Once Upon a Time Stranded on a Lonely Island

Stories that shaped me
By Hari Sakti

In 2020, the world paused.

Almost overnight, what was familiar vanished. Borders closed. Plans dissolved. And the rhythm of life we all took for granted fell silent. That was the year the world changed.

At the time, I was living in Rishikesh, the sacred land of yoga, serving within a spiritual project and connecting with seekers from around the world. Life had settled into a rhythm of devotion, learning, and community. But my visa was due for renewal, and as required, I left India briefly to re-enter. I chose Thailand for a short pause – just a week, I thought. A little time to recharge before returning to my service.

I left my belongings in Rishikesh. I had just secured a new apartment. I had no idea it would take almost a year and a half before I would return.

I was sitting on a beach in Thailand, sun warm on my skin, when the world began to shut down. The virus was spreading, and the news was everywhere – the Covid is taking over the world! I didn’t panic at first, I just waited, assuming it would pass in a few days. But within that short time, countries closed their borders, and India stopped all incoming flights. Suddenly, I found myself stranded on a small island, alone, with no way back.

At first, I stayed near a local ISKCON temple and extended my visa, hoping things would ease soon. But within days, the ferries stopped, flights were cancelled, and tourists fled in panic. Shops and restaurants shut down. The island emptied out like a scene from a dream – or a quiet apocalypse. Even the temple closed its doors, leaving me without daily meals or community.

With only a backpack meant for a one-week trip, I moved into a small apartment tucked into the jungle. There was a small kitchen, and I found a local market still open. The world outside had fallen into stillness, and so I decided to do the same within. What was meant to be seven days became four months of deep solitude.

Turning Inward

In the teachings of yoga, pratyāhāra is the limb that bridges the outer and the inner. It is the practice of gently withdrawing the senses from external distractions and turning inward – where the real journey begins. This unexpected time on the island became exactly that: a doorway into the internal world.

No constant network. No human interaction. No distractions. Days passed in silence, with only the sound of birds, the rustle of wind through palms, and the call of the jungle. Nature began to reveal herself more fully, now that humans had stepped back. I saw snakes coiled under leaves, scorpions on my doorstep, crocodiles in a nearby river. Dogs came close, hungry and curious. I made friends with them too.

I drove my rented scooter through empty roads, sometimes going days without speaking to anyone except the vegetable seller. And in that silence, something extraordinary began to unfold: space. Space to feel. To chant. To cook. To grieve. To remember. To simply be.

I chanted mantra after mantra, our daily practice in the bhakti tradition. I cooked simple meals with attention and gratitude. And I looked deeply within, facing myself without masks.

That time healed parts of me I didn’t know still needed healing. The residue of old stories – the pain hidden under layers, guilt, shame, loss – whatever was still with me from the past was slowly released, not through effort, but through indescribable presence. I felt lighter than in years and creativity just flowed, pouring all over my silent days in the jungle. My prayers were no longer words; they became my breath.

Stillness Reveals What Movement Cannot

I experienced then what yoga has always pointed to: when the outer noise quiets, the inner landscape becomes clearer. When the mind is no longer pulled outward by sense-objects, we meet the Self, not as an idea, but as a living experience.

In those months, without plans, without people, without any certainty, I found a different kind of peace. I didn’t resist the unknown. I didn’t fight for control. I simply let go, and the practice held me.

As Patanjali teaches, yoga is the calming of the fluctuations of the mind. This inner stillness is not something we chase, it is something we uncover, beneath the layers. But to do so, we must step out of the habitual waves and pause the stories.

When we do, we meet the inner witness – the sākṣī. The one who sees clearly. Without judgement and without fear.

When the Time Came to Return

Eventually, the time came to leave. Flights resumed and my visa could no longer be extended. With sandals on my feet and a small backpack on my back, I flew to Finland, still uncertain of what the future held. I left that island not as the person who had arrived, but as someone softer, steadier, and more attuned.

Spiritual life is not about escaping responsibility or withdrawing from the world forever. It’s about returning with deeper alignment. After those months alone, I entered a completely different chapter, working for one full year in a male-dominated field in a difficult environment. But I carried something from the jungle within me; a resonance with what matters. And a readiness to find purpose despite the circumstances.

The jungle had stripped away the unnecessary. It gave me clarity of purpose, a deep trust in the Divine, and a remembrance of simplicity. I had spent time with God, in the most natural temple of all – the creation itself.

As Krishna says in the Bhagavad Gītā, “I am the wind. I am the radiant sun. I am the moon. I am the Supersoul of all living beings.” On that island, over those months, I heard those words not as scripture, but as truth whispered by the trees, the waves, and the wind itself.

To hear such truth, the world must grow quiet. And so must we.

From my heart to yours,
Hari Śakti