Like an unblemished spot on the dustsheet that is Ahmedabad, the Gandhi ashram stood unstained, repelling the muck and chaos that settled around it. It gently hugged the bank of a quietly rolling stretch of the city’s cleansing, Sabarmati river.
On this morning I was blessed – an opportunity to enjoy a few days in this saintly and resolute place came my way. An inexpensive room was available in its guest house; a room that was only a few steps away from Gandhi’s prayer ground.
This site held the legacy of historic prayer. It also launched a movement that embodied a throbbing passion for political and social justice through non-violent, civil disobedience. This was the origin of the Dandi salt march in 1930. It launched the satyagraha movement that would be the philosophy and the tactic that would lead to the downfall of British rule in India.
An early morning light illuminated the modest whitewashed buildings, roofed in terracotta tiles. Their arrangement created intimate, well-swept spaces. Small sculptural almond trees, with their red ochre painted trunks, provided inviting shade.
Nearby was my favourite part of the ashram – its small, well-stocked bookshop which offered books and booklets on Gandhi’s message. It reflected the civility of the institution. Graciously welcomed, and quietly left alone, I enjoyed my time there.
The choice of manager was most appropriate. He fit the bill – an affable and conscientious man who seemed to especially relish his duty when serving overseas visitors. He respectfully befriended me on my first visit.
Taking a wicker seat, I would recline and enjoy watching him sell a book. At the point of purchase, he would take it from the customer, handling it with reverence. Having it wrapped in a page of the Hindu Times was an option he would offer. The customer would then be presented with a hand-written and signed receipt, headed by a linocut image of Gandhi stepping out from the ashram on that famous march. The thud of his rubber stamp upon the receipt denoted the closure of the deal, whereupon he would gracefully hand over the purchase as if it were a Faberge egg.
The same procedure was followed for all sales, including my first purchase. It was a booklet on Gandhi’s ‘Discourses from the Gita’, costing me the price of two small bananas.
On my second visit I delved further into my budget with the purchase of Gandhi’s autobiography, ‘My experiments with Truth’. It was four hundred and twenty pages of small print on rough quality paper, not very well bound. I was courteously presented with a receipt no greater than the price of two cold drinks. This weighty volume will forever carry his message, as it just about remains in one piece 36 years later.
The bookshop was a good way to start the day, each visit including a friendly chat with the manager. On this particular morning he seemed honoured when I told him that I was setting off to explore his compelling city, via the west bank of the Sabarmati river.
The January weather was perfect for a North European. With a cooling breeze blowing off the water, the air was fragrant with jasmine and bougainvillea.
The thrum from within the traffic did not disturb anything. I felt at peace with the world.
That is, for all of 10 minutes, when the frantic, staccato ringing of a high-pitched bicycle bell pierced that pervading hum. Becoming louder, and obviously getting closer, I looked across the street to see what it was.
‘Mr. Steffan! Mr. Steffan!’ was the alarming cry from over the way. A dark green Hero bicycle darted over to my side of the road. I felt a little startled to see the bookshop manager riding it. He surged over to me and braked hard, sliding on the gritty surface. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow above the heavy black rim of his glasses. Once he had caught his breath he said to me, ‘You must come quickly sir, you must be returning to the ashram’.
I became concerned, thinking irrationally that my room had become infested, maybe burned to the ground, or perhaps the police were looking for me?
‘What’s the problem?’ I asked.
‘There is Mr. Peter, sir. He is at the ashram. Mr. Peter Ruhr.’
‘Yes?’, I slowly exhaled. ‘What about it?’
‘You must be meeting him sir, please come’, he said.
With a bemused expression on my face, I stammered, ‘But why? Who is he?’
There was a slight pause as the manager’s eyes opened wide. He turned his hands over and extended his fingers, and from his chin to his waist he made a sweeping movement parallel to his torso.
I could only assume that this gesture meant that he was of a different appearance to himself, perhaps indicating a different ethnic origin? A different culture?
