Miracles, Monkeys & Chai
~
The Beginning ~
“You are like a fruit,” said our Indian Yoga Philosophy teacher, rather matter-of-factly.
“When
you will ripen – when you are ready – you detach from the tree. You remove
yourself gracefully and allow the cycle to continue.”
I internalized the words of my wise teacher.
The rest of the group let out a “mmmmm” noise, that sound of re-remembering a kernel of wisdom you
always knew.
We sat cross-legged with straight-spines
in Bamboo Hall, the burgundy-carpeted room in which we spent most of our
mornings, afternoons, and evening hours, practicing asanas (postures), meditation, pranayama (breathing technique), and studying yoga
philosophy. Lined along the walls were banners with proverbs, one of which
read: “There are only two ways to be happy: minimize your needs and harmonize
with your surroundings.”
I smiled, noticing the connection between the lessons
of the day: the fruit falling naturally, the banner proverb, and remembering
the need to” let go” in each yoga posture.
Of all the teachings from my many teachers in India,
this one stuck with me in a deep way.
I think the imagery helped. Not only did it remind me
that every law of nature is also a law of spirituality, it also reminded me of
the interconnectedness of life.
Fruits so beautifully symbolize essence of letting
go…of harmony. When the fruit is ready it falls off seamlessly, with no
force.
I realized in that moment that this is how I want to
live my life—with this ease, grace, and patience—in harmony with my
surroundings, which I know only comes from letting go of expectations, doubts,
and attachments to specific outcomes.
This concept of non-attachment is one of the building
blocks of this yogic lifestyle; specifically, the 5th of the
5 yamas, which are the ethical, moral, and societal guidelines
for the practicing yogi.
When first learning the concept, nonattachment sounded
like indifference, which we all know is dangerous.
Nonattachment, however, is the opposite of
indifference.
Indifference is passive and letting
go, or detaching, is active. Indifference is “I don’t care” and
letting go is feeling whole with the fact that we are not really in
control.
Personally, I’ve felt the liberty that comes from
peeling off the layers that form around the true self when I “attach” to
things, whether it is a label, a stigma, or even a common thought pattern.
When I successfully peel off these layers, I feel an
enormous clearing of emotional blockages that prevent harmony and true
connection.
Interestingly, India is one of the least and
most harmonious places.
When picturing India, people either imagine the
overcrowded, poverty-stricken streets of Delhi or the peaceful ashrams tucked
away in the Himalayan mountains.
Indeed, before coming to India, I wondered how harmony
could exist in a place with so much polarity.
 |
| My first rickshaw ride |
From the eyes of a western-raised Westchester gal, the
streets, at first glance, feel like utter chaos: you walk down the street to
hear incessant honking, face near-death by rickshaws, scooters, and cars
speeding by, bypass multiple cows, a pack of hungry monkeys, and take in a big
whiff of cow dung, masala dosas, and burning trash.
Naturally, on my first day in India, I faced that
inevitable culture shock.
I was the only westerner for miles in the middle of
Bangalore.
Carrying my huge lime-green backpack, I lingered
awkwardly on one side of the street, contemplating how on earth I will cross it
to get to the Chabad house. The street was unusually wide and filled with
speeding cars, rickshaws, scooters, and cows.
There was no crosswalk in sight.
I watched with awe as a group of Indian men calmly
walked in front of the moving vehicles.
I had no choice but to do the same.
I took a deep breath (as the people behind me stared - probably very entertained) and stepped into the street.
Step after step, I observed with amazement how the
rickshaws, motorcycles and cars stopped as I crossed the jam-packed street. It
was at once terrifying and (retrospectively) empowering. A proper initiation to
life in India.
In that moment, I decided that my motto for this leg
of my post-army trip would be: “be fearless, not stupid.”
Relieved, I entered the Chabad house, spoke with the
Rebbetzin (who proceeded to call me crazy for crossing the street), dropped off
my huge bag, and ventured into the city. I had the entire day to kill before my
11 pm sleeper bus (overnight bus) to Hampi.
I spent the day touring around the botanical gardens,
the downtown city center, finding a spontaneous yoga class and drinking chai
with a new European friend.
While eating my first meal alone, I scribbled in my journal a few observations from that morning:
1. A
father and his 3 daughters riding on ONE tiny scooter. They waved at me as I
stared, amazed.
