by Zoe May
I’m guessing people don’t bronze up in ashrams either. But for all I know, it might be raining over there, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m definitely not going to tell Priya about the false lashes in my washbag though. My eyelash extensions fell off with all the crying, but Priya will no doubt find the idea of me wearing false lashes in India ridiculous, even though I imagined donning them for a romantic candlelit make-up date with Paul.
‘You and Paul need to work on your connection,’ Priya says, cupping her heart. ‘Figure out where things went wrong, find your way back to each other. A little bit of blusher is not going to make him reassess whatever crisis he’s in.’
‘Maybe not, but it can’t hurt,’ I retort.
‘Honestly,’ Priya tuts. ‘I think you’ll have a different view once you get there. India’s hot. Even if you do want to wear make-up, it’s only going to melt off your face within seconds!’
‘Hmmm…’ I mumble, wondering whether false eyelashes can melt off your face too. That’s something to Google while I’m waiting for my flight. The last thing I need is spidery lashes crawling down my cheeks while I’m trying to get my boyfriend to fall for me again.
‘Have you got sunglasses?’ Priya interrupts my thoughts. ‘Because you’ll definitely need them.’
‘Yep, I even packed them in my hand luggage so I can put them on the moment I get off the plane,’ I tell her, feeling a little smug.
I pull out my oversized Burberry sunnies. They’re my favorite pair, featuring the brand’s quintessential Nova check print. I love donning them in pub gardens for after work drinks, adding a cool edge to my work outfits.
‘What the hell?’ Priya says, taking in my sunglasses. ‘You brought Burberry sunglasses?’
‘Err… yeah?’
‘Oh my God,’ Priya half-laughs, half-sighs, shaking her head.
‘What?!’
‘You’re going to an ashram with two hundred pound sunglasses! These places are meant to be about shunning materialism and you want to rep Burberry while you’re out there!’
‘But these are my only sunglasses,’ I point out. ‘Wouldn’t it be more materialistic and consumerist if I’d gone to Primark and spent a tenner on a pair of cheap sunglasses for the sole purpose of my trip when I already have a pair?’
Priya lets out a long sigh. ‘Well, technically, yes, but I mean, really? Are you just going to strut around the ashram in Prada heels, a face full of make-up and Burberry sunnies?’
I laugh awkwardly, hiding the fact that that’s precisely what I’d intended to do. We pass another sign along the motorway for Heathrow, now only ten miles away.
‘I guess I won’t be needing hair straighteners either, right?’ I venture.
Priya lets out a peal of laughter. ‘Oh my God, you’re not going to Marbella, you’re going to In-di-a,’ she says, enunciating each syllable.
‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want good hair.’
‘Oh man,’ Priya groans, gazing incredulously at the road ahead. ‘You are in for a shock.’
We lapse into silence for a few moments, both of us lost in thought as we pelt down the empty motorway.
‘I know it sounds weird, but no one’s going to care about how you look in India. It really is all about energy,’ Priya comments.
‘Maybe,’ I reply, feeling unconvinced. ‘It’s just energy and vibes and gurus and ashrams and stuff. It’s all a bit freaky.’
Priya laughs. ‘Yeah, it seems freaky when you’re driving along the M25 in the fog, but it will make sense once you get there.’
‘Okay.’ I shrug, although I’m not so convinced.
I decide not to tell her about the super fancy black lace La Perla underwear set and stockings I’ve packed for potential make-up sex, the business empowerment books I’ve got in my hand luggage and the iPad I loaded up with the latest episodes of Made in Chelsea. I doubt Priya would find them particularly in-fitting with my Indian quest either.
‘I wish I could pack you too,’ I tell her, my voice cracking, ever-so-slightly. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
I look over at Priya, feeling emotional.
She gives me a sweet, encouraging smile as another sign announces that the airport is just a few miles away.
‘You’re going to be fine. And anyway, I’ll be with you in spirit,’ Priya insists.
I laugh, giving her a playful shove. ‘Oh, shut up with your spirit crap, guru!’
Priya giggles and takes the next turn towards Heathrow.