He continued, ‘Because he is one of you people sir, you must be meeting him’. I remained unclear as to what his point was, so I asked, ‘What about it? I don’t think I need to meet him just because he is European’.
‘Yes sir, you must. He is from German, Mr Peter Ruhr’. He emphasised the name as if he were the Chancellor himself.
I thanked him for letting me know that a German guest had arrived at the ashram, but that I didn’t understand the urgency. I told him that I had met many German people before and that I was planning to return that evening and would be happy to meet Mr Ruhr then.
‘No, no sir. You must be coming now. He is taking the breakfast. You can be meeting him now.’
Despite my protestations the bookshop manager would not let this go, he continued his insistence to a point where I felt I couldn’t refuse him without appearing rude. He was a kind man, and I took into consideration that he had always shown me such polite respect.
As we retraced our half-mile journey back towards the ashram, I wondered why he was being so persistent. Surely, he had met many Europeans in his position at the ashram. Perhaps he enjoyed being helpful in trying to unite them, so that they could yearn together for cool weather, discuss the state of each other’s liver or bowels, or reminisce over bowls of muesli or other favourite foods that were unavailable in Gujarat.
We entered the large refectory which was a more modern addition to the ashram, and Mr. Peter Ruhr was its only diner when we arrived there. He was wearing local home-spun cottons and was taking a late breakfast. As we were introduced he seemed as puzzled by the situation as I was. The manager returned to the bookshop he had closed in order to pursue me, leaving Peter Ruhr and I alone together. I took a seat and ordered a glass of masala chai.
Peter Ruhr had established a Gandhi Foundation in Berlin. He visited India regularly in order to study a particular aspect of the Mahatma’s life. I found his academic knowledge a little overwhelming, but once we had got over the initial awkwardness of the strange situation, we both relaxed.
I wondered just what this Peter Ruhr did with his time in India? How does he manage to get under the skin of this country?
He explained that his objective on this particular trip was to learn more about Ayurveda (the knowledge of life, based on the ancient Sanskrit texts), as this was central to understanding Gandhi’s philosophy. It determined his approach to diet, daily practice, medicine and good health.
Two cups of chai further, and Peter Ruhr remained encouraging. Noting my interest, he suggested that I might wish to visit a small family run Ayurvedic vaidyasala (hospital), some 2000km south, in the state of Kerala, should I be heading in that direction. He thought that they would be happy to talk with me there, and to show me around. They made medicines and oils on site, had treatment rooms, and that there was plenty of provision for in-patients.
On the half chance that I might do this I looked around for paper. There was a crumpled napkin resting on the table so I tore off a strip, scribbled down the address of the vaidyasala, then screwed it up and tucked it into a corner of my money belt.
Days later my attention returned to the road. A road that took me south. All was going well. In Goa, I took a short respite from the intensities of Indian travel. I relaxed, I explored, and I bathed in the luxury of the tropics until one very uncomfortable night.
In my sleep, an iron grip tore at my intestines. I was being ripped apart. A most gracious God allowed me some short intermissions from these fierce cramps, allowing me to crawl out of my room and hover over a hole in the ground to relieve myself of the consequential deluge that followed.
The next morning there would be little reprieve. A doctor was called. He matter-of-factly prescribed antibiotics, collected his modest fee and advised me to follow an appropriate diet for the next ten days, consigning me to a quest akin to that for the Holy Grail. Non-spicy food indeed!
Like a wounded soldier, I continued my journey south, seeking out the blandest food items and not daring to venture beyond a short sprint from a soothing latrine.
One week later my resolve strengthened and I firmed up to stagger to the beautiful regal city of Mysore, when the torture resumed. The result was a different doctor, a different antibiotic, a similar fee and the same impossible diet.
Crawling further south still, I remained overcome by lassitude. On a diet of banana and plain chapati I got myself through the sparsely toileted Western Ghats, and crossed the border into the state of Kerala.
