February 27-28
Pain, Monkeys, and a Surrender to the Unknown
The morning after Shivaratri started with Thai massage and for this session I was partnered up with Bre, one of the few people at the hotel I felt a real connection with. A massage therapist from Washington, she listened with genuine care as I explained what was happening in my body—the pain, the exhaustion, the doubts creeping in about whether Thai massage was truly for me. Instead of diving right into bodywork, we spent much of the session talking about pain—not just physical, but emotional, stored, cyclical. Pain, I’ve learned, isn’t just something to endure. It’s a teacher. But some lessons don’t need to be prolonged. By the end of the session, I knew—I couldn’t keep doing this training. My body wasn’t built for it, and that didn’t mean I was weak. It meant I was listening. The day was rainy and heavy, mirroring the weight in my mind. I decided to take a walk to Nada Yoga School, a place I had been considering for a while. I had visited last year, curious about their courses, and now, with my massage training unraveling, I felt drawn back. The training started in two days. Maybe this was my pivot. But the universe, in her infinite trickster energy, had other plans first. On my way there, a monkey peed on my head. I wasn’t even under a tree—no, this monkey had seemingly defied gravity for the sole purpose of anointing me with its urine. A cosmic joke? A blessing in disguise? I wasn’t sure yet.
When I arrived at the school, the teacher seemed distracted. The energy was off, but I could feel a pull toward the curriculum. He offered me a discounted price, given that I wouldn’t need food or accommodations. I told him I’d let him know soon, then stepped outside—only to be greeted by another monkey. This one sat munching on a pile of string beans, looking adorable.
So, naturally, I took a photo. Then a video. Then, just as I moved in for one final close-up, the monkey snapped at me—lunging forward, baring its teeth, and swiping at my hand. A direct hit. The irony of my situation was not lost on me: first, a monkey peed on me, and now, another had physically attacked me. Shaken, I inspected the scratch. It hadn’t broken the skin, but my nervous system had already taken a beating that day. I knew monkeys carried diseases, and even though logic told me I was probably fine, panic took over. I rushed to an Ayurvedic pharmacy, where the man behind the counter, completely unfazed, handed me a tube of cream. “It’s fine,” he said. I wasn’t convinced.
I made my way to the clinic behind Parmarth Niketan Ashram, the same one I visited last year when I got an abscess in my throat after Panchakarma. It was 50 ruppees to see the doctor (less than a dollar USD) and I needed reassurance. The moment I sat down in front of her, everything poured out. “I don’t know what’s happening,” I said, voice shaking. “Nothing is going right. I’m in so much pain. I’m having so much anxiety. And now this monkey scratch…” She listened, nodding, and told me that legally, she had to offer me a tetanus shot. My mind spiraled. If she legally has to offer it, does that mean it’s actually bad? She reassured me: “Legally, I have to, but honestly? I think you’re fine.” Still, she prescribed me some anxiety medication and a shot for pain relief. I hesitated—Western medicine and I have a complicated history. But sometimes, surrender means accepting help when it’s needed. And I needed relief.
For the first time in months, my body exhaled. The pain wasn’t gone, but it was softened. I had forgotten what it felt like to not be in excruciating discomfort. The shot would only last 12 hours, but for now, I soaked in the feeling. That night, Rick—one of the other people from the training—invited me to smoke with him, Bre, and another girl named Mass. I said yes. Not as an escape, but because my nervous system needed a break. Mass led me to her guesthouse, a far more humble accommodation than where I was staying. A younger version of me would have been fine living like that, and it made me reflect on how much my standards for comfort have shifted. We sat together, swapping stories, unraveling thoughts. Rick had an almost encyclopedic way of sharing information—long-winded but fascinating. He was tapped in, wise beyond his years, and I found myself actually enjoying listening to him, which isn’t something I often say.
By the time I got back to my room, my mind was buzzing again. The monkey scratch. The massage training. The uncertainty. In that anxious haze, I mindlessly snacked—not because I was hungry, but because the spiral had started again. It wasn’t about food. It was about control. About soothing. About trying to find grounding in the storm that was brewing inside me. That night, I lay in bed thinking about the lessons Kali was trying to teach me. Destruction is necessary for transformation. But how much more destruction would I have to endure before I found clarity? Maybe the clarity was already here. Maybe it was whispering beneath the chaos, waiting for me to stop running and listen.
Listening to the Inner Voice & The Call of Hanuman
The next morning, clarity arrived in the form of a firm decision: I wasn’t going to continue the Thai massage training. My body had been whispering, then screaming, and finally, I had no choice but to listen. I had ignored my intuition before leaving Bali, pushing through despite the signs. Now, the consequences were undeniable—pain, resistance, and an overwhelming feeling that I was on the wrong path. I couldn’t ignore it any longer.
I negotiated with the music school, securing an even better price, and then went to speak with the Thai massage instructor about a refund. The outcome wasn’t ideal—I was able to recover most of my money, but after fees, hotel deposits, and tuition for the days I had attended, I still lost over $300. A painful financial hit, but perhaps a necessary one. A reminder that the cost of not listening to my higher self always comes with interest.
I tried to shake the disappointment by doing what had become my daily ritual—a dip in the Ganga. The water had been noticeably colder lately, requiring more mental fortitude to step into. Part of me wanted to believe that this was part of the practice—pushing through, building resilience. But deep down, I was learning that ignoring my body in the name of discipline is not the path. There’s a difference between overcoming resistance and forcing something that isn’t meant to be. And I was done forcing.
