The years passed. Temples of Tamil Nadu, Mount Arunachal, Uttar Kashi Ashram, Rishikesh, Haridwar. Yogis of the Juna Akhara monastic order. The Ice Ganges… Sometimes I went to Moscow for a short time and returned to India again, and then I wrote such revelations.:
Just a few days ago, having soaked my new shoes to the ground in the autumn Moscow rain, I was tired and exhausted mentally, lying in my graciously warm bath. And today, as if plunged into a fairy tale, I was back in a distant country where there are practically no baths, and if there are, they cannot heat up to that blessed degree of warmth, like the one we are used to and do not appreciate at all in our Moscow apartments. Therefore, you have to heat the water in a bucket with a boiler. I was recently electrocuted. I thought I might brighten up! But she didn’t brighten up, even though she waited a long time.
For the information of those wishing to come to India: if the outlet is turned off (and in India every outlet has a switch), this does not mean that there is no current running through it. This may be an ordinary illusion, as well as other similar ones.
Moreover, in the Himalayas, despite the harsh winters, there is still no central heating, and when it gets cold, people just wrap themselves in everything they can put on and seem to freeze in a daze. Well, if the sun comes out during the day, then you can still slightly warm up the frozen parts of the body, but if there is no sun, then you just have to endure. Although, in principle, the most terrible in the Himalayas are cold nights. The sensations are extremely exquisite: it feels like you are literally frozen to the mattress. And it is not clear whether this is because the floors in all the houses here are only concrete, or because in India everything is learned by contrast. Except the sun was shining, and my face was pinching and turning red from an overdose of ultraviolet light. But when the sun went down behind the nearest mountainside right in front of my eyes, a piercing cold immediately enveloped my whole body.
But this is usually in winter. Meanwhile, it was October, and neither stuffy nor cold, but gently cool, and I proudly walked through the narrow streets of Dharamsala. Everything was here as it had been many years ago: cows invariably blocked the road to all kinds of vehicles and marked it with large, slightly steaming piles, overly tanned merchants greeted me joyfully in Hindi, and foreigners wandered around curiously gawking in all directions and completely indifferent to everything.
And then I felt that the tension that had always accompanied me in Moscow was receding.
Rest. Why is it that even when I sleep a lot or don’t go to work, I can’t relax in Moscow? Maybe it’s a responsibility to tomorrow, when I have to do something so that someone needs it?
Or maybe it’s just that I kept quiet in Dharamsala.
Of course, in India, a person can give himself to himself and practice for his own development. In India, I shifted all responsibility for my practice to my Teachers to one degree or another. But I must admit that the lack of contacts had a beneficial effect on my inner worldview. It was only here that I realized how much we say and do that is not necessary for our soul, even when we seem to be in a spiritual stream. Only here was it possible to understand again how the hustle and bustle of our Moscow life and the constant race for survival in society poisons and burns our best years, emasculates our feelings, pushes us towards primitive thinking and needs. Moreover, the endless actions that we perform day after day, and which exhaust us to the core, are, in fact, not needed by anyone. Alas, a person can do with little. And the fact that we invent entertainment and great amenities for ourselves brings with it problems, as a reckoning, for the fact that we receive them, they clutter up our lives, drown out the voice of the Divine in our hearts and make us banal and predictable.
And again, it is here, under this wide-open sky that fills the entire visible space of my window, that it feels much deeper and more conscious. It is impossible to convey, it is necessary to feel it yourself.
A cold wind blew, a heavy dark cloud slowly crept out of the gorge, and something in me fell silent.…
And why are there no contacts?
On the one hand, you can say that, because I live quite alone and empty conversations don’t really interest me.
But on the other hand, if we compare Moscow and the local situation, it feels like we are all in a very powerful information field in Moscow. Sometimes it seems to me that my brain is permeated by radiation and information coming from millions of mobile phones, radio, television and just people’s thoughts. Here, in Dharamsala, the situation is also not ideal, but it is much more mentally rarefied, as is the air itself at 2500 meters above sea level. And also, sometimes it seems to me that not very good knowledge of Hindi, and I live mostly among Indians, has a very beneficial effect on a kind of relief from all kinds of mundane thoughts. And when I walk through the streets or even through the market, the soft voices of the Hindus simply merge into a single unobtrusively pleasant music.