I holed up in the city of Ernakulam where I dared to think of a simple fragrant vegetarian biryani. The force of such a thought provoked my nemesis to strike for a third time, and I put my dwindling faith in allopathic medicine once again. I was just rearranging the lottery numbers.
Of all the most welcoming places visited in my life of travel, I never expected an Indian second-class train toilet to make the top ten. It was the only place I wished to be, as I stumbled my way to the coastal village of Varkala in central Kerala.
Varkala was a little-known idyll, but I could not be bothered with it, as my symptoms remained. I was rapidly losing weight, and rapidly losing faith in the remedies that had been prescribed. I was gaunt, pale and becoming weaker; not interested in the nirvana surrounding me, or in the obliging family that was hosting me as a paying guest in their simple home.
I became seriously concerned at my situation. I could not face the effort to find nor eat another plate of rice gruel with rock salt. I was at a loss to know how to carry on.
During a mindful moment, from my mattress on the concrete floor of my lovely spartan room, I drifted back in time to that meeting with Peter Ruhr, six weeks previously.
I could only remember parts of our conversation on Ayurveda, but had a recollection of having scribbled down an address.
Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
A fog had descended over me, preventing me from reading the signs. Overlooking me was an angel working overtime, but unable to penetrate my self-pity. My only memory of the location of the vaidyasala was that it was in the state of Kerala. A spark of hope maybe; something that had been absent since embarking on this latrine trail of South West India.
I can only deduce that my weakness and relative misery, clouded my presence of mind, preventing me from recalling that conversation with Peter Ruhr. Here I was, at a new beginning – searching for the key to the unknown world of Ayurveda that could take away this misery, and more; but I had to find that scrap of paper.
Observers might have questioned the state of my mental health as I conducted a near frantic search of my rucksack. Nothing! A crushing despondency set in after the third empty search. My head slumped onto my pillow, under which was my money belt – my money belt! The overlooking angel was putting in a good shift.
I unravelled that screwed up ball of paper napkin, tucked away in its corner. The address was barely legible.
I took out a map. I found Mangalore, situated just north of the Keralan border; the name of every town south of it, was therefore scrutinised. Not one resembled the name of the place I had written down; then, 30kms inland and south of Ernakulam, one name offered some hope. After careful inspection of the worn away writing, it could only have been the town of Changanacherry.
My host family and I worked very hard to communicate in a vocabulary not known to each other Eventually the essential information was clumsily conveyed. There would be a direct, empty bus setting off from only 50 yards away from the house at 10am the following morning!
Of course, Changanacherry may yet prove to be the wrong place, but if it was correct, the vaidyasala was only 3 hours away. I needed to control my excitement and find the strength to get there.
This may have been a remarkable stroke of good fortune, but I liked to think that it was more a case of providence. The signs were leading me to the Promised Land of firm stools, and more than just a modicum of energy.
The following morning, the parked-up bus was indeed empty, and ready to leave at 10am.
The red and yellow Kerala State Transport Corporation vehicle was, in appearance, somewhere between a bus and a tank. Its interior was covered with a layer of ingrained dust. My weakened legs deposited me between the enormous gear box and the exit door.
I asked the driver and the conductor to alert me on our arrival in Changanacherry.
Through a corridor of coconut palms and banana trees, timber poles supported telegraph wires from which the drongos and kingfishers gazed down on the vivid green paddy, dotted throughout with white, stalking egrets. I lost the strength to stay awake and marvel.
We approached what looked like the beginning of a town; the driver leaned over, rousing me from my daze by yelling, ‘Changanacherry. Get out!’
So, I got out. A little shell-shocked, I looked across the road for a rickshaw to take me to a street whose name I could not be sure of. Beside the rickshaw was a sign, this time encased in concrete, it sported the name of a street which looked very like the one I had scribbled down 6 weeks before. Regardless of my state of mind, body and spirit, this sign took little interpretation – Mannam Road, it read.
