I make my way 9 hours north to Rishikesh. It’s a hippie’s paradise. You can learn yoga, renew your chakras, or get your aura inspected. It’s where the Beatles spent 9 months getting high with the Maharishi and writing the White Album. (the exact location of that Indian tryst is now home to beggars, stray cows, and strewn about trash..)
I decide to get enlightened and begin knocking on doors of all the teachers in town. Turns out, it’s time for local Indians to make their yearly pilgrimage to the holy city. Hence, the foreigners leave. This means that all the teachers leave (sounded fishy to me too). I find one swami who is willing to show me the path to a higher level. Or something. He explains there will be 3 types of communication.
1. First he will watch me do the yoga poses to see my body’s potential.
2. Next he will communicate with me through touching.
3. Then he will communicate with me just through thinking.
BUT… he can only attempt such a feat if I am not menstruating.
“After all,” he says. “I am a swami.”
Where is he planning on touching me?, I think.
THOUGHTS: It’s hot. I still do not trust anyone.