Meeting Shiva: Falling and Rising in Love in the Indian Himalayas - Softcover

Tiziana Stupia

Softcover

ISBN 10: 178099916X ISBN 13: 9781780999166

Publisher: Changemakers Books, 2013

Synopsis

Meeting Shiva is a spiritual memoir. Tiziana, a single woman in her mid-thirties, is at the end of an adventurous overland trip through the Himalayas, which she embarked on to search for her tantric soul mate. When the soul mate hasnt materialized after eight months of wandering through Tibet, Nepal, Pakistan and India, she decides to go home. Before her departure, she sets out on a final mountain trip. It is here that she meets Rudra, the man she has been waiting for all her life. But there is a catch: Rudra is a sannyasi, a celibate Hindu monk who lives in an austere ashram in the remote Himalayas. The two get drawn into an intense, romantic relationship that soon spirals out of control as Tiziana is drawn into a past long forgotten that ultimately leads her through pain and misery to healing and transformation.

About this title

About the Author

Tiziana Stupia is a writer, yoga teacher, ayurvedic consultant, vedic fire ceremonies practitioner, and traveller. She publishes widely on the topics of spirituality, travel, health and personal growth. She lives in Leamington Spa, UK.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Meeting Shiva

Falling and Rising in Love in the Indian Himalayas

By Tiziana Stupia

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2012 Tiziana Stupia
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78099-916-6

CHAPTER 1

Part 1

Somewhere inthe Himalayas

But now the destined spot and hour were close;Unknowing she had neared her nameless goal.For though a dress of blind and devious chanceIs laid upon the work of all-wise Fate,Our acts interpret an omniscient ForceThat dwells in the compelling stuff of things,And nothing happens in the cosmic playBut at its time and in its foreseen place.

From 'Savitri', Sri Aurobindo

1.1: The Flip of the Coin

On a stifling hot morning in May, I stood on the dusty balcony ofa yoga ashram in Rishikesh and shielded my eyes against theintense sun. My friend MJ leaned against the railing next to mewith a glass of sweet, milky chai in her hand. We had spent thelast four months in this small Himalayan town by the Ganga,studying yoga under the guidance of a young bearded yogi who,with his long black hair and white robes, looked like an Indianversion of Jesus.

'Do you think they will come?' I asked and craned my neck.We were about to leave the ashram for the wilderness of theHimalayas and were waiting for a driver to collect us. Before MJcould answer me, a weathered VW crawled down the dirt paththat connected the main road with the ashram, leaving a cloud ofdust in its wake. When the car had come to a halt, a wiry youngman with a goatee beard, an Italian flat-cap and trendysunglasses jumped out of the car and waved at us vigorously. Wegrabbed our backpacks and ran out to meet him.

'Sanjay!' he beamed. 'Welcome! I am your guide.' He heavedour backpacks onto the roof of the car and strapped them onto aluggage rack that was already packed with tents and sleepingbags.

'Chalo!' he hollered, 'Let's go!', and ushered us into the back ofthe car. With a final wave of goodbyes and 'Namaste's to Mata-ji,the yogi's imposing mother, who had come to see us off with theashram's cooks, we set off on our trip: towards the Himalayas,and into the Unknown. I watched with quiet excitement as weedged out of Rishikesh, past the little chai stalls, German bakeriesand internet cafés, the stoned and dreadlocked sadhus in theShiva temple, the Western tourists clad in hippy clothes with redtilaks on their foreheads, obese cows, beggars and street children.With all of its contradictions, I had grown fond of Rishikesh – alively mix of East and West, with more yoga schools, ashrams,temples and spiritual bookshops than you could care to imagine.

Guide Sanjay, whose ear was glued to his constantly ringingmobile phone, had a look and demeanor so Sicilian that wenamed him Al Pacino before we reached our first stop. Incontrast, the driver, Ram, was of stocky build. Clad in a blue-greydriver's uniform, he sported a thick bush of shiny blackhair, a black stubbly beard and even blacker circles beneath hiseyes. Eyebrows furrowed and knuckles white, his speedydriving style consisted of leaning over the stirring wheel whilelaughing hysterically from time to time. Consequently, hisnickname could be no other than Maniac.

