Revelations in the Mountains

I BREATHED in deeply as I opened my eyes, filling my lungs with the crisp mountain air. Snow-capped Himalayan peaks greeted me through the window. Aryan and I sat on the porch outside our room, drinking hot coffee and admiring the exquisite view. Prem Joshua's uplifting world fusion music played softly in the background, and the smoke from the stick of incense that we'd lit swirled around. We were staying in a small family-run guesthouse on the hill in the tiny village of Old Manali. Orchards of blossoming cherry and apple trees surrounded us. Clusters of small white butterflies fluttered joyfully in the spring sun. The snow had been late coming that year, and had only just cleared by the end of March. Rebuilding was industriously under way for the tourist season ahead.

We'd arrived in Manali on an overnight bus from Delhi. The sixteen-hour journey had turned into twenty hours, as the windy road was blocked by a collision between two trucks. As I stepped off the bus, dazed, I was surrounded by the usual melee of men offering their services.

‘You want taxi, madam?’ ‘You want rickshaw, madam?’

I discovered they could be readily subdued with an ‘ek minute’ (one minute). They repeated it to each other, startled at the sound of Hindi from a foreigner's mouth.

It was in Delhi that I realised what I wanted to do with myself in the future. It came to me unexpectedly, while sitting in the rooftop restaurant of the Shelton Hotel, in the seedy Paharganj tourist district. I was reading the newspaper over breakfast when an advertisement caught my attention: ‘Become a writer. Comprehensive creative writing course to get you started,’ it announced boldly.

I hadn't considered being a writer. It was such an esoteric profession, but the idea resonated with me. I recalled being in primary school, when my teacher proudly told my parents that I was the only child in first grade who had been able to write a proper story. My previous boss had also admired my ability to write understandable reports that required minimal editing. Writing was the one thing I'd enjoyed about my job. I tore the ad out and kept it, vowing to enrol in the course when the time was right.

As Aryan and I explored our surroundings in Manali, it was easy to see why the area was often referred to as the mysterious abode of the gods. The energy level seemed higher, buoyed by towering pine trees and raging rivers, and the pristine environment was perfect for divine creation. It wasn't long before we encountered three sadhus (Hindu holy men) keen to bless us in exchange for money. Well groomed and wearing collared shirts under their crisp saffron robes, they showed little sign of having renounced themselves from society. More likely, they were some of the fake sadhus that India was awash with. These sadhus prospered by posing for photos with tourists and offering phony prophecies. Still, we took a picture with them. Everything was new and exhilarating.

New Manali was every bit as commercialised as Old Manali was quaint. Cafés and guesthouses intermingled with villagers' homes in Old Manali, and it was common to see the locals herding their animals up and down the steep, narrow road. In New Manali, hotels, shops and restaurants jostled for space, along with the hordes of Indian honeymooners and tourists escaping the summer heat. In the evenings, they flocked to the stalls in The Mall to have their fill of paani puri (crispy hollow shells filled with spicy water), fairy floss and other snacks. Newlywed wives could be seen looking coy, their arms covered in mehendi (henna) and bangles indicating their transformed role and new position in society.

In contrast, Old Manali was a haven for hippie backpackers, many from Israel, who came to spend their days smoking handmade charas (hashish from the resin of cannabis plants).

‘Boom Shiva,’ they'd chant as they lit their chillums and passed them around. Cannabis plants flourished freely and wildly in Manali, on the roadside and even in front of the police station. In testimony to the plant's omnipresence, there's even a small village named Bhang about four kilometres from Manali.

Charas became illegal in India in the 1980s, but still has a sacred role in Indian culture because of its medicinal and mind-altering properties. Lord Shiva, the Hindu god of creation and destruction, was believed to have spent a thousand years in meditative rapture in the mountains high on charas. These days, sadhus and other devotees of Lord Shiva offer it to the god in worship and emulate him by smoking it. Since I was a non-smoker, it didn't appeal to me. For me, being in Manali was like being a vegetarian in a steakhouse.

Aryan and I set about finding somewhere to live. The driver who picked us up from the bus station showed us some apartments. The first two were located down the back of residential areas also housing cows and sheep. One didn't have a kitchen, while the other had an Indian-style bathroom complete with squat toilet.

The third place was in the newly constructed wing of a guesthouse, tucked away amid the orchards overlooking the Beas River. The walkway to the guesthouse led us past rows of flowering fruit trees and randomly growing cannabis plants. Men and women could be seen toiling in the fields, using buffaloes to pull their old-fashioned plowing equipment. The apartment was perfect and would apparently be ready in five days, after the carpenters had added the finishing touches.

Over a week later, the apartment was still incomplete but we decided to move in anyway. The wardrobe didn't have any shelves or a door, the gas and stove were yet to arrive, the water tank was still waiting to be filled and the Internet cable was dangling from the roof. But we had a home with a magnificent view.

