The Wild Rose and the Other Shore

March 4, 2026

Met her after almost 12 years.

It was in Delhi when we had met last time. We had a few months of sweet intimacy and then drifted away. We seemed to be following almost antipodal forces, and it was a beautiful transitory convergence when we crossed each other's path, sweetly embracing each other's presence without expectations, without rigidities and insecurities, without possessiveness.

It was a kind of relationship that is not bound by any conceptual expectation in a typical man-woman relationship, where there are expectations and needs at both ends, and that kind of builds up a contract, call it social contract, even if it is not written or formalized. But still there are unwritten rules of the game, with its clauses, do's and don'ts. So this type of relationship is basically defined by a framework.

But here it was something completely different.

She, a wild gust of breeze; me, a gentle, disciplined soft breeze blowing through a so-called civilized alleyway.

She, unbothered by what people think or say, following her own path, facing challenges, enjoying beauties of absolute individual freedom and free will, side by side paying big costs very dearly for not becoming a part of collective institutionalized security with its social norms, moralities and other standard rules of the game.

Basically, she was a rebel.

Me, on the other hand, expected by others as well as by my own self to follow social mores, norms, become successful, respected, always expected to be in line, to toe the line and stay a good man, always bothered about what others think, say or opine. She was exactly opposite. 

It was an exciting intermingling in the buffer zone, where contrasting impulses commingled.

For those rocking few months, me, the anchored one, enjoying the freedom of untethered free wind in the uncustomized sea of our existence; she, the bottomless, endless sea, coming to the stationary safe cove of my being on the shore.

She then receded, as the waves are supposed to, and both of us moved away.

No hard feelings, no quarrels, no heartburn, no blame game, no feeling of guilt, no feeling of victimization, no feeling of either dumping or getting dumped.

It was quite mysteriously peaceful. Taken so naturally by both of us as we take the end of a day. 

She had a few lovers before that and has had a few after that as well. But she could never get in touch with a man who could provide a reasonably safe anchor to the restless, heaving boat of her existence.

A German man of Kashmiri origin seemed to promise some anchor, but then he let her down, leaving her broken, the only time in her life when she felt caged in the beautiful tentacles of a relationship, feeling possessive about the man, and also yearning to be possessed by him.

And when he let her down, she crashed down from the peak of absolute freedom.

She attempted suicide, was in a coma for a few weeks, and returned to life when the doctors had all but given up hopes for her survival.

They say near-death experiences open up spiritual portals. It has definitely done so in her case. She has met death, so she knows a lot more about life than most of us do. 

A spiritual diva she became after that: exotic hair braids, extensive tattoos on her very fair, almost milky-white skin, body piercings, an absolutely exclusive style of wearing her clothes in a way that she would appear as a standout beacon from the normal mass around.

And all these give her a Roman gypsy kind of look.

She would pass as a hippie from the '70s if she doesn't speak and give a hint about her Indian roots: a nose ring from the middle at the base of the nose, a tattoo of Ma Kali covering her entire back, exquisite religious and astronomical symbols on arms, hands, chin. Almost everywhere. 

Her beautiful face has little freckles, a weather-beaten, wind-lashed look of a rose, a wild rose that has seen the open fury of Mother Nature, that has been caressed by a bright sun smiling from the azure blue skies, that has been shaken by cold breeze, that has seen torrential rains and snowfalls, that has tasted the sips of agony and ecstasy in utmost solitude, that has felt terribly lonely, that has felt amazingly full as well. And agonizingly empty also. 

A big basket of experiences.

And that makes her a gypsy exotica.

Her style makes her stand out in any type of crowd. Everything she wears, from stole to shoes, stands out as a mark of freedom and independence, an assertion of her own concept and idea of life.

The women look at her with jealousy. The men, of course, like spellbound black bees. Watermouthed. 

We had no clue to each other's course of life after that exciting encounter about a dozen years ago.

Then about two and a half years back, I received a mail. It was some abstract comment in the form of a question on one of my blog posts. The sender hadn't introduced himself/herself, but just looking at that small phrase, I knew it was her.

We shared our current phone numbers, started interacting.

She is about 11 or 12 years younger to me, but the way she now spoke left me surprised. A mature woman with deep thoughts in spiritual and philosophical realms.

She was running a homestay in partnership with a friend near Manali. They were planning spiritual retreats there. She wanted to meet. In fact, invited me to stay at her place and be a part of the meditation retreat plans.

