February 16. On a bus. Somewhere in south India.
Transitioning into a new grid can be a turbulent business. Forty-eight hours ago I was standing ankle-deep in sleet in the middle of Times Square following a snow storm that shut down the UN for the first time in 15 years. I was there with my ex-husband Daniel. He and I had indulged in much of what NYC has to offer. We ate sushi and drank sake. We had expensive cocktails in trendy bars. We smoked grass and Marlboro cigarettes. I ate a whole double-sized Snickers bar at “Wicked,” one of the best musicals I've ever seen. We drank red wine and ate pasta. We went to The David Letterman Show and witnessed this master of entertainment work his magic with a hat trick of talented celebs. We laughed out load with Jennifer Garner, Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover model Brookly Decker and Sade who performed her new hit 'Soldier of Love.' It was a tightly-packed whirlwind visit that was the epitome of modern entertainment. I was ready for a respite by the time Daniel dropped me at the airport.
Major scene change. Chennai, India. There are WAY more people here than in Times Square. I come out of the airport on to streets of chaos and garbage. Reeling. Can these two places be on the same planet?Within days I am sick. I mean BIG sick. I spend the first day in denial. “It's just a little sniffle. So what if I'm using eight tissues an hour?” By day three its full on. My brain is melting from the inside out. Can't swallow. I'm in an altered state. Delirious as the landscape of India floats by me in the window of our tour bus. It's a swirling blend of beggars, saris, garbage, cars, starving dogs, turbans, cows and motorcycles sporting entire families. Where exactly am I and when will the spinning stop?
We arrive at a resort. Marigolds and salty ocean air. My skin drinks and my head pounds. The hot knife embedded in my throat twists deeper. My back aches from the bed springs of my paper-thin mattress that seems more for decoration than support. Yoga helps. I do my best to stay an observer of the process that my body is enduring. India has demanded that I purify before I go any further.
The resort hosts an Ayurvedic Spa and there is space for me to have a treatment. On the night of the apex of my illness, Mother India arrives for me through the hands of a Pachamama-like healer with kind eyes and skilled hands. I give myself over to this Mother of Ganges with a feverish hope that her care will tender my weary body into wellness.
She pours generous handfuls of a blend of 16 oils on my aching bones and works with a matter-of-fact focus and dexterity that reminds me of a mother Bengal tiger tending her cub. Is she actually purring or just humming along to the sound of her hands as they wring out my bones? Her touch communicates love. She is earnest in her desire for me to be well. Her service touches me. I let go. The ice of New York City melts out of my pours and evaporates leaving my ears open to hear the joyful sound of chirping crickets. She smacks oil with loud thumps onto my crown chakra and uses her pinky fingers to work my nostrils open. The little girl within me gasps. I breathe. Oxygen floods my blood stream and Prana flows again. And what is this wonderful smell? Jasmine, floating in on the warm breeze to welcome me, officially, to India.