When we went into New Manali to stock up on supplies for the apartment, much to my disappointment, I soon realised that the facilities were more primitive than in Varkala. Supermarkets were non-existent. Items had to be purchased from individual specialty stores where shopkeepers spoke minimal English. There were plenty of ‘English Wine Shops' but in curious contrast to what their names suggested, most didn't sell wine; only the demands of the whisky-drinking Indian male was catered for.

Aryan and I decided to tackle getting the kitchenware first. We stood in a small claustrophobically crowded shop, stacked ceiling to floor with steel pots, pans and other household goods. A painstaking process followed: I pointed to each item, while Aryan asked the shopkeeper how much it was. The shopkeeper slowly got each item down, presented it for inspection and quoted a price. It was impossible to browse and make comparisons like I was used to.

Buying food was just as time-consuming and difficult. Armed with the shopping list for khaane ki cheeze (things to eat), we decided to split up. It was beyond my ability to face the live meat market with its cages of doomed chickens and carcasses of various animals hanging and lying everywhere, so I chose to get the groceries.

My first challenge was purchasing channa (chickpeas). Chickpeas didn't come in tins in India, and in smaller grocery stores they didn't even come in packets. Instead, there were rows and rows of jute sacks filled with varieties that I'd never seen before.

‘Kaun sa wala? (Which one?)’ the shopkeeper asked.

Dismayed, I looked around until I spotted the white chickpeas that I was familiar with.

‘Umm, yeh wala (This one),’ I pointed to the bag.

I stumbled and mumbled my way through the shopping. I didn't want to have to resort to speaking English to the shopkeepers who addressed me in Hindi but at the same time, inexperienced in Hindi, I dreaded sounding foolish. After traipsing through the maze of the market and six shops later, I was exhausted but had managed to get everything we needed.

Wanting to do something constructive with our time in Manali, Aryan and I decided to open a small shop on the corner near the guesthouse. One of his friends from Kolkata had a stock of hand-painted backdrops that glowed under UV light, similar to the one that had been hanging in Aryan's room. We would sell them, along with a range of clothing and accessories that the friend had also acquired from various merchants. I'd often thought about having a shop since I was a child. I've always been fascinated with cash registers, so much so that I insisted on working as a checkout operator at the local supermarket when I was only fourteen years old. I'd even lied about my age so they'd accept me. I continued to work there until I was 21. Most of the time, I loved it.

The day the shop opened, we performed a special puja (prayer) for its success. Taking a couple of coconuts, a symbol of good luck and prosperity, we headed to the Manu Temple at the top of the hill in Old Manali. We removed our shoes and stepped inside, rang the brass temple bell to get the attention of the gods and lit a cluster of agarbatti (incense) sticks to purify and scent the atmosphere. In a circling motion, we held them up to the statues of each god.

On the floor in front of the shrine we cracked one coconut and, breaking it in half, offered it up to the gods. The ritual complete, Aryan and I placed tikkas (marks) on our foreheads at the location of the third eye chakra using kumkum (red turmeric) powder. At the shop, we distributed sweets to all the other shopkeepers, and broke open the second coconut outside. Inside, we lit more incense and placed a small statue of Lord Ganesh, the remover of obstacles, on a shelf.

While the shop opening got off to an auspicious start, Aryan and I soon discovered our personalities weren't suited to being shopkeepers. In India, the shopkeepers who prospered were those with confidence and the gift of the gab. They attracted the attention of prospective customers, lured them into their shops and successfully convinced them why they should buy their goods. Being quiet by nature, both Aryan and I found this difficult. We also quickly realised that customers wanted a bargain, and were more concerned about the price than the quality of an item.

We didn't want to sell our stock cheaply, so I decided to put them up for auction on eBay. To my amazement, the demand was solid. Prices that were considered high in India were reasonable elsewhere. As our stock began to run out, I started buying items from the other shops and selling them too.

What wasn't easy was mailing the items to the buyers. I had diligently researched the postage options and costs on the India Post website before committing the details to buyers. However, I later discovered that the services offered on the website didn't reflect those provided by the Manali Post Office. Crowded and disorganised, without any discernable queues, the post office fitted the model of a typical government-run office in India. It had clunking ceiling fans and towers of mail stacked on all available surfaces. Too many people and not enough fresh air made it stifling inside.

Much to my dismay, the post office was only offering basic services to customers on the day I first visited. This did not include registered mail. According to the staff, they weren't planning on sending registered mail again until two days later.

The elderly moustachioed assistant was unhelpful when I returned.

‘I'd like to send this as a registered letter.’

‘Sorry, madam, registered parcel post only,’ he replied.

‘What do you mean? The India Post website says that it's possible to send items up to two kilograms as registered letters. This item weighs less than 200 grams,’ I insisted, holding up the envelope containing a folded, lightweight backdrop wrapped in cardboard.

‘Not possible, madam. Only registered parcels,’ he was adamant.

‘If I send it as a parcel, how much will it cost?’ I sighed.

‘Approximately 400 rupees.’