Chapter Six
‘Coffee, tea, chai?’ a woman’s voice is saying. ‘Good morning. Coffee, tea, chai?’
I blink a few times, waking up, baffled for a moment by my surroundings, until reality dawns on me. No, I’m not at home in my nice cozy bed, I’m on a flight to India. India. That’s what I’m doing.
I look up at the woman, an incredibly pretty air hostess with smooth brown skin, sparkling eyes and a wide, pearly smile. She’s holding a silver jug.
‘Good morning,’ she says chirpily.
‘Morning,’ I reply groggily, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
I glance out of the window, but all I can see is clouds. The last thing I remember was trying to read my book during take-off but finding I couldn’t concentrate and deciding to watch a film from the in-flight selection instead. I opted for an action movie that was all the rage a few years ago, shunning the romantic comedies since I was pretty sure their brand of happily ever after would only get me down given my predicament. I watched a couple of action films in the end, but I must have fallen asleep during the second one as I hardly remember any of it.
‘Where are we?’ I ask the air hostess.
‘We’re flying over the Arabian sea,’ she informs me. ‘We’ll be touching down on Indian soil in just under an hour.’
I realize I’ve slept for most of the flight, the exhaustion of a sleepless night hitting me.
‘Great!’ I reply, feeling a bit perkier.
The air hostess smiles warmly. ‘So, would you like tea, coffee, chai?’ she asks again.
‘I’ll have chai please,’ I tell her, figuring that I may as well get into the spirit of Indian life.
‘Of course.’ She smiles, swapping the jug she’s holding for another and pouring me a small cup of steaming milky liquid.
She hands it to me before moving on to the next row of passengers.
I hold the hot chai up to my nose and breath in its scent. It feels too hot to drink but it smells spicy and delicious, of sugar and cinnamon and tea leaves. It smells far more fragrant than the cups of chai I pick up every now and then from Costa.
As I hold the warm cup up to my face, breathing in its delectable smell, I peer past the man sitting next to me in the window seat and gaze out at a blanket of pillowy clouds, imagining the ocean beneath. Maybe it’s the feeling of holding a nice warm drink or being surrounded by clouds, but my nerves about the trip momentarily dissipate and I feel positive – not quite excited but content.
‘Business trip?’ My fellow passenger – an Indian man who looks mid-forties – asks, taking me by surprise.
I hadn’t had him down as the chatty type. He donned an eye mask before the flight even took off and I got the feeling he wanted to keep himself to himself, which suited me fine, but now, holding a cup of what looks like coffee, he seems to have perked up.
‘No, leisure,’ I tell him, taking in the slightly crumpled white shirt he’s wearing and the tie that he’s loosened around his neck. He looks like he could be on a business trip.
His eyes wander towards my book, still abandoned on my lap: Heels of Steel: How to Thrive as a Powerful Woman in the Corporate World.
‘Ah, right,’ he says, frowning as though in confusion.
I’m aware my choice of reading material might not be standard for this kind of holiday, but why not use my time in India as an opportunity for self-improvement? I enjoy personal development, and if this trip goes according to plan, I’ll come back to London with my relationsh
ip back on track and I’ll be even more of a corporate bad ass, too.
‘Oh, I’m just reading this for fun!’ I tell him.
‘I see!’ The man replies.
‘I’m on my way to see my boyfriend,’ I elaborate, even though that’s not quite technically true.
I should probably stop referring to Paul as my boyfriend, but it sounds weird to say I’m flying across the world to see my ex and it’s not like I want to explain the whole sorry story to a total stranger.
‘Where are you going?’ The man asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
I tell him the name of the ashram.
‘You are going to the Hridaya Ashram?’ he says, looking me up and down, his face twisting into a puzzled expression.
‘Yes!’ I reply affirmatively. ‘Why? Is that a surprise?’
‘A little.’ He smiles as though amused. ‘I saw your book and I assumed you were coming to India for business.’
I laugh. ‘Well, the ashram was my boyfriend’s idea,’ I tell the man. ‘I’m going there to see him.’