I turned to look at MJ, who shook her head and smirked as weflew through a precarious bend with screeching wheels. Ilaughed. MJ was a tall woman with piercing sky-blue eyes andshoulder-length blonde hair. We had met at the ashram, and Iliked her for her complex nature. Generally lively and emotional,she had a wry sense of humor and was prone to frequentoutbursts of 'Tabernac!' and other religiously inspired swearwordswhen things didn't go as planned. There was also a deep,thoughtful and vulnerable side to her. We were on a similarwavelength and often enjoyed long, intense conversations aboutthings that mattered to us. I was looking forward to going on thisadventure with her. What a fantastic way to end my epic journeyto the East.

Accompanied by an abundant diet of high-pitched Hindidisco music, we drove for hours through lush wooded,mountainous landscapes, and occasionally sighted the sparklingGanga in the desolate valleys beneath us. Absorbed in thescenery, we didn't speak much. It was strange, I mused as wepassed a small shrine dedicated to the Hindu elephant godGanesh, that I ended up in India. And even stranger that I likedit so much. When I was younger, I'd never wanted to go to India.Ever. Since I could remember, I had harbored a strong, irrationalaversion to this vast, bewildering country of holy cows, mousta-chioedmen and haloed Gurus. There was a time when even thesmell of Indian food would make me feel sick.

My hippie friend Kassandra, on the other hand, loved India.While I spent my early twenties running a record label inEngland, she repeatedly pilgrimaged to the Holy Land, as shecalled it, in search of spiritual enlightenment. I would receive aflood of letters and postcards bearing vivid descriptions of life inIndia from her, bursting with tales of crazy tuk-tuk rides, gawkingcrowds, silent mountain monasteries and ominous Gurus withnames like Sai Baba and Osho. These Gurus, she said, couldmagically produce sacred ash and wristwatches out of thin airand sometimes appeared in your dreams to grant you boons, ifyou recited the right mantras.

Kassandra's quest was unfathomable to me. 'Why are yougoing to this crazy Third World country?' I would question herdismissively. 'Why?'

I don't know where my aversion to India came from. I hadnever been there and knew preciously little about the country. Ijust knew I hated it. And now, through an odd series of circumstances,I was here and had completely, irrevocably fallen in lovewith the country. How interesting and contradictory life could besometimes.

We stopped in a small town to buy supplies for the weekahead. The place bustled with market stalls, cows and donkeys.As so often in India, I was mesmerized by the colorful mix ofhuman beings, deities and animals, the traders and their strangewares on offer. A young girl, sitting in the back of her parents'four-wheel drive, threw up through the open window all over theroad with a woeful expression on her face in near proximity toour car. I watched her with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity,while MJ groaned in disgust. The girl shot me a 'What?!' look,and I pondered the 'sick women on Asian buses' phenomenon.

It was a sight that I'd grown accustomed to all over Asia:women with green faces and suffering expressions leaning out ofbuses, long black hair fluttering in the wind, throwing up whilesympathetic relatives patted their hands. Invariably, the victimswere women, while cheerfully chattering men leant back in theirseats and smoked. One time, when I was returning from a templein Tibet, the bus stopped en route and we were treated to thesight of a long line of women who all leant against a wall andpurged their stomachs in unison. Why was it only women whogot sick? I wondered.

Maniac inhaled some lunch at one of the roadside stalls; MJand I followed Al Pacino through the afternoon heat downcobbled alleyways to the vegetable market, where he barteredwith different traders. Meanwhile, MJ and I were befriended bya group of young Muslim vegetable sellers in blue shalwar kameezoutfits who enthusiastically fed us cucumber slices and involvedus in a fervent discussion about Allah. I was in a good mood,excited to be on the road again.

Al Pacino signaled that he had finished his purchases, and weheaded back to the car to continue our drive. That night, we weresupposed to stay in a 'beautiful and remote wooden cabin innature overlooking a river'. At least that's what it said on theitinerary.

However, as we soon found out, our trip was very looselyorganized. When we arrived at said location, the cabins werebeing renovated by an army of moustachioed workers.Admittedly, the location was glorious, quiet and wild, but withtheir smell of fresh paint and damp, the huts didn't promise to bean inviting place to spend the night. After a short debate, wedecided to move on and climbed back into the car. We stopped atvarious places in search of a room, but without much luck. Thepromising ones were fully booked and what was left were placeswe weren't keen to stay in.

