ahead of me was my very next step. I began to worry about losing my way in the Pyrenees. I recalled the film The Way, in which an American pilgrim loses his way during treacherous weather in the Pyrenees and dies. I didn’t actually think this would happen to me, yet there was a seedling of doubt.

Statue of the Virgin Mary at Biakorre

Could I make it? I felt that I could, but I continuously worried about not seeing the yellow markers. It began to rain. The rain was so blinding that all the pilgrims had now fallen into a state similar to mine.

Approaching Roncesvalles, there was a choice of two paths. I reached for my telescope and saw the monastery nestled in the valley below, sheltered by large trees. One steep path went vertically down the hillside; it was an old Roman road and looked dangerous. The other, to the right, was easier but longer. Out of fear of falling, I chose the latter.

I was only a few hundred metres away, but I could no longer see the village tucked away around the bend at the bottom of the hill. I went back and began looking for other routes. I wandered around in a forest for a few hours, frustrated and anxious. Eventually, I ran into some pilgrims who led me back to where I had turned around. In half an hour, we reached Roncesvalles.

I arrived at the monastery late in the night, and there were no beds free. There was no food either. Before I set off on El Camino, I had sat on my kitchen floor in my little flat in London with the recommended guidebook, a spotlight, my high-prescription reading glasses, and a magnifying glass, slowly and carefully deciphering each page. I had planned out exactly where I would sleep and walk each day.

I finally found a hotel and shared a room with an elderly French lady, a pilgrim who had also lost her way. I went to bed angry about my situation. Over the years, my life had become a path requiring bright yellow markers. I had unwittingly become my own Don Elías, marking a path for myself to follow. I felt that I could never live freely in the moment but was bound to a plethora of coping strategies and visual aids. Blind spots cast shadows of darkness, obscuring from view the full magnificence of objects. Faces were blurred and expressionless, like poorly sculpted statues. What lay in the distance remained

elusive.

I wanted to completely break free. I longed to drive down a wide-open highway, singing along to my favourite tracks. I wanted to run down a mountain without the fear of falling.

SIMPLICITY

The French lady snored and grunted throughout the night. I was exhausted from the extra miles I had walked, yet I still couldn’t sleep much. Lying awake, I realised that my backpack was still much too heavy. I decided to leave behind my waterproofs, travel yoga mat, energy bars, water bottle, and first-aid kit. All I had with me now for thirty-three days was one change of clothes, a bar of soap, a camping towel, a flashlight, and a light sleeping bag.

I hooked the white scallop shell I had purchased from the pilgrim office to my backpack. It was the sign of a pilgrim, and I could drink with it from a spring or water fountain. My wallet, phone, guidebook, ports, and telescope were tucked away safely inside the money belt strapped around my waist. In medieval times, the pilgrimage to Santiago began at the doorstep of the pilgrim’s home. He or she wore a leather hat and a short leather cloak, and carried a large leather bag and a staff with a hook. A hollow pumpkin was hooked to the staff. It was used to drink and eat from.

I reflected on the start of my Camino. I had strapped on my trail runners and my backpack, stuffed full of the most sophisticated mountaineering equipment, and began marching towards the train station. After walking a mere two hundred metres, I was exhausted, poised to collapse. I stumbled back home and stripped my backpack down to the essentials. In that moment, I began to wonder what I had in my life’s backpack. Which of life’s burdens did I really need to carry?

As I left Roncesvalles that bright summer morning, my thoughts drifted back to my life’s backpack. Obviously, money is extremely important, but I needed just enough to set me free. I didn’t want to become a prisoner of wealth, losing my health and perspective. I decided that when I returned home, I would declutter my apartment. I would keep only what I really needed, not what I wanted. I

would let dissolve the non-nurturing relationships that no longer served me. I would think fewer thoughts. The thoughts I would think would be more positive. I would spend more time in quiet contemplation or focused meditative action. I needed less, much less of everything. It was a liberating train of thought.

I was experiencing such beautiful simplicity and elegance while walking, something I hadn’t experienced when rushing and racing through the streets of London or Nairobi. In my high-pressure, high-intensity job, I had lived bound by pressing deadlines, but now I was living in tune with nature’s rhythms.

After walking for about three kilometres, I stopped at a café in Espinal. It was a quaint little village with only one street. As I was leaving, I bumped into the Welshman. He had acquired a party of followers. There was a young American student, a Dutch filmmaker, and a Tasmanian hiker.

“Hey there,” he called out, waving his guidebook in the air. “Come and walk with us.”

I decided to them to Zubiri. We walked through the woods, shaded by a dense canopy. Leaves and loose twigs crunched beneath our feet. Occasionally, the sun peeped through the canopy and lit the way. The Tasmanian man was tall, broad-chested, and muscular. His legs, solid as pillars, forged huge strides. He told me his wife had ed away not so long ago; he was lonely and loved to walk. The lanky American student wore a bandana. He had tattoos on his arms and crafted a branch into a walking stick.

“I love to travel,” he said, “to see the world. My mother died in my early teens. She went out for a run one morning and never came back. I still miss her.”

I thought of the times when I felt physically lost in my surroundings, struggling to orient myself in the unfamiliar. I realised that many of these pilgrims were in their own way lost, trying to make sense of their lives.

The Dutch filmmaker with red hair and a pleasant smile was lumbered with so much equipment that I wondered how she managed a single step forward, let alone a walk of eight hundred kilometres. She had an enormous backpack with a camera dangling on one end and a shiny water bottle on the other. An even larger camera was slung over her shoulder.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

I proceeded to narrate the tapestry of my mixed identity.

“Wow, awesome,” she said. “Where do you work?”

I listed my various postings with the UN and explained that I now worked as a freelance consultant in the aid world.

“How cool is that! So why are you walking? Most people walking the Way seem to have a purpose.”

I remained silent for a moment before replying, “I wanted to do this while I still have some eyesight.” I didn’t say anything else. What else could be said? A myriad of other reasons drifted through my mind, but none had motivated me as much as my fear that I might be rendered sightless, sooner rather than later, if I

didn’t take care.

“Mind if I film you?” she asked.

“No, go ahead,” I said, not quite sure what that entailed.

The Welshman was strolling along with his head buried deep in his guidebook. Then he suddenly looked up as if he had just realised that he was indeed walking.

“Hey, did you guys know that the trail we are walking is ancient?” he said. “The first human remains in Europe were found on El Camino in the prehistoric caves of Atapuerca, now designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. We are walking in footsteps dating back to over 900,000 years BC.”

He asked if we wanted to hear about the legend of Saint James and how his remains found their way to Santiago. Without waiting for an affirmation, he began: “It says here that after the crucifixion of Christ, Saint James sailed to Galicia and set up his ministry amongst the pagan population but with little success. Upon his return to Jerusalem, he was beheaded by King Herod in the year 42 AD, thus becoming one of the first Christian martyrs.”

He continued, “Legend has it that his body was transported by his disciples to Finisterre. The legendary Queen Lupa conspired with the Roman League based in Dugium to have his body destroyed and his disciples assassinated. His disciples managed to escape by crossing the River Tambre. The bridge collapsed just after they crossed over. Libredon, now Santiago, was not far away, and here they laid the body of Saint James to rest.”

Then he warned, “There is a twist in the tale, though. After the Roman Empire fell, the Barbarian invasions saw the arrival of the Franks, Suevis, and Visigoths. By 711, the Moors had conquered the southern Iberian Peninsula, and Santiago’s resting place became a distant memory.”

“How was his memory resurrected?” asked the Dutch filmmaker.

The Welshman continued, “The Moors advanced north in pursuit of greater conquests, but they were halted by Charles the Great— Charlemagne. In 813, a shepherd named Pelayo was led to the tomb of the Apostle by a bright star in a field in Libredon. The tomb was declared to be authentic by the local bishop, Theodomirus of Iria Flavia.

The Reconquista (re-conquest for Christianity) in Spain started with the mythical battle in Clavijo in 844 and ended with the decisive victory in Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212. Saint James is purported to have appeared in battle to hew down Moor soldiers, hence the image of Santiago Matamoros the Moor-slayer. Thus, Saint James is portrayed as both the pilgrim Santiago Peregrino and the conqueror. The scallop shell is the symbol of Santiago Peregrino, and the Cruz de Santiago, a stylized cross-sword, is the icon of the sword-yielding Apostle.”

“I understand the routes gained popularity in the Middle Ages,” said the Dutch filmmaker.

The Welshman dipped back into his book. “Indeed. El Camino de Santiago developed between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries and had many protectors. Religious relics in the Middle Ages were thought to possess great power, and pilgrims began journeying to Galicia in search of divine

communion.”²

I thought of all the pilgrims who had come before me in their leather hats and cloaks in search of healing, propelled by their unshakable faith in a relic.

DIVINE SIGHT

The next morning, I left at first light and continued walking on alone. I realised my instincts to undertake such a long walk had been correct. I was walking to Pamplona, absorbed in the ebb and flow of the Arga River. I became so deeply engaged in the walking and the river’s rhythm that I was oblivious to all else.

When I paused for a picnic by the river, I felt a blister bubbling on my right little toe, rubbing painfully against the side of my shoe, but I carried on walking until I reached the albergue in Pamplona. This felt analogous to my time in seated meditation, where I sat struggling to quiet my mind before finally finding momentary refuge in a serenely blank mind.

Approaching the city famous for bull racing, I opened my guidebook. I found directions to Pamplona’s municipal albergue and stumbled upon an interesting question posed by its author:

Santiago Peregrino is carved into the ancient stone pillar that stands sentinel over the magnificent medieval bridge, gateway to the historic city, Pamplona. The sightless eyes have watched countless pilgrims wend their way over these selfsame arches. And what of the invisible eye that sees beyond space and time, gateway to the inner realm of spirit? One path is full of distraction and decay, the other leads to peace and eternal truth. Which world we see depends on what we are looking for.³

In the beautiful Cathedral of Pamplona, I contemplated the numerous dimensions of sight. So focused was I on my vision of the external world, with which I felt I was in constant battle, that I had never really thought about any

other dimension of sight. The fifteenth-century Gothic cathedral, located in the northeast corner of the old town, was quite impressive. It had a neoclassical façade, and the chapels contained notable works of art from the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. In the nave was the beautifully carved alabaster mausoleum of King Carlos and his wife, Leonor of Castile; its grand Gothic cloisters featured intricate filigree and silver stonework. I perched on a bench in a quiet chapel and reflected.

My eyes were doors to the outside world; they were my faculty of seeing; they weren’t very good, but they were the gateway to my intellectual and aesthetic judgements. I recalled a conversation with a fellow pilgrim. We both ired the same plant. However, I pointed out the strong roots and he the more fragile fluttering leaves. There were so many aspects to looking at things, to seeing them, but there was also, I was slowly realising, an even more subtle aspect of seeing. What I realised was that I couldn’t clearly see myself, or more accurately, see within myself, blinded as I was by my constantly moving mind. What was within me which I could not yet see and of which I was not aware?

My thoughts drifted once again to my failed sight. I was tired of repeatedly hearing the same clinical truth that my condition was degenerative and that there was no medical solution. I didn’t want the words of a cold and detached ophthalmologist to define my condition and its effect on my future. As I walked through the vineyards and olive groves of La Rioja, literally in the footsteps of my shadow, a sort of panicked frustration shot through me. What if I had to keep walking in my own shadow forever?

FORGIVENESS

While it was still dark, I left Pamplona. I quietly packed my few belongings in the light of my head torch. The route out of Pamplona was well marked, and after crisscrossing several local parks, I descended into a valley.

In Cruz Menor, I stopped to pray at the twelfth-century Church of St Miguel. It had a fortified tower and was part of a monastery set up by the Hospitallers of Saint John, who came to be known as the Knights of Saint John of Malta. They had a twin mission of providing aid to pilgrims and fighting wars.

I stopped at a café for breakfast. The toasted baguette was warm and crunchy, glazed with olive oil, and topped with freshly grated tomatoes and whole black pepper. I sipped a creamy latte and then asked for the bill. I reached for my wallet, and to my great horror, discovered that I had left my money belt at the albergue in Pamplona. I had already walked five kilometres.

In sheer panic, I began walking, jogging, and then sprinting back. My lungs struggled to keep up with my legs as I ran against a blustering wind. I flew past the Welshman, my heart racing.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he called out.

I didn’t want to stop, but I felt obliged to explain.

“I have a phone,” he said. “We can try to call Boomer.”

We had nicknamed the Tasmanian man Boomer⁴ for his speed. Luckily, he was still at the albergue. My heart pounded.

“Hold on,” Boomer said on the phone. “I’ll have a look.”

A few moments later, Boomer was back on the line. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Tell her to wait. I’m coming.”

The Welshman beamed. I waited by the water fountain, fidgeting. I had entrusted my port, credit cards, all my cash, and my phone to someone I barely knew. I wondered if I should start walking towards Pamplona, but what if he had taken an alternate route? I decided to keep waiting.

