Departure.

A group of seven participants, along with Katya Langmuur, set off for India for the first Academy Retreat.

These intrepid souls are spending three and a half weeks visiting temples and ashrams connected with the Indian guru Neem Karoli Baba. This includes joining the 12 day 'Durga Puja' celebration of the great goddess in Kainchi, at an ashram in the foothills of the mighty Himalayas.

Whilst there, one of the party - Geraint, known for his great wit and acumen - will be sending back a diary that will be uploaded every few days, maybe even with a few photos also... So if you fancy checking in on our progress, please come back soon.

Retail therapy, Indian style.

A short stroll under a shimmering sun to Khan market and our luggage allowances are already in danger.

Ed is fitted for a suit by a tailor who has already felt the inside legs of Bill Clinton, George Bush and Tony Blair. A photo of Chelsea Clinton adorns the front door. Nevertheless, he still seems to do a brisk trade.

Much purchasing of cosmic stationery, clothes and books follows. And then some more clothes. Purchase of the day award goes later on to Katya at the Delhi Music Store.

After one tuk-tuk journey (including obligatory breakdown), swiftly followed by a supplementary bicycle rickshaw adventure (initially back the way we have come, straight into the oncoming traffic) head-on into the rush hour around the Jama Masjid mosque just prior to the Call to Prayer. Men, women, children, cows, dogs, chickens, cars, buses, motorbikes, bicycles, tuk-tuks, carts, incessant horn-honking and shouting, dust, dirt and all-round craziness. It is utterly wonderful - like starring in one of Salvador Dali's hallucinations. Or something.

Despite appearing to be shut, the harmonium shop recommended to Katya by Krishna Das is open and (un)ready for business. A sign advises customers that there is to be "no scuffling with the instruments" and certainly no "inappropriate hitting". Two hours pass as harmoniums are played, wood types, reeds and tunings are debated in the six square feet not occupied by teetering towers of crates. The already-crowded shop gradually fills with more people until Katya is being assisted by half a dozen men, the majority of whom have no discernable role to play. Finally, after much soul-searching a hormonium is chosen - made from what sounds very much like "narcotic teak". After connecting the relevant leads and terminals herself, Katya pays by card and we cradle the precious cargo back to the hotel.

As in spiritual life, even the simplest of journeys in India can prove the necessity of surrender. A toe in the water just won't wash, as it were. Dive in, get soaking wet and trust the current. No doubt you'll hit a few rocks (or chickens) but the key is to accept your lack of control. Not my will but Thy will be done. More wonderful food in the evening and I feel like I have been here for weeks.

Full-on. With bells attached.

A commotion from outside lets me know that the monkey business has well and truly begun. Sorrel and Caroline have spotted a simian interloper. As soon as they raise their cameras, he moves in. The ladies are back in their rooms in under a second. Two disappointed monkeys prowl around, hotly pursued by a guard with a large stick and a catapult. Aside from cameras, monkeys also favour sunglasses and "ladies' pockets", i.e. handbags. Somewhere there is a monkey in drag taking holiday snaps and complaining that it's too dark.

Later we hand in our shoes and step inside the white marble temple. After paying our respects at the samadhi, or tomb, of Swami Prabhupadha - the founder of ISCKON - we have a gorgeous breakfast from the temple bakery. I had imagined that this trip would provide a much-needed detox. At this rate I will come back resembling Ganesh. In girth if not in wisdom. We settle in to listen to the temple kirtan band. " Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare. Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare" is repeated endlessly to a variety of musical accompaniments. The temple fills as the music and chanting permeates my consciousness. How many times have these words of the Maha Mantra been intoned, I wonder to myself. After some time, everyone else jumps to their feet as one. Three large doors swing open to reveal revered murtis and glittering backdrops. Unalloyed joy fills the air.

Religion, fun? A personal highlight is the group of demure, sari-bedecked ma's who form a circle and take turns dancing in the middle, beaming with unfettered glee.

Maybe this is what it was like to dance around the Maypole at a Green Man festival before our society lost its innate connection to the divine. I blame the Romans. What did they ever do for us? I leave the temple smiling and slightly dazed. If being a Hare brings such happiness and obvious fulfillment, who am I to judge? Those pesky preconceptions once again.

In the evening we visit the Neem Karoli Baba, or Maharajji, ashram a mile or so away. On the way we are treated to the vivid sight of hordes of monkeys and their incandescently red gonads. I tell you, these boys could give Rudolf a run for his money should Father Christmas ever need to go into reverse gear. I try hopelessly to catch sight of all the roadside shrines. A bright orange Hanuman radiates out all the love he has received over the years.

At the ashram we meet Baskerji, the manager, with the kindly air of an indulgent school teacher. Katya's letter of introduction from Shyam Das secures us access into the "family" area at the rear. We are introduced to Maharajji's son, who resides at this ashram. He appears disinterested in any form of veneration as Katya touches his feet, the traditional greeting to a spiritual elder. After our guided tour (including the temple containing the ashes of Maharajji, who left his body in Vrindavan and was cremated on this spot), we are shown into the room he used to live in. An enigmatic silent Pujari deposits a harmonium on the floor and we are singing for our supper. During Om Namah Shivayah the obligatory powercut kicks in and so do we. Back in full light Katya shines with a childlike sense of the numinous. She is At Home. It is wonderful to see her so happy and relaxed.