He nods, seeming a little more satisfied with this answer. ‘Very nice. Is your boyfriend a devotee of Guru Hridaya?’
‘A devotee?’ I echo, finding the word a little odd.
‘Yes. Is he a follower? A renunciate?’
‘A what?’ I question.
The man eyes me strangely, as though baffled by my ignorance.
‘A renunciate. Many of the people who visit the ashram give up their Western way of life. They abandon their material ways, let go of their ego and become divine followers of their guru,’ he tells me, with a sincerity and reverence that surprises me given his formal attire.
‘Oh, well my boyfriend isn’t a renunciate. He’s just…’ I pause, looking for the right phrase. Having a crisis? Lost his way? Freaking out and embarking on a totally weird holiday? ‘Travelling,’ I opt for.
The man nods, taking another sip of his drink.
‘Very nice. You will have a good time there,’ he says slowly with a ponderous expression on his face, as though choosing his words carefully.
I get the feeling he’s still slightly baffled by my travel destination.
We chat a bit more, making small talk as the plane soars above the clouds, but then another air hostess comes along, handing out newspapers and the man turns his attention to The Times of India.
I gaze out of the window as the plane pierces through the blanket of cloud and begins its passage across southern India. The sky is clear, and I take in the landscape below, amazed at how vast and rugged it is. There are huge swathes of rough mountainous land, blankets of palm trees and giant shimmering lakes, as well as sprawling cities, shanty towns and villages, loosely connected by a vast network of roads. The landscape is a far cry from the neat motorways and tightly packed suburban towns and cities I’ve left behind. It’s incredibly vast and expansive, almost dauntingly so, and yet it’s also kind of magical.
The plane begins nearing the airport and I get an even closer look at the landscape. It’s built-up, urban and sprawling, a mix of skyscrapers, tower blocks, roads, railways and temples.
The plane begins to swoop down towards the airport. As it descends, slicing through the air, its engine whirring at full blast, my stomach starts to twist. I’m not sure if it’s from the altitude or nerves. I open my book and attempt to read in an effort to calm my nerves.
A woman who knows who she is, what she believes in, and what she wants to achieve, is a woman who means business. She is a force to be reckoned with.
I start to feel a bit better. Who says enlightenment can’t come in corporate packages?!
Eventually, the plane’s wheels judder against the runway and after zooming along, the plane begins to slow down, drawing to an eventual halt. The pilot announces that we’ve arrived safely, and we’re told we can remove our seatbelts. All the passengers begin rising from their seats and we collect our bags from the overhead compartments.
‘Have a good trip,’ the businessman says to me as he pulls down a briefcase and matching hold all. ‘I hope you and your boyfriend have a wonderful time.’
He smiles kindly, turning to leave.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, as I stow my book in my bag. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I add.
I feel guilty for lying as the man walks away. If only I was just going on a trip to see my boyfriend. If only I was the kind of girlfriend who’d fly halfway across the world to spend time with her partner. I feel not only guilty that I lied but also that I’m not that kind of person. Maybe mine and Paul’s relationship would be in a better place right now if I were, but instead of travelling, I’ve spent the past few years working and obsessing over interior décor.
I head off the plane, climbing down the metal staircase onto the runway. It must be around 7 or 8am over here, but it’s already hot outside, the air dry and warm. I cross the asphalt towards the airport, glancing at my fellow passengers as we filter in. There are quite a few Indian people, some are in Western clothes but others, particularly the women, are wearing bright beautiful saris. There are a few Western travelers, who, like me, are dressed a little too thermally for the weather and wear slightly unnerved expressions on their faces. There are a couple of young travelers who have a hippyish look, sporting dreadlocks, backpacks and tans, as if heading off for the next leg of a gap year. One girl even has a yin yang tattoo on her tanned upper arm. They look more like the type of people who’d go to an ashram. I can see why the guy sitting next to me earlier might have thought I seem a slightly unusual candidate in comparison.