In less than an hour, I saw Boomer. His pace was quicker than usual. He was dripping with sweat and panting. He handed me my money belt and said, between gasps, “Here you go, my dear. Take good care of it.”

“Thank you,” I said, tasting the complete inadequacy of the words as they lingered on my tongue. Then, “Come on. The least I can do is to treat you to breakfast.”

Profoundly touched by the kindness of strangers, I climbed the Alto del Perdón (Peak of Forgiveness) on the stretch between Pamplona and Puente la Reina. The climb was tough, representing the difficulty of truly forgiving and leaving the

past behind. Yet the rewards of forgiving could be tremendous, akin to the breath-taking views from the peak. Could a person—could I—just forgive and forget? Was it really that simple?

I thought of all those I had to forgive. They flashed through my mind’s eye one by one: family , romantic partners, colleagues. Each of these individuals had left a painful memory that I meditated on with each difficult step up the peak. Could the act of forgiveness render such hurt powerless? Subconsciously, I had trained myself to believe that as a struggling body in the world, I wasn’t equal to everyone else, that I was less than. Therefore, I would turn a blind eye to the faults of others, thinking that mine were much worse. I tried to make flawed relationships work.

While hiking up that peak, I realised that no ritual, prayer, or technique could facilitate forgiveness. The best thing to do was engage in the act itself. Only by forgiving myself and others could I finally let go. I let the pain jolt through me like electricity. I also began to see that beneath injustices and bad behaviours were people who themselves were angry, wounded, and insecure. What they had said or done to me had little to do with me and everything to do with them.

I felt this was the true path to self-liberation. Nelson Mandela said that when he walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to his freedom, he knew that if he didn’t leave his bitterness and hatred behind, he would still be in a prison.⁵

Atop the Peak of Pardon were various iron statues of medieval pilgrims who had resisted the westerly winds. This force now powered the towering wind turbines. The statue’s inscription read: “Where the way of the wind crosses the way of the stars”.

The wind blew against my face, tousling my hair. I felt suddenly harnessed to

something capable of generating so much power. I wondered how wind and forgiveness were related. Was the wind’s power akin to the act of forgiveness, or was forgiveness the resistance needed to fight feeling bitter and angry? I hoped that I could, like modern-day technology, harness the wind’s strength and be blown along on the path to the stars.

Iron sculpture of a group of pilgrims, at Alto del Perdón

On the stretch between Estella and Los Arcos was a wine fountain, fuente del vino. Bodegas Irache was founded in 1891, supplying wine to the royal houses of Navarre. The history of this vineyard is closely intertwined with that of the neighbouring monastery of Irache, which served as a hospital for pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago as early as the tenth century. In 1991, Bodegas Irache embedded a tap on a scallop shell into one of the building’s outer walls. It paid homage to the Benedictine monastery by giving modern-day pilgrims a taste of the generosity shown to early pilgrims.

I filled my scallop shell with wine. The inscription read: “Pilgrim, if you wish to arrive at Santiago full of strength, have a drink of this great wine and make a toast to happiness.” I drank ceremoniously, toasting to happiness, with gratitude not just for the generosity of the Bodegas but to my new attempts at forgiveness. They would at times falter, I knew this. But later, when it happened, I would remind myself of this moment, standing in the sun, with wine dribbling down my chin.

KINDNESS

I was averaging thirty kilometres a day, and if I continued at this pace, I would complete the 776-kilometre journey in thirty days. This meant that I was roughly halfway through. My feet were starting to give way. They were sore and ached terribly. I had three large blisters, and the skin on the backs of my heels had come off. I had deep cuts on my ankles and shins from the various branches and brambles.

As I walked the stretch from Castrojeriz to Frómista, a heavy rain began. Rather than wearing hiking boots, I had opted for trail runners, which had been a wise choice; however, they weren’t waterproof, and I had left my waterproof jacket and tros behind at the hotel in Roncesvalles. After about ten kilometres, I arrived at a church. It must have been around 2 p.m., and the church was closed. No one was in sight. Soaked to the bone, unable to move, I sank to the earth, resting my back against the church’s cold and wet stone wall.

As the rain relentlessly pelted me, salty tears streamed down my face, merging with the rain’s large droplets. I wanted to phone my mother, but what could I say?

Several hours later, two Italian volunteers dressed in long black skirts and white blouses arrived. They were sharing a large golf umbrella and called out, “Bon journo.” They unlocked the heavy arched wooden door. Their tone was out of tune with the weather and my mood.

“Come in,” they called, “or you will fall ill.”

The church had eight bunk beds. There was a large dining table in the centre of the room and an altar at the front.

“In the twelfth century, this building was a pilgrim hospice,” said one lady, bringing out a tray with a large pot of Italian coffee and three cups.

“We don’t have electricity here,” the other said, lighting the tall candles on the dining table.

The hot coffee travelled through my throat and into my chest, warming me. There was a shower and a toilet in the rear of the church. I washed and changed into dry clothes. It had stopped raining, but I wanted to stay indoors. I lay on my bunk bed, grateful for the warmth. The Italian ladies were chatting away, preparing the evening pilgrim meal. The aroma of garlic, plump tender tomatoes, and freshly cut basil drifted into the air. Gradually, pilgrims began trickling in.

“Mind if I sleep up there?” a man asked in a strong German accent, pointing to the bunk bed directly above mine. He was with his brother; both were extraordinarily tall and burly. He introduced himself as a German foot doctor. I could not believe my luck.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

“No, I’m not,” he said.

Normally, I would never ask such a thing, but my throbbing feet left me undaunted. “Um,” I began, “sorry to ask, but would you please look at my feet? They aren’t doing so well.”

He took my right foot into his lap. “The blisters are full of liquid,” he said and cleaned them with an alcohol swab. He sterilised a needle with his lighter and pierced a blister from the side. I winced, watching the fluid shoot out of it. He then applied an ointment which he told me was very good at killing infectious bacteria. He applied a moleskin plaster and repeated the same process on my other two blisters. Then he cut away the bits of ragged and dirty skin on the backs of my heels and dressed the wounds and cuts on my ankles.

“Go slow tomorrow,” he said.

The albergue was now full. Just as we were about to say grace, the Welshman rushed through the door, asking, “Space for one more?” The kind Italian ladies offered him a mattress at the altar, which he gladly accepted. We relished the spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce. After supper, there were prayers, and the ladies offered to wash our feet.

I lay in my bunk bed, thankful for the kind hospitality of the Italian ladies and the care and attention of the German foot doctor. I thought of Boomer, whom I had not seen since the day he rushed to bring my money belt.

I set off at the crack of dawn, first leaving a generous donation in the donation box. As I was tying my laces, the Welshman appeared at the door.

“I felt something touch me last night. I looked around, but there was nothing

there,” he said, slightly befuddled.

SURRENDER

I walked slowly to Frómista and then on to Carrión de los Condes. The Pisuerga River burbled beside me. In Carrión de los Condes, I decided to stay at the Albergue de Santa Maria, run by five Augustinian nuns, known as the singing sisters of Carrión de los Condes, After pilgrim Mass, we gathered together on wooden benches in the albergue’s small reception area, waiting to hear them sing. I met the Dutch filmmaker again and was stunned she had made it this far on foot.

“How is the filming going?” I asked.

“Great!” she said. “I have even thought of a name for the documentary.”

The sisters’ angelic voices were accompanied by guitars and a recorder. Song sheets in three languages were distributed amongst the pilgrims. Together, we sang along, travellers from diverse backgrounds, nationalities, and religions, singing “Amazing Grace”, “Hallelujah”, “Guantanamo”, and “Where Nobody Went Yesterday”. I loved the lyrics of the last song, which were derived from a Spanish poem written by León Felipe: “The way you will walk tomorrow is different from the way you walked yesterday, but the sign of God is with you all along the way.”

The next morning was cool and fresh. I was crouching on my knees and rolling up my sleeping bag when I heard a desperate fluttering. I listened carefully and walked in the direction of the sound. I noticed a blurry red-brown object. I moved closer to the windowsill and could make out a bird perched on the ledge, its wings flapping in frantic desperation. It was tiny, the size of my palm. Its

small eyes shone like jet stones.

Sight is the strongest sense in birds. Out of the entire animal kingdom, their eyes are the largest relative to their size. In fact, pigeons have been described as “eyes with wings”.⁷ Obviously, this was essential for navigating their flights.

Momentarily, I considered how much better the bird saw me than I saw myself. Could this be true? I wasn’t completely sure. I opened the window, but the bird wouldn’t take off. Next to it, I placed a book, like a gangplank, to the window. This only agitated it further. Not knowing what to do, I began to sing. It continued to incessantly flap about. I stopped singing and stretched out my palms, placing them on the window’s ledge.

“Hop up into them,” I whispered gently. The bird kept flapping its wings, then rather extraordinarily, it stopped and gazed at me before leaping into my palms. I wished we could have stayed in that moment forever, its webbed feet touching my skin. Slowly, I lifted it up to the window, and it flew out into the blue sky, its inner com guiding it. Soon, it was just a brown dot on the horizon.

A UNIFIED PERSPECTIVE

I had been walking for twenty-three days and had left behind the historical Basque country, the lush hills and valleys of Navarra, the rolling vineyards of La Rioja, and the hot wide-open planes of the Meseta. My first stop after the Meseta was Rabanal del Camino. Here, I discovered the Albergue Causelmo run by the British Confraternity of Saint James.⁸ True to British tradition, afternoon tea was served in the garden at 4 p.m.

What made this place special was that until 1991, there was no proper accommodation for pilgrims on the exposed and rugged fifty-four-kilometre stretch of the Camino between Astorga and Ponferrada, the age across the mountains of León. The Confraternity, in association with the El Bierzo association of Friends of the Camino, converted the old parish house for use as an albergue.

At dinner, I sat next to a Swedish pilgrim. “Nice to talk to you,” he said. “I’ve noticed you usually leave early, walk fast, and mostly alone.” I smiled at his accuracy.

He told me that he was a successful businessman who had left his high-powered life behind in search of love and God. He had been madly in love, but his fiancée broke up with him just before the wedding. He was heartbroken and trying to make sense of it all. From here, he would go to Jerusalem and to the Vatican. What was it about loss that propelled people to leave their lives behind and walk?

From Rabanal del Camino, I could reach Santiago in seven days. I would cross

the highest point on El Camino en route to Ponferrada. As I walked from the albergue, a chilly breeze lashed against my back, but the views across the rio Turienzo towards Monte El Teleno were splendid. I did not stop for seated meditation, as I felt that my body cooled too quickly at this high of an altitude. I just carried on walking until I arrived at a striking wooden cross in the remote mountain hamlet of Foncebadón.

From there, I made my way through the mountain. At 1,504 metres, the opened to a five-metre-tall weathered wooden pole topped with an iron cross. This humble but symbolic cross, called the Cruz de Ferro, stood on an enormous pile of stones. It had borne witness to the unique journeys of thousands of pilgrims. The stones symbolised these traveller’s burdens, blessings, and prayers.

I had picked three small grey oval-shaped stones from my garden in London and carried them with me not knowing what they would come to represent. Intuitively, three had felt like the right number. I reconnected with the purpose of my journey and carefully placed each stone on the heap alongside those of other pilgrims. The first symbolised the unhealthy ways I had developed to cope with my struggles, a burden that I wished to leave behind on El Camino. The second symbolised deep gratitude for all the beautiful things and people in my life. One by one, I silently listed all that I was grateful for, and this made me realise how immensely rich I was. The third symbolised a new reality. I sat for a long while by the cross, reflecting on aspirations that I felt could further unify my head and heart.

A large group of loud pilgrims arrived and began taking selfies by the cross. I started to become irritated and resentful of them for disturbing my quiet contemplation. I judged them to be brash, self-absorbed, and disrespectful. In that moment, I lost my peace of mind and began to suffer. I thought of the Buddha’s teachings in the “Fire Sermon” on the causes of suffering in the world:

The eye is burning; forms are burning; eye-consciousness is burning; eye- is burning; also whatever is felt as pleasant or painful or neither-painful-norpleasant that arises with eye- for its indispensable condition, that too is burning. Burning with what? Burning with the fire of lust, the fire of hate, the fire of delusion.

The Buddha stated the same of the other four senses and the mind, illustrating that attachment to positive, negative, and neutral sensations and thoughts is the cause of suffering.

What was happening in this moment, my loss of peace, was exactly what I needed to work on going forward: not to get so distracted with a future desire of peace and contentment but to feel it present around me at all times. I found

myself thanking these noisy pilgrims.

From the Cruz de Ferro, I decided to take a detour en route to Molinaseca. I wanted to spend time in the Valley of Silence. I stopped in Compludo, the birthplace of monasticism in the region, and then carried on for a further nineteen kilometres uphill to the Valle del Silencio. On this serene hilltop, I stopped to sit in silence in an ancient Mozarabic-style church. Although Islamic, the Moors permitted freedom of religious and artistic expression during their conquest of the Iberian Peninsula. Mozarabic was the name given to freely practising Christians, and the churches were built using the Moorish horseshoe arch.