In a state of visceral calm, I walked along it, confident that my path to good health could be somewhere down this prosperous, leafy, suburban lane. I passed yellow nutmegs growing on the tree, enormous jackfruit hanging directly from the trunk, and green peppercorns growing up telegraph poles.
In the climbing heat of the early afternoon a group of schoolgirls in navy blue uniforms approached from the opposite direction, they looked as fresh as the red roses they wore in their hair. I asked one of them if there was a hospital nearby. They all giggled. One of them pointed to my side of the road. There stood a slightly buckled, rusting yellow sign advertising the entrance to the Sree Sankara Ayurveda Vaidyasala.
I passed through the open gates and felt I was entering somewhere of consequence, a rite of passage feeling, much like my first day at grammar school.
The verdant grounds beneath a ceiling of sentinel coconut palms, and an understorey of banana and papaya trees, contained charming, vernacular buildings washed in a yellow paint. The path led to the main office which was annexed with a consultation room and a dispensary. This central building was capped by decorative clay tiles, on a steeply pitched roof.
Following this path, my unheralded arrival was met by two excited, and surprised members of staff. I asked if I could see a doctor.
I was politely led into the small waiting room, where a plastic chair was dusted down with a bare hand and offered to me, the fan was turned up a notch, a nurse was sent off to fetch me a cooling drink of cumin tea, and everyone in the office straightened their back and cleared their throat. I felt important.
No-one felt confident enough to use the English language, and my Malayalam did not extend beyond ‘no spices’, so we all sat quietly. I felt content looking out from the cool colours of the shady waiting room into the brilliant light outside.
A nearby lorry had been manually unloaded, leaving piles of tree roots, leaves and stripped bark to be strung together into bundles, then carted off with billet hooks, all to be alchemized into medicinal oils that would replace the toxins that had been invading my body for over a month. The air within these grounds discharged a pure scent of vital sap, it was a raw and earthy smell.
A doctor arrived from his out-patient clinic in the centre of town. His presence had an immediate impact, and I began to feel better already.
I committed to staying at the Sree Sankara vaidyasala for 8 days as an in-patient. I received a level of care that was warm, professional and attentive. I had arrived feeling grey, but I was to leave with my spirit restored. I became well enough to begin the slow 3,500km adventure north to Kashmir. Refreshed and rejuvenated, I took my leave to adventure, equipped once more, with the eyes of a child.
But this is not quite the end of the tale. Recovering from a lingering dose of ‘Delhi belly’ is just the beginning of my story. The full saga was to come, and is ongoing.
On arrival at the vaidyasala, my initial consultation was with Dr. Vijaya Chandradas Nair.
He was a gentle man who listened and observed intently, and intensely. On my travels, I had been looked at by 3 different doctors, each one saw me as a machine in need of servicing; here was one who saw me as a human being – a man who I felt understood the art of healing.
As we talked about my immediate state of health, I was initially reticent about mentioning an underlying, ‘incurable’ arthritic condition that had more than inconvenienced me for 14 years. I was determined not to detract from my immediate concern, but he was equally determined to understand the whole picture.
He was adept at using silence to draw out further information. He sensed a deeper problem that I was naively hiding from him. His gentle, repeated use of the phrase ‘And then?’ suggested that he would not be happy with shallow repudiations. Following his well-judged silences and his intuitive probing, I surrendered my medical history. Now unencumbered, we talked at length about the Ayurvedic approach to dealing with my chronic condition and my present state of being.
The following wet monsoon, saw me return to Kerala to take 3 months of treatment at the vaidyasala, and grapple with the principles of Ayurveda. I left equipped with the knowledge and practice of how to live my life with less pain and less symptoms. It had a profound effect, for which I remain forever grateful.
Notwithstanding my carelessness with a screwed-up piece of napkin, the significance of a serendipitous meeting with Peter Ruhr will never be underestimated. Neither will my gratitude for the contaminated food I ate in Goa, but my greatest appreciation, is for the mystery that still remains.
What motivated God’s messenger, disguised as the manager of a bookshop, to vehemently insist that I should meet ‘One of my people’?