My own guru

But I was not going to get bogged down by the smell. The search for spirituality is a tough one, I told myself. It requires the human being to rise above his senses. So I moved on. Sadhus were everywhere and though it must have looked strange, I stared each one in the eye — looking for my karmic destination. In vain.

The town’s best ashram only entertains those with advance bookings and foreign accents. Since I had neither, I was kept waiting for half an hour and after that, the receptionist bluntly told me there was no space. I couldn’t accept defeat. A call to my uncle with ‘political connections’ got me a cute little room but not facing the Ganga. It was no big deal. I wanted to be away from the terrible smell anyway.

Next morning, I went for the satsang on the Ganga ghat. I sat on the staircase that ends in Ganga. Near me, sat a baba — chubby and faintly Santa-like. I began asking him about God, Karma and life after death. And he was quite loquacious. But in five minutes, I could make out he wasn’t my spiritual guardian. He sounded like one of those pamphlets that are mechanically printed and distributed in the millions.

For the next four days, I must have spoken to at least a dozen possible gurus. But ‘the’ guru wasn’t there.

Looking back, the trip taught me a lot. There can’t really be a spiritual guru for me. No other human being can intercept the communion between my heart and mind. The trip to Rishikesh taught me that the ones who fall at the feet of ‘godmen’ are, more often than not, the ones who have lost touch with themselves.