January 22-24
The Final Days in India: Lessons from Kali’s Mirror
The last days at Govardhan were nothing short of grueling. By the day before our “recital,” I had hit a wall in every way—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I finally let go of any pretense of composure. I blurted out a big, dramatic, “F*** it, I don’t even want to participate,” and stormed out of the room in tears.
Kali has this way of bringing you to your breaking point—not as punishment, but as a gift. She forces you to shed the layers you thought you needed: the masks of control, the expectations, the ego-driven need to have it all together. This was one of those moments. I felt raw and exposed, completely consumed by the shadows I’d been suppressing for far too long.
What I didn’t expect was for Tinka—a fellow trainee with a badass Kali tattoo—to follow me out. Up until then, I wasn’t sure she even liked me, given the language barrier and her quiet intensity. But in that moment, she offered me the exact support I didn’t know I needed. We spoke about the highs and lows of the training, and it reminded me of something profound: Kali doesn’t just destroy to leave you alone in the rubble. She destroys so that the right people, the right experiences, and the right lessons can step into the light.
Kali’s Tests: Facing the Shadows
The entire training had been a lesson in surrender. While I learned the mridanga and a few harmonium melodies, it wasn’t the “musical mastery” I had hoped for. Instead, Kali gifted me something much harder—and far more valuable. She held up a mirror to my deepest fears and wounds: my anxious attachment, my fear of rejection, the sting of unmet expectations, and the pain of feeling unseen. These weren’t just surface-level frustrations; they were echoes of my inner child, wounds I’ve carried for years.
Kali has a way of shaking you to your core, making you confront the shadows you’ve buried. She whispers, “You cannot step into your power until you embrace these parts of yourself.” And so, through the discomfort and frustration, I began to see this training not as a failure, but as a purification—a clearing of old, stagnant energy to make space for something new.
The Drum Saga: A Lesson in Letting Go
As if the emotional exhaustion wasn’t enough, I spent my final days grappling with a logistical nightmare: How the hell was I going to get this mridanga home? With my harmonium, luggage, and everything else, it was a logistical impossibility. I tried every avenue—asking if it could stay at Govardhan (a hard no), considering giving it away, even imagining leaving it at the airport.
Kali’s lesson was clear: Release what no longer serves you. Let go, and trust that something better will come. With that in mind, I sent a last-ditch message to the group chat: “Any chance anyone wants to buy a mridanga?” I was ready to surrender the outcome.
In a perfect twist of divine timing, Bobbi’s daughter, Frankie, stepped forward. She wanted to learn the instrument and happily bought it from me. It felt like a poetic ending—the drum staying in the hands of someone who would carry its energy forward. Once again, Kali showed me the beauty of letting go: when you release attachment, the universe has a way of delivering exactly what’s needed.
Frankie, in her own way, has been an instrument of healing in my life. Her pure, childlike enthusiasm and openness remind me of a part of myself I’ve long tried to suppress—the unguarded, playful, and curious version of me that once existed before life’s weight settled in. Through her, I’ve been reconnecting with that essence, allowing myself to embrace joy without conditions, to play without self-judgment, and to remember that music—like healing—isn’t about perfection, but about presence.
The Recital That Wasn’t
By the final morning, I was completely over the group dynamic, and quite frankly, exhausted from India. I ended up sitting between the harmonium players and the drummers, floating between both, but in reality, I felt isolated.
I wasn’t fully present for the yajna ceremony (fire ritual). I had already attended the same ceremony at Parmarth Niketan during the International Yoga Festival last year, and now my heart had already boarded the plane—I was mentally gone.
Our “recital” wasn’t really a recital at all. We simply played in the background while the yoga teacher trainees graduated, and it was disappointing. No one was really paying attention. I had spent so much time, money, and energy on this training, and this felt like the final straw in my string of unmet expectations. There was no real structure, no acknowledgment of our work, and no moment to celebrate what we had created. But then I reminded myself: I’m not playing for them. I’m playing for Kali.
After we played, we were called up to “graduate”—or rather, complete—the program. It wasn’t a formal training with a structured curriculum, so there wasn’t much to graduate from, but the moment still felt significant. The most meaningful part for me was my hug with Raghunath. I had mixed feelings about him coming into this training, but I had warmed up to him, and as we hugged, he told me: “You remind me of me.” He also mentioned that he’d heard from multiple people that I was really good on the harmonium. I’ll take that as a divine blessing—a push to keep evolving, practicing, and maybe even starting my own kirtan academy one day… perhaps in Bali.
Closing the Chapter: From India’s Fire to Bali’s Flow
All in all, my time at Govardhan Eco Village will always hold a special place in my heart. This experience was years in the making, working through me long before I physically arrived. I will forever be grateful to Raghunath and Radhanath Swami for creating this space, and to the divine orchestration that Kali so fiercely guided. It was this path that led me off all my medications and finally brought me to India.
That’s the thing about divine organization—it rarely looks how you think it should. But if you trust the process and follow with faith, it always unfolds exactly as it’s meant to.
Through Kali’s fierce grace, Krishna’s playful devotion, Shiva’s stillness, Hanuman’s humility, and Ganesha’s wisdom, I was reminded of the transformative power of Bhakti and music. Each kirtan melody and mantra was an offering to these energies, a way to connect with the divine within and without.
India unearthed so many samskaras—deeply rooted impressions from past experiences—bringing them to the surface with Kali’s unrelenting grace. Now, as I head to Bali, I carry these revelations with me, ready to purify and release them in the healing waters. Bali feels like the next step in this journey—a place to integrate the lessons of India, honor the shadows I’ve faced, and embrace the healing and light that awaits.
Final Thoughts
India was the fire—burning away illusions, forcing me to confront my deepest wounds, and breaking me open in ways I never expected. But Bali? Bali is the water. The gentle purification after the storm. The softening after the breaking. The next chapter in a journey that continues to unfold exactly as it’s meant to.
With love & gratitude,
Eve AKA Kali Grayce
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