On the way home a resounding chorus of lubricious "Radhe's!!!" is heard from the rickshaw drivers, who have fewer passengers now. As Fearn later says, "If you're going to be perved at, it's a nice way to be perved at." On that note, goodnight.

Hit the road, Raju.

Life is a journey, they say when in need of a cliche. It feels like it today as we put in nearly twelve hours in the Rajumobile. He and I are getting on famously and he teaches me the hand movements for Bollywood dancing. It's all in the wrist, you know. As we motor past a Hanuman temple, he decides that he and I will do a Chalisa together. It turns into a very fast version, complete with hand gestures. I struggle to keep up and need a word sheet by about verse twelve. We are getting on like a rubbish pile on fire.

The journey is like a sort of lysergic HDTV that you can smell. Too many fleeting images to recount assail my engorged retinas. Raju is shocked and saddened to learn that there are not shrines and temples every hundred yards in London and his kind eyes display compassion and pity. He cheers me up by teaching me a song from the radio and we decide that our respective ladyfolk are very fortunate. Caroline rolls her eyes and goes back to sleep. One image that will live on with me is the sight of a dusk market in a Muslim village. As the sun sets and the dust rises, a sea of white djellebas makes me gasp. These are memories I will take to my grave. If Raju weren't doing the driving, I'd be keeping that appointment sooner than expected. It may sound fatuous to report but I begin to get a sense of just how many people there are in this vast, bubbling country.

I must make short mention of some of the signs we have seen on the road. There is a book to be written here for sure. Some are road signs, others are shop names (the gods have a lot of business enterprises on the go in India). Group favourites include:

• - "Don't be rash and end in a crash"
• - "Please do not drive in the wrong direction"
• - Om Plywood
• - Shakti TV
• - Mantra FM
• - Bumchums Clothing - Funwear Anytime
• - It's All About Bling (Om Dave, our thoughts were with you here)
• - Cream 4 Fun biscuits
• - The Vatican - Call Centre Training
• - "Spiritual seekers welcome" on a roadsign

There are many more I have forgotten.

We finally pull up in Rishikesh in the dark as a Haridwar mosquito finishes its meal of Fearn. Raju proclaims that if I am ever in Vrindavan again I will be staying with him - "Not as a guest but as a friend". We hug and I immediately fear for him as he is driving straight back. We decamp from our basic hotel to the one Katya had originally wanted but had been told was full. Of course, they have four beautiful rooms next to one another overlooking the Ganga. We had been told that Maharajji would protect us - you can never have enough people in high places on your side.

I nip down to the ghat and put some water onto my head in the traditional manner. Where it touches me I feel an uncanny sense of electricity without and within. I can also still feel the wheels turning under my feet. We benefit from Katya's local knowledge once more and dine in fine style for next to nothing. Caroline lets down the legal profession by saving a small child with groovy flares from getting her hand caught in a door. She could be struck off for an act of compassion and we agree that what happens on the road, stays on the road. You can keep a secret, I take it.

Hanuman in his many forms.

We hail a tempo (a larger version of a tuk-tuk, which offers more scope for random encounters as it will stop for anyone and cram them in) to the Maharajji temple on the dusty road between Rishikesh and Haridwar. Should you ever wish to visit, just say "Hanuman mandir" to a tempo driver and he will know what you mean, as the temple is dominated by an enormous statue of Hanuman, complete with hypnotic, swirling eyes. We pranam at the individual temples and then settle into the small room beneath Hanuman. This room is known locally as being "under Hanuman’s tail". The atmosphere is one of deep calm and I see the effect it has on Sorrel, who appears deep in meditation. A devotee intones a speedy, sonorous Chalisa over and over. To repeat the Chalisa 108 times is to be liberated, it is said. I cannot say for certain how long he has been reciting, however. Later we are honoured with tea in the ashram library and each acquire a copy of Divine Reality, one of the books in which devotees share their experiences of Maharajji. It was published after he had left the body, however, as he actively discouraged such works during his lifetime, not wanting any undue attention.

Caroline and I squash into a passing tempo for something like the local price at 12 Rupees and make our way up to Lakshman Jhula bridge. As we motor along, I check to see if the tears are still present behind my eyes. They are, and I turn my attention outwards once more. On the bridge, Caroline is caught in the grip of "monkey fear" at the sight of the numerous simian denizens. A number of tourists - mainly Indian, it has to be said - are feeding them and Caroline fears for her ladies’ pocket, at the very least. Ever her knight in shining armour, I try not to laugh too much. Once safely across to the other side, we encounter Hanuman once more. This time, the king of the swingers is manifesting in quite a different form. An elderly man is dressed head to toe in red, adorned with flags and sporting monkey face make-up. He is hopping around and chanting, beaming broadly. He is clearly crazy. However, it is Tuesday, Hanuman’s day, and we are glad to escape his attentions, so all is forgiven.