As I sat in the church, I pondered some questions posed by the author of my guidebook:

How elusive to the rational mind is that peace that es all understanding? What does an altered state mean to you? Words cannot convey the experience of a unified perspective, beyond the duality offered by the physical eyes. How long yet will we allow the sense perceptible world to limit our perception and keep us imprisoned in our limited state? Will we allow our true self to soar to new heights and sense the super-sensible?¹

THE BALLET IN THE SKY

Santiago was soon approaching. I had reached Sarria, and now there were only a hundred kilometres left to walk. I met the Welshman in Sarria. He wasn’t his vivacious self.

“My mother ed away,” he said. “I could not be at the funeral. I left her brooch at the cross.” Tears filled his eyes.

I hugged him. Was this what he had felt that night at the altar? The sudden presence of his mother? Looking at him, I wondered how I would deal with future adversity. What if my aspirations remained a lifeless stone, weathered away by the sun, wind, rain, and age of time? I imagined the old iron cross had borne witness to thousands of unmanifested hopes and dreams.

I didn’t even have to conjure up future pain. Already, fatigue and pain had set in. Despite weighing the same or perhaps even less, my backpack felt heavier. My shoulders were stiff and bruised from its straps. My back was sore; my neck and arms were burnt and covered in bites from bedbugs. Worst of all, my feet ached. I dreaded each and every step of my self-inflicted fate.

Thankfully, I walked the final day from O Pedrouzo to Santiago, roughly twenty kilometres, with the brother of the German foot doctor. After his young son ed away and his marriage fell apart, the foot doctor’s brother walked El Camino. Despite these past difficulties, he seemed quite happy now. We encouraged each other along this final stretch. The first part of our route was shaded by tall eucalyptus trees, but the latter part was a hot slog along asphalt, and we both needed .

Finally, we approached Santiago and stood in the Golden Square, Praza do Obradoiro, which was swarming with pilgrims and tourists. There it was: the magnificent cathedral. The west façade momentarily stunned me into silence. A statue of Saint James stood high in a niche in the central tower. Soon, elation at finishing took over me. I hugged my German friend. I had made it. I was overwhelmed with gratitude to have finished.

During my last pilgrim meal, most of the pilgrims I had met along the way were there: the brother of the German foot doctor; the Tasmanian who delivered my money belt; the two elderly Italian men; the Swedish businessman in search of love and God; the Dutch filmmaker who captured the Way of Saint James for her documentary; and the Welshman bereaved over his mother’s death. We toasted and reminisced over everything we had done, seen, and undergone—all those things which had turned us from solitary pilgrims into fellow travellers on the Way. We talked, gulped sangria, and feasted on a lavish spread of Spanish tapas: pepper dews stuffed with artichokes and crumbled feta; warm kale salad with toasted almonds; spinach and sweet potato tortillas; patatas bravas (potatoes in a spicy tomato sauce); and many delicious dishes. I didn’t walk back to my hotel that night until 11:30 p.m. The streets were deserted.

I stepped into the wide square of Praza da Quintana. A set of stairs separated the lower part, Quintana of the dead, from the upper part, Quintana of the living. There was a busker playing his harp. I kneeled close by him on the upper part. The night was cool; white doves circled the dark velvet sky, almost as if they were performing a beautifully choreographed aerial ballet to the sweet melody of the harp.

Caught in the serene beauty of that moment, I made a promise to myself: no longer would I walk in the shadow of my past. I would soar with the birds in the sky.

Soon, the melody came to an end. I got up and thanked him, even purchasing a CD. I knew it wouldn’t sound the same, but it would serve as a reminder of this moment, one that might be much needed in the future.

“Are the birds here every night?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

I rested my head on a soft, clean pillow. I didn’t have to get up at 5 a.m., pack in the light of my torch, and strap on my shoes. I would wake up slowly. I would start my day with a lazy coffee in the Praza da Inmaculada, replaying my long walk through rolling hills, wide-open valleys, and golden meadows. I had endured the beating sun, the torrential rain, and the bitter cold. However, walking on the Way had been much more than the physical act of walking. This walk had been a catalysis; it was the movement I had chosen as a background for deeper self-examination.

When I stepped into the pilgrim office on the rua Carretas to and collect my Compostela (traditional certificate), I was served by a friendly, officious gentleman.

“Please, may I have your pilgrim port. From Kenya?” he asked after I handed it to him.

“Yes,” I said.

“You don’t look it.”

“I know,” I said, smiling. “I’m a global nomad.”

“Congratulations! Here is your Compostela. You are the first Kenyan to have walked El Camino.”

I had finished my journey, but I knew, standing in that office, that my true walking had just begun.

2

TO A SACRED MOUNTAIN

MOUNT KAILASH

I revered her. I personified her. I gave her a gender. She jutted out of the earth tall, steady, and unshakable—a mass of black rock, the centre of a lotus flower, petalled by six Himalayan ranges. Her exterior weathered by the elements, by the age of time, she was, at her core, strong, protective, and wise. The perennial beauty of her four faces (ruby, gold, crystal, and lapis lazuli) harmoniously morphed with the seasonal shifts of light. Crisp white layers of snow clothed her stepped, sloping pyramid. She was a pure, magnificent lotus, untainted by earth.

She stood timeless, as old as creation itself, giving birth to great rivers of sustenance. She was closer to the heavens than I would ever be. At her foot, I kneeled; I bowed down. She was a mystical mystery beyond my comprehension. Like so many before me, I had to metaphorise to understand her.

Since I was a young girl, I had been dreaming of traveling to Tibet on a pilgrimage to see her. At that time, I knew her as Mount Kailash, the stairway to heaven, rising to a height of over 6,600 metres. Shiva, the lord of yoga, sits in eternal meditation atop her peak. She is revered by four religions: Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism, and Bon (Tibet’s pre-Buddhist shamanistic religion). Even before the legendary Rāmāyaṇa (fifth century BC) and Mahābhārata (fourth century BC) were written, she was “… so deeply embedded in the myths of ancient Asia that [she] was perhaps a sacred place of another era, another civilization, now long gone and forgotten”.¹¹

Despite her significance to these four religions, Mount Kailash attracts no more than a few thousand pilgrims each year, owing to the trials and perils of the journey. The mountain lies in the remote western Tibetan plateau, the so-called “roof of the world”. No planes, trains, or buses anywhere near the

mountain, and even with heavy-duty overland vehicles, the journey requires weeks of long and difficult travel—as well as navigating Chinese military checkpoints. The guesthouses available, all attached to monasteries, are basic, often lacking warmth and sanitation. The altitude is high, the air thin, and the mountain weather unpredictable, sometimes treacherous.

Those from the Bon, Hindu, Jain, or Buddhist traditions refer to Kailash as the mythical Mount Meru, the Axis Mundi—the naval and central pillar of the earth. Mount Kailash has four faces that align perfectly with the four cardinal directions. The mountain is the earthly dwelling place of the gods. Hindus believe Mount Kailash to be the abode of Lord Shiva and his consort Parvati. Jains believe it to be the place where Rishaba, the first of the twenty-four saints (tirthankaras), attained liberation. Followers of Bon call the mountain Tisė, meaning “water peak” or “river peak”. They believe it to be the seat of the sky goddess Sipaimen.

It is said that a legendary twelfth-century battle of sorcery took place between the Buddhist sage Milarepa and the Bon shaman Naro Bon-chung. Milarepa, champion of Vajrayana, Buddhist tantra, arrived in Tibet to challenge Naro Bonchung. The two engaged in battles of sorcery, but there was no decisive victory. It was agreed that whoever could summit Kailash first would be the victor. Naro Bon-chung soared up the mountain on a magic drum, while Milarepa sat quietly in meditation, much to the agitation of his followers. Then, just as Naro Bonchung was almost at the top of the peak, Milarepa sprung into motion. Transported by a beam of light, he reached the summit just before Naro Bonchung. Milarepa’s defeat of the shaman led to the prominence of Buddhism in the region.¹²

Tibetan Buddhists call the mountain Kang Rimpoche, meaning “Precious One of Glacial Snow”, the dwelling place of Demchok, also known as Chakrasamvara, “Buddha of Bliss”, and his consort, Dorje Phagmo. Theories regarding the supernatural power of Kailash abound, with some even claiming it to be a pyramid built by aliens.¹³ Four major rivers originate in the Kailash–Lake

Manasarovara region: Indus, Brahmaputra, Karnali (a tributary of the Ganges), and Sutlej. It is considered a great sin to set foot on the peak of Mount Kailash. All those who have attempted to climb it have been unsuccessful.

Mount Everest is 8,848 metres in height, and its summit has been scaled by over 4,000 people. Mount Kailash is 6,638 metres, and its summit remains unclimbed.¹⁴ The Chinese government now prohibits all mountaineering expeditions to the peak. Pilgrims circle the mountain on a circumambulation or revolution (kora) that is fifty-two kilometres long. The kora is made in a clockwise direction by Hindus and Buddhists and in a counter-clockwise direction by Jains and Bönpos.

On El Camino, I was focused on my journey to a sacred place. Here in Tibet, I would be circling a sacred abode. For Tibetans, the goal of pilgrimage is less to reach a destination than to transcend, through inspired travel, the attachments and habits of inattention that restrict awareness of a larger reality.¹⁵

ACCEPTANCE

Due to stringent Chinese regulations, I was compelled to travel with a local travel company. When my close Jain friend heard that I was going to Mount Kailash, she asked if she could me. I had met her several years earlier on Mount Kenya when I had helped her deal with altitude sickness. Youthful, full of life, and bursting with energy, she was unable to remain still. Whenever I visited her, she would have me sample a new recipe and ire an artistic creation. “It’s roasted roots with apple and rosemary today,” she’d say excitedly, or “I’ve made foul [beans] served with hummus [chickpea dip] and falafels [deep-fried favabean balls] from the Lebanese cookbook you gave me.”

One day, she brought out a large jar of fermented cabbage.

“What’s that?” I asked curiously.

“Korean kimchi,” she replied proudly. “It’s delicious!”

As I left her house that evening, she gave me a handmade candle that she had painted and set in a smooth coconut husk.

It was going to be the two of us on this trip, along with a group of pilgrims I had never met before. I had to accept that unlike El Camino, I could not make this journey alone. Our at the travel company had already battled complex bureaucracy to secure our travel, military, and alien permits. I spent a few days in Nepal beforehand acclimatising and trekking and was planning to meet my

friend in Lhasa.

It was only a short one-hour flight from Kathmandu to Lhasa. When we took off, I was both excited and nervous. After years of planning and preparation, my dream trek to Mount Kailash was finally manifesting. Then just as we were approaching Lhasa, the flight attendant announced that we would not be landing there but would continue to Chengdu in China. No further information was given.

On arrival, I struggled to explain to the immigration official, who spoke scanty English, that I did not want to be there—I was only there because my flight failed to land in Lhasa. He suspiciously scrutinised my travel permits and eventually ushered me through. I identified other engers from the flight destined for Lhasa. We huddled together near our packs and waited for more news.

Eventually, a representative of the airline appeared. She said we would be provided accommodation for the night and would board an early-morning flight to Lhasa. I found myself in a dingy dark hotel room not far from the airport. I breathed deeply and reminded myself that what I could not change, I had to accept. Out of fear of missing my alarm, I did not sleep a wink.

At 3 a.m., we piled into our van and headed to the airport, which was swarming with thousands of people. All the signs were in Chinese, and communication with airport personnel was challenging. To every question we posed, the response was a firm no. I wondered whether we would ever make it out of China.

We stuck together and eventually managed to check in and find our gate. When we finally arrived in Lhasa, my friend who had travelled there from Nairobi via

Chengdu was anxiously waiting for me. We had crossed paths in the air only the day before.

As I stepped off the plane, the first thing that struck me was the light. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the barren brown terrain, the mountains beyond the mountains, and the floodlight of the midday sun between the peaks.

My friend and I greeted the other pilgrims. We were a disparate bunch. There were adventure tourists, a lady in search of romantic love, and a few spiritual seekers. The majority were loud; their voices pierced the tranquillity, their roaring laughter echoing through the vast valleys and ravines. They made their presence known to the gods, and I was reminded that my greatest weakness was my inability to remain internally calm when there was a racket around me.

I decided to take this as a test. The image of a lion lying, belly full, deep in slumber on the African savannah came to mind. He was seemingly unperturbed by the jeeps, cameras, and commentators encircling him. He stirred occasionally but only to improve his comfort.