I have never felt easy about becoming a part of any type of system, so I kept dilly-dallying. I was busy in solo travelling and writing books.

Before long, it was two and a half years since we were communicating, and she keenly and I casually talked about meeting someday.

On her free journey and open relationships, she spends a lot of time at Rishikesh as well. I also go to Rishikesh regularly; still our paths did not cross.

This time when I informed her that I would be in Rishikesh for a week or ten days, she said she would be there on one of these days.

“Great, let's have chai on the banks of Ma Ganga,” I quipped.

She seemed very excited to meet me after all those long years.

“Coffee on the banks of Ma Ganga,” she said with nostalgia.

On the appointed day, I am standing near the entryway to Parmarth Niketan Ashram, the place where we are supposed to meet. She will be coming over from the other side of Ma Ganga, from Tapovan side. I am staying in a hotel on this side.

Now it is about half past eleven at noon. The usual crowd of tourists and pilgrims.

I am looking at murals on the sidewalls. There are so many saintly eyes looking at the throng of people.

And then there she comes. I see her after 12-13 years here on the banks of Maa Ganga. The wild gust coming to meet the anchored shore. Excitement in the air as two different types of winds meet again. The beautiful gypsy walks to the anchored man. A brief convergence after more than a dozen years. 

I see her from a little distance. She walks gently with loads of warmth and comes into my arms.

Her presence felt almost the same.

After more than twelve years! A lot has changed. She has grown, evolved. She is in the second half of her 30s, and one can see signs of it on her beautiful face and exotic features, style and carriage.

The same exotic deportment in combination with her looks, style, clothes, tattoos.

She is a head-turner in her typical way. Walks with aloof majesty. An exotic spiritual diva. 

Beyond all this attractive cloud of exclusive femininity, I see traces of fatigue, weariness, a sort of exhaustion, which is inevitable if you have been floating on your own path of absolute freedom without any collective securities or assurances.

It is like constantly flying against the wind.

She walks with me. Many eyes follow her movement.

Women yoked into conventional safety of family and routine relationships look at her with jealousy. That is palpable. That is clearly discernible. They know their partner's eyes will follow her till the point it is possible.

When she appears, the majority of men can't help but look at her with eyes full of desire.

I become very conscious while walking with her.

We walk to a café. It is a nice little eatery overlooking Ma Ganga's broad current, visible through a glass front. We occupy a table near the window to enjoy the holy river's flow.

The café is just opening. They are still cleaning and arranging things.

Over big cups of cappuccino, we fall into conversation.

Her logic is sharpened. She is sweetly aggressive in defending her point.

I know she has been judged very harshly for her efforts to defy the conventional stream.

I used to be her idol philosopher when she was growing as an adolescent girl. Now it is a schoolgirl's fancy to prove a point to an old professor whom she meets after a long time.

The last time when we met, she told me that she was in love with me since the age of 13 ... her first love.

Now when we differ over something, there is a risk that she might take it as if I am judging her and finding fault with her. So I have to balance it out by putting things in a general way, so that she doesn't feel targeted or judged.

She is in her own zone, very solidly, assertively.

Lots of energies are flying through her psychosomatic system. That makes her a unique type of diva whom men can't help but follow with covetous eyes.

The discussion takes the direction of the recurring pattern in her life, the pattern of betrayals in relationships and business partnerships. The same discontentment and disappointment with people.

Despite all the exclusive finery of her appearance, she is a very, very simple girl, with an open and frank and honest approach to life. She isn't tricky like women usually are while dealing with men, using secrecy, shrewdness and coquetry to deal with male superiority in physical strength.

The simplicity and honesty leave her open to be used by selfish men.

It has happened repeatedly in her life.

There is a pattern.

So we are talking of recurring patterns.

It's a general experience with all of us that there develops a pattern, either positive or negative, making us feel either lucky or unlucky in our life.

The pattern gets established like a runnel of rainwater on an open field, a definite channel decided by the flow of events and happenings. The same proclivity of an individual destiny to get entangled in similar situations, relationships, events, challenging circumstances, making them mostly disappointed.

Now if you aren't satisfied with the pattern in your life, instead of blaming others and destiny, the onus is on oneself to try to break that pattern.

I have heard her gently cribbing about disappointment with people in terms of personal and professional business relations.