Maybe that’s why I really don’t like learning any language, and maybe that’s why the old texts say that it’s not a bad idea to live in another country for spiritual practice…
Sometimes you sit on a retreat and recite a certain mantra. And the Indian neighbor is talking loudly to her children in Hindi, but it doesn’t bother you. But suddenly she says a few phrases in English that you understand, and that’s it.… It immediately unsettles you. Your attention has gone beyond the balcony to the next terrace and is already wandering between the flower pots!
When I felt this, I immediately understood why it was so difficult for me to practice in Russia. Especially in Moscow, where the population density is so high that you can even easily hear what your neighbor who lives behind the wall is thinking, not to mention what is shouting in the street and broadcasting on the pervasive waves of Ostankino.
KANGRA.
Yesterday, three Kashmiris lowered my motorcycle from the second floor. He was standing there all the time while I was in Russia. The Indian neighbors poured out onto the street and were so happy, and they were also talking about something in Hindi. Over the years, I’ve learned to understand them simply by intonation. And that’s why their joy was very pleasant for me.
The bike was washed and shiny. Despite the very long mansun, the battery didn’t even run out. I was driving along a serpentine road, and I realized that no matter how much I resisted the urge not to believe in anything, however, I was once again convinced that the Himalayas opened my heart. Even if not by much, this small gap is already enough to understand that the life that is in our habitual society is almost not real, but contrived by someone. And everyone believes this fiction and lives by it. Maybe they’ve just never been to the Himalayas, where everything becomes so natural and true?
The Himalayas open my heart with a creak, with pain, in my complete mental confusion.
We are all used to storing it under heavy locks. We feel sorry for our hearts and think that this will preserve our little happiness. But, nevertheless, somehow, under locks without access to fresh air, our soul becomes weak and gradually fades.
And today, at dawn, we went with a motorcycle to Kangra to visit the Hindu temple of Swamiji Vijay Puri.
Everything went great, I told them about the people who come to my yoga classes and made an offering.
The girls from the parishioners also told me a lot of wonderful things about the local yogis. As you may remember, in my book, in the story “Hot Steps of Janti Mata”, I mentioned that there were many accomplished yogis and even Mahasidhs in this place. Even Geshe Jumpa Tinley talked about it. And also, as Rimpoche says, this place is Sacred not only for Hindus, but also in Buddhism it belongs to one of the places of Chakrasamvara and is the birthplace of Vajrayogini.
Siddy Temple will not impress you with its exquisite architecture or oriental elegance. This is a small room that was built by the parishioners and the Swamiji family on their own on the very slope of the mountain. But it differs somewhat from other temples in that it has been visited by a lot of not only Teachers, but also those who have found awakening and samadhi. Some have not only been there, but also sat in meditation. A few years ago, when Swamiji forced me to clean the stairs and landing near the temple, I had to arrive in Kangra at 4 a.m. At that time, there was only one Mahasidha in the temple. Many Hindus, even those who lived in Dharamsala, took time off from work (which is very difficult in India) just to see him on Krishna’s birthday. Because they were assured that he would certainly come out to be seen by the parishioners. Because it is believed here that to see such a yogi in person is a great blessing and a great chance for something.
Which I didn’t really understand. But she didn’t ask again.
But he didn’t come out.
So, one day, when I was cleaning this staircase, I suddenly heard the creak of an opening door, I went out onto the landing in front of the temple and saw a completely naked man in only a loincloth with very long black hair and beautiful features. He looked at me, but didn’t say a word. And I just stood there with a wet broom, though I was a little dumbfounded.
When I told the Hindus in Dharamsala about this, they were terribly upset and even surprised.: how is it that a foreigner, who according to their concepts is “unclean”, managed to see a Mahasidha!
Yesterday I told the girls in the temple about this, and they were so delighted and stunned that they began to tell me so quickly how great it was that I couldn’t make out half of their confused words mixed with English and Hindi. Yes, and judging by their emotions, the words were just an addition.