Dusk set in, and MJ was losing her sense of humor when wewere shown to a tiny cramped shed by the roadside that had aman's moldy Y-fronts draped gracefully over the wardrobe. Atthis point, I was tired and just wanted to stop somewhere, but sheflatly refused.

'Forget it,' she spat and stomped back to the car. 'I'm notstaying in that hole! And have you seen those ... underpants?!Putain! They are crayzeee to charge money for zis!'

Glumly, we carried on driving for another hour. It was gettingdark. After eight hours of having to endure Maniac's driving tothe backdrop of Al Pacino's hysterical Hindi disco music, I'd hadenough.

'Right,' I said, 'we're stopping at the next place. I don't carewhere or what it is. I'm tired.' Al Pacino and Maniac noddedgrimly in the front seats, clearly as irritated about the situation asI was.

The road snaked up a mountain, and in the fading light ofdusk, I could make out some habitation: little houses by thehillside, trees and fields. It looked idyllic, and I spotted a signinforming us of a nearby guesthouse. This looked promising. Afew yards onwards, a large yellow building caught my eye.'ASHRAM,' big letters exclaimed on the sign that accompanied it.

'Oh!' I cried out. My mood perked up dramatically and Ijabbed Al Pacino on the shoulder. 'An ashram! Look! That's whereI want to stay!' He gave me a bemused look. MJ turned towardsme and raised an eyebrow.

'No, no, guesthouse!' Al Pacino shook his head and pointedtowards the left, where foretold guesthouse was located.

'No, no, ashram!' I insisted, leaning forward.

Maniac stopped the car. While Al Pacino set off to check outthe guesthouse, I ran over the road to the ashram and skipped upits stairs with a bedazzled Maniac in tow. The ashram was a bigmulti-storey building with a seemingly endless number of stepsthat were framed by steel banisters and balconies with wire mesharound them. With its yellow walls and contrasting greenwindow shutters, it looked like a prison made from Lego. Theashram stood at the edge of a steep hill that overlooked a gorge,at the bottom of which ran a torrential river. On one of thelandings, a black Alsatian raised its head and eyed us curiously.

In the ashram's office, located at the end of the first flight ofstairs, I caught sight of a young Indian man dressed in saffron-coloredrobes – probably the sannyasi in charge. He had abeautiful, round, almost child-like face, with short black hair anda small tuft of longer hair at the back of his head. Our eyes metbriefly. Then the weirdest thing happened. Suddenly, as I wasstanding in the doorway of this ascetic ashram office, space andtime transcended. I felt myself flinching with surprise – it wasalmost a feeling of physical pain that started in my belly andrapidly shot through every inch of my body. Perplexed, I divedinto the sannyasi's deep brown eyes as if to search for the answerto a question my mind hadn't even formed yet. The astonishmentI found in them mirrored mine, and in this moment, I knew that,whatever it was, he felt it, too.

The moment only lasted for about two seconds. Not knowingwhat to make of it, I shook my head slightly and diverted myattention to Maniac, who asked the sannyasi whether rooms wereavailable for the night.

'Haa,' the sannyasi affirmed in Hindi, and instructed a skinnyyoung man in jeans who was hovering nearby to show us theroom.

We followed him down two flights of stairs, and watched himunlock a heavy, dark green steel door. He switched on a neonlight. Curiously, we inspected the concrete-floored room. It hadpale dirty yellow walls and housed five single beds plus a smalltable covered in dust. The en-suite bathroom consisted of a squattoilet, two grimy buckets and a copper tap on one of the wallsfrom which cold water emerged sporadically. The window wasobstructed with green iron bars and heavy shutters that rattledsynchronous with the sharp mountain winds. On the upside, thesturdy beds were adorned with beautiful pillow cases depictingred roses. I was smitten.

I ran back up the stairs and waved MJ, who still languidlyreclined in the car, over animatedly. She climbed out of the car inslow motion and followed me down the ashram stairs. Sheglanced at me doubtfully when I, proud as a mother hen, showedher the room. 'Let's look at the guesthouse, too,' was all she couldmuster. 'I'm sure it's more comfortable.'

