Pune Morning Meditation

by Subhuti

It is dark when I wake up.

What time is it?

Blindly, I grope around the bed for my watch and a pocket-sized flashlight, find them, and peer across the pillows. It’s 6:30 in the morning. Interesting. I switched off my alarm last night, thinking to sleep in, but now I have woken up anyway, at the usual time I get up to attend the Silent Sitting in Chuang Tzu Auditorium. It seems that existence has a relentless desire for me to meditate. Who am I to argue?

I slide out from under my king-sized mosquito net, whispering a small prayer of gratitude. I love my mosquito net. It’s the difference between heaven and hell, between blissful slumber and sleepless torture. This year, in what may prove to be a disturbing evolutionary trend, the mosquitoes seem smaller than before, and therefore more difficult to seek out and destroy. Or maybe I’m getting older and slower.

The bathroom boiler offers me just enough warm water to make entering the shower easy, followed by a deliberate, self-inflicted blast of cold water, without which further awakening may prove impossible.

Towelling off, I brush my teeth and then examine my wardrobe. Maroon pants, a maroon t-shirt, and a maroon robe… that’s the kind of stress-free dressing I need for an early start. No need to figure out what I’m going to wear.

Gate pass, food pass, and a little cash… I’m ready.

Slipping out of the house, I notice thankfully that the air is fresh and cool. Winter is behind us, but we are not yet into the hot season. It’s probably around 15 degrees Celsius.

The sky is already light, but the lanes behind the resort are in semi-darkness, due to a canopy of leaves and branches spreading out from trees on either side of the street. It’s a nice place to walk, especially at this hour. The ever-expanding city of Pune has not yet succeeded in destroying the magic of these lanes.

Female voices drift towards me and out of the gloom I see a group of five women, of various shapes and sizes, walking briskly towards me, taking up half the road. It’s a familiar sight. They don’t jog, but a daily, speedy, fitness walk is clearly deemed to be the same thing, powered along by energetic chatting and gossiping.

I cross the street to avoid a potential collision with them, then drift back to the other side to give space to two dog walkers, who are being pulled along by a golden retriever and a blue-eyed husky. The husky takes a keen interest in me as we pass, straining at the leash to come closer. I wonder how he’s doing here, in this warm climate, with such thick fur and no snow to roll around in. But he seems happy enough.

Soon, the resort’s back gate appears, and I can make out the dark shape of a security guard, reclining in his chair, feet outstretched. I greet him with a brisk “Good morning!” and receive a cheerful “Good morning, sir,” in reply. The electronic screen accepts my pass with a green-coloured “Okay” and then I’m inside the gate and walking along a narrow path, bordered by bamboos, past Jesus House, towards the central plaza.

The stage set of last night’s karaoke is still standing, a ghostly testament to an evening of friendly fun, which ended around 11:00 pm with everyone singing “Hey Jude”. The “Na-na-na na…” part of Paul McCartney’s epic song lasts four minutes and is a sure-fire, sing-along crowd pleaser.

By synchronicity or destiny, I arrive at Zorba Restaurant just as the resort’s mechanical cockerel crows for 7:00, and the blinds go up to announce this little canteen is open for business. My early morning intake is fairly predictable: Masala chai mixed with ginger tea, and a single khakra, which is a super-thin snack, taking the form of a crisp, flat disc, available in spicy and non-spicy formats.

This morning only spicy khakra is available. No need to ponder over which to choose.

At this early hour, the first sips of chai are a religious experience. The soul of India has been touched and the day has officially begun.

I am joined in the semi-darkness by several maroon-robed men and women, who, like me, sit silently with their cups of chai and coffee at various tables. Some are heading for Chuang Tzu, while others wait for daily morning classes like Tai Chi and Yoga.

A few minutes later, we are joined by brave souls who have just completed Dynamic Meditation, across the road in the main auditorium, and are now seeking refreshment before continuing to Silent Sitting.

Low voices enjoy a moment of gossip. Some linger, but I like to be early – a lifelong neurotic habit – so leaving my cup and plate on a shelf at the dishwashing window, I head down the steps into Lao Tzu Garden.

In days gone by, this used to be the holy of holies, the unapproachable, strictly private jungle surrounding Osho’s room. These days, we can follow a marble pathway through the trees and bushes, then around to the car porch, where glass doors are being opened to welcome us inside.

Osho’s grey and silver, super-stretch limo Rolls Royce, stands in shiny splendour on our left, while we deposit our shoes in racks to the right, then sit briefly on plastic chairs to slip on a pair of clean white socks dispensed from a silver can. These are needed to protect the white Italian marble floor of the auditorium. I find myself thinking that even if the floor didn’t need protection, it makes a nice little ritual, a sense of moving from the mundane world towards something more special.

Trivial problems like what Donald Trump will do next, how many more controversies will surround Osho, and how much longer my 79-year-old body will be able to make its annual trip to India, can be left here, with the option of picking them up afterwards.

Mobile phones, naturally, are not allowed beyond this point, but anyway I always leave mine at home.

We ascend two marble steps, enter into the house, past the door to Osho’s room and then shuffle wordlessly along a corridor, lined with glass cabinets containing the books of Osho’s prolific library. The heights of the books vary, so they seem to move up and down as we walk past, like waves on an ocean. Titles are a blur, but two of them register in my brain: “The Magic of Conflict” and “Don’t Stop Now You’re Killing Me”.

Hmm. Intriguing. But there’s no time to stop and investigate. Besides, the cabinets are locked.

Next, turning left, we pass through a room that is walled entirely by mirrors, like a puzzle maze in a fairground. If the doors weren’t open, you wouldn’t know which way to go, seeing yourself reflected everywhere. This might seem an unlikely place for a dental chair, but this is where Osho had his teeth fixed in his later years, and the chair is still here.

In a small antechamber, just outside the auditorium itself, stacks of grey cushions come into view. I could make do with three, but I take four for extra comfort.

A maroon-robed attendant nods a silent greeting as we enter the auditorium, a spacious, semi-circular temple with tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, marble-tiled columns, and a spectacular ring of coloured lights on the ceiling above us.

I am in awe of the young woman ahead of me, who sits down on a plain cushion in the front row, with no back support and no extra cushions, and who will remain motionless for the next hour. Pure Zen. As for myself, I prefer cushions with a back support, that are to be found towards the rear, and where I can also wedge extra cushions under my knees. My days in the full lotus position are long gone.

The auditorium slowly and silently fills up. The last maroon-robed meditators come in, the glass door gently closes, the lights are dimmed and the attendants sit down.

A gong is struck, I close my eyes, and the hour-long session begins.

Everyone has their favourite places to meditate.

This is one of mine.

Previously published as a Facebook post – photo by the author