“Don't you think there is a pattern in this?” I ask, and she feels I am judging her on moral and social values, that I am blaming her for all that has happened.

“See, a pattern is not good or bad,” I clarify. “It just exists in Mother Nature. What I mean is that if you are not satisfied or happy about patterns in your life, you should try to break their recurrence and repetition in your life. It's not at all about a pattern being morally good or bad,” I emphasize.

We keep chatting over big mugs of coffee.

All along this time, a fat woman is eyeing our table with palpable greed. She has already asked us once if we are done, even though there is still coffee left in our mugs.

People have started coming. There are empty tables where she can enjoy coffee, but she wants this particular table, right next to the glass front, overlooking the broad sweep of Ma Ganga below.

Taking pity on her, I decide to get up.

She giggles slightly over the woman's schoolgirl's fancy for a particular seat. The woman runs to grab the prize the moment we get up.

We leisurely walk in the narrow, pleasantly congested bazaar street.

I have to buy her a gift, and books are my favourite items.

We enter the bookshop in the market. I feel very safe ensconced among books.

I propose to buy her multiple books. She keeps saying no to all my suggestions.

Finally, she settles for an Osho book which is displayed outside in a glass rack by the entry door. There is just one copy. The shopkeeper has to open the rack by removing the cello tape, get the book and re-tape it. It is showcased. What else can you expect from her? Even the book has to come from a sealed showcase. 

That is so typical of her, an exclusive free choice not bound by suggestions and limiting circumstances.

She says she wants to sit somewhere among the trees, so we start walking to the east towards the wooded hills.

It's noon and pretty hot. The deciduous forest with thick undergrowth of bushes and ferns doesn't sound welcoming.

So, walking on the road cutting across Rajaji National Park, we take a turn to the right and walk to Chaurasi Kuti, the famous Beatles Ashram.

She isn't interested in the famed spiritual ruins.

We sit in front of a large crumbling structure on a makeshift bench of plank supported over stones at each end and fall into deep conversation.

When you meet after more than a decade, you have hundreds of topics to talk over.

We keep talking for almost two hours.

It is already afternoon when our tongues need a bit of rest.

As we walk outside, she has to cover her head under a stole.

“My cellular structure cannot bear direct sunlight,” she says. “I feel like I'm melting and being drained of all my energy.”

She has turned pink in the heat.

Many people stare.

She holds my hand from the elbow, a very friendly and caring proximity. I am comforted by her touch. It feels very natural, honest, like the brace of warm sunrise on a cold morning.

We walk into a restaurant in the narrow congested bazaar street. Eyes follow her with curiosity, lust. jealousy, even suspicion.

She can be taken as anyone: Iranian, Arabic, East European, European or Latin American.

A white man is eating lunch with his partner. He gives her a comprehensive look, much to the unease of his partner.

She wants to eat typical street food, so orders aloo puri. I order a paratha, strawberry lassi we both order.

The aloo sabji does not match her street-food expectation. It is bland.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Not at all,” she says.

In any case, she finishes her plate.

We walk to the riverside and sit on a stone bench just near the water current going swiftly, just a step down from the stone-paved platform.

There again we keep talking into the evening.

Then she has to leave.

We walk to the other side, walking over the new Janaki Bridge, from where she has booked a Rapido bike taxi to go to Tapovan, two-three kilometres away, where she is staying at a friend's place. Her friend owns a spiritual yoga shop involving yoga, retreats and herbal massages.

She embraces me and gives a long, warm kiss at the side of my neck, below the right ear; a long, lingering, well-meant kiss, soft, full of love.

She clings tightly to me for a prolonged hug.

The bike cabby is smiling as she performs this loving goodbye ritual.

Her touch is personal, warmer than a formal friendly hug, slightly colder than a burning passionate clasp of a lover. Balanced. Bordering on unconditional love. 

A warm, respectful touch and acknowledgement of my significant image in her mind and heart.

I walk back over the bridge, not knowing whether we will meet again or not.

And in this way, the girl whom I met after more than a decade melted into the mystery like she had arrived suddenly ... so symbolic of our different paths.

I am walking towards the other shore of Ma Ganga, and she is going on the other.

I know she has immensely evolved over these years in the furnace of bitter experiences, but she has retained her individuality, her sense of absolute freedom.

She asserts her right to lead her life on her own terms without any compromises, and for this I really salute her for maintaining the sanctity of her concept of freedom, life and living.