In the evening, we take the short ferry ride to the Ganga Aarti ceremony. It feels an honour to be able to sing along to the massed chorus of the Chalisa, to the evident surprise of an Indian couple standing near us. We buy puja baskets of marigolds and candles and launch them onto the Ganga with silent wishes. I think of a dear friend from home, who had asked me to remember her on this trip. Blessed be. Once the wave of orange devotion has subsided, we have a group photo taken in front of the giant Shiva murti and I bask in the enjoyment of the present moment.

At dinner, Fearn, ever mindful of India’s insect population, advises us to "beware of creatures", with attendant scary hand gestures. Everyone needs a holiday catchphrase, I feel. Katya is graced by a "Radhe!!" from a passing Hare Krishna devotee, who adds "Jai Shri Ram!" She returns to the table and announces, "I’ve just been Rammed by a Hare", and so it appears to be catchphrase time all round tonight. Ed shows us all the wonderful photographs he has taken at the aarti ceremony, which we will add to the dairy page in due course. I already feel completely at home here.

Today has been Caroline’s and my 15th anniversary. I could never have thought when I drunkenly bit her tongue in a dodgy after-hours bar in Fulham all those years ago that we would end up here today. Blessings upon blessings. What, too much information for you?

Scriptural elucidations and bumping into an old friend.

After deep sleep, I resume my visual communion with the Ganga. We leave tomorrow and so, bizarrely for me, I pack early. After the by now sacramental wash in the river, followed by the equally sacramental banana porridge and peanut butter toast, we tag along en masse to Katya's 11.00am appointment.

She is meeting Siddhartha Krishna (how cool a name is that?) to discuss the finer points of Vedic philosophy. As one does. I do not necessarily follow the conversation but I do follow Siddhartha Krishna's eyes. Brown, of a hue I have never before seen, and at once utterly still and dancingly alert. A tough trick to pull off, I imagine. He has crammed lifetime's worth of scriptural study and exegesis into his 27 years, in addition to caring for his ailing 87-year-old Master. Anyone else feel ashamed of just getting bevvied all the time? He wears his - mixed metaphor alert! - personal library of erudition as lightly as if it were made of air. He sidesteps any egotism as would an Aikido master eluding a stegosaurus on mogadon. By the way, if you think my prose is looking purple now, wait until I get to this afternoon. Siddhartha bemoans the diminution of Rishikesh's air of spiritual quiet and now heads for the hills in search of serious sadhana, spiritual practice. Try living in London, my friend. We take our leave after presenting him with a copy of the Gopi kirtan CD we recorded and our book of satsang "gems". Being in his presence is like being rocked in a spiritual cradle by the gentlest, smiling Oxford professor.

As we eat lunch, I feel the deepest, smoothest peace ululating within me. Instinct tells me that both our rendezvous with Siddhartha and the previous evening’s aarti are making themselves felt. Rachel and Sorrel both evince their own Shakti-fuelled reactions. Before going up to Swiss Cottage once more, there are malas and murtis to be bought. I cannot cope with the hubbub, however, and sit in the malodorous shade by my beloved Ganga. The peace is scintillating, if that’s not oxymoronic. I draw a picture. It is truly, truly terrible and I care not one jot. Lesson learned. As yet another white water raft whizzes past, I feel called upon to defend the honour of the Goddess. I find the following poem falling from my pen:

To raft on the Ganga
Is to miss the point
The surface will hold you up
Immersion will carry you away
How much of YOU do you want to retain?

And also, with a nod to Gypsy Rose Lee’s aphorism on marriage:

"I" is a construct.
Who wants to live on a construction site?

I make no claims for these as either art or wisdom. I am just surprised to see them on the page.

Once atop the hill, I am still way too spaced out to write some more diary entries, yet I do manage to send Jim half a dozen none-more-anal emails about them - changes, corrections, self-contradictions and so on. Attachment in more ways than one, methinks. Caroline is safely at home and sends me a lovely email. Ed, too, is back in the land of beans on toast. He says he has lost three quarters of a stone here. He has not lost them; he has given them to me. Rachel and Sorrel have both bought murtis of Nataraja, the cosmic dancer incarnation of Shiva. Katya reports that Rachel’s heart was beating so much as she held it initially that it was literally visible. Given that the lovely Rachel is as thin as a Jeffery Archer alibi, I can believe her.