'Okay, if you want to ...' I mumbled, and we made our wayback to the ashram office to inform the sannyasi that we wouldhave a look at the guesthouse, too, 'for comparison'.

'Sure,' he replied curtly from behind his desk.

Across the road, things were indeed more luxurious, thoughsmaller. The guestrooms had showers, comfortable beds, a sink,and even carpets. MJ's eyes lit up, but I wasn't convinced. I hadmy heart set on the ashram. It was more austere, sure, but as Itold MJ, it was also more interesting. 'There's love in the place, afriendly dog, the sannyasi ...'

'Think about how much you're paying for this tour,' MJ interruptedmy thought processes sharply. 'Do you really want to stayin that cold ashram? What for?'

I didn't reply. Suddenly, comprehension entered her clear blueeyes and she sighed with exasperation. 'It's just because he'scute!'

I grinned. She knew me too well already. Yes, I admitted, hewas, but that wasn't the main reason. There was something elsethat drew me to the place. I wanted to stay in an authentic Indianashram and see how it compared to the relative comforts of theWesternized yoga ashram we'd lived in for the past months. Wewere in the Himalayas, after all, and what could be more appropriatethan to live among the religious and righteous of ruralIndia for a while?

Unable to find a consensus on the matter, we flipped a coin,and, impartially, the decision was made. We moved into theashram. I beamed, whereas my three companions shrugged theirshoulders and followed me with an air of resignation.

And thus, my fate was sealed.

1.2: In Lord Shiva's Abode: Chubby Gurus,Barred Windows and Rose-Covered Pillows

After we'd moved our bags into our new home, I curiouslywalked through the ashram to find out what spiritual activities Icould get involved in. I discovered a handwritten note on theashram's office door. Aarti 7.30 pm, it read. I glanced at my watch.It was seven pm now. This promised to be exciting. I loved aarti,a Hindu ceremony in which oil lamps are offered and songs aresung in praise of a deity. I wondered what it would be like in thisremote mountain ashram.

A few people were sitting on a bench nearby. As I lookedtowards them to greet them with the traditional Indian 'Namaste',I saw that the young sannyasi was among them. He sat on theedge of the bench with a mala, a chain of prayer beads, in hishands and recited mantras quietly. I wondered how old he was.Late twenties, early thirties maybe? He raised his head andnodded in acknowledgement when he saw me. I smiled andedged towards him.

'Swami-ji,' I addressed him formally, 'did I read this correctly?Your aarti is at seven thirty pm?'

He cleared his throat. 'Yes,' he answered. 'But try to comeearlier. I start the hime at seven fifteen in the temple, just overthere.' He pointed towards the end of the corridor.

'The hime?' I asked, confused.

'Yes, you know, a ... a song. We chant it together every eveningbefore the aarti,' he said, still counting the prayer beads with hisright hand. 'At seven fifteen.'

'Oh', I said, 'the hymn! Yes, great. I'll be there.'

When he turned his attention back to his mala, I walked to ourroom to tell MJ about the aarti. She was unpacking and said she'dmeet me in the temple. On my way back, I ran into Al Pacino andManiac and tried to inspire them to accompany me to the aarti.My attempts were unsuccessful, as they had already made plansto spend the evening in the car to consume liquor and listen todisco music. Undeterred by their blatant lack of piety, I made myway to the temple alone.

The temple's heavy steel door was ajar, and with a tinglingfeeling of anticipation in my belly, I entered the room cautiously.It was brimming with Indian pilgrims who sat with crossed legsand bent backs on the concrete floor, which was partially coveredwith patterned rugs. Perused by the curious eyes of the congregation,I tiptoed towards the altar at the far end of the room.There was a space by the wall between two large Indian ladies insaris. I made my way across to them and slid to the floor. One ofthe ladies turned towards me and smiled kindly. Relieved, Ireturned her smile. I was never quite sure how welcome I was inHindu temples, as some of them were closed to Westerners.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Meeting Shiva by Tiziana Stupia. Copyright © 2012 Tiziana Stupia. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Changemakers Books
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 178099916X
• ISBN 13: 9781780999166
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 327