This was a lot more than the 150 rupees that the India Post calculator online had quoted for a registered letter.

I'd already advised the buyer of the postage cost and couldn't increase it. There was no option but to send the backdrop as a registered parcel, and pay the additional cost myself.

‘You'll need to write your passport and visa details on the envelope.’

‘Why?’ I was becoming exasperated. I didn't have my passport with me. And I didn't want to waste more time and money going all the way back to the apartment to get it.

‘Because you're a foreigner, madam. If the mail gets returned you'll have to pay money to the customs department, and we also don't want the mail to sit unclaimed in this post office.’

‘Why would customs duty be payable on a returned item that is of Indian origin? And how will my visa and passport details help you in case the item is returned? I've written my address in Manali on the envelope. It can simply be sent there. I've never been asked for my passport and visa at a post office in India before,’ I shouted hysterically, fed up and completely overwhelmed by random policies that didn't match official information and demands that didn't make sense.

Why was there no consistency? Why was it so impossible for anything to go to plan in India?

Aryan came over to see what was wrong.

‘If he sent the item, would he have to provide any of this extra information?’ I demanded.

‘Of course not.’

‘Fine, then you send it. I give up,’ I said to Aryan.

‘Bewakuf! (Idiot!)’ I yelled as I stormed out. ‘And everyone else, mind your own business!’

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat on the footpath outside the post office, waiting for Aryan. An Indian lady and her mother noticed me, and asked if I was okay.

‘Don't be upset. Everything will be fine. You should go to the larger post office in Kullu. You'll be able to send your mail much more easily there,’ they comforted me.

I hated myself for letting the postmaster get the better of me and for creating such a scene. Aryan must be so embarrassed. I wondered how he coped. It wasn't the first time I'd become annoyed and shouted at people lately. I was used to feeling capable back in Australia. In India, I often felt helpless and bewildered. And, no doubt, lacking in commonsense.

But right at such an awful moment, India had turned the tables on me yet again, and presented me with two kind people who cared for my wellbeing. I didn't know what to think.

India tested every part of my personality, and brought out positive and negative qualities that I didn't even know existed. I'd felt compassion for people like I'd never felt before, and also rage like I'd never felt before. I considered myself an undemanding and polite person, a people pleaser, but India made me snap in ways that I never imagined I could. It pushed my emotions to the limit, then handed me a peace offering. There was no doubt that India was forcing me to become more assertive and less controlling. But I still had to learn not to let situations overwhelm me.

The ongoing scrutiny that my relationship with Aryan attracted also made me edgy. Locals asked Aryan where I came from and what he was doing with a white girl. Sometimes, they'd get confused as to whether or not I was Indian.

‘Is she Kashmiri?’ they'd want to know. It was common for Kashmiri Indians to have pale skin and dark hair.

The police troubled us as well. As we were walking along the road from Old Manali to New Manali, Aryan and I were stopped by a policeman in his vehicle.

‘Where are you from and what are you doing here?’ he grilled Aryan first. Then he turned to me.

‘Show me your passport, madam,’ he demanded. As he flicked through, his attention settled on my Nepali visa.

‘This visa is expired,’ he commented, obviously not understanding which country the visa was for. Then, turning back to Aryan, he slyly made a remark in Hindi.

‘He asked me how I'd been so lucky as to patao (woo) you,’ Aryan told me after the policeman had gone.

The reactions of some foreigners were just as biased.

‘I also speak some Hindi,’ a gora (white man) interrupted us at a café one evening. He was sitting on the table next to us and our Hindi conversation had caught his attention. Encouraged by the beer he was drinking, he started sharing his life story.

‘I partied so much when I was young. I had fast cars and fast women but I gave it all up when I realised I was no longer getting the highs that I needed. That's when I came to India and lived as a sannyasin (someone who has renounced worldly life) for ten years in complete chastity. I even wore chains down there and took pleasure in my self-control.

‘However, my downfall came when I returned to the UK. I met a ravishing redhead and completely lost myself to her, along with the evils of alcohol and cigarettes again. I came back to India and now I've fallen in love with a twenty-year-old girl from Tamil Nadu. I thought she might've been 30, and she thought I was 50. But I'm actually 60. Her parents were initially pleased with my interest but when they found out I didn't have any money and didn't want to live in the UK, they put a stop to our relationship. I'm so frustrated because I've realised I'm getting old but I don't feel it. My age is getting in the way of what I want to do,’ he lamented.

When I left the table to go to the toilet, the conversation abruptly turned to me.

‘You got lucky. How did you end up with someone so stunning? Are you planning to go and live in Australia?’ the gora bluntly questioned Aryan.

It hurt, the way that people openly and superficially judged us because of the colour of our skin and the countries we came from. It made me self-conscious and led me to constantly and irrationally imagine what people were thinking and saying about us.

A little over a month after we'd arrived in Manali, I unwittingly ended up on the set of a Bollywood movie. Part of the movie was being filmed at an historic castle nearby, where a huge carnival scene was being created. Shopkeepers with eye-catching items were needed to act as stall-holders in the background.