As a snake charmer coaxes a patently tone deaf cobra from a basket, I suddenly feel that I do not care to be there one second longer. Pausing only to pick a red hibiscus flower to offer to Kali Ma, I run down the hill feeling increasingly nauseous. I only regain my composure on Lakshman Jhula bridge. The monkeys are clearly on their union-sanctioned tea break and monkey fear is minimal. I am still pretty high and amble peaceably as the ma’s browse the stalls. At one point a small, wiry, elderly Saddhu approaches us and starts talking to Sorrel. It transpires that he is telling her that her Om Namah Shivayah shawl is on upside down. "Great," I think "another dodgy so-called Saddhu. Next comes the request for money or an offer to sell me some hash, as per normal." He walks sinuously away. I pause for a split second then go with my gut instinct, catch him up and ask him how long he has been living here. The four of us are chatting when there is a minor commotion and he is called away. No doubt some householder dispute requires his saffron arbitration. "Wait," he says kindly, so we do. Minutes pass and we are nuzzled by a very-newborn calf. After a while, I go to seek him out, if only to say goodbye out of politeness. He is nowhere to be found and a stallholder advises us blithely to be on our way. "Poor Westerner," he is clearly thinking. "You don’t trust these Saddhu types. Go and buy some postcards, sonny." Will he at least say goodbye to him, should the Saddhu pass by? He looks at me like the credulous plank I obviously am and does not reply. That will be a 'no', then.

Just at that moment, our orange peacemaker pops up back along the road. We fall back into literal and metaphorical step. He suggests we sit down on a stone bench next to a roadside chai stall, so we do. It transpires that he has just been in the police station being strip-searched. The police thought he was up to no good talking to us and were looking for drugs or anything else incriminating. He has roved all over India for many years and this has never happened to him before. I apologise profusely, like a politician who has just farted in front of the Queen. It is not our fault, he protests, why would we ever think that? He offers us chai. Wisely, Rachel and Sorrel politely decline, roadside hygiene not being what it might. You know what, I am the aforementioned credulous plank, so I accept. Curiously, as I write this at 4.15am unable to sleep, I remember almost everything and almost nothing of the ensuing conversation. The chai is magnificent, veritable ambrosia of the gods. That much I do remember.

I tell him my jokey kirtan nickname of Baba G, which sounds identical to his honorific title, Babaji. He throws his head back, kicks his unshod feet in the air and howls with infectious laughter. So do we. After some time, the ladies set off for some pre-aarti final shopping. We are a "good team", he pronounces and the ladies have good Shiva energy. He is delighted to find that they are carrying the statues. Wild oxen would not drag me away, however. I start off respectfully asking if I may enquire about this or that. Very soon we are laughing and hugging like two gibbons on a stag night in Blackpool. I tell him about Gopi and straight away we are performing kirtan a deux.

We discuss kirtan, mantras, sadhana, energy, past lives, death, gurus, India, England and Hanuman among sundry topics. Mostly we sit there just laughing at the sheer improbability of how ridiculously well we get on. He tells me that he is a spiritual "baby" and respects me greatly. My turn to howl with laughter. He reminds me of Yoda, Jedi master from "The Empire Strikes Back". Friends know all too well that I have two major obsessions: saffron-robed monks and Yoda. I am as happy as an invisible paparazzo in the Beckhams’ bedroom. People gather to listen to him but do not disturb us. I think they sense he may just be the real deal. At one point, three policemen with rifles sit next to us, but higher on the back of the bench, drinking chai and scowling. I do not notice them leaving. Passing people shout "Hare Om" to him and he replies in kind. I join in - no show without Punch.

After four hours’ "satsang", we decide it is time to part. He is ready to take me up to Gangotri, the source of the Ganga, the next day. I tell him my plans are fixed and he says we will meet again "if God wills it". We swap details and I sincerely hope He does will it. I offer him a pen as I would like to give him some offering and I am just classy. He already has three and has been using one for the last six years. Never in my life have I met a man less in need of four pens. He decides to accept it as "prasad". When we reach his turning, he pauses and then says he will accompany me further as "seva", spiritual service. We speed up the hill together and I have difficulty keeping up with his pace. "Yes, I have energy," he confirms. We launch into a fast, loud Chalisa to the disbelief of those we pass. Arriving at Ram Jhula bridge, we say our goodbyes. I lift him up in a bear hug and he laughs once more. He weighs nothing at all and I could probably throw him clean into the Ganga. He would probably find that hilarious, too.

At dinner, we each order our food and share it around. Each dish complements the others perfectly. Back at the hotel I cannot sleep and spend the night doing Chalisas and writing. I never want to leave Rishikesh.

Would I care to meet an enlightened being?

As ever, things look different in the morning and I can appreciate the beauty of the view across the lake to the Devi temple opposite. Loud, amplified kirtan sends resounding "Hare Ram’s" around the valley, which provides a constant backdrop to breakfast on the sunny flower terrace. We set off on the 30-minute drive to Kainchi (which means "scissors", apparently), where the main local Maharajji ashram is located. As we first catch site of the temple, I am put in mind of the mythical Shangri-la. It reclines at the foot of a valley, alongside a river. We had been told in Rishikesh that the vibrations here are particularly propitious at the moment, so I am intrigued to experience the atmosphere for myself.

Once over the bridge and inside, we make our pranams to the individual murtis and generally bask in the warm sunlight. We are introduced to Prema, an American lady, who is one of Siddhi Ma’s attendants. Siddhi Ma (or Mata Ji, Ma or just plain Mother) is the recognised head of the lineage since Maharajji left the body in 1973. She is held to be a Saint and an enlightened being. Preserved in perfect order is the tucket from which Maharajji would teach and meet devotees. People are gathering on the steps in front of it for (what I later discover to be) Guru aarti. I have no idea what is being sung, I just close my eyes and sink into the moment. The sound is beautiful and deeply affecting. I look over to my right and see Rachel discreetly in tears. As I take the smoke from the flame, I feel it dancing on my head quite clearly for some time.