Our guide was a young Tibetan, a former monk turned family man and guide. He was about five foot five, small-framed, fair-skinned, and dark-eyed. His look was cool: jeans, sneakers, a light down jacket, dark shades, and a baseball cap. He was pleasant, but a melancholic cloak hung over him. In addition to the load of pilgrims, he carried an air of unease—an unexplained nervousness akin to grudging acceptance. He did not wish to talk about his former life as a monk or his reasons for leaving the monastery. He dutifully went about his work on autopilot, coloured with indifference.

Beforehand, we had been advised not to talk about politics or mention the Dalai Lama. Tibet has been governed as an autonomous region of China since 1950.

This was when the Chinese sent in thousands of troops to stake its claim—a claim the government believes to be centuries old. In 1959, after a failed antiChinese uprising, the fourteenth Dalai Lama fled Tibet and set up a government in exile in India. He was compelled to leave the Potala Palace, his winter residence, a symbol of Tibetan Buddhism, and the centre of istration from the seventh century.

Now inhabited by throngs of tourists, the palace is a World Heritage Site and a museum. Built on Red Mountain from rammed earth and stone, it represents the apogee of theocratic Tibetan architecture. Behind its red-and-white walls and gates lie 698 murals, 10,000 painted scrolls, and numerous precious sculptures and historical relics.

The Dalai Lama, or “Ocean of Wisdom”, is the leading Tibetan spiritual figure and is believed to be a reincarnation of his predecessor. The allegiance of many Tibetans still lies with the Dalai Lama, although he is viewed by China as a political and separatist threat. Most of Tibet’s monasteries were destroyed in the 1960s and 1970s during China’s Cultural Revolution. Thousands of Tibetans are believed to have been killed during periods of repression and martial law. The Dalai Lama says 1.2 million people were killed under Chinese rule and that China actively suppressed Tibetan identity.¹

In Lhasa, we visited what was left of the beautiful white-stone Sera Monastery built at the base of Pubuchok Mountain, which overlooks Lhasa. It was spared complete destruction during the Cultural Revolution. As our guide told us, “Buddhism came to Tibet in the seventh century. This monastery is from the Gelgupa sect and once thrived. There were over five thousand monks here. What you now see is much smaller, with only three remaining colleges.”

We walked through the beautiful tree-lined walkways into the debate courtyard. Young, slender, red-robed monks stood in the grey pebbled yard under the shade of large leafy trees. In groups of two and four, they debated in Tibetan about

Buddhist philosophy while onlookers sat at the edges of the square. They made their points known not only through speech but through the movement of their entire bodies. A long ionate speech was tempered by laughter and sealed with a raised voice and an enthusiastic loud clap downwards of the hands.

Monks debating at Sera Monastery

The exterior stone walls of the monastery were engraved with a beautiful depiction of the Tibetan Buddhist wheel of life, known in Sanskrit as bhavachakra. It represents the endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Our guide unveiled its rich iconography. We learned that the six major sections, the even pie-shaped slices between the spokes of the wheel, are the six realms into which beings are born, depending on their actions (karma):

1. The topmost realm is the realm of the gods (devas). They live a happy life, endowed with wealth, power, and pleasure. This happiness traps them in the wheel. Since they never experience suffering, they remain unmotivated to liberate themselves. 2. The devas are at war with the jealous gods (asuras). Asuras aspire for supremacy, to be better than others, and to use their power and resources for personal gain. They are both paranoid and competitive. 3. The realm of hungry ghosts (pretas) is inhabited by beings with huge stomachs and thin necks through which food cannot . These beings are associated with insatiable addictions and compulsions. 4. The realm of hell is where hellish beings (narakas) are subjected to pain and torment in fire and ice. Hellish beings are aggressive, abusive, and destructive. 5. Then comes the animal realm. The animal beings (tiryakas) are ignorant, complacent, and fearful. They cling to the familiar and avoid discomfort. 6. Finally, in the human realm reside human beings (manushas). They are driven to strive, inquire, and acquire. They are in a fortunate position to seek the teachings of the Buddha (Dharma); however, only a few rise to the occasion. Most remain trapped in the wheel.

Tibetan Buddhist wheel of life

Within each realm, the enlightened being of infinite comion (avalokiteshvara bodhisattva) appears, showing the path to liberation from the wheel. Meanwhile, at the centre of the wheel are the forces that keep it spinning: greed (cock), anger (snake), and ignorance (pig). Just outside the innermost circle is another circle called the intermediate stage (sidpa bardo). On one half, bodhisattvas guide beings into rebirth as gods and human beings, and on the other half, demons lead beings to rebirth in the realms of hell, animals, and hungry ghosts.

The outer circle of the wheel is the dependent origination (paticca samuppada), signifying the interconnectedness of everything. Everything affects everything else. Everything that was, was because other things were. Everything that is happening now is part of what happened before and what will happen next.¹⁷ In the upper-right-hand corner, the Buddha appears, representing liberation. The wheel is held in the hooves of the lord of death and impermanence (yama), a protector of Buddhism.

Our guide concluded his in-depth presentation of this alluring work of art by qualifying, “The wheel is not to be interpreted in a purely literal sense.” He then asked, smiling, “Do you recognise any aspects of your existence, personality traits, or states of mind in the wheel? Are you willing to truthfully accept and acknowledge their presence?”

FAITH

On the second day of our trip, my friend and I were resting in our hotel room in Lhasa. We were to spend two days in Lhasa to acclimatise and visit sacred sites. Suddenly, my vision started to become extremely blurry. I felt like a dark curtain was closing over my eyes. I was rapidly losing my sight, and I had a pounding headache.

I was frightened. The dark curtain was one of the signs of retinal detachment. There were, however, no other signs—no flashing lights or floaters, which are squiggly, cobweblike lines. If it was indeed a retinal tear or detachment, I would have to be flown back to London immediately. My heart sank to a level deeper than the innermost core of the earth. After all these years, I was finally here, and now, I might not even have the chance to start the kora.

As my vision rapidly grew worse, I panicked. Not only would I not be able to fulfil my childhood dream, but more troublingly, I might suddenly be going blind.

“What is our altitude?” I asked my friend.

“About 3,600 metres,” she replied.

We were at very high altitude. It suddenly occurred to me that this was not a detachment but a lack of oxygen supply to my brain and already-weak retina. Since the nerve cells of the retina connect directly with the brain, they share a

similar physiology. Both the brain and the retina require an enormous, steady supply of oxygen. A specialised network of blood vessels feed the retinal cells. In order to allow a clear focusing of light, a barrier prevents blood from escaping into the retinal spaces. Either decreased oxygen to the retinal cells or leakage of blood into the retina causes loss of vision.¹⁸

I had to immediately stabilise the condition of my eyes. My friend began to pray and chant Jain mantras. I slowly and rhythmically breathed, allowing my exhalations to deepen. I began to feel calm enough to do some gentle yoga poses (asanas) in the hope of improving the oxygen supply to my brain.

I recalled the bulky television set in my childhood living room. Sometimes when I was watching my favourite children’s comedian, the signal would drop. Thousands of tiny pixels, fuzzy grey-and-back waves, would line the screen as I impatiently waited for the signal to return and the waves to change back into the comedian’s colourful image. Right then, I could see only the grey-and-black waves. Gradually though, my vision returned to normal. The tip of my brown nose appeared, my blue floral shirt, the room’s pale-yellow wall, the round coffee table, and the dark green curtains. I sighed, enormously relieved.

This episode presented a gigantic risk. The altitude was only going to get higher and the air thinner. Medical facilities along the way were scarce and would only get scarcer. High-quality eye surgery would be absolutely impossible. For that, I would need to be airlifted out.

I meditated. My momentary loss of sight seemed to have added another dimension of sight. I prayed for some kind of divine guidance, some kind of sign. I closed my eyes, and slowly my maternal grandmother appeared in her blue sari. As a young child, I would crouch at the end of her bed, and she would tell me stories from the great Hindu epics: the Rāmāyaṇa and Mahābhārata. Short and stocky, she wore her thin grey hair finely oiled in a long plait that tapered down the rear fold of her elegant sari, draped in the traditional Gujarati

style. Her face was perfectly round, her skin glowed, and her eyes told a tale of immense suffering.

Now, I saw her raise her hand with her palm facing me as in a blessing. In it, I saw a bright-green Jain swastik, one of eight auspicious symbols commonly used in Jainism, Buddhism, and Hinduism (ashtamangalas). I interpreted it as a sign to continue my journey.

DISSOLUTION

After a long 1,568-kilometre drive through the Tibetan wilderness punctuated by the cities of Shigatse (altitude 3,900 metres), Lhatse (4,000 metres), and Saga (4,600 metres), we finally arrived in the dull, sleepy village of Darchen (4,560 metres). There we discovered that, due to poor weather, the group before us had not been permitted to climb. We checked into our guest house and quickly realised that after not having showered for days, a shower was not going to be an option. However, we jokingly reminded each other that if we successfully completed the kora, all the sins of this lifetime would be washed away.

We started the kora early the following morning on the western edge of Darchen. I strapped on my boots and backpack and sped ahead of the group. I wanted to walk and chant in silence. I was carrying my own supplies and equipment. I didn’t like the idea of burdening yaks, ponies, or porters (sherpas) with my weight. My backpack was heavier than on El Camino due to the hefty winter kit.

The rocky trail gradually ascended the southwest end of an east–west ridge to a cairn lined with prayer flags. It marked the first view of Mount Kailash’s southern, or lapis lazuli, face. Here, I stopped to prostrate. I could not comprehend how close I was standing to this incredibly hard-to-reach sacred abode. Even if I could, I dared not reach out to touch her. She seemed alive, living and breathing, seeing and speaking, listening and feeling in ways unknown to me. She was powerful and daunting, a living mystery.

Mount Kailash: southern or lapis lazuli, face

According to Hindu mythology, Ravana, the egotistical king of Lanka, wanted to take Lord Shiva to his kingdom so that Ravana could pray to the Lord whenever he wished. When Lord Shiva refused, Ravana tied thick strong ropes around Kailash, and with his bare hands attempted to lift it and take Shiva home with him. Kailash began to tremble and lift off the earth.

Shiva smiled and pressed his little toe gently down, wishing to teach his fierce, arrogant devotee a lesson in humility. Trapped under the weight of the mountain, Ravana realised his folly. He composed and sang a beautiful poem, the Shiva Tandava Stotra, in praise of Shiva’s power, beauty, and comion. He concluded by singing that to truly worship Shiva was to see with the same equality snake and garland, jewel and dirt, and emperor and common man. Pleased, Lord Shiva released him, but the ropes left their mark on the mountain.

The trail skirted around to the north, and I descended into the brown, barren Lhachu Valley. I walked beside the clear Lha-chu River as it gushed over rocks and branches. I felt protected, sheltered by tall mountains that rose to the sky from either side of the riverbank. Ahead of me in the distance stood snow-capped peaks. When the clouds made way for the sun, a golden glow filled the cupshaped valley.

Most striking were the hardy Tibetan pilgrims who instead of walking performed body-length prostrations. Wearing traditional long dark robes and furry hats, they prostrated for the entire fifty-two kilometres—through marshland, rocky terrain, and thick snow. It took them four weeks or longer to complete the kora. Compared to others, they earned extra blessings.

They bent down, kneeled, and did a full-length prostration, their arms stretched out, their faces down. They pressed their palms in prayer, touched the crowns of their heads, their mouths, and hearts. They marked the earth with their fingers, rose again to their knees, chanted a Buddhist mantra, crawled forward to the

just-made mark, and repeated the prostration. In the words of Lama Zopa Rimpoche, “Making prostrations is an excellent antidote for slicing through false pride.”¹

My friend caught up with me just as the weather was starting to turn. We arrived at a small bridge across the Lha-chu and did not know which way to go. Some kind Tibetan pilgrims pointed us in the direction of the eastern bank towards Dira-puk Monastery. On the hillside to the west, perched high above the valley floor, stood Chuku Monastery.

It was a three-hour walk to Dira-puk Monastery from Chukubridge. A snowstorm was brewing, and the temperature suddenly dropped. We arrived at what we thought was our guest house, but it was deserted; there was not a soul in sight. The windows creaked, and the doors rattled as the wind blew and howled through the desolate ghost of a building. Finally, we heard a voice, and a man emerged. He roughly pointed in the direction of Dira-puk. By then, it was snowing heavily.

We were frozen by the time we arrived at Dira-puk (altitude 5,080 metres). Taking shelter in the dark dining-room area, we warmed our hands and feet by the fire next to large tin pots of steaming noodle soup. Our host offered us a seat at the table; little mice scuttled at our feet. She brought over a large pot of hot sweet-butter tea. It was made from tea leaves, yak butter, water, and salt. After we drained our bowls in one long sip, our host appeared and filled them again to the brim. We felt satiated and replenished, our chapped lips soothed.