So, unlike other temples in India, this temple worships not only the Deities of the Hindu pantheon, but also these yogis. The real ones, renounced by the world, who are in long-term seclusion. Moreover, Swamiji’s son Gopal told me that their family had more than once come into contact with the immortal Babaji, who lives in the mountains of Nepal, and he appeared in this temple himself, visible and even saved him somehow from imminent danger. Worship and contact with high spiritual practitioners do not go unnoticed. The exchange of energy is faster, and perhaps that is why parishioners quickly acquire Siddhis, both men and even women. The hall is almost never empty. People just sit and meditate for hours without paying attention to anyone. Some people have clearly awakened Kundalini, this can be seen by the vibrations, and there is even Dadri-siddi (a sudden upward lifting of the body). Although there are those who, at the beginning of the puja, begin to faint, scream, dance, or enter a state of prostration.
At the same time, when the girls start dancing, for some reason the energy in the hall rises strongly, and Swamiji makes meaningful and round eyes.
So, with these very girls, after the morning puja, we went to my favorite Sri Vajreshwari devi temple, which is located nearby. Deciding to take a shortcut, we walked along the narrow alleys between the houses and at one of the intersections came across some small black paper bags. They were wrapped up like our truffle candies.
The girls stopped me in time. They took my hand and led me around the edge of the road.
- what is it? I asked.
“Black magic,” they said, “is when someone wants to pour their dirt and trouble on another person. Isn’t that the case in Russia?
I knew that the Indian public has a very negative attitude towards magic. Previously, such people were expelled, and sometimes killed. I would like to say right away that this is not the case in Russia. But then I remembered how many creepy ads fill our media with all kinds of services and love spells, and I fell silent. I felt ashamed.
Before entering the temple complex, we took off our shoes as always and washed our feet under the tap.
This temple is one of my favorite places. This place is also a favorite place of Buddhists, as people come here to worship Vajrayogini, and the place is considered one of the sacred places of Chakrasamvara. However, this temple in Hinduism was originally dedicated to the goddess Shakti, the “holder of lightning (vajra)” – the incarnation of goddess Parvati. This temple is also the location of one of the 51 Shakti Peethas, the particles of Shakti’s body.,
which represents all nine goddesses of the Indian pantheon, and it is here that I feel comfortable and especially warm. It’s like feeling the arms of the Universal Mother that embrace you, a heart that loves you, a consciousness that supports you in all your endeavors and aspirations.
When we left the temple and began to walk around it, the drummers saw me on the square and recognized me. They smiled and started playing their own music. The girls were surprised. And I turned around and said that I just often dance here.
In fact, it seems to me that I always dance there, even when I am in Russia, I feel this sweet smell of the temple complex and the warmth of the tiles heated in the sun, which are lined with the area under the banyan trees.
One day, when the abbot brought the blessed statue to the temple square, he saw me and asked:
“Who are you?”
And for some reason, I immediately, without thinking, and quite unexpectedly for myself, said:
- I’m the one who always dances here.
After many years, Somnath Giriji Pilot Baba will tell me a very important thing about this temple, and I will understand why I am so often drawn to come here. But that would be later, and now I inhaled the familiar smell, touching the banyan tree hung with red and sequined ribbons, bowing to all the hypostases of the Great Mother, and thinking how cozy and warm I was in this place of the world. The sun-warmed tiles of the square were gentle to my bare soles. After making small pirouettes, I thanked the musicians, and we left the temple complex.
On the way back, we took a different route. These black bags somehow misshapenly mixed tar into our pilgrimage to the famous temple.
I had to return to Dharamsala, which was located eighteen kilometers away and just above Kangra.
India has also started to experience inflation. Gasoline already costs 56 rupees, and when I left it cost 42.
The roads have also been thoroughly blurred by the current protracted mansun. And it blurred so terribly that many drivers, trying to avoid the pits, drive into the oncoming lane. And if you consider that the roads here are narrow and serpentine, over a precipice, then the danger increases somewhat, because you never know what awaits you around a new corner (As Andrei Makarevich sang in the “Time Machine“ until he switched to cooking in the program ”Relish”). That’s why I personally go reciting a mantra.
So, after leaving the center of Kangra, I found that the brakes of my motorcycle were somehow sinking down. I drove up to one of the repair shops, which are usually located along the roads in dirty, oiled sheds, and asked to unscrew the nut. But the Indian master bulged his eyes and said that there was nothing to turn on, since there were no brakes. I was surprised, and how did I go from hill to hill in our Dharamsala?
I had to stop and wait for my brake pads to be replaced.