Katya (or Katyayani, to give her her proper name in these circumstances) whispers to me that we have been called to have darshan with Siddhi Ma. Darshan, as no doubt some will know, means literally "meeting". Millions across the world have experienced Amma’s darshan of a heartfelt hug. We sit in a small room with a number of Indian devotees waiting to see Ma. Our group is called into the small, plain room where an elderly lady with a distinct twinkle in her eye is awaiting us. I say nothing at all, which will astound those who know me. Talk, via a translator, is genial and sparing. I sit and smile broadly. Ma gives us prasad of bananas, apples, pomegranates and sweets and then we are back in the sunshine, with a general aura of peacefulness. We are then introduced to Vinod, the manager of the temple, who is delighted to see Katyayani and Diana once more. He lends Katyayani a book on Maharajji to assist with her research. We then walk through into the ashram garden. My preconceptions of ashrams do not match the tranquil beauty of this space. A particular favourite is the sculpted grass Ram symbol in Hindi below a rock where Maharajji liked to meditate. We sit in the prasad hall and are fed truly delicious food for as long as we care to eat. I am slightly heavier in the car on the way back to Nainital.

As Katya works on her PhD, Sorrel, Rachel and I have a mooch around Nainital. I am tickled by the dustbins in the form of penguins inscribed with the legend "use me". Insert your own punch line here. We stroll around the lake to investigate the source of the continuing kirtan commotion. The small Devi, or Goddess, temple is evidently the epicentre. At night it is lit up like a Blackpool casino. Understatement is key in India. The temple itself is small, narrow and seems to have been hewn from the rock face, as have the statues, which include a beautiful Hanuman. The place emits a powerful chthonic thrum. Further along we have yet more prasad thrust upon us. We finally encounter the source of the frenetic noise. A large group of ma’s and one or two men sit on a small platform and give it their all in a devotional styley. They mean it, man. We also meet a local Baba, who is sat next to a large picture of Maharajji. He knows where we are from, how many of us there are and where we are staying. This is not psychic brilliance, he has been told by Guddu, the barrel-chested scion of the Sah family, who run the Evelyn. And possibly Nainital.

In the evening we do kirtan on the top veranda, which Guddu later says reminds him of the "hippy times" of Ram Dass, Bhagavan Das et al. On the way to find somewhere to eat, we look in shock and awe at the bizarre range of retail opportunities on offer. Weird-shaped candles are big news this season. I will always treasure the sight of a large swastika (which, of course, carries none of our western connotations here) fashioned from pine cones. That is Christmas sorted. We eat cheaply as ever and are off to bed early. Rock and roll.

The spark that lights the flame.

At guru aarti in the morning at the Kainchi temple, I am better prepared, having bought a book with the words that are being sung. I still require the avuncular assistance of the man next to me in order to find the correct page, however. This is done with no condescension, just with a smile. Later in the morning, we once again find ourselves in group darshan with Ma. She asks after Katyayani’s PhD and chats to Diana. We present Ma with the shawl that we had bought for her in Rishikesh. She decides that it is just the right size to offer to the murti of Maharajji, which is to be installed on top of his ashes at the site in Kakrighat we visited yesterday. The magnitude of this honour within this lineage leaves us collectively stunned.

We are invited to attend a yajna fire ceremony in the ashram to mark the beginning of Durga Puja, the celebration of the great Mother Goddess. Coconut fibres are used to kindle a spark to light the wood in the central fire pit. Ray Mears would be proud. As heavy incense and kirtan waft over me, I am again struck by the depth of the acceptance afforded to us at what is truly a "family-only" ceremony. We take prasad in the hall and wend our way back to Nainital.

Back at the hotel, we gather on the veranda sipping chai. Diana regales us with a number of hilarious stories, which it would be ungallant of me to reveal. After our nightly kirtan, we head out for dinner in genial mood. In the Embassy restaurant, Katya’s dancing eyebrows and a fellow - male - diner’s bright pink fluffy jumper reduce me to tears of laughter, so much so that I have my head on the table sobbing by the time the bill arrives and manage to head butt the waiter’s arm. I blame the altitude. Matters do not improve on the way back to the Evelyn. Stopping at a small shop, I see the odd sight of a plastic camel being ridden by an Imam clutching a guitar. A demonstration shows us that the camel walks along as its rider strums and a loud rendition of "Crazy Frog" blasts forth. This is too much for me and I have to be helped back to the hotel in the best interests of all concerned.

Of Monkeys and Gurus.

I get up early to wish goodbye to Diana, who is heading off to Delhi before flying back to London. From my bathroom window I watch numerous monkeys on the roof of the house next door. A smiling ma shoos them away from her balcony with a broom. I have grown accustomed to seeing monkeys wherever we go - I feel London could be vastly improved if we could somehow replace our pigeon population with some cool Langurs. The owner of the house next door would doubtless be glad of this exchange as the monkeys demolish his drainpipe as they descend in haste.