2. A
friendly shopowner who watched someone try to scam and then explained “don’t take riks. Don’t take any riks” (risks).
3. Realizations:
·
There is need no real need for
silverware, toiletpaper, or even toiletbowls. A hole in the ground will
suffice.
·
Yoga in India is not fluffy or sugar
coated...my first class was humbling.
·
Things in India work themselves out in
a magical, mysterious, miraculous way.
By 8:30 pm I was still deep in a chai-filled
conversation with my new European friend. When I noticed it was
getting late, I hopped on a rickshaw back to the Chabad house. In the back of
my mind, I knew I soon had to travel downtown, alone, to get to the bus stop by
11 pm. The thought was unnerving.
So, during my bumpy, speedy ride back to the house I
did what your average person would do in an unsettling situation –
I prayed.
I didn’t recite anything specific from my siddur (prayerbook).
I just closed my eyes and asked for a bit of help. I
desperately wanted company for my way to Hampi—at least at the bus stop. I was
unsure what would happen, because that entire day in Bangalore I met
only one tourist and spotted a handful of others on
the street.
So, when I arrived at the Chabad house that evening, I
was ecstatic to hear Hebrew from outside the apartment, coming from the mouths
of two young, Israeli men. As soon as I arrived, one of them said, “you must be Leora.”
Surprised, I said, “ummm…yes, actually! How…how did you know?”
“We
saw your name on the bag. Yours is the last one here. Good think you came now
because they are closing their doors now.”
.
 |
| Sunsets in Hampi mountains |
Relieved, I ran in, grabbed my bag, and immediately
asked, “where are you guys headed?”
“Hampi,” they
replied.
I let out a sigh of relief, “YESH. ME TOO!
What bus stop?” I asked.
“Anand
Rao Circle.”
“ME
TOO! What time?
“11.”
"Thank
you Hashemmmmm!"
I had found my first two guardian angels in India.
We all split a Rickshaw and began the arduous journey
to Hampi. And one sleepless night later on the “sleeper” bus, I arrived at 5 am, before sunrise, safely
in my first Indian destination.
The remaining 2 weeks in Hampi and Goa was a recipe for
your average visit to India:
~ 25 new Israeli friends
· ~ 10 masala dosas (YUM)
· ~ 5 sunrise meditations atop mountains
made of boulders
· ~ 2 seconds of being surprised that
almost all the signs are in Hebrew
· ~ 1 full sick day in which I dropped at
least 1 kilo
· ~ 1 standoff with a pack of water buffalo
who were also trying to bathe in the same river
· ~ 1 beautiful Shabbat @ the Jewish house
filled with Carlebach melodies, dvar torahs, and motzei-shabbat jamming
· ~ 1 million bioluminescent, glowing sea plankton
that completely blew my mind (In Goa)
· ~ 1 helluva wacky, intense, action-filled
time
While these first two weeks in the south were filled
with spontaneity and change, the real intensity came when I ventured north to
begin my yoga course—the second chapter
of the India journey.
~
A Friendly Reminder ~
 |
| Ganga River in Rishikesh |
The adventure began with one quick flight to Dehradun and
one long, windy taxi ride up and through the mountains.
The ascent to the city felt oddly familiar—like ascending
to Tzfat but with a completely south Asian, unfamiliar twist.
I was instantly entranced by the clear, bright
turquoise water of the Ganga river; by the aromas of incense through the
street; by the orange-robed babas and the rambunctious monkeys lining the
Lakshman Jhula bridge.
I had arrived in Rishikesh.
Though a bit jostled by the sudden change of
environment (Rishikesh is a more bustling place than Goa and Hampi), in my gut
I knew I picked the right city to learn yoga.
By day 3 in the new city, the daily schedule at World
Peace Yoga School began and I lost track of the days.
In the afternoon break from class, I strutted down the
street to the local clothing & tapestry shop I had visited the day prior.
It was around 3:30 pm. The owner – who knew I was Jewish and from Israel – said
to me excitedly,
“Leora
my friend, sababa! Shabbat Shalom!”
With an excited yet confused expression I answered
him…”aw, gee thanks! But it’s not Shabbat
yet!”