Inside, we wait for what feels like ages at the customs and immigration desk. I read my book, making my way through chapters on maximizing returns in negotiations and achieving strong but charismatic leadership by the time I’m finally, officially, allowed into the country. I wander towards luggage collection and eye the conveyor belt like a hawk until I spot my baby pink diamond faceted Ted Baker suitcase. It stands out by a mile compared to all the boring suitcases and dreary backpacks. I feel a twinge of pride as I pull my case off the conveyor belt. I got it on one of my shopping trips with Priya. Half-price, it was an absolute bargain, yet because I haven’t been on holiday for so long, I’ve never had a chance to use it. It’s so shiny and pretty.
I heave it off the conveyor belt and pull it through the airport, following the signs towards the exit, feeling an uneasy twinge in my stomach as I drift away from my fellow passengers. I may only have spoken to one of them, but there was almost a certain sense of camaraderie among us. Now, as I leave the airport, I feel weirdly alone.
I walk through the arrivals gate and try to feel strong and independent as I pass families waiting by the barrier for their loved ones. I don’t even have a travel guide waiting for me like the guides holding up massive signs emblazoned with their guests’ names. But it’s fine. I don’t need anyone. I’m only a few hours away from Paul now. It’s all good.
Finally, I reach the end of the barrier and walk towards the exit. A couple of taxi drivers accost me, but I brush them off, not wanting to jump at the first offer I get. Hopefully I’ll get a better price for my trip to the ashram if I pick one of the less pushy drivers waiting outside.
I emerge from the airport and wander towards a taxi rank, pulling my suitcase after me. The taxis are yellow, like New York cabs. I head towards them and once more, I’m struck by how hot the air is. Closer to people and the city, the air smells different. It smells of exhaust fumes from cars mixed with the scent of mint and cardamom. The air literally smells minty and fragrant. I breathe in deeply, smiling to myself, unable to believe that I can truly detect herbal aromas on the air itself. There’s something charming about it, magical even. India’s already presenting itself as a place both old and new, earthy yet modern, enchanting.
The dazzling morning light strains my eyes and I retrieve my sunglasses from my bag. As I approach the taxi rank, I find myself wondering whether Paul noticed the fragrant air when he arrived here too. I wonder whether the same
taxi driver ran up to him as the one running towards me now, smiling goofily and beckoning me towards his cab. I let him take my bags and he grins, doing the Indian head wobble that I read about online but assumed was just an urban myth. It’s a cross between a nod and a shake of the head, a funny and cute gesture that sort of gives the impression of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and ‘no worries’ all at the same time. I hop into the back of the cab and yet again, it hits me how different India is. Cabbies in England tend to have little more than an air freshener or a pack of gum on their dashboards, but the front of this taxi driver’s car is like a holy shrine in a Hindu temple. His dashboard is adorned with ornaments of Shiva and Ganesh, gaudy postcards of Hindu gods are tacked around the windscreen and there are even a couple of golden Hindu Gods dangling on chains and ribbons from the rear-view mirror.
Slamming the boot shut, my driver gets in the car. He asks where I’m staying and I give him the address of the ashram.
He seems surprised, just like the man on the plan.
‘You’re going to the Hridaya Ashram?’ he reiterates, raising an eyebrow at me through the rear-view mirror.
‘Yes!’ I reply, feeling a little exasperated.
Why does everyone seem to find it completely baffling that I’d be going to the Hridaya Ashram? Just because I read corporate books and don’t have a yin yang tattoo, it doesn’t mean I can’t dabble in a spot of spirituality.
‘Okay!’ My driver does another head wobble, before turning his attention to his dashboard.
He mumbles some words of prayer at one of his Hindu God ornaments, before twisting his key in the ignition and pulling away from the kerb. We drive out of the airport and start pelting down a main road. The road is lined with billboards for everything from toothpaste to Bollywood films. The style of advertising feels retro, lacking the irony and self-consciousness of London ads.
‘Are you a follower of Guru Hridaya?’ My driver asks, eyeing me through the rear-view mirror.
He keeps his eyes fixed on me, while speeding down the motorway at what must be at least seventy miles an hour. It’s more than a little unnerving.