At Kainchi, Ma is not giving darshan today. I feel no disappointment, simply the profound sense that things will be as they are supposed to be, and should be no other way. The ever-helpful Prema ensures that all is well with us and I ask whether a personal darshan with Ma at some stage might be possible. I do not know whether this is appropriate but I feel impelled to ask. I find the "cave" Guddu had told me about behind the Hanuman temple. It consists of a large outcrop of rock, with the word Ram painted many times on the surface in orange. Apparently Sombari Baba and later Maharajji used to meditate here and the atmosphere is stilling and contemplative. We also discover what we think is the wellspring in the ashram garden that has been mentioned to us. We solemnly anoint ourselves. We will later discover that the wellspring is further up behind the ashram and that this is the drain. I find this both utterly hilarious and somehow apposite. After prasad in the hall, we are sitting in the car about to depart when Prema (now nicknamed "the long arm of Ma") knocks on the window. Ma heard we were there and wanted us to have prasad from her. She apologises for being so busy. We are humbled once more.

In the afternoon, we look through two books on Hanuman that Vinod has loaned to Katya. After our kirtan, Katya reads us the latest chapter of her PhD, entitled "The Hunter and the Hunted", which focuses on the relationship between guru and devotee, specifically the path to the door of the guru. We discuss the role of grace and the notion of eligibility on the spiritual path. Once more, I realise how blessed I am to be here now and to walk the path with such company.

Dinner turns into a parade of weirdly dressed children. One local nipper is resplendent in a sort of 1970s Michael Jackson outfit, topped off with one of the funkiest hats I have ever witnessed, whilst the progeny of another couple rocks a full head-and-body lion costume. Fearn is also thinking of more to weigh down her luggage and announces that "I’ve got my eye on a goat". I have always considered that humour is a vital ingredient in any form of spiritual life and I have not been disappointed since we came away. If pushed, I could expatiate on how humour and paradox help us to transcend the Cartesian dualism at the heart of our society, our thought patterns and language. More simply put, humour enables us to not take ourselves so personally, as Ram Dass would say. I bet the monkeys are aware of this fact. They know everything, I am quite convinced. Jai Hanuman!

The Goddess lets her hair down.

I am up at 7.00am to say goodbye to Sorrel, who departs very cutely in big, woollen socks and sandals. We have a car booked at 9.00am as we do not want to miss the start of the Kumari Devi puja. Just to be on the safe side, Prema telephones to remind us. We are looked after at every turn here.

At Kainchi, we wait expectantly in a room at the rear of the ashram. In the Kumari Devi puja the Goddess is worshipped in her form as the virgin. With this in mind, nine local children (eight girls and one slightly embarrassed boy) are seated in a long line across the room in front of us. They range in age from a toddler to a girl of around ten years old. Their families beam with pride and love. A kirtan band of ma’s strikes up a resounding beat and everyone chants “Sri Ma, Jai Ma, Jai Jai Ma” in unison. By now the children are having their feet washed and painted red, having bracelets put on their ankles, being covered by sparkling red and gold cloths (all except the young boy, who, literally, is not wearing it) and generally being venerated as the forms of the divine that they are. They are also plied with sweets and other treats appropriate to this aspect of the Goddess. In time, any sense of formality disappears amid the sonorous chanting, heavy incense smoke and liberally strewn marigold petals. One ma leaps to her feet and starts to dance joyfully and uninhibitedly. All is a whirl of red sari and glittering eyes. I have never witnessed such a shimmering haze of shakti in all my life. Everyone goes wild and soon other ma’s are dancing and we are all on our feet chanting and clapping. The young boy now has his fingers in his ears. Aarti is performed amid a scene of barely organised chaos. I feel confident enough to perform aarti myself. Not for the first time here, I lose all track of time and am gleefully lost in the present moment. I feel almost drunk on the atmosphere. As the ceremony comes to an end, we realise how fortunate we are to have been invited, as this is truly a “family-only” event. For me it is a huge honour to have been one of the very few men present. Speaking to one of the long-term Western devotees, he tells me breathlessly that he has never witnessed anything like this in all his time in India.

Later on, we talk to Ram Giri, one of the Western satsang, who was with Maharajji for the last year of his life. Katya asks how it felt when Maharajji left his body. “It felt like the heart had been ripped out of the universe,” is his reply. We chat as local children dance and the ma’s play on, laughing. At one point, Ram Giri tells us that he became a Saddhu “by accident” in order to simplify his life enough to be with Maharajji. This appeals to me greatly, as does his tale of living in a cave for three months after Maharajji took Samadhi. I am touched at his openness and generosity and also by his focus on Maharajji in the here and now, as opposed to whilst he was in the body.

After yet again being wonderfully well fed, we revisit Kakrighat. I am at a loss to describe the atmosphere of the place, the genius loci, yet total silence reigns once more in the car on the way back to the hotel. Even writing about it now, I am transported and my mind slows to a stop. This is a slight hindrance in my diary-writing, however.

