After half a week the routine at the Ashram was soo familiar, time passed very slowly indeed. Add to this the fact that I'd also made friends - the best sort too - independent but engaged - the type of friends that didn't feel that obligation to stick together all the live long day but knew we could if we wanted to.
With the exception of the last couple of afternoons where the immediacy of "the end" brought me and these friends closer in the clinging hope that we could make "the end" simply go away, I would otherwise go lie on the beach. I'd invariably find some ridiculously excluded spotand put in a solid four to five hours of dedicated adoration of surya (The sun). I read 3 books on that eye-wateringly beautiful beach all told. That's unheard of these days. What is more, it was starting to feel normal. Like my life should feel. That has NEVER happened on a holiday. I've always been quite ready to come home.
But you see here I had "the schedule". At around 3 o'clock I'd go have a shower to wash the sea, salt and sand off in preparation for late afternoon yoga which was immediately followed by dinner (vegan and not indulgent in any way shape or form - I lost 5 pounds).
Then: Enter the official witching hour.
By 7pm the sun would have just set leaving that deep magenta, light lilac tint in the sky. At this point, I would do one of two things - clamber onto my bunk to read some more or huddle outside the ashram's little boutique with other like minded socialites and watch the exclusive world of the Sivananda cult go by. Usually this was the point when I'd actively seek out my friends and squeeze into that free hour all the words I hadn't spoken all day.
At 8pm we'd file into the temple for evening satsung. There is something very comfortable and comforting about a routine as set as this. I can see why some personalities are inclined never to leave; why some people once immersed in the safety of this sacred schedule are left unable to leave it after any significant amount of time. Hell, I was only there for one week and I felt like I was being pulled from the cosiness of a mother's (ok a nice aunt's) bosom when the dreaded "eviction" notice came. I'd seen that note 3-4 times in the week I was there - never addressed to me until Friday.
There is was flapping like a dog's wet tongue. A note on my door reminding me of my check out time Urghh.
So the following morning I broke with routine. After breakfast, the time when I would change into sun mode and pad off down the beach, I instead offered to help the kitchen staff with the mountain of dishes left by the other guests. Perhaps the sheer drudgery of it would help reprogramme my mind into accepting it was really time to leave and go back to the "real world" where you have to do dishes. I discovered doing the dishes at the ashram is considered Karma yoga. Jesus Christ - how can you feel bad about that? I wished I offered to do them more often and now it was too late. I knew then I would simply have to return.
I walked with the pitiliess steps of a Greek tragedy to my room. It was time to go. I looked at the yogis doing other forms of karma yoga, briefly watched those in yoga teacher training sitting on a wooden platform studying anatomy or some such module. I visited the temple one last time and bumped into "Jesus" not literally, an English fella with long hair and a beard that looked just like what we are led to think he looks like and it struck me: I really don't want to leave. I know these people! These are my people!!
Then the biggest blow of all. Time to say goodbye to my friends. The only consolation being that they too were leaving. I choked. I cried.
Unspoken, unheard and unseen was the heart-dwelling promise that we would meet again.
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