Serendipitously, Aryan had gone to Manali and I was in our shop by myself when the assistant art director stopped by.

‘These backdrops are really vibrant. Would you mind displaying them on the set of a movie?’ he asked.

If Aryan had been in the shop, he would have said no, but I was curious about how Bollywood movies were made. Plus, we'd be paid for our time. It didn't take much to convince me to say yes.

The next day, Aryan and I found ourselves in a mini-van loaded with Indian shopkeepers who sold everything from wooden masks to furry jackets. The most entertaining was a young artist from Bihar who produced traditional Madhubani paintings. He talked incessantly to us during the journey.

‘My name's Himanshu. I'm from Bihar but live in Kerala, Goa and Manali selling my art now. I had a love marriage to a Gujarati, but I've got a girlfriend who's an American yoga teacher. She knows everything about me but my wife doesn't know anything. I love to flirt.’ I didn't quite know what to make of his complicated life circumstances, which he seemed to be proud of, and hoped that he wouldn't decide to flirt with me.

We arrived at a set that was an astonishing hive of activity. Hundreds of workers were industriously building, painting and sculpting around the clock. It was fascinating to see so many artisans in action, bringing to life a fairytale with their hands. At a loss as to what to do, we spent most of the day sitting around waiting. The remainder of the shopkeepers, who were due to turn up at 2 p.m., didn't arrive until 8 p.m. Lunch was late. The shopkeepers discovered the food wasn't to their liking and went to eat at a nearby vegetarian restaurant, demanding that the production company pay. As soon as I stepped outside to the lunch buffet, I was pounced upon by a couple of young Rajasthani women on vacation.

‘Didi! (Sister!) Photo, photo!’ they screamed as they pulled my arm.

In the afternoon, the shopkeepers bought a bottle of whisky and drank it behind the set, while Himanshu played Hindi songs on his mobile phone and danced. It wasn't until after dark that the director arrived. A hush swept over the set. He walked in and proceeded to tell everyone where to display their goods.

‘Make sure the shopkeepers are on the set at 6 a.m. for filming tomorrow,’ I overheard him say.

The set was nowhere near finished. To me, it looked like filming would be impossible. The artisans would be working through the night to get it ready.

At 11.30 p.m., Aryan and I were yet to leave. We'd been told that we should stay there, with the rest of the shopkeepers to keep an eye on our belongings.

‘No one mentioned anything about this to me. I don't have a change of clothes or anything. Plus where are we going to sleep?’

Unaccustomed to the Indian ability to slumber surrounded by people and with just a mattress on the floor, I refused. Finally, a car was arranged to take us back to Manali.

We arrived home well after midnight, exhausted. At 4 a.m., the alarm went off. I struggled out of bed, looking like a creature of the night with bloodshot eyes. The sun was rising.

Despite the early start, we arrived on the set two hours late. India, as always, produced the unexpected. The magician who was supposed to be picked up in New Manali wasn't there. We waited for over fifteen minutes before the driver went to retrieve him from his hotel room. When he got into the car, I couldn't help noticing that he had the hairiest ears I'd ever seen. Some strands were over five centimetres long. Just out of Manali, we encountered a broken-down tourist bus that was blocking the entire road.

‘Mera dimag kharab hogaya (My brain has become bad),’ the crew member sitting in the front seat repetitively muttered, as phone calls became more anxious. Time marched on, but we failed to move. A crowd of Indian spectators gathered around the bus and were entertained by a passing stream of locals performing their early morning ablutions. Teeth were cleaned and tongues scraped with sticks, as they openly bathed under taps. At last, the tourists were ordered off the bus and the bystanders pushed it off the road. One guy produced a whistle and blew it keenly while waving his arms around.

Surprisingly, when we finally arrived, the set was complete. We met a subdued Himanshu.

‘I had to share a room with seven people and hardly got any rest,’ he grumbled.

I rushed around madly trying to get all the stock displayed according to instructions, while Aryan looked at me in exasperation. It was obvious I still hadn't adjusted to Indian time.

Eventually the cast emerged in readiness for the dance scene. The success or otherwise of a Bollywood movie often depends solely on its soundtrack and dance scenes. Interestingly, these dance scenes mostly have no relevance to the movie or real life. They deliberately feature attractive women in revealing costumes, usually dancing in a provocative manner. The lyrics consistently contain over-the-top references to love, life, the heart and romance. With Indian culture being so conservative, such scenes provide an indulgence that people are unaccustomed to seeing every day. To Indians, a Bollywood film without dance scenes would be like curry without chilli – bland and unappealing.

Understandably, a lot of effort and money is devoted to making dance scenes in Bollywood movies. Still, I was shocked to learn that two weeks of preparation and filming would result in only one six-minute dance scene. It was a time-consuming process that required days of work, many costume changes and sets.