The rest of the group soon arrived, tired, wet, and hungry. They had been caught in the snowstorm. We were to sleep in steel shipping containers. Each container housed five or six beds. They reminded me of my UN offices in Sri Lanka and Haiti—economical, eco-friendly, and designed to withstand harsh environments and natural hazards. It was -10 degrees Celsius. After crawling into my sleeping bag wearing all the clothes that I had in my backpack, I threw on two more blankets. I lay bundled in my layers, exhausted but unable to sleep, in part due to the bantering pilgrims in the neighbouring room. The next day’s walk would be the most demanding.

I realised that I needed to use the toilet. The pit latrines were overflowing with excrement. Flies and other insects buzzed around. This too reminded me of my field work, living in remote villages and helping local communities rebuild their lives in the aftermath of disasters and conflicts. Here, though, there were no sounds of gunfire or shelling, nor was I afraid of being kidnapped. I found my flashlight and headed out to dig a hole.

While digging, I heard the sweet tinkle of bells. They hung from the short neck of a rusty-brown yak. It gazed at me, occasionally grunting. Its dense, shaggy fur hung over its belly; its woollen undercoat warmed its chest, bulky body, and sturdy legs. Its smooth horns curved around its large forehead, and its round hooves were lined with snow. When I crawled back into my sleeping bag, I imagined that I too was insulated by a toasty undercoat.

The next morning, we set off while it was still dark. The surrounding mountains were covered in thick, white snow; the sky was awash with stars. Although I was loath to do so, I stayed with the group for safety. We headed off to the east, crossed the Lha-chu by bridge, and climbed onto a moraine to meet the trail on the east bank. It was a long and difficult ascent to Drölma-la , which stood at 5,630 metres.

We had been walking for about two hours, and I had lost sight of my friend. As I waited for her to catch up, I lost sensation in my toes and fingers. The cold penetrated my bones. Eventually, she appeared in the bright-pink windbreaker that she permanently wore. She told me that due to altitude sickness, four pilgrims from our group had to be escorted back down.

The air was thin and oxygen scarce. My breathing was shallow. Each step forward brought us further into thick snow, requiring tremendous effort and willpower. Digging my poles into the snow, I ploughed on, only thinking about the next step and then the next step.

The sky had turned blue, and the sun shone bright in the kingdom of snow, a desert of white dunes. We looked like a trail of tiny black ants marching slowly in the white rocky expanse of Shiva-tsal (altitude 5,330 metres). Again, I lost sensation in my body, and my nose had gone numb. I could no longer feel my extremities. I had no energy to look up and glance at the stunning views around me. I had no energy to talk to my friend—to even ask if she was all right. The other pilgrims had been silenced too, and I could not even hear my own soft, shallow inhalations.

I was not thinking about the past few days, when I would arrive, or how I was feeling. There were no thoughts; I was fully concentrated on my next step, for only the next step mattered. There was no ego, no sense of self, in this vast white wilderness. I intuited that I was less than a speck of dust, a tiny interconnected part of a bigger whole. I was conscious only of my movement forward. All else was dead or dormant, in a state of complete dissolution and nothingness.

At Shiva-tsal, pilgrims are supposed to undergo a symbolic death entering into the realm of the Lord of the Dead until they reach the top of the Drölma-la and are reborn. From Shiva-tsal, the trail turned eastward, and eventually I arrived at Drölma-la. At the top of the , I hung the prayer flags I had carried with me.

Prayer flags can be traced back to the Bon traditions in pre-Buddhist Tibet. Bonpo priests used coloured flags in healing ceremonies to balance the five elements in the body. Each colour represents a primary element: earth (yellow), fire (red), space (blue), water (green), and air (white). Each of my flags carried the image of the powerful wind horse in the centre, and on each corner were inscribed great animals: eagle (wisdom), dragon (gentle power), tiger (confidence), and snow lion (fearless joy). I hoped that the wind horse would carry my prayers from the roof of the world into the heavens.

Next came the long, very steep, 400-metre descent to the grassy banks of Lhamchu Khir. I found myself alone, fearfully crawling on my hands and knees down a glacier, at the bottom of which was a fine, flat, white slope. I wished I had my skis.

After another treacherous hour downhill along giant loose boulders and scree, I arrived at Lham-chu. I shrugged off my boots and lay on the grass, resting with my friend. I narrated my experience to her. She told me that it reminded her of a quote by her favourite Indian mystic.

“Hang on,” she said. “I might still have it scribbled in my notebook somewhere.” She searched through her notebook. “Here it is: ‘A pilgrimage is not a conquest; it is a surrender. It is a way of getting yourself out of the way if you do not budge. It is a way of wearing yourself out. A process of destroying all that is limited and compulsive and arriving at a boundless state of consciousness.’”²

We still had a four-hour walk to Dzutul-puk Monastery. The ground was marshy, and we had to boulder-hop to cross the cold blue crystalline river. We stopped at a nomadic tent for a bowl of butter tea before criss-crossing through green fields and scattered tents. Finally, exhausted, we arrived at Dzutul-puk Monastery.

I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and relaxed. It was a beautiful morning, crisp and fresh. From the monastery, we walked alongside the cool blue river for an hour before the trail climbed above the river. We continued walking along a narrow canyon. Our guide explained that the holes chiselled into the cliff walls were made by pilgrims looking for holy stones.

We had spectacular views of the gorge and the turbulent blue waters of Lake Rakshastal and its four red islands. Rakshastal, or the Lake of the Demon, is where Ravana meditated on Shiva and performed great devotional sacrifices in

order to gain special powers. In stark contrast to Lake Manasarovar, which is round like the sun and whose fresh waters give birth to aquatic life, Rakshastal is crescent-shaped and salty, even considered poisonous by the locals.

In Buddhism, our guide explained, “Manasarovar represents light and Rakshastal darkness. A river called Ganga Chhu connects the two lakes. It was created by sages, so the pure waters of Manasarovar could flow into Rakshastal.”

From the Barkha plain, we followed a dirt road to Darchen and arrived in the late afternoon to our rather intolerable guesthouse, which had no running water. Some pilgrims toasted their completion of the kora with a glass of champagne. In the meantime, we heard news that the group after us was unable to start the kora, as the weather had turned bad again.

HUMILITY

The following day, we travelled to Lake Manasorvar. Since the eighteenth century, Hindus have considered this a pilgrimage site and view it as the physical manifestation of the mind of the creator, Lord Brahma. Buddhists believe that Queen Maya, the Buddha’s mother, was bathed here by the gods before she gave birth to the Buddha and that the Buddha meditated on its shores.

We arrived just as the sun was rising. I approached the lake with humility while our guide chanted Buddhist mantras. I found a secluded spot along the banks. As the sun rose, a colossal golden beam of light reflected on the water like a royal walkway fit for celestial beings (devas). The surrounding waves were tinged in gold. The sky was gold, separated from the now-golden lake by a blue thread and charcoal-shaded mountains. Smiling at us in the distance was Mount Kailash.

The Hindu poet Kalidasa once wrote that “the waters of Lake Manasarovar are like pearls and to drink them erases sins of a hundred lifetimes”.²¹ With this in mind, I asked the lake for permission to drink its waters. As I sat on the bank, I was overcome by a profound sense of peace. Tears flowed from my eyes, coloured neither by joy nor sorrow. I sensed a tremendous energy field around me, and I did not want to leave. Our guide called out to me, “Time to move.” I resisted and then unwillingly walked slowly back to the jeep.

En route to Lhasa, we drove through several high es. Our first stop was Rongbuk Monastery, the highest and most beautiful monastery in the world, at an elevation of 5,000 metres. Long before the construction of the monastery, monks meditated in caves deep in the mountains in the Rongbuk Valley. Part of the Nyingma sect of Tibetan Buddhism, the monastery was founded in 1902. Before the Cultural Revolution, several hundred monks lived at Ronbuk. We saw

only a handful; our guide estimated there were thirty to thirty-five.

We stayed the night in the monastery guest house, and I had the afternoon to perform a mini kora around the tranquil complex. I listened to the monks chanting in the main assembly hall and gazed at Mount Everest’s north face from the prayer wheels near the large stupa. I spun a wheel and watched the cylinder rotate in the wind. On the wheel’s bronze-gilded exterior was beautifully scripted the mantra om mani pe hum. These six-syllabled mantras are said to help deliver us from the six realms of suffering. Om represents the absolute and evokes spiritual power; mani is a jewel; pe is a lotus flower; and hum represents the spirit of enlightenment. The uppermost point of the prayer wheel was shaped like a lotus bud, and concealed inside the wheel were sacred texts. The Tibetan Buddhists believe that spinning a prayer wheel is just as effective as reciting, or reading aloud, the prayers.

The view of Everest from just above the monastery was clear and completely unobstructed. The next morning, we hiked up to the Everest base camp and were blessed with more stunning views of the highest mountain on Planet Earth. Looking up at Everest, I had no desire to summit its peak. I was contented to honour its immensity from the base camp. I recalled the tragic death of an extended family member, lost forever to the mountain.

Between the town of Gyantse and Lhasa, along the old friendship highway that links Tibet with Nepal, we had the most dramatic views of Yamdrok, the largest freshwater lake in the northern Himalayan range. “Yamdrok Lake is one of the most sacred lakes to Tibetans, without which we believe our land would become inhabitable,” explained our guide. “It is guarded by the goddess Dorje Gegkyi Tso, and we believe the lake helps us find the reincarnated soul of the Dalai Lama. We perform a seven-day kora around the lake to wash away our sins and earn merit.”

The lake looked like one of my father’s watercolour paintings. White clouds

floated in the blue sky behind snow-capped peaks tinted with a splash of purple. Smooth thick brushstrokes made a perfectly still coral-shaped lake. There was no mixing of colours, no shades, just fine jade. Separating it from the surrounding mountains was a narrow beige coastline, delicate and even. On its banks lay gently rolling mountains coloured in shades of brown, marking depth and direction.

In our lovely hotel room in Lhasa, I soaked for a long while in a warm soapy bath and then had a special meal in a Tibetan family kitchen. The family kitchen was a hidden gem, inconspicuously located on the second floor of a small courtyard. We entered the courtyard through a small ageway between a row of busy shops selling Tibetan trinkets. Ducking into a shop, I placed a small Tibetan singing bowl carefully on my palm and tried my hand at rotating a mallet on its rim. After I circled the rim a few times, it began to vibrate and produced a sustained musical note. I purchased it right away.

We climbed a short flight of stairs and walked into a clean, tidy family kitchen. We were greeted by friendly faces, large smiles, and mouth-watering smells. We entered a small dining area with a large communal dining table in the corner. In the living room were sofas and tables to accommodate additional guests. The food was exquisite; we devoured plates of delicious crispy fried vegetable dumplings (momos), slurped bowls of spicy noodle soup with ginger and tofu, and for dessert, indulged in a creamy Tibetan cheesecake (Tu) made from yak butter.

I still dream of Mount Kailash now and again. In these dreams, the mountain appears as she was: mystical, magical, and mysterious, beyond my comprehension. I often contemplated the prayers I had inscribed on the prayer flags carried by the wind horse to the heavens:

Like water,

May I flow effortlessly in the current of life, Strong enough not to be swept away, Nor by pleasure, nor by strife, Carving a path through valley and hill, Churning and channelling Deep emotion positively at will, Sometimes washing over a large boulder, Meandering gracefully past obstacles Like tree trunks way older, With a mind as calm as a still lake, Void of dark ripples and frightful waves, Guarding the priceless peace at stake, And eventually, like a river gaining motion, May I flow In union with the infinite ocean. Like fire, May I glow, Warmth may I bestow, Thawing cold hearts, Pierced in life’s game of darts, A golden light

Which from afar shines bright, Burning to ashes that which is destructive, Sparking that which is constructive. Like air, May I be light, Easier going, less uptight, Free from burdens past Which no longer last, Free from future pains That have not left their stains, May I float pure and clean, Alongside pollutants but pristine, Blowing strongly when the heavens call, Howling loudly when from grace we fall. Like earth, May I be centred and grounded, Well-balanced and rounded, Showing few traces of faults and cracks Even as mounting pressure stacks, Resting deep within my core, For beyond the pure light of my heart lies nothing more.

Like ether, May I be expansive, See the play of life from a higher perspective, For a speck of dust we are, As in the vastness of ether is the brightest star.

3

A JOURNEY WITHIN

A SACRED SANCTUARY

Rishikesh, set in the foothills of the Himalayas in India and known as the yoga capital of the world, is the starting point of the pilgrimage of the four small abodes (Chota Char Dham). However, I chose to forego this pilgrimage. I went there on a different kind of search, or rather, to embody a different kind of searching.

Great yogis and Vedāntic masters speak of the pure, omnipresent light of consciousness that resides in our hearts. They tell us that this is our true nature, and we are simply unaware of it. This is what I wanted to explore—this inner geography of my body and mind. This is perhaps the most difficult pilgrimage to undertake. I could not study the history, people, and cultures of the place. No map had been drawn up and handed to me. It was thrilling and terrifying to dispense with histories, guidebooks, external comes, and visual aids. I wouldn’t need my external sight for where I was planning to go, which was a relief. I could let my eyes rest.

