Leaving Tiruvannamalai and Heading to Puttaparthi

After meeting a kind man at Ramana Ashram in 2018 who suggested I visit Puttaparthi to better understand a dream I’d had of Sathya Sai Baba, it felt like time to leave Tiruvannamalai.

I wasn’t yet consciously aware of my deep connection to Arunachala and Ramana, that would only become clear seven years later.

But for now, I’d had a good stay, with a few interesting things unfolding, and I sensed it was time to move on.

I packed my things and headed to the bus stand. I found the bus to Bangalore, where I’d stay the night before catching a train to Prasanthi Nilayam, Sai Baba’s ashram.

I had my backpack with me and hesitated about whether to store it underneath the bus.

Something told me to keep it with me, so I did. I got on board and settled in.

A little while into the journey, I noticed an Indian woman glaring at me.

She was full-on shaking her head with disgust.

I looked at her like, What’s your problem? It had to be the bag.

Ten minutes later, the bus pulled over.

Two police officers climbed aboard and walked straight up to me.

I thought, What the fuck is going on? They started speaking, but I couldn’t understand a word

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

A young Indian guy around my age leaned in and said, “Excuse me, do you need help?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“I have no idea what’s going on.”

He translated: the issue was my bag.

They wanted to know why I hadn’t stored it underneath.

“I’m from Australia,” I said.

“I just wanted to keep it with me so it doesn’t get damaged.”

He passed on the message and then said, “They want you to pay a fine.”

“A fine?!” I said.

“For what? That’s bullshit.”

“How much is it?” I asked.

“Four hundred rupees,” he replied.

I did a quick calculation.

About six Australian dollars.

I handed over a 500-rupee note.

The guy said he’d get me change but the police took the money and walked off.

No change.

I didn’t really care by that point.

I just wanted to get to Bangalore.

The young guy started blowing up about police corruption, and I nodded along.

“It’s just a bag,” I said.

“What’s the big deal?”

Eventually, we reached Bangalore.

I got a tuk-tuk from the bus stand to my hostel.

On the way, I noticed a foreign girl walking down the street in short shorts and a crop top —unusual in India.

Everyone was staring.

I laughed.

While checking in at the hostel, I heard a voice behind me:

“Hey!” I turned around, it was the girl.

She was from London.

We chatted for a bit, and she asked if I wanted to grab dinner.

“Sure,” I said.

We went to an Indian restaurant and started talking.

She told me she had a partner of eight years back home, but said he trusted her completely and was fine with her traveling alone.

“That’s good,” I said.

Then things got weird.

She suddenly confessed she had fallen in love with the owner of the hostel, an older Indian guy with kids and a family. And apparently, he loved her too.

I was shocked.

“What about your partner back home?”

She didn’t seem to care.

I felt sick for the poor guy in London.

No idea what was happening.

After dinner, I distanced myself.

I didn’t want to be around that kind of energy.

I had a train to catch at 6am.

I got up at 5am, grabbed my bag, and jumped into a waiting Uber.

This was my first train ride in India.

I made sure everything was secure, then stood by the door, watching the landscape fly by.

The scenery changed constantly.

Lush green, dry fields, village life flashing past.

I felt content. Curious. And slightly amused.

All this, because of a dream.