“Haven’t you already run your daily marathon this morning?” asked Willy.

I smiled. “Yes, but that’s work. This is for relaxation.”

“Do you want some company? I’m sure Mita wouldn’t mind going with you.”

“She’s been babysitting me enough lately. I need to learn how to find my own way around.”

If my decision surprised or upset Sushmita, she didn’t let on. Instead, she wished me a pleasant outing. I was on a mission that morning to track down Russ Harlan and find out why he was following me.

The Poona Ashram was in the next lane to the west, not five minutes away on foot. You couldn’t miss it. A bunch of Westerners dressed in their maroon robes milled about, chatting and shopping for vegetables, fruit, and sweets from the vendors who’d set up shop a couple of dozen meters down the road. Situated behind a high fence to thwart the curious gawkers, the ashram looked quite new. To enter, you had to pass through a gate flanked by tall bamboo clusters and wait in a reception office.

About twenty aspirants—mostly foreigners, but some Indians as well—waited their turn to speak to the officious clerk behind a long counter. Actually, there were six other young men on duty as well, but none of them seemed to possess the power of speech. They simply watched.

One by one, the hopefuls were given an application for admittance. Then the clerk explained the ashram rules and told them where to buy their robes—maroon for the day and white for nighttime meditations and activities. When my turn came, he asked to see my passport.

“I don’t have it with me,” I said.

“Sir, a passport is required before all else.”

“But I don’t want to go inside. I’m here to meet a friend. Russell Harlan.”

“One minute,” he said. “My colleague will help you.” He waved me off to the side and invited the next person in line to step forward.

As I waited again, I got a brief glimpse of the grounds when a door to the interior office remained open for ten seconds or so. I could see robed devotees strolling the pathways through a lush, green landscape of flowers, shrubs, and mature trees. It looked quite peaceful, and no one was humping on the grass, at least not where I could see.

“May I help you, sir?” asked a slim fellow of about twenty-five in a shirt and tie.

“I’m here to meet my friend, Mr. Russell Harlan. H-A-R-L-A-N.”

He disappeared back into the office. Barely thirty seconds later, he returned with a clipboard and pencil in hand.

“May I repeat the spelling?” he asked. “Haitch- A-R-L-A-N?”

The Indian H took some getting used to, for me at least, but I confirmed the name.