We do our daily kirtan practice and have dinner on the veranda, the Devi temple phosphorescing opposite. Before going to bed early, I am introduced to the joys of the “hot bucket”. As there is no hot water after noon, patrons can have a bucket of scaldingly hot water brought up. It appears to stay hot forever. I go to bed lovely and warm, pull back the curtains and stare at the stars until I sink into the arms of Morpheus, as an old friend would say.

Maharajji’s secretary

We have a late breakfast after staying up until the small hours of the morning listening to the rugby. As she drinks her chai, Katya gets the feeling that she should stay in her room and work, so we leave her and drive to Kainchi. I had thought initially that I would be bored going to the same place every day but now it could not feel more natural.

We arrive half way through the kirtan wallahs’ farewell procession and instantly the ubiquitous Prema guides us to where we should be. The kirtan wallahs are at the head of a long spiritual conga. Everyone is chanting and covered in flowers. We follow the procession into a yard behind one of the temple buildings and bask in the powerful sunlight. The kirtan wallahs seem exuberantly happy and appear to be taking requests. Soon, each man takes it in turn to dance to the kirtan to general delight and applause. People reach over and throw money to them. There is a real party atmosphere and I do not need to speak Hindi to know that many jokes are being told. Once more, we are made to feel thoroughly accepted and part of the family. Later, we line up and are admitted one by one into the room in which Maharajji used to spend the night, which has been kept immaculate. I pay my respects at his tucket and wend my way happily to the prasad hall once more.

I spend the afternoon at the Cyberia internet café, along with the hip hop-obsessed youth of Nainital. We are all gangstas under the skin, bro. For real. Back at the Evelyn, Katya emerges from her room having written 3,000 words of her PhD in six hours. She relates that she did not so much write the words as channel them. She is exhausted after a day of being directed to look in one book or another, only to find pages marked that she has no memory of marking. As we leave for dinner, she needs Rachel and me to help her stand up. Katya often says to those enquiring about her thesis that she is not writing it, she is merely Maharajji’s secretary. Today, she has been working overtime for him.

A huge effigy of Ravana, demon king of Lanka, towers over one end of the lake as part of the Ram Lila, enacting scenes from the Ramayana. He may be about to be set alight. The turmoil proves too much for Katya’s heightened sensibilities and we repair to the Embassy restaurant with fireworks exploding into life all around. Despite the restaurant’s glass door having just been smashed by a fellow diner (who returns later with both hands bandaged to finish his meal), they are extremely busy. Katya and Rachel leave, while Fearn and I stay behind to settle the bill. Our departure is further delayed by the owner, a dead ringer for Borat, engaging us in conversation. Soon he is relating the story of how Maharajji performed a minor miracle for his brother-in-law. It seems that Maharajji permeates every inch of this area and that almost everyone has a similar miraculous story to tell. I walk back feeling that every event feels like a spiritual lesson and I muse on what Borat has been teaching me. I try to maintain this perspective at home but it feels inherently natural to do so in India.

The face of grace

I am up and about soon after 5.30am, as I know I do not want to waste this last day. I meditate wearing the blanket Ma gave to me and then sing Chalisas. Our car leaves for Kainchi at 7.15am and I hold onto my box of prasad all the way there. We each give our prasad to the pujari, who returns it after offering it to the murti of Maharajji. By 8.00am we are waiting on the porch outside the room in which Ma gives darshan. Prema appears -the essence of seva as ever. We are sent to eat – surprise, surprise – and then resume our vigil. At some stage of the morning, Katya is called in for a personal darshan with Ma. Subsequently, we each have individual darshans with her, an overwhelming honour. Afterwards, we reconvene for a joyful group darshan. Tears are shed, and not just by the ma’s. We are weighed down with prasad and I have a vision of myself frantically eating fruit as I pass through customs at Delhi airport.

We hurry to the ceremony for the end of the 24-hour kirtan and join in the beautiful singing. Later, as I sit on a rock writing in my notebook in the sunshine, the temple has a definite end of term feeling. Tomorrow, Ma leaves to go on retreat before moving to another temple in warmer climes and, to all intents and purposes Kainchi will be closed. Again, I feel thoroughly at home and accepted. I enjoy my final meal in the prasad hall and find the servers even bringing extra dishes from the kitchen for me to try. I waddle away, sated. We pay our respects and leave for the silent journey back to the hotel. Ma has told us that Maharajji will call us back and this comforts me. Instinctively, I know that there is little point trying to comprehend our time here. This is not a job for reasoning.