At that time, two Sadhus were passing along the road. One of them was gray-haired and of impressive size, the other was more modest. Both were dressed in orange robes. At first, it seemed to me that they were quite interesting, and I rushed to meet them, pulling out 10 and 10 rupees from my wallet. In principle, Hindus who are passing sadhus, of whom there are quite a lot, are usually served starting from one rupee, but since I am a foreigner, I tried to serve more. I ran out to the meeting and handed the gray-haired man ten rupees and just wanted to give another piece of paper to the second one, but the second one was delayed on the road.
The gray-haired man looked dejectedly into his pot, where I had thrown the money, and looked at my palm, where the other ten were clenched for the second sadhu. He nodded his head and motioned for me to put the ten remaining in my palm into his pot, too. It puzzled me a bit. I said I’ve already put it for you. But he just stood there and watched. Then I put that money down, too.
“Is this your wallet?” “What is it?” he asked, pointing to the ground behind me.
I turned around, and there was indeed my wallet on the ground, which probably fell out of my bag when I hurriedly jumped up. Moreover, all my remaining money was scattered all over the ground.
- Yes, mine, – I bent down, collected the money and sat back on the bench to wait for the motorcycle to be repaired. But the Sadhu took out the Rudraksha, whispered over it, and handed it to me.:
“Put it in your purse,” he said, “and give me another hundred rupees.”
Something turned over in me. I didn’t understand that. Neither Rimpoche nor Swamiji ever asked me for money, and all my offerings were just my initiative, because I knew that making an offering to a Teacher is a great boon and a very rare opportunity to get rid of bad and accumulate good karma. Moreover, as one well-known Teacher said, for a spiritual practitioner it is like gasoline for a car. No matter how much a person practices and does not meditate, if he does not have enough benefits, he will not go anywhere. Because according to the law of life, if you want to get something, you must definitely give something for it. Therefore, making an offering is primarily necessary for us. It is also believed that if a person is a true practitioner or a person with good karma, he will never need money.
Therefore, I could not understand why this Sadhu was asking me for money, and even telling me the price. Of course, I handed him another hundred rupees and looked into his eyes. I didn’t feel sorry for this money, when I have money, I can bring a few tens of thousands of rupees. But now, I just really wanted it to be real, because I’ve heard that in India, there are people who wear orange or other clothes just to live well on offerings.
“Are you mad at me?” – in turn, looking into my eyes, he asked.
But I was at a loss, not knowing what to say.
How could I understand his motivation? Maybe the scattered money was a sign that I was going to lose money in the near future, and he saw it. And that this hundred rupees is probably a very small price that could avert a big disaster.
But anyway, I smiled at him and his friend because I realized that the outcome of all this depends more on my motivation. And I wished that this little money would bring them great help in achieving their spiritual path.
And I think I did the right thing.
Because it was very light at heart.
All the following days were spent on greetings. I know too many people in this area.
Now Diwali has already thundered with volleys and fiery offerings. Now the streets of Dharamsala are becoming familiar and losing their charm, and you begin to notice other aspects of life. And they are known to be present in any society.
Firstly, it is impossible to hide from prying eyes anywhere. Even though I’ve been living here for a long time, I’m still always treated like an alien. I even wear Indian clothes, but it doesn’t help either. Every time you go outside, it’s like going on stage. Attracting attention is always an outburst and an exchange of energy, so you get unbearably tired. Sometimes I seriously think about buying Muslim clothes – burqas. When I was in Tamil Nadu, I used a Muslim burka and it saved me a little.
But even this may not save you from stupid conversations. Secondly, these are stupid questions. For example, I go to buy groceries, and again everyone asks me if I’m married or not. Well, the question is, who does this concern and why is it so important? Why doesn’t anyone ask me what new things I’ve learned this year, what new things have opened up to my soul?
No, they always ask me the same thing, if I’m without a motorcycle, then where is my motorcycle, and if I’m without a man, then about my husband.
Moreover, everyone is outraged by my freedom! Both men and women. Men because they are probably used to the fact that women cannot live without them (protection and support). That’s probably why violence in India is not condemned by anyone. It was like there was only one woman, and she wasn’t supposed to go out alone! And women, probably because they also really want to be independent and free. But they can’t.
Sometimes, during breaks between sessions, I go to the gorge. Because there are few annoying eyes and few exhaust fumes, so you can do pranayama on the go. But Hindus perceive it in their own way. When they see me there alone, and the women don’t go alone, they start grinning strangely. What do you think they’re thinking about?
