But when Toby went to see Babaji in India he knew that he had seen God or at least someone who carried more of that “God-energy” than anyone he’d ever known, and he did what he always does in those cases, he became an enthusiastic supporter of the whole “trip,” forcing me to come to grips with it. So, while we were deciding if we were having a relationship or not, I decided I had to get back to India to see Babaji once more and decide what I really thought about the whole deal. I decided this was top priority for me but I hadn’t told Toby when, in the middle of an argument, he suddenly said to me, “I want you to go to India with me in June and we’ll ask Babaji to marry us.”
“You mean, if he says ‘no’ we won’t have to do it?” I replied.
“Yes,” he said.
Well, this was a marriage proposal I could relate to. It showed a person with an adventurous spirit and darn good ideas. Little did I know just what it would be getting me into. No business as usual, but life transforming constantly, and of learning the most difficult lessons of my life.
I have come to know India as the land where one comes face to face with oneself under the most difficult circumstances and is deeply changed. Of course at the center of my experiences is the transcendent force of what the Indians call an Avatar, God incarnate, a parent to our spirit selves, who shows us what it is we are aspiring to.
Haidakhan Babaji, reputed to be a mahavatar—a human manifestation of God not born of woman—is said to have appeared in June of 1970 in a holy cave at the foot of the Kumaon Mt. Kailash, across the sacred river Gautama Ganga from a remote village called Haidakhan in the Nainital district of Uttar Pradesh. He apparently had no known parents but appeared to be a youth of 18 who possessed great wisdom and divine powers. He passed away in 1984.
—JO’R and LH
In India the line between dreaming and a timeless reality is very thin. I find myself in the Kailash View Hotel, Haldwani, Uttar Pradesh, feeling trapped in a world of my own creation and I cannot get out. I am creating it all and it is horrible. I cannot escape. The smell of tires burning. People on bicycles. The train. Cows wandering in the street. Pigs. Dogs. Chickens next door. Everything strange. Smoke hanging over the city. The sheer terror of it! No EXIT!
Toby has burned his feet. He is in psychic collapse. Unavailable. Worried about how he is going to get up the river to the ashram the next day. The cloud about him is palpable. We are not in “ordinary reality.” I am terrified. I go outside. I come back in. I cannot get back to normal. Toby is in the bathroom. I go in and say, “Toby, I love you.” It is a lie. I don’t feel love for him. It is an attempt to get things back to normal, but it is a failure. No luck.
There are those who still regard the compass as more than a bauble and persist in asking total strangers, “Where’s home?” and “Who’s Om?” They may be comforted to learn that their dilemma is not unique.A century ago Nietzsche was asking in italics,
“Will it be said of us one day that
we, too,
steering westward, hoped to reach an India,
but that it was our fate to be wrecked against infinity?”
To the anxious on both sides of the dark water, I would like to raise a toast: a small cheer for fear.
It’s harder to applaud the confident ones who as the Indian cynic says, “Go from zero to hero.”
Those who have passed beyond fear can’t hear.
—Gita Mehta, Karma Cola: Marketing the Mystic East
I remember I must be willing to face my death to get to the next level, to evolve. But I fear that if I truly face this feeling, I will in fact die. Yet I decide I have to do it.
I lie down on the bed in this dark room I have created. A lizard dozes in the corner. Mosquitoes buzz. I pull my shawl over my head and fall back into black certainty of my death. Immediately I pop out the other side and I am back into normal reality. I have survived.
We made it up the river the next day. The first words he said to us after we’d gone up the 108 steps from the riverbed to the ashram was, “You two married?”
“No, Babaji, but we will be if you’ll marry us.”
He said, “Tomorrow, 8 a.m.”
So we were married. It ended with a plunge into the river. We were tied together. I was afraid he would drown me and my new silk sari would be ruined. I complained and resisted all the way across the river bed, “Baba said, put our heads in the river, not jump in.” Finally I gave up.“Oh, what the heck. OK. I’ll do it.” We jumped in.