“Isn’t
it Friday?” He asked, his head cocked to his shoulder.
Instantly, my stomach twisted and I realized he was
right. Friday had arrived sooner than expected and I wasn’t ready for Shabbat.
It was the first time in two years that I didn’t think
about how to prepare for Shabbat, and who had to remind me?
Naturally, a random Indian shop-owner.
I hurriedly dashed out of the store to scan the
streets for tea light candles. I had 20 minutes before my next class, and I
knew I wouldn’t have time afterwards to buy candles before Shabbat.
 |
| Rishikesh monkey |
Though I couldn’t get my hands on tea lights, I found a pack of the classic tall white candles and figured I’d find a way to light them. I had to.
Miraculously, I made it back to class
on time and during my next break, led myself in a solo Kabbalat Shabbat & candle
lighting on my balcony. The stares of passerbys didn’t stop my one-woman-service.
In fact, in only reinforced my dedication to Shabbat
rituals. In that moment of embracing Shabbat on my own, in the middle of India,
I felt more connected than ever.
There was something about owning and internalizing my Jewish practice that made
it all the more special.
I continued to light those candles on the balcony
throughout the course and something mysterious always happened—after coming
back from class, they would disappear, leaving no melted wax residue.
That means every Friday, someone saw my candles and
removed them (I was on the ground floor).
Perhaps they though I was a ritualistic pyromaniac—I
will never know.
But every Friday, as the locals lit their fire
ceremony (puja) by the Ganga river, I lit my own on my little balcony…and something
about these two fire rituals coinciding felt extremely right.
~
Holy Cow ~
 |
| On the Himalayan mountain peak |
It was 6:00 am, and we just finished watching the
sunrise on one of the highest mountain peaks in the Himilayan foothills. We
were all still on a natural high from the yoga and meditation session
that the head teacher, Yogi Vishnu, led for us.
Before heading down the mountain, Yogi Vishnu invited
all the students to walk into the local temple.
He suggested, in a nonchalant fashion, that we ring
the bell, enter, and then bow down to the statues inside.
Now, to everyone else, that was a normal request—it’s
a gesture of respect in the Hindu temple.
But I was frozen. My heart sunk for a minute and
jaw dropped when I realized what was staring back at me: a golden calf.
That’s right. When the Guru invited the group to bow,
I was staring face-to-face with a statue of a golden cow.
The symbolism couldn’t have been more in my face.
While everyone else entered the temple, rang the bell,
and bowed, my internal Jewish security system beeped out of control and I
abstained.
One of my friends asked why I didn’t go in, and I
explained how Jews in the past gave up their lives to resist bowing to
statues/idols…to avoid breaking one of the holy 10 commandments.
I explained that bowing to a statue is actually a
bigger deal than it seems.
My friends could sympathize—and weren’t judgmental for
a second–but couldn’t really understand; for in that moment I felt 24 years of
Jewish education suddenly come to life.
The feeling was like the moment before a (near)
car-accident. When I heard the words “bow down” I felt myself slam the breaks.
Though the car didn’t spin out of control, I was 10% jostled and 90% grateful
that my breaks still work.
~
Nations, United ~
**Names
changed for anonymity**
So,
why exactly are you becoming more religious? You were in the ARMY? Why Israel?
I was faced with these questions quite often during my
yoga course.
Although everyone asked with respect
and good intentions, some of the questions unintentionally raised political
issues. And since I was the only Jewish/Israeli person in the course, I was
solely responsible for answering questions from the “Jewish/Israeli”
perspective.
These questions became more controversial when
discussing them with two of my friends on the course: davka my left-leaning, middle-aged German friend Frederick and
my Muslim-Lebanese friend Amira.
Though I did by best to share my personal story
and to transcend the political sphere, there was nevertheless a blatant difference
of perspectives. And inevitably, as soon as the discussion got a tad political,
the energy shifted in the room.
The following day, I got the chance to speak with
Frederick again; but this time, we spoke after 2 minutes of silent eye
contact—in the context of a dynamic partner mediation. After a minute of
standing in silence, eyes locked, we simultaneously began tearing up, until
streams of tears rolled down our cheeks.
We held hands in a moment of unity and understanding.