You’ll never guess, they think I’m looking for “adventures.” It seems that mostly Hindus think about mating, and it’s only with effort that I can explain to them that I practice pranayama. They’ll nod, but they’ll grin anyway. It’s just that they probably can’t think of a woman any other way.
A PARTING GIFT.
It’s so strange that the apartment I’ve been living in for many years is located right under the very temple of Kali that I was afraid to enter for so long during my first years in India. And now I’m going into it. I greet the Sadhu who lives right in the rock and whom I have never even seen before, and then I go up the stairs to Shani and pour oil on him. Shani represents the planet Saturn, and many Indians come here on Saturday to worship him and make small offerings. Most often they bring black cloth, black seeds and oil.
Sometimes it seems that in this place, there is a deep tunnel to the center of the earth and you can hear the rumble of space going far down. I think I’ve overcome my fear, and now I can accept the whole world for what it is. But maybe it’s self–deception.
But I’m happy, having fun teasing the local Priest (abbot) of another temple, who, like all Hindu priests, likes to exaggerate his importance. The priest explains to me in a very important tone how to make an offering and offers to do the puja, but I proudly said that I could do the puja myself. He’s surprised. After all, foreigners, in their opinion, are ignorant. But I laughed, sang Sadhana shlokas and said that I have my own temple of the Great Mother, and it is located in my room.
Then I looked back, feeling the intense gaze, and it was the black eyes of his wife, who was looking at me sternly, without pity or compassion. I guess I was having too much fun with her husband, and to be honest, he obviously enjoyed talking to me. After that, I tried not to come to their house anymore.
Then it seemed to me that with her bragging and recklessness, she had violated some invisible line of decency, tacitly accepted in these places amid the prudery of their families and traditions, but she tried not to think about it anymore.
And now the Dalai Lama’s regular teachings have ended and my long-term visa is ending. I have been in Dharamsala for more than ten years. And today, on the day of departure, when I went out on the terrace to get water, I suddenly saw a large black bag on my path.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Who could I offend so much to receive such a parting gift?
The bag was made of black cloth, slightly faded in the sun, and next to the hole lay the blue-black seeds of an unknown plant that had rolled out of it.
Silence filled my mind. All my rosy thoughts turned into this mourning color at once.
“Black magic” was pounding in my head.
How is it, my beloved India with all my heart?
- Or maybe it was brought by monkeys? – the wary hostess of the house gave out her version.
“Maybe monkeys,” I nodded, “from the temple of Kali.” It is these bags that are brought to Shani when they want to avoid great grief or misfortune. But I’m not Shani, and I’m not Kali, and I don’t have the strength to take all this pain on myself. Or maybe I do?
There was practically no time left, and it was no longer possible to perform any cleansing ritual or order a puja in the temple.
But who could have done it if not the monkeys? Some poor Indian woman? After all, I know that many Indian men still look after me with admiration. Not even because I might be attractive to someone, but simply because I am from another country, and this is always something that is beyond the reality of an ordinary Indian, and therefore attracts his attention.
Or maybe it’s the result of my bragging, and it’s my “home” And they brought an offering to the goddess?
But it doesn’t matter who brought this bag, man or monkeys, it only matters that it appeared in my life, and there was a reason for it.
One way or another. It was a sign that I would no longer be able to live just like that and waste time on illusory pleasures. I’m hanging over a precipice! Now every minute, every breath must become my spiritual practice, I must wake up my “home” A goddess who is not inside my house, but inside my heart, and that is the only salvation.
And again came the lines from the teachings of Machig Labdron:
“I, a poor yogini, tell you that when the time comes to die, you will not be able to take anything that you loved and cherished so much, even your beloved body you will have to leave here. If we get rid of clinging to the external and internal, then we cannot find the reasons that keep us here. It is necessary to turn everything into food on the spiritual path, without sparing even your body and life, to bring it to those who wish. When you can lift up your body, what can we say about attachment to things and fame — you will throw them away like dust! When encountering illness and conditioning situations, to remain in a state of seeing egolessness and to overcome the situation with the power of samadhi, no medicines, magical rituals, etc. are needed for this. This is the teaching of the impoverished yogini Machig Labdon.”
But how far I am from that yet.
Maybe fate will give me more time to gain wisdom?
And maybe this wisdom will benefit someone?