The dancing itself was highly choreographed and shot in very small blocks from different angles, and not in sequence. It was mesmerising to watch the set burst into life with great vigour and enthusiasm, only to have the energy dissipate just as quickly as soon as ‘cut’ was called. With the same song playing over and over for days on end, as each movement was repeatedly filmed, the strength of my grip on sanity was tested.

The set had been transformed into a vibrant extravaganza complete with Tibetan dancers, costumed Tibetan yaks and traditionally dressed locals who had been rounded up from surrounding villages to be extras. The local women were so sweet and friendly. I chatted to them as much as my limited Hindi would allow.

It didn't take long before the director noticed me and came over.

‘Your pretty red dress isn't going to be seen if you stay where you are. Stand over here and move these baskets around. Try and avoid being disturbed by the dancing yak, and stop it from biting you,’ he instructed. And with those words, my unforeseen role as a Bollywood extra had begun.

The next day, Himanshu's wife arrived from Gujarat. Relieved, I hoped it would put a stop to his attempts to flirt with me. She wasn't at all like how he'd described her. Instead, she was modern, attractive, spoke very good English, obviously understood him and knew how to keep him in line.

‘I asked him to marry me, despite the fact that my parents didn't approve of me marrying someone who wasn't from my caste,’ she told me. Clearly, she was a strong and determined woman.

I was on the set by myself, as Aryan had a cold and wasn't feeling well. I soon regretted my decision to be there alone. At lunchtime, the crew invited me to join them. With trepidation, I agreed. They seemed preoccupied with their work and very quickly returned to the set, leaving me with the director and assistant director.

After lunch, the assistant director called me aside.

‘I just wanted to tell you that the crew is trying to set me up with you. They've chosen me as the victim of their latest prank.’

I wasn't impressed. It was hard enough being the only foreigner on a Hindi-speaking set, without having to deal with people's practical jokes as well. I missed the reassurance of having Aryan by my side, his calmness and instincts about situations to compensate for my enduring naïveté.

I tried to keep as much of a low profile as possible that afternoon but it was difficult with the director deliberately asking me to be in various shots. I counted the hours until I could go home to the safety of Aryan's arms.

It took over two hours for all the shopkeepers to be paid at the end of the day, drawn out by a dramatic argument between Himanshu and one of the crew members.

‘This isn't the amount you agreed to pay me. You don't know my worth!’ he shouted in front of everyone before storming off. His performance was worthy of being in a Bollywood movie; it was fitting that we were on the set of one.

As a result of the delay, the car that was to take us back to Manali had already left. It looked like it was going to be a long wait for another one.

‘Would you like to share a ride with myself and the crew?’ the director asked.

Wanting to get home as soon as possible, I reluctantly agreed. After dropping the crew at their hotel, the director climbed into the back of the van with me.

‘You're so pleasingly congenial. Good-looking girls usually have attitudes and you never know where you stand with them.’

I wondered where the conversation was headed.

‘Will you have dinner with me?’ he asked.

I desperately wanted to be back in the apartment with Aryan.

‘I'm sorry, I'm really tired. I just want to go home,’ I managed to say.

When it was time for me to get out of the car, the director insisted on walking with me back to my apartment.

‘It's dark, and it's down a hill,’ I protested.

‘I want to see the view,’ he insisted, not taking no for an answer. Fortunately, Aryan was near the window and saw us arrive together.

‘Come in,’ he extended an invitation as he opened the door. The situation defused, the director left soon after.

‘You're not going back tomorrow,’ Aryan said when I told him what had happened.

I had no desire to argue with him. The crew obviously didn't take my relationship with Aryan seriously. But maybe it didn't cross their minds that we were in a relationship. White foreigner and Indian man: more than likely, they simply mistook him as just another shopkeeper and me as another tourist.

I needed to get some space. Hoping that nature would be kind enough to dissolve some of my stress and fill me with energy, I went for a walk in the forested Manali Reserve that connects New Manali with Old Manali. Bordered by the powerful Beas River, its fertile green carpet was peppered with boulders and woven with walking tracks. I lay down on one of the wooden benches and shut my eyes. The sun flickering through the soaring pine trees warmed my face and soothed my mind.

When I awoke, however, the good feelings were swiftly lost. I had an audience – one man was sitting, staring, on a nearby rock. Another was half hidden behind a boulder. Two young guys, gaining confidence from each other, proceeded to strut over and seat themselves right next to me. This inspired the other men to follow. Before long, they were all round me. I tried to remain composed but failed when I realised that one of them was pretending to talk on his mobile phone. What he was actually doing was taking a photo of me.

‘Baysharam! (Shameless!)’ I spluttered, almost speechless with fury. It didn't take long for my anger to turn into pain though. Right when I needed solitude the most, it eluded me. Even worse, it had been replaced by the thing that made me feel most uncomfortable: being ogled at. I didn't want to be an object of anyone's desires. I didn't want intrusions into my personal space. I just wanted to be anonymous and alone.