He told me about the deep healing that still needs to
be done between Germans and Jews and I nodded, speechless. Though I don’t
mainly associate Germany today with the holocaust, it is clear that remnants
of guilt, heaviness, and darkness remain even amongst the grandchildren of
Germans.
In that moment I felt lucky that Yoga brought us
together.
~ ~ ~
With my Lebanese friend, Amira, the moment of healing
looked a bit different.
We were lying in our final resting position (savasana) at the end of yoga class.
The student-teachers of the day were walking around the room, offering to each
student an aromatic head massage. (The perks of yoga school…)
When my turn came, I was pleasantly surprised by the
lavender-scended, soft hands on my scalp. The hands moved gradually to my
third-eye center (the point above and between the eyebrows) and I quickly felt
a vibration come through me.
I knew was receiving a healing and also, from whom.
When the class was over, my eyes met Amira’s from
across the room. A smile on both of our faces, we acknowledged that something
real just transpired. We gave each other a warm embrace and from that point on,
tensions were replaced by love.
We exchanged some phrases in Arabic and in Hebrew,
found commonalities in our faith and began building bridges between our worlds.
~ Like
Fruits of a Tree ~
Jai
Jai shiv shambo. Shiv Shiv Shiv Shambooo, Mahadev Shambo. Mahadev Shambo. Jai
jai shiv shambo…
My fellow yogis sang this hauntingly beautiful mantra
with focus and devotion.
It’s a popular mantra and song that can be heard daily in the streets of Rishikesh. The song is essentially praising “Lord Shiva” of
the Hindu tradition.
Though our teachers emphasized the distinction between
yoga and religion, there were certainly Hindu influences in the teachings.
Understandably so – after all, we were in India.
[Note: Throughout
the course, I made an effort to separate Hinduism from yoga by abstaining from
chanting certain mantras without knowing their meaning, by not making references
to Hindu Gods, etc. I was, for the most part, confident in my abilities to
distinguish between the two. It was one of my apprehensions and reasons for studying yoga in India. While I could
have done a more ”western” course anywhere else, I chose to go right to the
source of yoga – India – and do my own sifting. ]
After sitting in the group and just listening to their
voices, something inside me told me to leave the room. The words of the mantra
repeated over and over in my mind, and I realized I needed to sit outside and
get a new song stuck in my head.
I sat in the courtyard and basked in the sun, soaking
in the fresh air and sweet smells of flowers around me. I repeated the sh’ma prayer to myself and took a few
deep breaths. After a few minutes, my yoga teacher exited the room, sat next to
me, and asked if I was ok. I told him about Judaism and about certain
restrictions we have about engaging in other faiths’ rituals.
“With
total respect for the Hindu tradition,” I said, “I’d rather watch from the side, not
participate.”
My teacher respected my adherence to Judaism and my
talking to him about G-d.
Realizing that I was OK, he returned to the class, and
I was happy for the mutual understanding. Though the minute he left, the tears
came.
I felt a deep longing for Hebrew, for prayers in my
language, and for Israel. I felt the diaspora like a void in my heart – I was a stranger
in a strange land.
Yet, at the same time, I was grateful for my longing.
It reminded me that although my spiritual home lies in Judaism and Israel, I
can feel home wherever I am simply by connecting.
So as the tears rolled down, I picked up my pen and
notebook. What came out was a stream of consciousness that turned into a poem,
comparing the human body and spirit to a tree.
A few days later I decided to share the poem with the
class, as a pre-practice meditation.
That day, when looking at the Hebrew calendar, I
realized that this poem came through me (unknowingly), on tu’ B’shvat, the
Jewish “new year” of the trees.
I suppose I didn’t miss the holiday after all.
~ Back
to Roots ~
I touched down at Ben Gurion airport on March
1st still smelling of incense.
While the plane was taxying, I peeked out the window
and saw the Israeli flag on the tail of an El-Al plane.
I nearly burst with excitement.
After a wild 3.5 months, I was home.
I didn’t need anyone to wait for me at the airport
with a sign. I didn’t need a welcome ceremony, or even a house or a plan.
I felt a new calmness—a new sense of ease in the
country I’d come to know and love.
* * *
Ripe as a fruit that falls from the tree, I let go.
Released,
Refreshed,
Reunited,
With the land
From which I came.
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