at arunachala

The days here unfold in a certain order that seems more distant from the usual hours of a clock.

Although the ashram displays clocks in almost every sector, they only mark the beginning and end times of pujas, chanting, and Tamil paranas.

Beyond its walls, the large rocks intertwined with hanging roots and those deep within seem to intensify the call of the mountain. Arunachala, still yet vibrant, magnetizes every barefoot step on its ancient surface.

Peacocks strut about, squawking, marking their territory among the hundreds of visitors who walk back and forth from Bhagavan's Samadi, to the Shrine of the Mother, the Old Hall, library, auditorium, the dining halls and other places.

Long parades of human beings, different genetic traits, different nations, and a large group of people from the Tamil region.

Many languages, countless differences that ultimately merge into the same song, the same silence.

All is One

— PZP, 31 Jan 2026

04 Feb

This morning, the cool air drifts through the many spaces surrounding the buildings. Some monkeys are already leaping in the trees.

At 4:00am, still in the dark, it's a delight to walk through the gate and arrive at the Old Hall, which remains just as it was the first time I found myself there in silence in 1999.

The women sweep the leaves and the earth, clearing the paths for the devotees who arrive at different times throughout the day. Bells, puja, chants, aromas—all together creating new inner spaces.

Three weeks have passed, and I now recognize each turkey by its gait, as well as the devotees who come and go like caravans traveling through a desert to reach an oasis, though not exactly one with crystal clear waters. The water in the tanks looks green and stagnant. We come here in search of other waters, guided by other stars. They arrive at the end of January, when the days are still cool and full of aromas, butterflies, and flowers that always fall, shedding their petals on the grass.

The nights are spent among loudspeakers with mantras, drums, songs, street vendors, fireworks, horns, and thousands of indefinable sounds that overlap, creating a vibrant overall sound that integrates all the others. Even so, I sleep deeply, as if continuing my daytime states.

I already have some expertise in crossing the street in front of the Ashram, but sometimes I still lag behind, the whirlwind deafens me, and my body does not respond with the necessary speed. In front, there are swarms of motorcycles, 1960s hippies, devotees, vendors, families with children, wild monkeys trying to open bottles or trash bags, shops with colorful fruits, necklaces, incense, and other air fresheners.

The aromas of the different rituals, offerings, and others weave soft waves that float at different heights, while my eyes, rendered silent, move to other environments until they disappear into nowhere. My silence gathers me there inside.

From ARUNACHALA

1999, the last year of the 20th century, and the calendar of life seemed to unfold in fans of possibilities. I felt a call for change, and surprisingly, a trip to India appeared on the horizon.

That's how I found myself at the New Delhi airport on an intensely gray day in January. Everything seemed confusing to me, and even more so in the midst of the smog, which made it even stranger to see myself paralyzed in the middle of a crowd I had never imagined being unable to decide anything.

A few days later, I traveled from Delhi to Rajasthan by train, then after a few weeks, I made another long journey of several days and nights to the city of Chennai. The next day, a bus crowded with people took me to Tiruvannamalai.

I arrived here on the full moon in January. I had slept very little for five days and had been eating bananas, nuts, and water. Even today, I remember the shiver I felt when I crossed the entrance arch and saw the tree right in front of me.

I felt something like being born and dying at the same time. I felt something like being born and dying at the same time.

You could say it was an altered state of consciousness due to lack of food, sleep, and dehydration, but beyond that, I felt that I had arrived.

Where? Arunachala?

It wasn't the time, it wasn't the place, it wasn't a Guru, it wasn't a mountain, it was all that and something more.

Today, 27 years later, I recognize places, spaces, some trails on the mountain, aromas, sounds, bells, silences, and the faces of many travelers I have encountered over time. Even so, I discover new places, new routes, new customs, new rules, but in the end, all that remains is the barefoot walking on the stones of the mountain, succumbing to the magnetic pulse of Arunachala.

When the morning light has not yet appeared, I cross the gate and go to the back to enter the old hall, which, like a grotto or cave, welcomes all devotees equally into its interior.

Even if there are several or many, in the end it is only one Even if there are several or many, in the end it is just one breath that enters and exits rhythmically, and I feel the space expand and contract at the same pace, losing its materiality. Together, we are finally one sustained breath in a totality. I like to feel the floor, the walls, and the interior space as a great nest of creation.