Although I doubted that someone could ever clearly describe to me what the state of eternal bliss or self-realisation was like, I knew that someone could help me further along the path to having that experience myself. While it is well understood that the seeker (sadhaka) had to tread the spiritual path to selfrealisation alone, the role of the guru was deemed essential in lighting the way. In Sanskrit, gu means “darkness” and ru means “light”; therefore, a Guru is one who leads their disciple from darkness to light. In India, the relationship between a guru and disciple is ages old and known as the guru-disciple tradition (gurushishya-parampara), in which knowledge and wisdom are ed down from generation to generation. Thankfully, the universe was guiding my every step, and I could not have divined a better teacher. She did not wish to be called a guru, and so I referred to her as my teacher.

I stepped out of the uncrowded and underwhelming airport in Deradhun into a chilly morning breeze. I was immediately accosted by a group of men eager for first business. “Taxi madam, taxi!” they called out. They hovered as I paid for my taxi at the small counter of the official taxi stand. The driver sped through quiet wooded lanes as we galloped past the Himalayan foothills. After a short drive, we pulled into a gated residential compound atop a steep hill.

I located the Āyurvedic centre where I had rented a room. A short chubby man dressed in blue jeans and a white cotton tunic came rushing out to greet me. “Welcome, madam,” he uttered hurriedly. Then, warmly, he ushered me in. This would be my home for the next six months. He disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared carrying a tray. He placed a large mug of chai and a tall glass of water on the table.

“Dhanyawad,” I said in Hindi, which means “thank you”.

His eyes sparkled, expressing his delight in our ability to henceforth communicate in his mother tongue.

As I unpacked, I heard the moans and groans of the cleaning lady as she made her way up the stairs, dragging her bucket and mop along with her heavy body. She invited herself into my room and explained in broken Hindi that she was from Bihar and had migrated to Rishikesh in search of work. The sequins on her pink tunic glittered against her dark complexion. She wore her hair in a tight bun and grinned momentarily, revealing the gaping gap marked by the absence of three front teeth.

She lamented the birth of her three daughters but was proud of her son. She complained that it was because of the girls that she had to toil, for when they married, she would be compelled to pay the groom’s family a handsome dowry. I

listened patiently. From then on, she would occasionally drift into my room for a chat and speak of her husband’s violent ways. Could this have been my plight had my ancestors not migrated to Kenya?

I decided to attend my first yoga class in Rishikesh that evening. I descended the hill into the smoke, ing bands of yellow monkeys lounging on rocks and nibbling orange peels. A friendly stray dog tagged along with me. It was a short walk to the ashram, but on this route, there was a lot to contend with. It was an assault on my senses. Motor vehicles big and small, rickshaws. motorcycles, bicycles, street vendors, cows, pigs, dogs, and pedestrians all shared the same narrow highway and jagged footpaths. At certain points, the footpath would vanish into a big ditch or be obstructed by a felled tree or wheelbarrow, only to reappear further on. The roads were littered with intermittent piles of cow dung. Incessant, high-pitched hooting pierced my ears as motorcyclists whizzed by. The ashram was also located close to a busy rickshaw stand.

I pushed open the ashram’s front door and stepped inside. I took my shoes off at the humble entrance by the reception and ed for class. I made my way down a flight of stairs to the washrooms and changed into my yoga shorts and Tshirt. The ashram was clean, simple, and utilitarian. I stored my belongings in a cupboard in the reception area and entered the yoga hall (shala).

The shala was lined with large glass s. The pristine Gaṅgā flowed by. Tall palm trees swayed in the wind. On the other side of the bank stood the majestic Himalayan foothills. On the right side of the hall hung red yoga ropes attached to hooks on glossy white walls. In the rear was a large prop room. Rows of metal shelving were stacked with a plethora of blankets, bolsters, and mats. Wooden blocks, benches, back benders, chairs, and straps lined the walls and filled the corners.

I gathered my equipment from the prop room with alacrity and secured a space. I adjusted my mat, ensuring that it was perfectly aligned. The gap between my mat and the mats of the students on either side of me was less than a centimetre. To my right was a student from Russia, and to my left was a student from America. There were also large Chinese and Spanish contingents. We came from far-flung corners of the earth, united in yoga and a shared desire to learn from Mataji, or “mother” in Hindi.

Mataji had not arrived yet. It was the start of winter, yet the air was still warm. I gazed out over the Gaṅgā, one of the most sacred rivers in India. The turquoise body of water drifted by, reflecting the foothills of the Himalayas in a clear mirror image. Here the river was still pristine and unc. Tall mountain ranges tinted bluish grey towered in the background; smaller tree-lined ranges lay in the foreground. On the sandy banks of the river stood a row of delightful temples and ashrams. The reflection of the façade of a large pink temple in the tiny ripples of water was obscured by the sun’s golden ball. Sacred chants and devotional hymns echoed from temples across the river.

I looked away from the window and brought my attention back to my body. Readying for Mataji’s arrival, I sat in a simple cross-legged posture (svastikāsana). There was silence in the room as Mataji limped in a dignified tread into the class. Her ankle-high socks, loosely fitted tros, shirt, and jumper neatly layered her stocky frame. Her handkerchief hung symmetrically along her right thigh. Her thick silvery hair, parted in the centre, delicately shaped her pale face, curling in at the base of her neck and around her ears. Her eyes were resolute as she looked around the room. The dress code was reinforced, the mats were more precisely arranged, and the superfluous props were cleared away. Her voice was firm, her accent Swiss with an Indian twang.

Mataji perched on the edge of the stage in front of us. Older students sat behind her. She asked us to sit in svastikāsana. Her instructions teemed with subtle detail. “Cross at the centre of the shin bones. Roll the metatarsals. Lift the sides of the trunk and upper chest but let skin between the sternum and the naval

descend downwards. Roll the shoulders back and spread the collar bones.”

I listened carefully and adjusted my posture.

She continued, “Bring the palms in front of the chest. The palms should touch evenly. Bring the top eyelids to the bottom eyelids and close the eyes.”

Before closing my eyes, I caught a glimpse of the beautifully crafted statue of Sage Patañjali adorned with a garland of fresh marigolds. He is revered for his seminal works on yoga, Āyurveda, and grammar. Much of what we know about him is through legends. He is said to have lived between 500 and 200 BC.²²

“With eyes closed, let us chant the invocation to Sage Patañjali,” instructed Mataji.

We began by chanting the mantra Om the cosmic sound, in three long breaths. I felt the vibration of the mantra linger in the silence between each resounding Om. Then from the final moment of silence rose a roaring invocation, its vibrant energy permeating the shala.

We paid our respects to the legendary B. K. S. Iyengar (known as Guruji), for his method of teaching, and to his daughter, who had continued to propagate his teaching. Then, the class began.

THE YOGIC PATH

Mataji’s son was the resident philosopher. He was fair-skinned and darkbearded, with intensely curious eyes. He would sit on the floor in the shala, and we would sit by him, listening intently to his discourses. From age 6, he had lived and studied in a monastery. Now he taught the authentic quintessence of yoga philosophy while eloquently drawing parallels with other meditative traditions of India, including Jainism and Buddhism. He demystified abstract spiritual teachings and shed light on complex questions that circled my mind.

Yoga, wrote Sage Patañjali in his aphorisms (sūtras), is the cessation of movements of the consciousness (mind, intellect, ego, and memory).²³ As Mataji’s son explained, “This stilling of mental modifications leads to a deep inner silence and eventual abidance in the light of pure consciousness.” I yearned to experience a sustained deep inner silence and feel its effects on my mind and my way of being in the world. But how was I going to get there?

I recalled the thirty-three stages of El Camino that traversed historic cities and ancient hamlets. Mataji’s son used the analogy of rungs of a ladder to describe the eight steps of Patañjali’s path. The rungs include universal principles, personal observances, yoga postures, regulation of breath, sense withdrawal, focused concentration, meditation, and eventually self-realisation. The universal principles or ethical codes (yamas) are to be followed in everyday life. They include nonviolence (ahimsa), truthfulness (satya), freedom from avarice (asteya), chastity (brahmacharya), and freedom from materialistic desire (aparigraha).

The niyamas foster the discipline required to walk the yogic path. They include cleanliness (śaucha), contentment (santoṣa), austerity (tapas), self-study (svādhyāya), and devotion to God (īśvara praṇidhāna).

The yoga postures (āsanas) include sitting asanas, standing asanas, forward bends, backbends, twists, inversions, and reclining asanas. As Guruji beautifully wrote:

The āsanas are named after insects, birds, quadrupeds, creatures that crawl, the human embryonic state, legendary heroes, sages and Hindu deities. While practicing asanas the yogi’s body assumes many forms resembling the whole gamut of creation. From the smallest creature to the most evolved sage, there breathes the same universal spirit, which assumes innumerable forms. The highest form is that of the formless. In the practice of yoga, the yogi finds unity in universality.²⁴

Prana is the energising life force contained in the breath, and ayama means “regulation of the breath”. The regulation of the breath through extended inhalations, exhalations, and retentions through rhythmic control is the art of prānāyāma. Withdrawal of the senses from objects of desire is pratyāhāra. When the mind is released from the shackles of the senses, it is purified and ready to turn inwards.

When a controlled mind intensifies its focus on a single thought or object, a state of dhāraṇā ensues. When this concentration is prolonged, it becomes meditation or dhyāna, a peaceful state in which release and expansion are experienced. This prolonged state of dhyāna releases the seeker from the chains of attachment, resulting in indifference to pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow. When all limited self-awareness is lost and the object of meditation and the meditator unite, samādhi is attained.²⁵

I appreciated that the yogic path was not just a lifelong journey but a journey of many lifetimes. The statue of Sage Patañjali holding a conch and discus

represented the destination. “The conch refers to the sense of I (ahaṁkāra) and the discus the mind (manas),” explained Mataji’s son. “The fact that he is holding them shows that he has gained complete control over them through the practice of yoga.”

On the arduous El Camino and the circumambulation of the awe-inspiring Mount Kailash, walking was the movement I had chosen as a background for deeper self-examination. In this breathtakingly beautiful yoga capital of the world, yoga was a catalyst for my penetrating journey inward. The eight-limbed path could only be travelled through sincere practice (abhyāsa) and renunciation or detachment (vairāgya), both of which were inextricably linked—the two wings of a bird. In the sacred Himalayan foothills, the wings of practice and renunciation fuelled my flight on the yogic path.

On the yogic path

DISCIPLINED PRACTICE

Mataji began teaching in 2000. She could not practice the way she used to, but at least she could teach, and teaching became her salvation. I would sit directly in front of Mataji in the first row. Students jokingly called it “the line of fire”. But it didn’t matter where you sat; she could see everything. At moments, it felt like her eyes were X-ray-like, penetrating a student’s body. Once, when my eyelids were closed, I was unconsciously looking up. She asked sternly, “Why are you looking up?”

I followed Mataji to a yoga retreat she was conducting in Goa. I had resigned from my job just to be with her. I did not wish to stay behind in Rishikesh and forgo her priceless teaching. I had not informed her that I would be attending; I missed the opening ceremony due to a delayed flight connection from Delhi to Goa. I met Mataji in the dining hall later that evening. A gentle smile caressed her lips. “Come, let us eat,” she said cheerfully.

I had not mentioned anything to Mataji about my eyes yet. However, I knew that sooner or later, I would have to declare my difficulties, as precautions were necessary in certain asanas. I also wanted her to understand that at times when I appeared confused, disoriented in space, or unable to execute a certain instruction promptly, it was not due to inertia or inattention but rather a lack of sight.

One pleasant evening, I decided to take a stroll on the beach after class. On my return, I crossed paths with Mataji as she sat quietly iring a splendid sunset. She invited me to sit beside her.

I began, “Mataji, there are certain asanas I cannot do for fear that my retina will detach, such as full arm balance and elbow balance.” I narrated the congenital nature of my multiple and complex eye conditions (hyper-myopia, retinal dystrophy, a divergent squint, and a thinning of the retina). I shared the gloomy prognosis of various specialists and my daily struggles. I explained that my hunched upper back was the product of years of close work as my eyes strained to conceive blurry words and pictures strewn on screens or pages, often eluding me.

In pensive gaze, her eyes radiated intense comion. In her heart, she vowed silently to help me.

“My husband, a saintly figure, went completely blind due to glaucoma,” she said.

We watched streaks of orange tinged in gold smear the canvas of a dark sky and their last hues melt into a vast ocean of grey.

