During my yoga teacher training at the ashram, we lived by a simple discipline. Junk food was off limits, routines were strict, and every day followed a certain rhythm.
One afternoon, however, I found myself craving spicy Korean ramen so badly that three of us quietly slipped outside the ashram gates. It felt mischievous in the sweetest way. We ate our ramen, attended Sadhguru’s Darshan, and just as it ended, the skies opened.
Everyone around us began running back, trying to escape the rain.
I couldn’t.
I wanted to feel every drop.
As we walked back, we found a puddle along the road. Without saying a word, we started splashing through it like little children. We laughed, jumped, and played, completely forgetting who might be watching or what anyone might think of us.
For those few minutes, there were no rules, no expectations, no identities to maintain.
Only rain.
Only laughter.
Only three grown adults rediscovering the freedom children never lose.
Whenever it rains now, I don’t remember the ramen.
I remember the puddle.
And how, for a brief moment, joy was all that existed.
