Living in India is frequently a noisy affair, due to the multitude of festivals and weddings that call for loud bands and street processions.
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As the sun was setting, with monks beside me, I finally sat down to meditate. As I’ve previously studied Vipassana meditation, it was an experience that I was very much looking forward to. The overhead tree branches were alive with bird chatter, while gentle chanting in the background and the waft of incense helped lull me into quiet contemplation.
It was nearly 7 p.m. Darkness had almost completed its descent. I unsteadily stood on the lower step of the main ghat, Hari-ki-Pauri, at Haridwar with the holy water lapping at my feet. Apparently, Lord Vishnu and Lord Shiva had also once stood there, leaving their footprints behind.
Living in India definitely has its ups and downs — extreme ups and downs that it’s difficult to imagine unless you’ve gone through it yourself. I refer to it as the roller coaster. In some ways, living in India has been wonderful for me. It’s made me less of a control freak, and more easy going and adaptable. It’s taught me to develop boundaries with people, and be more assertive. It’s broadened my perspective on so many things, including life and spirituality. It’s opened me up to so many new experiences. In short, it’s added a new dimension to my personality.
Many people dream of writing a book. It sounds rather glamorous. Or, if someone has an interesting life story, they’re commonly told, “You should write a book.” It was a little over two years ago that I was lying in bed at my parents’ house, also pondering over whether I should write my book. I’d received offers from two publishers, but did I really have the courage to go ahead with it?