I thanked him then for everything that had been

The journey to India itself was a chapter in its own right. Why India, of all places? Because one night Rajneesh and Kranti said goodnight to each other—and that it would come to us in a dream, where to set off on a spiritual journey.

And at night I wandered around Kashmir and met someone there—a woman—a wife from a past life. Well, what do you know, I thought to myself upon waking—and with Kranti we planned a trip to India.

The fact that the journey to India was quite dangerous – we didn't go with a travel agency, but on our own – is one thing. The fact that we set off in winter, and to Kashmir, where the only way to get there is by plane, that's another thing. Kashmir is not among the safest places, let's be honest. Conflicts with neighboring Jammu, Pakistan, kidnappings of civilians, tourists – throngs of soldiers with submachine guns, buses that make you fear they'll blow up the moment you see them – that was pretty much my impression of Kashmir upon arrival.

But why am I talking about Kashmir? Because after New Delhi, it was the first stop – the first node on the route – New Delhi – Kashmir – Varanasi – Gaya – Bodh Gaya. And each of those nodes – was in some way a battle that shaped the journey toward masculine power, which was part of that initiation into the name Rajneesh Pranapati.

So, the moment Rajneesh argued at the Srinagar airport (the romance of the houseboats on Dal Lake had vanished on the very first day, when we struggled to stay warm by a burning stick in the stove – it was still snowing in Srinagar at the time) with an Indian woman carrying a submachine gun in a dimly lit hall, because they had confiscated his passports – and canceled flights – under the fabricated excuse that there was a thunderstorm in Delhi (it was clearly sunny); at that moment – without a passport, in a feverish atmosphere lasting eight hours, with constant flight cancellations, repacking of suitcases, running back and forth, Rajneesh didn't give up (amidst the sniffling of a fellow traveler who encouraged him in it) and fought for two seats on the last flight to Delhi. And yes – there was no way to call, there was no signal. Never mind that the train was leaving Delhi at eight in the evening and we – at four were still fiercely fighting for a seat on the plane. And at four they were closing the airport (it's a military one) and without proof of accommodation – you know what awaits you. An unpleasant stay at the station…

So situations like that – including the dramatic arrival in Varanasi, when Indians beat up the person who was waiting for us – and then pretended to be him.

Arrive at what is said to be the most dangerous train station in all of India after four in the afternoon, and you're in for trouble. The train was eight hours late—and so we arrived in Varanasi at six in the evening. Congratulations, Rajneesh, you planned that well.

Rajneesh was equally quick to speak up when we were wandering the endless alleys of Varanasi after dark, where relying on a map in your hand is pure sci-fi.

*

So when Rajneesh sat down under the Bodhi tree after a month, he felt he had earned that journey. Much like Atreyu journeyed to the Southern Oracle in The NeverEnding Story through the Swamps of Sadness, surviving the sting of Ygramul the Many, I too made my way to the Mahabodhi garden. Behind me lay traveler's diarrhea (something probably no one avoids in India), an extended stay at the cremation ghats in Varanasi, and various bizarre and dangerous stories where a person is afraid to imagine what might have been.

And so I sit under that tree—not by the trunk—but a bit further away on the concrete steps beneath the edge of the branches. All around, many Buddhist monks are meditating. They say thousands, well, I didn't count them, but there were a lot. We went there every day—and then—I don't know which of those days it was—I simply sat down there and made a request, and by that time I was probably wearing newly tailored green robes, a flood of visions poured forth, emerging from my mind to the surface like images—individual men with whom I had ever had sex. One after another. The faces of men whose names I no longer even remembered. Random and fleeting encounters. Quick releases in clubs, in various places—no need to go into detail. And all those men returned and revealed themselves—and my memories of them were cleansed. And a strange transformation took place within me.

Suddenly I saw how the veneer of judgment was vanishing from random encounters—from random sex—and acceptance was being established instead. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I am talking about making love.

Each of those men was my lover. Not a random acquaintance, not something hidden in a corner—but a rightful lover.

Only I myself determine what value I assign to each of those relationships.

My perception of Love deepened.

Respect was the answer.

I honored my life, I honored my loves, whatever they were.

So I thanked them for everything that was.