That afternoon, I took a long walk across Janki Bridge to a pharmacy in search of medicine for my migraines and body pain. It was my first time crossing to this side, and I quickly realized why—I was met with a scene vastly different from the other parts of Rishikesh I had come to know. It was busy, polluted, and felt more like an attempt to capitalize on tourist money than a place designed for genuine spiritual seekers. The pharmacy itself was unlike anything I had ever seen. Plastic bins overflowing with random packs of pills, medications handed out with little instruction, and when I asked for something for pain, I was given ibuprofen and told it was a “strong painkiller.” Everything is relative, I suppose.
As I made my way back across the bridge, I was met with a towering mural of Hanuman, Sita, and Ram. It stopped me in my tracks. Hanuman had been a recurring presence throughout my journey, an energy woven through my experiences in a way I couldn’t ignore. From the mischievous monkeys that had tested me at every turn to the deeper lessons of devotion and surrender, he had been walking this path with me, reminding me to trust.
In the Ramayana, Hanuman is the embodiment of unwavering devotion, courage, and surrender to divine will. He carries out his dharma not with hesitation but with full faith, leaping across oceans, lifting mountains, and dedicating his entire being to the service of Lord Ram and Sita. And yet, for all his strength, there is something else—an unshakable softness, a pure-hearted devotion that asks for nothing in return.
As I stood before his mural, my Spotify shuffle landed on “Baba Hanuman” by Krishna Das, a song that has carried me through many phases of my spiritual journey. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a reminder, a call—move forward with courage. Move forward with devotion. Even when the path is uncertain, even when things don’t make sense, surrender. Trust that I am being guided, even in the moments that feel like loss or failure. Maybe especially in those moments.
That evening, as the sun set over the river, Bre, Rick, and I sat by the Ganga and smoked together. I could feel something creeping into my throat, the early signs of sickness setting in, but I ignored it. I wanted to feel something outside of myself. The weight of the past few days, the changes in my plans, the uncertainty about what came next—it was too much. I just wanted a moment of quiet, a pause from my mind.
But Hanuman’s message lingered in my heart. Trust. Keep going. Stay devoted
A Lesson in Surrender: Blood, Stains, and Kali’s Unyielding Presence
The first day of my Nada Yoga training began with confusion. Since I hadn’t been added to the WhatsApp group, I had no idea where I was supposed to go. By the time I finally found the location, the session was already underway—a fire ceremony. The energy felt off, and I couldn’t shake the discomfort that settled in my body. At the end of the ceremony, the teacher tied a red string bracelet around my wrist, a ritualistic token that I’ve accumulated from nearly every sacred ceremony I’ve attended. A collection of threads, each one representing a different initiation, a different lesson.
Afterward, we took flowers and released them into the Ganga, a symbolic offering. The entire experience lasted less than an hour, and yet something about it left me unsettled. I spoke briefly with one of the girls, who told me she had just gotten a Kali Yantra tattoo and was already feeling its effects. I couldn’t help but think about my own Kali tattoo and the sign at the airport that read “Kali sent me.” Was this all just another initiation into her relentless, humbling lessons? A masterclass in surrender?
Back at my room, I planned to reset. Lunch, laundry, grounding. I was wearing my cream Free People onesie when I noticed something—a huge pink stain on one of my white Lululemon shirts. Panic set in. I inspected my other clothing, my floor, and then my onesie. The culprit? The red string from the ceremony. A symbolic thread now bleeding into my life quite literally. Rage.
The anger came fast and hard. It wasn’t just about the stain—it was the complete loss of control. I am meticulous when it comes to my things. I check for stains, I take care of my belongings, I keep order where I can. But here, despite my best efforts, my things were damaged, and I could do nothing about it.
It felt like a metaphor for my entire journey. Everything unraveling. No way to stop it.
I tried to shift through the emotions—blame, frustration, helplessness—but none of it changed the reality. The damage was done. The drops of pink dye on the floor looked like blood, like Raktabija’s cursed blood that Kali drinks in battle, knowing that if even a single drop touches the earth, the demon will multiply. But I wasn’t hungry for blood. I wasn’t in the mood for war. I was exhausted.
In a panic, I called the front desk and asked if they knew of a dry cleaner specializing in stain removal. They directed me to a place across Janki Bridge, and though I had planned to go to Tapovan for a smoothie bowl that day, I could already feel Kali laughing at my attempt to make plans. Instead, I hopped on the back of a scooty and headed across the river.
Once we arrived, I tried to explain what had happened, but between the language barrier and my rising emotions, the interaction quickly spiraled. The man took one look at my garments and refused to take them. Then, he changed his mind—not only would he not take one, but he wouldn’t take either. And that was it. The breaking point. Right there, in the middle of the street, I broke down.
Tears poured out, not just from frustration over the clothes but from everything that had been stacking up. It wasn’t about the stain. It was about powerlessness. The feeling of having no control over anything, of watching my plans dissolve, of struggling against forces so much bigger than me and losing every single time.
Two girls passing by stopped and asked what was wrong. I told them. Without hesitation, they took my clothes and got the man to accept them. One of them looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t cry.” But I couldn’t stop. It felt like lifetimes of instability, emotional overwhelm, and exhaustion were being pulled out of me all at once. I didn’t know why it was happening, but it was.
Back at my hotel, I finally surrendered. I took a Xanax—one that had been prescribed to me, but one I had resisted taking despite how much my nervous system had been collapsing under the weight of everything. Coming from someone who spent years dependent on benzos, who clawed her way out of withdrawal with no support from doctors, who has fought so hard to live without them, I knew exactly what I was doing. But I also knew I needed it in that moment.
That night, I slept deeply for the first time in what felt like forever. A full night of uninterrupted rest. A reminder that sometimes, even the things we once needed to let go of still have a place when used with intention.
Kali is always teaching. Destruction is part of creation. Control is an illusion. And surrender? It is not weakness. It is the doorway to peace
With a bit of hopelessness and a bit of faith in the process,
Eve aka Kali Grayce
Comments