After a blissful retreat by the sea, we returned to Rishikesh and resumed the disciplined ashram routine. I awoke daily at 5:30 a.m. to the orchestra of the birds. I sat on my meditation cushion and welcomed a new day with an offering of sacred mantras. For breakfast, I ate a piece of fruit. I then attended selfpractice at the shala for two or three hours. My main meal of the day was brunch, which usually consisted of warm, tender flatbreads (rotis) and lightly spiced seasonal vegetable curries (sabzis) or fluffy rice cakes (idlis) served with a lentil stew (dal) and a refreshing coconut chutney. In the afternoon, I focused on my writing and read the aphorisms of Sage Patañjali. At dusk, I descended the hill for the evening class and returned to my room at 8:30 p.m. I relished a light supper, usually a hearty soup, and retired early.

Every night, I trudged up the hill to the Āyurvedic centre fatigued. I could feel the soreness in my calf muscles as well as in my back and arms. I was not new to asana practice and thought that I was both physically and mentally strong, but Mataji’s classes pushed me beyond my limits and forced me to muster every ounce of strength I had. I was physically broken, any trace of residual ego shattered. Her classes often reminded me of the long and difficult ascent to Drölma-la on Mount Kailash, when I dug my poles deep into the snow and ploughed on, thinking only about the next step.

Mataji’s classes were a test of physical endurance. In one of these classes, we focused on standing poses. She instructed us in the Warrior 2 pose (Virabhadrāsana 2), named after a legendary warrior who story is told by the famous Sanskrit playwright Kalidasa. The pose builds strength and endurance. It exercises the limbs and torso vigorously and reduces stiffness in the neck and shoulders.²

“Stand in the mountain pose (Tāḍāsana) and take a high and long jump,” she commanded. We jumped and, with a loud thud, landed on our feet. “What is this?” Mataji exclaimed. “You sound like elephants. Learn to jump gracefully.”

Then she told us, “Jump again. Your toes should point forwards. Keep your arms raised in line with your shoulders. Your palms should face the floor. Keep your fingers stretched out,”

Mataji walked in between rows of students, inspecting our arms. She tapped my palm and chastised, “Why is one arm higher than the other?”

I hastened to adjust it.

“Now exhale,” she said. “Turn your right foot out 90 degrees and your left foot in slightly. Keeping the left leg straight, exhale, and bend your right knee from the buttock bone, keeping your right thigh parallel to the floor.”

She held us in the pose while further refining her instructions. She reminded us to keep our arms fully lifted, sharp as arrows. My shoulder ts began to ache. It felt like we had been in the pose for hours.

When Mataji was not looking, the student in front of me sneakily lowered her arms and then swiftly raised them again. I didn’t dare risk it for fear of onishment. Gradually, though, more and more arms started to fall, like broken wings. My upper arms began to feel heavier and heavier, like giant slabs of concrete suspended in mid-air, miraculously defying gravity. My fingers started to curl, and I could feel my arms gradually lowering towards my torso. I imagined my arms soaring in a game of tug of war, pulling a piece of string apart, trying not to think about the discomfort.

“Release the arms and jump the feet back together,” Mataji sighed, dismayed at our progress. Relief enveloped the shala. After a moment of respite, we repeated the pose.

During one of her intensives, we worked on backbends. We began with the “baby backbends”, building up towards the bow pose (Ūrdhva Dhanurāsana). The pose keeps the body supple, boosts vitality, enhances willpower, and stimulates the adrenal glands.²⁷

I lay with my back on the floor and walked my heels in towards my buttocks, turning my toes in slightly. Bending my elbows, I placed my palms on the floor by my head, with my fingers pointing towards my shoulders.

“Exhale, lift your torso and buttocks off the floor, then lift your chest and place the crown of your head on the floor,” Mataji instructed.

We stayed there for a few breaths. Next came the big push.

“Exhale sharply, suck the buttocks in, and push your torso up in one single movement, then lift your head off the floor. Straighten your arms, and don’t let the elbows splay to the sides,” she instructed.

As I lifted, pulling my spine into my body, my elbows splattered to the sides. My body gradually extended upwards to form a bow.

In the final pose, I heard Mataji calling out, “Lift higher and higher, higher and higher.”

I lifted as high as I could, trying to keep my arms straight. I felt my body stretching in two directions: from the base of my spine to my palms and from the base of my spine to my feet. We repeated the pose another six times in different variations using a wooden block, a strap, and a blanket, as Mataji nuanced her instructions. I searched deep within to find the will to persevere. Never, during the entire two-hour class, were we allowed to be dull or sluggish.

Mataji encouraged us to observe our bodies in an asana. “Observe the eyes of the elbows, the pelvis, and the knees. Where are they facing? In which direction is the skin moving? Observe with the inner eye, the energy in the asana.”

Mindfully, I practiced the art of observation. In the mountain pose (Tāḍāsana), my feet formed the foundation, the base of the mountain. My big toes softly pressed the earth, and my weight rolled back towards my heels to connect to my back spine. My thighs, quadriceps, and kneecaps drew up. My shoulders rolled back, opening my chest. My face was ive and my gaze soft. My attention drew into the ecosystem of my body.

Opposing actions were at play, a tug and pull of skin, muscles, and ts until a fine balance between movement and resistance was achieved. I thought about Mount Kailash—how effortlessly this sacred mountain stood tall, exuding unwavering strength and confidence. On this mountain, I had moved through space, interacting with both fellow pilgrims and nature. Now I was travelling through my body, creating a sense of space and opening within.

Mataji expected steady, earnest, daily self-practice. No matter how fatigued or sore my muscles felt, I would wake up in the morning and make my way to the shala. This practice was silent, introverted, and experimental. Students practiced in lone galaxies, and Mataji practiced alongside us in silence. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle hum of our breath, the occasional clamour of a block, and the chatter of crows. Black-and-white photos of Guruji skilfully and gracefully performing various asanas lined the upper walls of the shala, reminding me of the result of practice (abhyāsa).

In self-practice, my body was my teacher. I practiced earnestly not just to have a healthy body but to prepare for seated meditation. To sit in meditation for extended periods of time requires supple limbs, an erect spine, and a quiet, focused mind.

My practice regime varied but followed a certain self-defined logic. I began by warming up, practiced the sequence designed for my eyes, and followed with

asanas to strengthen other weak areas of my body. To improve blood and oxygen supply to my retina, I hung upside down in headstand (Śirṣāsana) from ropes on the wall with my head resting comfortably on a bolster. To strengthen my knee and ankle, I practiced the tree pose (Vṛkṣāsana), trying not to sway like the palms in the wind. To broaden and loosen my rigid upper back, I performed a variety of poses to open my chest and draw my dorsal spine in. I practiced what we had learnt in class, to embed new habits in my muscle memory, and the practice culminated in deep relaxation. There I lay motionless like a corpse in a state of complete quiet restfulness.

Stoked in a fire of long and uninterrupted practice, I noticed a change accruing. My arms, once flaky paper straws, began to resemble sturdy sharp arrows. My legs, once loose strings of spaghetti, felt more like solid pillars. My spine, once an intransigent hump, was becoming more erect. There was a newfound brightness in my vision, and my eye floaters were beginning to dissipate. I felt lighter, more agile and graceful, stronger and fitter.

A MEDITATIVE PRACTICE

I had imagined the eight-limbed path to be a linear one. What I found fascinating was that I was able to bring many of these limbs together in my asana practice itself. It was Mataji’s skill as a teacher that really enabled this to happen. When I was in an asana, all my senses were engaged in the implementation of that asana.

For example, in downward-facing dog (Adho Mukha Śvānāsana), my eyes were focused on my alignment and movement. I observed the placement of my right palm in line with my right foot, my left palm in line with my left foot, and both palms in line with each other. I glanced at the eyes of my elbows to ensure they were facing one another and at my kneecaps to confirm they were pulled in. I felt the web between my index finger and thumb and the rims of my heels pressing the earth. I felt the energy in my spine flowing from my neck to my buttocks. As I drew my shoulder blades in and broadened my chest, the breath flowed more deeply. I smelt the cool air as it entered my nostrils and tasted the saliva as it slid down my throat. I listened to the rhythmic tune of my breath and Mataji’s instructions. My body was active, but my mind was quiet.

Drawing my senses of sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch inwards was my practice of withdrawal (pratyāhāra). For almost five hours daily, I diverted my senses inwards, away from the attractive distractions of the bustling world outside. This was a fitting practice in Rishikesh. For in Sanskrit, Hṛṣīkeśa is a name of the Hindu deity Vishnu. It is composed of hṛṣīka, meaning “senses”, and īśa, meaning “lord”: thus, “lord of the senses”.

At the end of each yoga intensive, Mataji instructed us in prānāyāma. She guided us in a technique called the “conquest of energy” (Ujjāyi Prānāyāma). As I voyaged through cycles of normal breaths and deep, smooth, even inhalations and exhalations, synchronising the movements of the diaphragm and abdomen,

my mind opened to deep realms of attentive awareness. A state of focused concentration (dhāraṇā) ensued. Entirely engrossed in the breath, the mind was in a state of complete absorption: deeply serene, single-pointed, oblivious to all else.

I believed intuitively that any spiritual guide could only take me thus far on the path, preparing me for the final two stages: meditation (dhyāna) and selfrealisation (samādhi). Remaining in the steady and uninterrupted flow of concentration—where the mind, body, and breath are fully integrated in the object of concentration—cannot be taught but only experienced, and liberation is beyond words.

As Guruji wrote:

In samādhi, there is a peace that is beyond all understanding. The mind cannot find words to describe the state and the tongue fails to utter. Comparing the experience of samādhi with other experiences, the sages say, neti, neti—it is not this, it is not this. The state can only be experienced by a profound silence. The yogi has departed from the material world and is merged in the eternal. There is no duality between the knower and known for they are merged like camphor and the flame.²⁸

Journeying within

PERSEVERANCE

“Your story must be told,” I said to Mataji.

She hesitated. She abhorred publicity and shied away from the limelight. “And so must yours,” she remarked with conviction.

One lovely summer morning, she agreed to sit with me in the beautiful garden of the ashram. Brightly coloured roses, holy basil, and marigolds sprung from hanging baskets, and rows of potted plants lined the edges of the neatly trimmed lawn. She wore a subtly embroidered traditional tunic, loose-fitted tros, and a long plain scarf draped over her shoulders and chest. Her reserved countenance lapsed into relaxed conversation. Sipping water flavoured with fresh mint, lemon slices, and a pinch of black salt, Mataji spoke of her voyage to India, her pilgrimages on foot, and her horrific accidents.

Propelled by a dream, she had embarked alone, at the age of 24, on an overland journey from Switzerland through Turkey, Iran, and Pakistan before finally arriving in India. She spoke barely a word of English, only Swiss–German, and at the time, Iran was in the grip of war. In Istanbul, she was told she could not travel through Iran on land. However, she didn’t have the money to purchase a plane ticket and eventually managed to obtain a letter from the Swiss Embassy stating that she knew she was travelling through Iran at her own risk. From Pakistan to India, she crossed the desert on the roof of a bus packed full of chickens and goats. The days were hot, the nights chilly.

After six weeks, she finally arrived in India, where she was welcomed by hospitable Punjabi families in Amritsar before making her way to Rishikesh. In

the nearby Himalayan foothills, she lived as a young renunciate in a cave for several months.

She then met a great yogi who had just emerged from his cave in a valley known as Happy Valley. He had meditated in silence for seven years. Devotees brought him daily offerings of fruit and juice, leaving them outside the cave. Most of the time, though, he was fasting.

He decided to leave Happy Valley for Rishikesh. He had beautiful shining eyes and a powerful energy. When some devotees came into his presence, they trembled and fell to his feet. Eventually, he and Mataji married and had a son with whom they walked across large swaths of India with no money or possessions. They prayed and chanted, bathing in cold rivers, even in the winter.

“Some villagers offered me a beautiful towel, but I left it behind,” she recollected. They lived off the alms offered to them by kind villagers. “I was worried about my young son, but kind villagers along the way generously offered us plenty of fresh milk.”

I found this way of walking to be a stark contrast to my modern-day pilgrimage.

She took a few more sips and objectively recalled the details of her accidents, both of which happened a long time ago but left lasting impacts.

“The first accident happened in May 1998. I it was very hot. Several weeks before, I had met the Dalai Lama. I was on my way to a yoga class on a moped.”

Mataji had embraced yoga in the early 1980s. It was frowned upon for women to do so, by Indian society at that time, but Mataji remained defiant.

“My teacher said, ‘Before you come, ring up first to confirm’, and so I did. She had wondered why I hadn’t shown up. When I called to say I would be there, I always was.”

Mataji hadn’t appeared because, on her way to the class, a bus had rammed into her, travelling at full speed. She lay in a daze for two weeks in her hospital bed, unaware of what was happening around her. During those two weeks, it was her inner strength that kept her fighting to stay alive. As she became more cognisant and saw the grave extent of her injuries, her first thought was Guruji.

“I didn’t despair or give up. I knew he would help me, and he did.” Her voice brimmed with iration and respect as she spoke of her teacher.

Her whole right side was completely smashed. She broke most of the bones in her right arm, hip, and leg. She pointed to her injuries; the scars were still visible. She was bedridden for one year. Finally, she was able to move with a wheelchair, then on crutches.