It changed the whole thing. The sacred river that washed away the sins of the world was clear, pure, cold on that hot June day. It cleansed us. We could laugh, relax. We were together again. A white dove landed on our window sill.
Later in that trip, I was sitting alone in our room, a cement structure with one window and a mat on the floor. My head is shaved again. I have yellow paint in stripes on my forehead, the mark of Shiva, put there at dawn by Babaji. I have been bathing in the river twice a day, 4 a.m. and 4 p.m. I have been going down 108 steps to squat amongst the rocks if I needed to use a toilet. I have been carrying rocks to build a new temple on the mountain-side. I have been chanting Om Namah Shivaya and singing 108 names of God and browning my naked skull in the sun. My body feels new, clean. I still don’t know if Babaji is God. I still don’t know what’s happening or why. People love him. I don’t love him, I’m afraid of him, but I’m grateful he lets me stay because I know something extraordinary is happening in spite of my disbelief.
For some reason I decide to sink into myself, to see how I am feeling. I sink down and I become the entire World, the Cosmos. I realize the world is inside of me. That it is an actual literal fact. I can feel the truth of this, the physical truth. I had heard this before, “you are the world,” but it had been a concept, an interesting philosophical idea. Now it was an actual physical reality. I could feel the street and the cars of the world within me. The forests, the jungles of Brazil and the deserts of Africa, I contained them all within my body and it was good.
Now I am climbing Mount Kailash. This is the sacred mountain here in the foothills of the Himalayas where Babaji sat for forty days and nights after manifesting his body in the cave at the base. It is very steep. I am in my sandals. I cannot stand up straight. I take a step and stop and breathe. It is very slow going. I am bent completely over. I am pulling myself by the grasses on the side of the path. This is very familiar to me. I have done it many times before. But when? Then I remember: I have done this in dreams over and over again. When I reach the top, I am Home. The air feels creamy and welcoming. I feel comforted. I feel that I am Home for the first time in my life. I eat the ginger chapatis and taste the sacred ash the priest puts on my tongue. I look out on the terraced mountains and the river valley below.
I am finally at home.
It took me many more trips to India to try to decide what I really thought about the “whole deal.” To be truthful I have to say I never have decided what I really think about it, but the grasses, the struggle to climb—I have never had that dream again.
Born and bred for the suburbs, Kathleen Clark has spent the latter part of her life trying to escape. She now lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico and is carrying on a passionate affair with a cello.
“India is mad with all the madness of reality,” the old poet said. The snake man laughs as he swirls the bag of writhing killers around his head; the maharani sighs and adjusts her pearls as she passes the starving child; the twilight sun streaks the feathers of the murdered peacocks in the back of the Jeep full of tobacco smoke. An awareness of violent contradiction and paradox entered my imagination early and pervaded it. Western rationalizations or secular dreams of progress, however much I tried to share them, were always foreign to me, as were all versions of the Divine that left out terror and destruction. My inner reality was of the skinned panther on my father’s veranda, and the mango lying on a silver plate near it, the lapis lazuli lozenges glittering in the doorways of Moghul ruins and the beggars coughing under them,
the deer’s body I found once in a garden in the Nilgiri hills lying eviscerated, swarming with ants, under a light-riddled display of jacaranda.
—Andrew Harvey, Hidden Journey: A Spiritual Awakening
Down the Brahmaputra
RORY NUGENT
The search for the elusive pink-headed duck—last sighted in 1935—takes the author and his pal, Shankar, to the far reaches of Assam in a canoe named Lahey-Lahey, or Slowly-Slowly.
IN THE MORNING, AFTER PADDLING SEVERAL MILES DOWNSTREAM, we’re back in duck country again. The jungle crawls over the riverbank; birds reappear; tracks along the shore mark the favorite watering spots for swamp deer, crab-eating mongooses, wild boar, and various species of cat. In one two-mile stretch, ducks carpet every foot of water; I figure there are thirty-one thousand birds floating within sight.
“How did you come up with that?” Shankar asks.
“Math,” I say authoritatively.