Tense and burdened, I decided to attend one of the Reiki courses held at the Reiki centre in nearby Vashist. Vashist was fast becoming a popular alternative to Manali, with many travellers staying there to learn yoga and other alternative therapies. The Reiki Master, I discovered, was a tiny, bubbly woman called Ritu. She put me at ease straightaway with her warmth and openness. At last, my teacher had appeared. I was ready. Happily, Aryan also agreed to study with me.

We sat in Ritu's lavender-coloured room, surrounded by crystals and with the Himalayas as our backdrop. There were four of us in the class. Aryan, me and a Spanish couple. We began by learning the theory about energy and the chakras.

‘Everything in the universe is made up of energy, vibrating at different frequencies. This includes human beings. The universe is formed out of the energies of five elements, the same as human beings. They are air, earth, space, fire and water. Each element describes the essential qualities of life-force energy. They balance and transform this energy. Each element is also associated with one of the seven chakras, or energy centres of the human body.’

I was most interested in what Ritu had to say about the heart and root chakras.

‘The heart chakra is the emotional centre of a person. It's the place where the energies of the three upper chakras and three lower chakras blend. The task when dealing with the heart chakra is to drop expectations, and love yourself and others without barriers. Society and family condition people's minds. We all have ideals in our minds about how a ‘father’, a ‘mother’, a ‘husband’ should be. However, everyone is different. Therefore, we can't judge them against any ideal. We must look at a person as a person. Just because someone is not fulfilling all conditions doesn't mean that they're not a good person. We are always looking through the eyes of others. We are always judging ourselves and others as not being good enough.’

Ritu's words really made me think. It was as if she was speaking to directly to me about my situation. Aryan wasn't tall, white and wealthy – the ideal of what my husband should be, according to the expectations from my old life. Instead, his strengths and what he had to offer me were more subtle.

I'd started noticing how Aryan rarely complained about anything, from the situations he was in to how he was feeling. If I needed something, he willingly got it for me. If I was feeling down, he did little things to comfort me and cheer me up. If I was tired, he offered to do the housework. He was comfortable enough with himself that he behaved the same way around everyone, and didn't feel like he had to prove anything. Maybe he couldn't provide me with material stability, but he could provide me with emotional stability.

We completed each other. He had the unconditional love in his heart that I was so lacking, while I was disciplined and responsible in ways he wasn't. In addition to mirroring the parts of each other that we needed to develop, I also saw some of the negative aspects of my past behaviour in him and got to experience their impact.

‘The lowest chakra is the root chakra,’ Ritu continued. ‘The root chakra relates to the physical body of a person. It's responsible for our physical form. It grounds us to the Earth and opens up for the Earth energies to flow through us. When people can't relax, and are always tense and fearful, their physical body will have a lot of pain and illness. If the root chakra is blocked or weak, a person will lack vitality and even lose the will to live. The past is stored in two places in the body – the root chakra, and the subconscious in the back of the head. The task when working with the root chakra is to strengthen our trust in life and our right to be here. The root chakra also connects a person with their biological mother. One of the best ways to heal your root chakra is to heal your relationship with your mother.’

I did feel an overwhelming need to heal my past, and that included improving my relationship with my mother. Instead of getting frustrated with our differing opinions, like I usually did, I was keen to appreciate her positive qualities and look for common ground between us.

After the theory was complete, we were ready to receive our Reiki attunements. As we sat on the floor and meditated with our eyes closed, Ritu performed the process that would open up our chakras and connect us at a higher level to the universal life energy. It was similar to the process of turning the frequency dial on a radio to find a station. We were being tuned in to a higher frequency, a higher level of vibration.

Although the results of the process could not be seen, they could readily be sensed. I felt a rush of energy in my lower two chakras. Afterwards, I felt dazed. My energy levels felt disturbed and unsettled. My emotions progressed from feeling calm, to teary, to elated, to vulnerable and wanting affection, then to disturbed and wanting to retreat.

That evening, I experienced an intense energy shift. One minute I was overflowing with love and gratitude, and the next minute negative emotions were pouring out of me. I lay down on the bed and buried myself under a blanket. My whole focus went inwards. All I wanted to do was breathe in and out. I felt the negative energy flowing out through the lower chakras. Tears came. I was hot, then cold. Exhausted but in a state of elation, completely charged with energy but in an uncontrollable and unsustainable way.

My attention was scattered. I felt like I was experiencing a different level of awareness. My energy and being seemed to blend with everything else around me. I looked at things and noticed small details in their composition. Objects didn't seem to exist in their usual form anymore. A beetle. A person. A bed. They were simply compositions of energy that happened to look different. Then came warm feelings, like I was blessed with a new gift. One that would always be with me, whenever I needed it. I felt so connected to the universe and a part of all that was around me.

Over the forthcoming days, my body adjusted itself to the new level of energy. My emotions continued to oscillate from one extreme to another. At times, my energy levels were so high it produced a rushing sensation similar to having drunk too much coffee. During those times, I felt like I was being propelled in a whole new direction in life.

