Gurus - The Journey Magazine

The Unexpected Guru
By Julie Hoyle
Pa g e 12
Thankfully, Melissa doesn’t remember
the
‘
events of that day. She rode in one
helicopter as her husband rode with the
children. Melissa woke up in a hospital
bed, her neck braced, her body sore and
her heart soon to be broken.
’
Monsoon India is not for the faint of heart. Before the rains fall, marked by a
sky slashed with fierce lightning and roaring thunder, moisture hangs heavily,
pushing through skin, muscle and bone. The body feels as if it is submerged
under the weight of an entire ocean and even the smallest movement requires effort.
In truth, I had gone to India with that intention in mind. I had gone to study with a
Guru hoping that she would reveal the blissful and limitless ocean of consciousness
I was told I already was. However,
I was soon challenged by the heat,
constant diarrhea and the rigors of
having to admit I was filled to the
brim with a slew of dark emotions.
Nirvana was not exactly the word
I would have chosen to describe
my state.
With that, rain began cascading
down, bouncing knee-high off the
dusty streets and rattling off cars
and motorcycles as they raced by.
One oppressively hot afternoon, believing I had 20 minutes grace before the
heavens opened, I made my way to visit someone I admired enormously. Mr. Patel
was a sinewy little man who had set up shop across the street from the ashram where
I lived and, for as little as three rupees, he would iron any item presented to him. Yes,
iron! In unrelenting heat and humidity, he would energetically press wrinkles out of
Ja n u a r y • Fe b r u a r y 2012
fine Indian cotton using
a dense, skillet-looking
iron.
Mr. Patel greeted me
with a broad grin, sideways
shake and wobble
of his head and the
usual, “Very good! I am
happy to be seeing you!”
Then he took the scrap
of paper I handed over,
noting the clothes I had
left with him and disappeared
behind a dark
curtain.
Several slow, long
minutes ticked by interspersed
with Mr. Patel
calling out, “Sorry!
Looking, looking,” until
lightning began filling
the sky seconds ahead
of ominous thunder.
With that, rain began
cascading down, bouncing
knee-high off the
dusty streets and rattling
off cars and motorcycles
as they raced by. A welcome
and refreshing
breeze blew in with the
deluge, growing in such
strength that the sound
began shaking the room
with deafening intensity.
Finally, Mr. Patel appeared
with an armful
of beautifully pressed
shir ts, Punjabi’s and
t h e Jo u r n e y