"I Am Not Going to India"

It was September 2018. I had just quit my job as a State Sales Manager. I knew deep down it wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I had no logical reason. It was purely intuitive.

I called both my parents, one after the other.

I told them I was quitting my job.

They couldn’t believe it.

Both of them said the same thing, instantly:

“We’re extremely disappointed in you.”

That hurt. It really did.

But I had to follow the truth in my heart.

Jobs, appearances, even the expectations of your own parents, they all fall away once the inner thirst for truth begins to flower, even if I was not consciously aware.

I finished up the job straight away.

I sat quietly for a few weeks.

What now?

Where was I going?

Logically, nothing made sense but I knew I’d be shown.

One afternoon, I caught up with a mate for a beer at a bar in Southland Shopping Centre.

He turned to me and asked,

“So… what are you going to do?”

I said,

“Mate, I have no fucking idea.”

He replied,

“How about Sri Lanka?”

“You think?” I asked.

He told me he’d spent three months there and loved it.

That was enough. I booked a ticket for the following Wednesday. No overthinking. It just happened.

I needed a heap of vaccinations and no longer had a car, since it was part of the job I'd just walked away from. I asked my dad if he could take me to get the injections.

He was still reeling from me walking away from this job of "status and importance."

The car ride was quiet.

I got the scripts from the doctor, went to the pharmacy, came back, got the injections. I was ready to go.

Packed a bag and left on the Wednesday.

I was happy. Excited.

But I told myself:

“I’m not going to India.

I’m just going to Sri Lanka.

A few months to chill out, have a holiday, explore.

No spiritual journey. That part’s done.

No seeking. I’m done with all that.”

On the plane, I sat next to an Indian guy who worked at a petrol station in Geelong.

He asked where I was off to.

“Going to Sri Lanka,” I said. “And you?”

He said he was going to India to see family but told me he was meant to go the week before and had missed his flight.

I asked what happened.

He fired up and told me the whole thing:

It was a full moon. He’d bought a new pair of thongs that evening.

He was rushing around the house. One of the thongs broke.

He cracked it. Got distracted.

In his haste, he left his passport sitting on the bench at home.

He only realised when he got to the airport. Too late to go back. Missed the flight.

He told this story with real venom, like the whole thing was cursed.

“In my culture,” he said, “buying things on a full moon is bad luck.”

I’d never heard that before. But I nodded. He clearly believed it.

I told him I’d love to go to India one day. I mentioned I liked Ramana Maharshi and Sathya Sai Baba, and that I’d always wanted to visit Tiruvannamalai.

“But not this trip,” I said. “This is just Sri Lanka.”

My two months in Sri Lanka were enjoyable… but after eight weeks, something felt incomplete.

I was at a party in an Australian-run hostel.

Everyone was off their face on drugs and alcohol.

I was sitting there nursing a warm beer, thinking:

“This is fucking shit.”

While sitting there, a woman from a European country came and sat next to me. We started talking. I asked where she’d come from.

“India,” she said.

My ears perked up.

“India, hey…”

I told her I’d love to go one day.

She started talking about it. And within a few minutes, something shifted inside me.

The no became yes.

She wanted to catch up for breakfast the next morning.

I agreed. But I told her I was going to book my flight and get some sleep

I went downstairs, booked a ticket to India for a few days later…

and went to bed.

I was going to India.

After all that… I was going.

Not because I planned it.

Not because I thought it through.

Because something deeper was calling.

And I had no choice but to follow it.