Six months have passed, waiting for the worst, in constant practice, in constant remembrance of death and this mysterious black bag. In hopeless wanderings through Indian ashrams and the opportunity to receive help in gaining a high level of Samadhi.
It seemed that time was rapidly beating at my temple with the pulse of my still-living heart.
“You can achieve it yourself,” a famous Himalayan yogi told me, looking straight into my eyes, and I lost my last hope of help.
And again that heart-rending serpentine streamer in Dharamsala over the abyss. In recent years, all these Himalayan roads have become almost a symbol of my whole life. Merciless to the stopping of breathing, when rubble flies from under the wheels far into the abyss, to the prayers of people who have found their death on them, to the unbearable infinity of their journey. They are rapidly crawling towards the clouds, cutting through them, and bursting into the blue cloudless sky.
And the bus flies, famously twisting the steering wheel on turns, mercilessly screeching the brakes on nerves, awakening the dozing passengers from sleep…
I opened the door of my apartment and someone smiled at me. It wasn’t a hallucination, there was always someone living in my Dharamsala apartment. At first they were ferocious and grumpy, then very suspicious, and now they’re just bored and happy to see me on their doorstep.
“Hello,” I said, smiling at someone invisible, and went into the room.
unity…
And again the retreat. It’s been a year since I’ve said goodbye to this apartment and I just can’t vacate it. After experiencing half a month of Himalayan snow without heating, after warming up a bit in Rishikesh, I returned to Dharamsala again to finish my practice. This year promised me a spiritual rise, and I couldn’t help but take astrological advice. After carefully cleaning the apartment, buying the necessary groceries, and calling my constant little friend Gulnas and the Tibetan monks for the closure ritual, I decided to do my Sadhana especially carefully. For the first time in many years, I was shut down not late at night, as it was in previous years, but in the evening.
At that time, Rimpoche was in Mongolia, very ill. Before his departure, despite the difficulties, I managed to get through to him. Some inner certainty told me that this was our last meeting. I didn’t want to think about it. But with these persistent thoughts, I fell into his lap, and he gently and affectionately squeezed my hand.
“Take a picture of us, please,” I asked Katya. In recent years, we have never been photographed together, even in classes and during rituals in the temple, for some reason I always stayed behind the scenes. But now I was sure. That there won’t be such an opportunity anymore. It seemed that Rimpoche also knew about this, and his trembling could be clearly felt from the depths of his heart. A lump of pain rose in my throat, and I left his room, turning around one last time, trying to remember all the greatness of that moment, to the smell, to the glare of the sun falling on the terrace and his bright smiling face.
Then he was taken to Singapore for treatment, and immediately after the hospital to visit Mongolia. But he stayed there, and it was somehow normal.…
It’s been about a month since I’ve been in seclusion. One afternoon Gulnas called, crying, and said that Rimpoche had died in this world.…
He had been very ill for the past three years, and of course we already knew this was going to happen because he was very weak, and the doctors didn’t promise a speedy recovery, but we still weren’t ready for it.
However, for some reason, instead of heaviness, some kind of relief arose in my chest. In recent years, I have not been able to have a frank and heart-to-heart conversation with him. Only brief courtesy visits and participation in rituals in the temple of his house could be allowed.… We were separated by his illness, my independence, and the silence between us. Nothing seemed to have changed with this departure. As he was unavailable to me, he remained…
Somewhere outside the window was my favorite valley, which I couldn’t look at during the retreat. Just a piece of sky left over from the construction of the neighbor’s house and the tears that rolled out of my eyes. No thoughts, no phrases, just silence and a mantra, which I continued to recite in my retreat sessions. The day passed, the second, the third… I was sitting in the retreat room, remembering all our lives that had passed together. Gratitude turned to indignation, and I violently, like a madwoman, conducted a dialogue with him across the border of our worlds, expressing to him mentally and sometimes aloud all the complaints that had accumulated during the time we were together.
It seemed to me that he had deceived me. He took it and deceived us, because he did not bring it to realization, did not give us that breath of fresh air that brings us closer to Liberation from the shackles of this world. And I had such hopes for him… and the tears came to my throat again and rolled down the rosary in rivers. But after a while, in the haze of light coming through the narrow old windows, I saw his face, he was sitting next to me and reciting a mantra with me.
And he helped me…
04/03/2012
Elena Kshanti