As we move through a flock of pochards, several pale red feathers drop from the sky and land near the stern. I keep a close watch on all the ducks and ready my cameras. Hundreds of storks are feeding in the shallows, clacking their mandibles. A crested serpent eagle eyes me from a treetop, and a chestnut-bellied nuthatch almost clips me from our rail as it races by trying to tell me something important. I cock the camera shutter.
Slowly Shankar and I develop a perfect cadence, the rhythm of our paddles in harmony with the river. Our wake is imperceptible, barely hinting at our passing. The sun guides us downstream, marking the way with a slender golden path. We paddle on, our movement as fluid as the water itself. The sounds of the Brahmaputra have grown familiar, their clarity and intimacy comforting. As I listen, I begin to decipher pieces of the river’s timeless message.
After tea the next morning, we start loading Lahey-Lahey. Hayna is there to offer advice.
“Never travel in the rain... Giant fish and crocodiles attack during storms... Pray to Ram when you see a whirlpool. He may hear you and save you... Keep your fire bright. Ghosts fear light. Do you have flashlights?... When the moon is up, sleep with your knives...”
He stops, nodding in approval, when I hold out two pieces of fruit. Shankar takes one and we make an offering to Brahma, invoking his spirit to guide us safely to the sea. The oranges splash and bob downstream, carrying our prayer ahead of us.
The people of Saikhoa Ghat wave and shout as we climb aboard. We clear the back-eddy along the bank and enter the main channel of the god.
—Rory Nugent, The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck: A Journey into the Himalayas and Down the Brahmaputra
“Look out!” Shankar yells as Lahey-Lahey clears a bend.
I snap out of my trance to find that we’re on a collision course with another boat. I back-paddle frantically, jabbing the water, trying to swing the bow around. Shankar is poised to fend off. The other crew, just as surprised, dig in their push poles. Lahey-Lahey misses their stern by inches and rounds up smartly, giving us the appearance of expert boatmen. She stops within an arm’s length of their rail.
They’re turtle catchers, and the two 150-pounders in their bilge indicate that they’re good at their jobs. They were tracking a third when we appeared. The captain apologizes, explaining that they were focused on the bubble trail of their submerged prey. Shankar, wetting his lips at the thought of a turtle dinner, asks for the secrets of turtle hunting. The captain explains that there are two ways to catch a turtle: trapping it with a net or wounding it with a trident and roping it by the neck when it surfaces.
Turtles are the basis of his village’s entire economy. The meat close to the shell is a delicacy that commands a high price in the city; the shell is carved into combs or decorative objects. The captain shows us some of his own handiwork, mostly combs, which, he notes, are of no use to me [Rory’s bald]. They give us small amulets made from turtle shell, and in exchange we offer Michael Jackson lighters. Everyone is delighted with the barter.
Following the shifting main current, we cut all the way across the river to the north bank. When the wind is calm, it’s relatively easy to pilot the fastest course: ripples point us to the swiftest-running water. However, when it’s blowing hard enough to put white-caps on the waves, it’s nearly impossible to track the current, and we must rely on luck.
Tonight it’s my turn to cook. When Shankar goes off to collect firewood, I rifle through our supplies hoping for inspiration. By the time he returns, I’ve unpacked everything.
“What are you doing?” he asks, kindling the fire.
“Looking for something different.”
As the fire catches, flames shooting through the top of the mustard oil tin, I can see the grin on his face. He knows we have plenty of food, but it’s all the same. We end up eating rice, dal, onions, and radishes again, our standard menu, which varies only by the amount of curry powder or pepper we add. There was no tinned food for sale in Saikhoa Ghat; Moti [a teahouse owner and trader] explained that people won’t buy food if they can’t smell it or pinch it. Shankar decides to write out a shopping list of items to buy in the next town; he’s still at it when I turn in.
Several uneventful days later, as we paddle between two large islands, Shankar yells, “Look at that.” He’s pointing to starboard, but I can’t see anything. I raise my binoculars and scan the island. “Tiger?” I ask. Yesterday we spent the entire morning following the tracks of a Bengal tiger. We gave up after finding nothing but leeches.
“Forget the tiger. Look at the water. There!”