In class, we practised giving Reiki treatments to each other, allowing the energy to flow through our hands. We also gave Reiki to ourselves daily. The sensations in our hands, when we placed them over the various chakras, indicated if there were any issues. My hands went cold over my root chakra, indicating a large blockage of energy. However, when I placed them over the heart chakra of another student, I experienced a rush of love and happiness. It was such a dramatic difference. I also found that my left hand became shaky and tingly when energy was flowing through it to repair unbalanced chakras.

During the Reiki treatments, I began to get some uniformity in the emotions that came up. I felt the need to put a wall up, and not let anyone know my thoughts and experiences. I didn't want to let anyone really know me because then I would be exposed and vulnerable. I felt dirty and uncomfortable with myself. I didn't want people knowing me intimately. Then came the thoughts of how people, especially my parents, might criticise my relationship with Aryan. I felt the pain of being judged by everyone, and not being free to be myself. It seemed like so much negativity was being drawn out of me. More tears came.

I realised that I had two related issues. The fear of being judged and the fear of being known. The only way I could get over my fear of being judged was to let myself be judged, and the only way I could get over my fear of being known was to let myself be known. And it was through my relationship with Aryan that I could achieve both, if I was strong enough. The universe had planned it well. If I remained with Aryan and faced up to everyone's judgements about our relationship, then I would receive his unconditional love as a result. This would in turn allow me to feel secure and comfortable enough to open myself up completely. But in order to achieve this, I'd have to have the courage to go against so many of society's ideals about how I should lead my life and who I should be with. I would need every bit of willpower and clarity that I could draw upon.

I did a crystal healing session with Ritu. The pain of my past with Michael flowed through me. There was pain that things didn't work out between us, pain of not being able to prevent it, and pain of being blamed for what had happened.

‘You have to forgive him and yourself. Now it's time to move forward and let go of it. Focus on and appreciate your new life, and being with someone who can give you the love that you deserve.’

Aryan came to meet me after the session. He held my hand, and we went walking through the nearby forest to a waterfall. I felt drained but cleansed.

The intense experiences continued as I continued to practise Reiki every day. Sometimes, I felt dizzy like I was going to faint. There was a heaviness in my chest, and a pulling sensation from my heart chakra to my root chakra. The cool, fresh air blowing through the windows smelled like home. I felt so sad, so far away. More tears silently ran down the side of my face. Overwhelmingly, I needed to go home and reconnect with my parents. In recent years, I'd been so absorbed with my life in Melbourne, I hardly saw them. So many visions of us together as a family when I was younger flashed through my mind. I felt like I was starting afresh as a new person, and I wanted to be close to my parents again. It was like my life had come full circle.

As all the emotions and tears came out, Aryan lay beside me and stroked my forehead.

‘I can see so much in your eyes,’ he said.

The horrible feelings of being vulnerable and exposed surfaced again. Yet, Aryan felt none of it. There was just love, tenderness and acceptance from him, that special quality that made him so different to everyone. Eventually, he turned off the light. The negative emotions dissipated and were gradually replaced with feelings of warmth and comfort. I wanted to be wrapped up in a cocoon, enveloped safely.

‘It seems like everything is so quickly moving to a point and converging in my life now,’ I said.

‘It will only be upwards from now,’ he said.

So much was opening up and coming together like the the swirls and strokes of henna being applied. It reached the point where each element started fitting together and it was possible to see the bigger picture.

The Reiki experience changed both of us. We felt inspired about future possibilities, and less inclined to want to party and drink. My energy levels had altered so much that even one glass of alcohol made me tired and depressed. Strangely, it no longer produced the feelings of cheerfulness and relaxation that I was used to.

Despite the challenges, Manali had been a place of transformation for me like it is for many people. Not only sacred but also scenic, it felt alive with the spiritual energy of ancient sages that were believed to have spent time in the area – energy that infused me. The purity and tranquillity of the environment and living so close to nature, where humans and animals existed closely together, was perfect for soul-searching. I thought about the things I was going to miss: waking up to the sight of snow-capped mountains every morning, the rush of the river below our apartment, the fresh scent of the pine trees, the quaint cafés in rambling gardens, fresh fruit from the surrounding orchards, and the cows and sheep that were herded up and down the road.

With time again running out before I had to return to Australia, I started to consider the future. As I browsed the Internet for jobs in India, one unexpectedly caught my eye – content writer for a travel website. It was perfect. I loved to write and loved to travel. The only problem was that I couldn't work in India, and wouldn't be able to readily obtain an employment visa for a job that an Indian could easily do.

But it sparked an idea in my mind. I'd create my own website. Many people made money from advertising and commissions on the sale of products recommended on their websites. Maybe I could too.

