I am Indian (Part 3)

All the apprehensions for my former life began to slowly seep out of the protective cocoon I had quite skillfully spun around myself over the years. The insulation - within which I had deeply concealed the ugly fibres of my despair - had begun to loosen its tautness.

Alan and I were on the last 3 days of our 3 week adventure that had taken us to the heights of Dharamsala where we witnessed stories of incredible courage from the generations of Tibetans who had seen the destruction of their homeland to the young children who had never known a free Tibet. We had wandered into the stench of the slums and eaten at the makeshift table of abject poverty in a tidy little room drenched with sunshine and generosity. This eye-opening journey into the very bowels of despair plunged and infused my inner senses with feelings to which I could not give a name.

Each and every one of the Tibetans had a tragic personal story; many had lost a family member or had been beaten, wounded or tortured. They were all united in the memory of their long icy and arduous journey across the Himalayas from Tibet to India. But importantly, I realised that they were one breathing being in their way of life … the Middle Way of Buddhism. I did not know their secret then, but I was already converted to wanting to think their way – these displaced peaceful people had revealed to me in just 5 short days that I could smile with the glee of a child, again.

And so to Mumbai where we would end our 2004 holiday, in the city that I would soon begin to sentimentally and obsessively want to call my second home. Amchi Mumbai. My Alan – suddenly so patient and in no rush to get anywhere quickly, I hardly recognised him. He too had begun to morph. I dearly hope he will one day find the time to write his owns journals to share with you his personal story. I can joyfully tell you that the man who left Perth with a wannabe Indian woman who had developed in recent years prior, into a depressive recluse - was heading for Mumbai with a very liberated partner. Two and a half weeks spent with the people we met, spoke with, ate and shared umpteen cups of chai with, laughed and cried with … had begun to work its magic. Out of my cocoon my Indian soul was being delivered. I am breathing.

My mother had speculated that India would change my life. How much it did would completely surprise her, for upon my return I would spend a full year immersing my life in discovering through literally every single book available at the library - the Middle Way and Christian Zen. It would become my breath. And I would slowly discover what lay behind the happy smiles of the Tibetans and Indians.

And then I would struggle over a decision that I knew I had to make. But Agnes would come along and in her quiet way would thoughtfully place a book of her own into my hands. Her acceptance and encouragement. This gift would lead me to the hills in Serpentine where at a peaceful monastery I would take the Five Buddhist Precepts.

It would be another year before this happened for I needed to wait. I was mindful daily ... looking for Jesus to give me his permission. You see, I wanted my friendship with him to continue forever, and I needed him to tell me it was okay to move on.

And then, one day at work he gives it to me. Clearly in writing.

My Buddhist name is Maya.