It had been 16 years since I’d last set foot in India. Back then, it was a holiday with my soon-to-be wife. We stayed in Varanasi, where I was captivated by the burning ghats and sunset boat rides along the Ganges. At the time, I still identified as an atheist — so I didn’t explore the temples and ashrams I now feel drawn to. But looking back, the trip was still deeply spiritual in its own quiet way.
I’ve always been an Indophile at heart. I feel a connection to the country that I can’t fully explain — it’s just there, rooted somewhere deep. On that earlier trip, we travelled by train across Rajasthan, stopping in Jaipur and Udaipur, then flying from Ahmedabad to Mumbai. We spent a month in Goa, living simply on Palolem Beach, and finally returned to Delhi before flying home. It was an adventure — full of movement, color, and chaos — and we backpacked the whole way.
Coming back in 2023 felt different. I was now a husband, a father of two boys, and travelling alone. This wasn’t a holiday — it was a pilgrimage. In the years since, I’d become more cautious, more grounded — and I had found my guru: Neem Karoli Baba, known to many simply as Maharajji.
This time, my path was clear. I was there to visit Kainchi Dham and the Vrindavan Ashram, in honour of the 50th anniversary of Maharajji’s mahasamadhi on September 11, 1973.
I arrived in Nainital around the 3rd of September, and every morning I would catch the bus down to Kainchi Dham. That first descent was unforgettable — a winding road through the mountains, and suddenly, in the valley below, the familiar red and yellow rooftops of the ashram sparkled in the sunlight like a vision I had always known. A local told me “Kainchi” means “scissors,” referring to the sharp turns and switchbacks of the road that leads to the village. Whether that’s true or not, it felt fitting.
I felt inexplicable joy being there. I sang the Hanuman Chalisa. I prayed. I sat in silence. I was given delicious prasad — something fried, maybe chickpeas or lentils — always offered generously by hand each time I left. I spent many peaceful hours inside the ashram.
From what I could tell, I was the only Westerner there. The locals were incredibly welcoming — some even interviewed me for their YouTube channels, astonished that a foreigner could chant the Hanuman Chalisa from memory. They saw it as a beautiful expression of devotion and were visibly proud that someone from far away loved their culture enough to embrace it so deeply.
I didn’t want to leave. But the journey called me onward to Vrindavan, where Maharajji had left his body. I stayed in a hotel right next to the ashram and again spent several sacred days chanting, praying, meditating.
On September 11th, from what I could gather, I was again the only Westerner present at the ashram. I felt immense gratitude and privilege. I don’t have the words to explain why this moved me so deeply — but it did.
That pilgrimage transformed me. My life has been richer, clearer, and more heart-led ever since. And I cannot wait to return.
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