We each pack and then Katya and I attempt to pay our bills at the hotel. I say ‘attempt’ as Guddu cannot get the machine to function. We spend the evening with Diana and Katya’s friend K K Sah, Guddu’s cousin and one of Maharajji’s oldest devotees. KK, as he is universally known, has been with Maharajji since childhood. Ram Dass spent his first night after meeting Maharajji at KK’s home. Once we have surmounted the perilous staircase to his house, KK and his friend Rakesh are graciousness itself in their hospitality. They teach us how to perform the aarti ceremony correctly, explaining the significance of the actions performed. We perform a Chalisa together and KK shares some of his wealth of stories about his time “under Maharajji’s blanket”. Typically, he will begin something like: “I remember one day in 1953…” He also shows us items from his utterly haphazard Maharajji archive. When Ram Dass stayed with him, Maharajji instructed KK not to feed him Indian food and so he gave him toast. We are plied with chai, sweets and toast. Of course, this is immediately named “Ram Dass toast”. Many a person might suffer from an inflated ego, having been so close to a great Saint, yet KK seems as pleased to share time with us as we are to be there with him. When it comes time to leave, I hug him goodbye and then try to give my full attention to the vertiginous stairs. Yet another welcome has left me humbled.

Back at the Evelyn, Sailesh, Guddu’s brother, settles our bills by the expedient measure of putting the card the right way up in the machine. How I will miss India. I read and write until late in the night. I realise I have not given a thought to how life will be once I return to England. Just as it should be, I feel.

If you can walk away from the landing, it is a success

A final Ambassador ride takes me to Delhi International Airport. I eat the last apple of Ma’s consignment of prasad on the way. As we near the airport I muse on whether I will be able to make use of the remaining five months on my visa to come back to India, maybe for a trip to the Kali temple in Calcutta or for a reunion with my friend the Saddhu.

The flight home is delayed for a while and I pass the time reading the small volume of Hindu mystical poetry I bought the day before. Ramakrishna’s odes to Kali will have to placate my desire to visit Dakshineswar for now. I also console myself with the sight of a group of Nepalese monks, who are returning home from a trip to Bodh Gaya, the scene of Buddha’s enlightenment under the bodhi tree. “How was it?” I ask, perhaps expecting a devotional encomium. “Cool,” says the Buddhist renunciate. Another Indian destination adds itself to my list.

To our general relief, Katya’s outsize harmonium manages to make it onto the plane as hand luggage and we settle in for the eight-and-half-hour flight. Rachel and I are assailed for hours by two heroically drunken women from the Midlands singing and shouting at the tops of their adenoidal voices. When they finally pass out, the loudest one’s small daughter cries her lungs out for a long time, unheard and unheeded. The now-unconscious mother is wearing a large pair of Om-shaped earrings. How I am looking forward to coming home.

An unexpected appearance from Caroline at Heathrow raises my spirits enormously. We all say our goodbyes and disperse. David and Katya give us a lift home, which blessedly defers my first reacquaintance with the Piccadilly Line. At home, I am greeted by Monkey, erstwhile mascot of ITV Digital, and then ring my parents to inform them of my safe return. Caroline and I catch up on the last two weeks’ news. I realise that a lot of what I have to tell her is hard to put into words. I give up the battle to stay awake around midnight.

“If a man set out from home on a journey, and kept right on going, he would come back to his own front door.”
- Sir John Mandeville, semi-mythical 14th century traveller and author

Before I left for India, I spent time meditating on the nature of retreat and of pilgrimage. I found the following book of great benefit and recommend it heartily: The Art of Pilgrimage. The Seeker’s Guide to Making Travel Sacred by Phil Cousineau. The above quotation is taken from it. Thank you, Di, for lending it to me.

The word “retreat” comes originally from the Latin retraher, literally to pull back. My previous experiences of retreat have come from time at Vipassana meditation retreats – no talking, touching, eye contact, reading, music, TV, writing, alcohol or tobacco. For ten days. It is not as bad as it sounds. This retreat was very different, however, as India provides such an overpowering sensory assault and a panoply of myriad experiences. In retrospect, the element of retreat was from the normal external circumstances of my life and provided the luxury of concentrating on internal spiritual matters, along with the support of like-minded friends.

At the risk at finally snapping your patience – if you have been with me this long, you are evidently a glutton for punishment – I will reproduce one final quotation. This is from the Cousineau book once more, but is taken from Myths To Live By by the wonderful Joseph Campbell, mythographer-in-chief of our age, which I carried around India and never found the time to read:

“The ultimate aim of the quest, if one is to return, must be neither release nor ecstasy for oneself, but the wisdom and the power to serve others.”

In India, I gave no thought to life back in London. I was trying my best to stay in the moment and drink in all I was experiencing and feeling. Now that I am at home and have reconnected with friends and family, I am finding the stillness to start to feel what I have brought back with me. I feel distinctly blessed to have shared this retreat with such open-hearted people. I am beginning to consider how to integrate the blessings I have undoubtedly received during my time away with my life here and now. I have no intention of thinking about it too much, however. I intend to surrender to what will be and just let go. This degree of faith is new territory for me.

I would suggest that now is an excellent time to come to one of our Gopi kirtan evenings or open practice sessions. Details can be found elsewhere on this website. An audience member on Sunday described the feeling of a “wall of Shakti” – before we had started. Maybe you might feel you have shared in the journey by reading this diary. If this is the case, mission accomplished.

Hare Om, my friend, Hare Om.

Jai Ma!

Geraint xx