The doctors told her son, “Forget about yoga. Be happy if she is able to sit down on the ground again.”

Even in her wheelchair, Mataji remained defiant. I recalled a visit to the preprimary school she ran in Rishikesh. As we toured the school, Mataji had

casually mentioned, “After my first accident, I didn’t know if I could practice yoga anymore. I was wheelchair-bound, and it was then that I decided to start work on this school. I had to be carried into the car with the wheelchair, carried out of the car and onto the roof to inspect the works, and I even had to bring a potty along with me, as I could not use the toilet. I could not do anything alone.”

After two years, she hobbled on crutches into the Institute in Pune, where Guruji began working with her, slowly building up mobility. Initially, she could not do much. She was full of metal. He used to observe her skin and kept changing and adapting his approach according to its colour and movement.

“I had felt a lot of fear and pain,” she recalled. Guruji often onished her for being fearful. He said, “In the ashram, you teach others about being fearless, so what is this?” With the assistance of four students, she was hoisted up with ropes into a headstand. This helped to lengthen her whole right side.

“My leg was like a cement block. My thighs were flat like chapatis; there was no muscle. You don’t know what your legs are until you lose them,” she said.

At that moment, I thought about my eyes. I didn’t truly know what I was missing because I never had it in the first place.

She needed to have the metal implants removed from her body, but she had no desire to be operated on again. Unfortunately, in the end, she had little choice. Just a few years after her first accident, she was being driven to Delhi to catch a train to Pune to study with Guruji and a drunk driver collided with her vehicle. Once again, she was in a hospital bed.

For six days, she waited for a blood transfusion and for the instruments to take out the now-twisted metal from her previous surgeries. Both her femurs were broken.

“Lying down was difficult. Sitting up was difficult. There was only pain and pain and more pain. Doctors performed twenty-three surgeries,” she recounted.

When I met her, over twenty years had ed since her first accident. Until a recent hip replacement, her face had been constantly pinched in pain. She would walk a little, throw herself against a wall or chair, whatever was nearby, and then, after steadying herself, walk a little further. Often, I would meet her on the flight of steps leading up to the ashram. The two of us carefully clutched the railing. She was slowly climbing up, and I was slowly climbing down. We understood each other’s struggles.

Mataji wondered how I coped, I wondered how she coped, and many people wondered how the two of us coped. I questioned whether I would ever have been able to survive and endure the pain she endured and still emerge strong and triumphant.

RENUNCIATION

I often stopped for a cup of chai at a little stall on the banks of the river to replenish my energy after practice. The owner was an elderly Indian man. His sun-beaten face looked weathered, like a bare cliff face, scarred by deep ridges. His teeth resembled uneven yellow pebbles. Sometimes his face was obscured by steam bellowing from a large tin pot mounted on a gas stove. Monks, yoga students, and locals alike perched on a small wooden bench sipping sweet milky tea spiced with cardamom and ginger, served in an earthen clay cup. Stray dogs sat by our feet hoping for a biscuit or treat.

As I sipped chai, I would recall Mataji’s words: “Conserve your energy; don’t go here and there” and “Don’t hang out in chai shops chatting all day”.

I thought of her son. He wore a white robe and lived the disciplined, austere life of a celibate in the forest. I often pondered what a difficult and solitary path being a complete and eternal renunciate was.

In Rishikesh, detachment and renunciation were easy. I had no family or close friends to distract me or push my buttons, no difficult boss or pressing deadlines, no fashion dilemmas. Nor was there the temptation of going to a concert in London’s West End. I rarely ate out for fear of food poisoning, and besides, I didn’t have the energy, time, or inclination to galivant. I focused fully and wholeheartedly on my practice.

I did make one exception. Every Sunday, I went to the Gaṅgā arti. This meant going into town. I would flag down and squeeze into an overcrowded rickshaw. Inevitably, someone’s arm would fly into my face or a stranger’s child would

land on my lap as we jolted back and forth on a jerky ride into town. There was a short walk on foot to the riverbank. Rows of brightly lit, tiny colourful shops selling every imaginable item lined the busy streets, competing with the carts of local street vendors piled high with fruits, vegetables, and street food.

The last rays of sun reflected on the Gaṅgā. As the sky darkened, a silhouette of the mountains could be traced. Candles glowed like tiny lamps in an ocean of darkness as they floated down the river, cradled with fragrant flowers and incense in banana leaves. Young priests dressed in maroon-and-white robes stood high on the shores of the river. The call of the conch and beating of drums ushered in the ceremony. The priests stood tall, their chests open and heads held high. Their arms stretched out in the same direction. They began by offering incense to mother Gaṅgā in tune with the jingle-jangle of sacred bells.

Plumes of sweet-scented smoke rose into the night sky. Bells rang in the temple. Then, in perfect synchrony, they hoisted large fire bowls into the air, which they circled in unison, in harmony, with a devotional hymn. In this sacred moment, air, water, earth, fire, ether, and prayer all came together in devotion. All my senses intermingled with the elements, and my heart filled with reverence for Mother Gaṅgā.

VENTURING BACK OUT

I took my last dip in the Gaṅgā. The heat was blistering, and the icy-cold water felt rejuvenating. Refreshed, I perched on a rock by the sacred river and gazed at the green foothills glistening in the sun. I peeled an orange. It smelt delightful and tasted deliciously sweet and tangy.

A young calf came to drink from the river. She was alone and wandered over to me, digging her hooves into the fine, soft sand. I stroked her and fed her a banana. She ate slowly from my palm and contentedly placed her head in my lap. I felt free and expansive, merged in nature in a cherished moment.

I wandered over to the ashram where Mataji lived to say goodbye. She lived in a room on the grounds of a beautiful temple complex of the Divine Mother. Mataji lived a simple life, disinterested in material gain, with ions and cravings sublimed. She taught and went about her social work out of love and comion, skill and dexterity, for the benefit of others, unattached to the fruits of her actions. Lord Krishna in the Gita refers to this as karma yoga.

The sun was setting in the backdrop of a pale blue sky. A golden light warmed and embraced this tranquil evening. I felt a deep sense of sadness, tantamount to loss and emptiness. This strange, unfamiliar feeling stayed with me for many days.

“When will you come back?” she asked.

The uncertainty in my voice provided little comfort to me, perhaps because I knew in my heart that I was not ready to venture back out. I needed to be here with her longer.

Monks in caves now made sense to me. They had the luxury of long periods of dedicated and uninterrupted practice. Devoid of the distractions and temptations of the outside world, they could fast-track the journey to enlightenment. How much time would I realistically dedicate to my inner journey once back in the world juggling work, study, family, and finances? I had lived in tune with the rhythms of my body, breath, and mind, and now I would be compelled to live by the externally dictated rhythms of brutal modern life.

I stopped in Nairobi to see my parents en route to London. I wasn’t keen, but my mother insisted I see my ophthalmologist. The office was swarming with patients; his secretary was reluctant to turn anyone away. I waited five hours before I was seen.

“You’re back from India?” he asked. “Six months, was it? Let me take a look.”

He squirted some stinging eye drops into my eyes to dilate the pupils and then flashed a debilitating light. Uncharacteristically, he repeated this examination several times.

“I cannot believe it,” he said. “The network of blood vessels that supply oxygen to the retinal cells have opened. All by themselves. You now have a fighting chance.”

Stunned and elated, I walked away, forgetting even to ask vital questions.

After a twenty-four-hour journey, I was exhausted and jet-lagged. I stumbled into my flat in London late in the evening. The tenants I had rented it to had left it in an abominable state. The garden was overrun by weeds. There was no power, and the boiler had broken down. It was freezing cold. There was black mould growing on the walls. A musty smell lingered in the air. I thought about staying with a friend, but it was too late.

I rolled out my sleeping bag and crawled into it. I began to shiver, my teeth started to chatter, and my chest tightened. I barely slept, coughing through the whole night.

The next morning, I took a deep breath and began to tackle the plethora of issues one by one, not out of anger and frustration but out of peaceful acceptance. I had become physically stronger, healthier, and more peaceful. My mind was in a state of equilibrium largely unperturbed by the happenings around me. There were things to be concerned about and unfulfilled desires, but I felt a deep sense of contentment and satisfaction despite my external circumstances. I knew who I was, what I wanted, and where I was going.

In Spain, I had walked to a sacred relic; in Tibet, I had circled a sacred abode; and in India, I had travelled to the tip of a sacred place deep within. Another wonderful journey had ended, but a new one was beginning—one with no definite endpoint, with no guides or maps, with no pilgrims, monks, and teachers. It was a journey to a place on the pilgrimage of life, where only I could teach myself to go.

To fellow pilgrims, teachers and spiritual masters

Shirdi Sai Baba: a universal master

ENDNOTES

1 Maria, “Following the Yellow Arrow to Santiago”, Caminoways.com (12 Apr 2015), https://caminoways.com/the-story-of-the-yellow-arrows-along-thecamino-2, (accessed 10 December 2018). 2 Adapted from J. Brierley, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago (Scotland: Camino Guides, 2016), 30–33. 3 J. Brierley, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago (Scotland: Camino Guides, 2016), 60. 4 Boomer was also the nickname of the leading character in the film The Way and walked very fast. 5 Natasha Parker, A Nelson Mandela Quote for Every Year He Spent In Prison In the Name Of Freedom (Tongabezi, 2018), https://tongabezi.com/blog/anelson-mandela-quote-for-every-year-he-spent-in-prison-in-the-name-offreedom/, (accessed 12 February 2018). 6 J. Brierley, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago (Scotland: Camino Guides, 2016), 86. 7 “Bird Vision”, Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bird_vision, (accessed 20 March 2019). 8 For more information, visit https://www.csj.org.uk/our-hostels/rabanal/ 9 “The Fire Sermon (SN 35:28)”, trans. N̄anamoli Thera (Buddhist Publication Society, 1981), http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/buddhism/beliefs/fournobletruths_1.shtml, (accessed 28 March 2019). 10 J. Brierley, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino de Santiago (Scotland: Camino Guides, 2016), 208.

11 T. Kelly, C. Dunham, and I. Baker, Tibet: Reflections from the Wheel of Life (New York: Abbeville Press, 1993), quoted at https://sacredsites.com/asia/tibet/mt_kailash.html, (accessed 7 April 2019). 12 “Mount Kailash”, WorldDisk, https://www.worddisk.com/wiki/Kailash/, (accessed 11 April 2019). 13 “Kang Rinpoche (Mt. Kailash)”, tibetpedia (14 Mar 2016), http://tibetpedia.com/central-tibet/mt-kailash/, (accessed 17 April 2019). 14 “Mount Kailash”, Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Kailash, (accessed 18 April 2019). 15 K. Thomas, C. Dunham, and I. Baker, Tibet: Reflections from the Wheel of Life (New York: Abbeville Press, 1993), quoted at https://sacredsites.com/asia/tibet/mt_kailash.html, (accessed 19 April 2019). 16 “Tibet Profile”, BBC (26 Apr 2019), https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asiapacific-16689779, (accessed 20 April 2019). 17 Barbara O’Brien, “The Principle of Dependent Origination in Buddhism”, Learn Religions (25 Jun 2019), https://www.learnreligions.com/dependentorigination-meaning-449723, (accessed 22 April 2019). 18 Geoffrey C. Tabin, MD, “Mountain Medicine: A Review of the Eye at Altitude”, American Alpine Club, http://publications.americanalpineclub.org/articles/12199817300/print, (accessed May 2018). 19 “Prostration”, Tibetpedia, 14 August 2017, http://tibetpedia.com/? s=prostrations, (accessed 28 April 2019). 20 Sadhguru, “Why Do People Go on Pilgrimage?”, The Navhind Times, 19 January 2019, https://navhindtimes.in/why-do-people-go-on-pilgrimages/, (accessed 2 May 2019). 21 “Manasarovar Lake”, Wonders of Tibet, https://wondersoftibet.com/destinations/western-tibet/manasarovar/, (accessed 29 April 2019).

22 B. K. S. Iyengar, Light on the Yoga Sutras of Patañjali (London: HarperCollins Publishers, 1998), 1. 23 In the second sūtra of the first section (pāda), Patañjali writes, “Yogaha cittavrtti nirodhah” (“Yoga, it said, is the cessation of movements of the consciousness”). 24 B. K. S. Iyengar, Light on Yoga (London: Thorsons, 2001), 22. 25 Adapted from B. K. S. Iyengar, Yoga the Path to Holistic Health (London: Dorling Kindersley, 2014), 53. 26 B. K. S. Iyengar, Yoga the Path to Holistic Health (London: Dorling Kindersley, 2014), 76. 27 B. K. S. Iyengar, Yoga the Path to Holistic Health (London: Dorling Kindersley, 2014), 160. 28 B. K. S. Iyengar, Light on Yoga (London: Thorsons, 2001), 31.