It’s too late to avoid the whirlpool, so we hang on for the ride. It’s the largest we’ve seen, almost twice the length of the boat. Previously we’ve powered right through them, encountering little drag, but not this time. Around and around we go, spinning clockwise, making tighter, faster circles. The horizon becomes a dizzy blur.
A dead tiger is the biggest thing I have ever seen in my life, and I have shot an elephant. A live tiger is the most exciting thing I have ever seen in my life, and I have shot a lion. A tiger in a hurry is the fastest thing I have ever seen in my life, and I have shot a leopard. A wild tiger is the most frightening thing I have ever seen and I have shot a Cape Buffalo. But for the sport involved… I would rather shoot quail than shoot another tiger.
—Robert Ruark, Use Enough Gun, quoted by Geoffrey Ward with Diane Ward, Tiger-Wallahs: Encounters with the Men Who Tried to Save the Greatest of the Great Cats
“Yahoo!” Shankar exclaims, his paddle shipped, holding on to the painter like a rein. “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”
This gleeful feeling is quickly supplanted by terror as the whirlpool starts to suck us down.
“Sheee-ittt. Paddle, paddle!” Shankar now screams.
Both of us thrust our oars into the swirling water as the foam starts lapping the gunwales. The boat lists, her port rail dipping under. The river pours in. We shift our weight to compensate, burying the starboard rail. Lahey-Lahey spins on her nose and threatens to dive. The bilge water surges forward, almost catapulting me from the stern. We stroke like madmen, shouting instructions at each other. Water cascades over the stern. We move aft, straining to regain an even keel. Whap! the stern hits the river. Lahey-Lahey corkscrews, reverses direction, and cuts across the spirals into calm water. We head for the nearest land.
Shankar and I had heard about these giant whirlpools, but we didn’t believe the stories told us by Jodu Das, Hayna, and Moti. In Indian lore whirlpools are regarded as doorways to another life. An angry deity is lying at the bottom, sucking in the water, waiting to gobble up some unwitting sailor to appease its wrath. The river gods may not forgive our next mistake.
We reach the right bank without further incident and discover a wide expanse of marshland. In a flash my mood changes.
“This is it, Shankar. We’ve found the perfect nesting ground for the pink-headed duck. Just look at that marsh.”
Shankar is not excited; indeed, he groans as I steer for the wet-lands. The air becomes thick with flying, biting insects, as well as
a stomach-knotting odor of swamp gas. This doesn’t deter me, for I sense that the duck is near. I jump out, eager to survey the area, but Shankar won’t leave the boat. I point out a few of the highlights of this wonderland, including the thousands of iridescent dragonflies zipping over the stagnant water, flitting from one earthen mound to another, their bodies glistening like sapphires. Birds’ nests are everywhere and the occupants shout their welcome.
“They’re telling us to go away,” Shankar corrects.
I remain undaunted, sure that the white ibis are grunting hello, that the chestnut bitterns are extending a gracious invitation, confident that the flapping widgeons and terns are applauding our arrival.
“I don’t like it here,” Shankar whines.
“Come on,” I urge. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s just a feeling. I don’t know.… It’s the kind of place a burru would live in.”
“A what?”
“Burru. My grandmother told me stories about them. They’re bad. Evil.”
According to Shankar’s grandmother, burrus appear in two forms, the most frightening being that of a giant, scaly ogre with the claws of a panther and the head of a frog; the more common variety, I’m told, looks like a brontosaurus. In either case the god-beast regards human beings as tasty hors d’oeuvres.
“She saw one and my cousin did too. I’m telling you the truth.… Hey, man, don’t mess with burrus.”
Malevolent spirits are collectively known as bhuta-preta. These supernatural beings are souls of persons who could not live out their lives fully, or who died with unsatisfied desires. A bhuta (demon) comes from the soul of an adult who died young or violently; preta (ghost) is the spirit of a child who died in infancy or was born deformed. Female spirits are ghosts of childless women or unhappy widows. Bhuta-preta hover between the human world and the world of ancestral spirits.
Travelers' Tales India Page 33