Undeterred by the fact that I knew nothing about HTML coding, search engine optimisation or affiliate marketing, I downloaded manual after manual and began to learn. It was complex and involved. Yet, it didn't dampen my enthusiasm. After contemplating a range of different subjects, I decided I'd start with a website on natural health. It was a family interest and I had plenty of information about it. Having a purpose to devote my spare time to made it easier to accept having to leave India and Aryan.

‘I've met a lot of girls but none like you,’ Aryan declared to me one night close to my departure. ‘I feel so much love for you. You're definitely the girl for me, the one I want to marry.’

‘How do you know that?’ I really wanted to be sure of what he was saying.

‘I ask myself questions, and I also notice so many little things that you do for me. You've made all the places that we've lived in a home for us, plus you've helped me become a better person. I'm so much healthier and happier now. You saved me from a lifestyle that wasn't good for me.’

I'd decided to fly home from Mumbai, and we planned to go there together from Manali. He'd stay with his parents in Mumbai and slowly tell them about me. I'd return to my life in Melbourne, and find a temporary job. What would happen after that depended on the reaction of Aryan's parents to his news. He didn't have much hope that they'd view it positively.

The long-distance Paschim Express deposited us in a soggy Mumbai, in the grip of another year's monsoon. Big city life was confronting after the tranquillity of the mountains. Incessant traffic jammed the roads. A motley assortment of standing, sitting and squatting men crammed the streets. I quickly discovered that Mumbai was full of quirky characters.

‘I often give people wrong directions, especially to motorbike riders,’ the taxi driver happily admitted to Aryan on the way to our hotel. ‘Many motorbikes don't have shields on the back of their tyres and they spray water everywhere, all over my windscreen. One day, I told a guy to drive twenty minutes straight in the opposite direction to where he wanted to go, and not to bother to stop and ask for further directions. He would have ended up somewhere near the airport,’ the driver chuckled.

At our small hotel opposite Juhu Beach, the manager was keen to find out as much as possible about the mixed race couple who had arrived at his hotel in a taxi overflowing with luggage. I decided to play his game and fired back questions of my own.

‘How long have you been working in the hotel?’

‘Ten years, madam. But actually, I've been sacked two times in those ten years. This is the third time I've been employed at this hotel.’ He smiled and wobbled his head.

I must have looked astonished. ‘I can't lie to you about something like this, madam,’ he said earnestly.

There was a certain magic in discovering the city by the sea where Aryan grew up. I was filled with wonder that this could be my future home.

Mumbai is known for its extreme standards of living, fast-paced lifestyle and the making – or breaking – of dreams. The suburbs were surging ahead at a rapid rate, filling with shopping malls, department stores and high-rise apartments. On the other hand, south Mumbai still reflected the rule of the Raj with its intricate colonial English architecture. Peppered throughout the city were the slums that also made Mumbai famous, but which most people preferred to turn a blind eye to. On initial impressions, Mumbai struck me as a city with an identity crisis. But its cosmopolitan nature made it more foreigner-friendly and livable than other cities in India.

Aryan and I walked along Juhu Beach and ate fresh pav bhaji from the snack stalls, before getting drenched in a monsoon downpour as we ran, laughing, to our hotel for cover. We shopped at the street market on Linking Road in Bandra, and had dinner with friends from Kolkata who had relocated to Mumbai. Refreshingly, nobody bothered us. The city almost felt like home to me already. It felt like I was discovering a new part of Aryan along with it.

My last day in Mumbai was bittersweet. Aryan took his bags home to his parents' apartment, then returned to take me to the airport. The huge smile on his face wasn't something that I expected to see.

‘I couldn't help it. I confessed everything to my mum about us. She told me not to worry, that she was my mother and that everything would be okay. She also said that we could marry if your parents agreed. No doubt she'll have so many questions though.’

Aryan was shocked by his mother's easy acceptance. He had expected her to react negatively, like she'd done over his brother's love marriage. Perhaps, more than anything, she was simply happy that Aryan finally wanted to get married.

I couldn't believe her acceptance either. It felt like such a relief. I wanted to know more.

‘She was sitting on the floor eating lunch when I arrived. I told her how I'd learned to cook, and showed her some of the things we'd been selling. Then everything just came out. Of course, she wanted to meet you and to know all the details about you, including what you looked like, and what you and your family did. But then she was worried that you'd leave me if you earned more than me. I told her it was nothing like that though.’

‘It's true. Love is much more important than money to me. Being loved by you is the best feeling in the world.’

‘Oh baby, I really do love you. And, I'll put some love away for you every day while we're apart. Then, we can be together forever.’

We sat in Café Mocha opposite Juhu Beach, sipping espressos and talking as the rain poured down around us. After spending every day together for the past year, neither of us knew how we'd deal with being apart. Our only reassurance was the future we were working towards.

It seemed like everything was continuing to fall into place. I was content knowing that Aryan had a happy home to go to, and that he was in the best health and frame of mind possible. I felt positive and motivated, knowing what I was going back to Australia to achieve.

At the airport, I used the bathroom and surprised myself by reaching for the water instead of the toilet paper. My Indianness had come a long way.