Climbing Chamundi Hill

by Ariel Glucklich

  “But isn’t that precisely what India is known for? I mean meditative technique—yoga, sadhana, vipassana…”

  “Yes, no doubt it is. Hence the boy—who symbolizes this in the story—has accumulated bountiful wealth.”

  “And what about the girl?”

  The old man winked at me. “Ah, the sibling of the body: the so-called mind. She is the young widow who has replaced chastity with prostitution.” He removed his woolen cap and ran his fingers through the white hair. There was no sign of sweat. “Years ago I knew a man who entered a distant monastery, thousands of kilometers from his hometown here in the South. He spent five years in constant meditation facing a wall, and then he came back. When I asked him about his progress in meditation, he told me he had made none. ‘For five years I sat quietly,’ he said to me, ‘trying to discipline myself. To be honest, Bhaiji’—that’s what he called me—‘every single minute I spent thinking about sex. The harder I tried to control the body and purify my thoughts, the more rebellious did both become. My improved concentration only made the erotic images more vivid. I could see women in every detail, feel the pleasure of copulation, suffer the regrets of abstinence. There was no point keeping up the charade, so I left.’”

  “So the girl represents preoccupation with sex or desire?”

  Slowly, with measured precision, the old man put his cap back on. “Not at all. Sex is just a symptom for something else, and the girl is the mind that thinks itself separate from the body, able to control the body. The result is profound agitation. It does not have to be centered on sex; for other people it is money, fame, health, regrets. When you meditate, the mind—clothed as the ego perhaps—wants to act like a bossy landlord: ‘I am in charge here. I control the breath. Every thought is mine. I need to get all of this chaos under control.’ It’s just you sitting there, but that little voice acts like a feudal king. As that mind accumulates mental powers—improved concentration, for example,” the old man laughed as though recalling his own experience, “it gets harder, not easier. You must learn to let go of the idea that the mind is separate from the body.”

  “Okay, I see that. But what is the incest at the heart of the story?”

  “The incest represents the greatest danger of all: the pretense of a false unity between the mind and the body.”

  “Wait, let me get this straight. Before, you said that the boy and the girl are the symbols of body and mind as separate entities, and now you are saying that the incest is the symbol of a false unity?”

  “That is correct.”

  “So, which is it? Are the mind and body separate, in which case they can be united, or are they the same, in which case their unity has to be false?”

  “That’s wonderful attentiveness on your part. I commend you. But why speculate? As long as you think that your mind is separate from your body—whether it actually is or not—the unity you try to establish in practice will be a false one—it will only produce worms.”

  “And if I think that the mind is united with the body?”

  “Also worms.”

  “What are the worms, then?”

  The guide faced me squarely and spoke very slowly. “Worms, my friend, are the types of mental agitation—fantasies, fears, rage—that are experienced as though in the body. In India some people call them ghosts; to you they may be psychosomatic experiences or even delusions. Even the Buddha had an intense encounter with them in his meditation.”

  “Well then, if the worms are delusions and impurities, what is the river that purifies them?”

  The old man looked at me silently. With one hand he pointed toward the top of the hill; with the other, holding his cane, he pointed to the bottom. Then he resumed walking.

  Off to the west a crested hawk eagle dove silently, just as another bird screamed. Suddenly it changed its mind and bounced back up, using an updraft only it could know about. A field mouse was hiding somewhere with its little heart pounding furiously. Behind the averted drama the clouds were moving closer to the mountain, though twenty degrees of open sky still separated them from the hot sun. The old man was also studying the sky, raising his head after each step, before he began his next story.

  SHIVA’S FOOL

  My granduncle first met Sangayya one day as he was riding with the king’s entourage to survey the space between the banks of the Godavari River and the mustard fields. “Something useful ought to be done with all that land,” the king would repeat like a mantra. Granduncle—Tataji—was finance minister and general advisor to the king, the only man in the court who could be counted on to speak his mind.

  The boy was thirteen or fourteen when Tataji saw him that early afternoon crouching under a huge almond tree, staring up and scratching his head. An instant earlier a pair of jungle crows, responding to the nervous energy of approaching horses, flew out of the tree, tearing a green almond off its stem and dropping it next to the boy. In his days and weeks under that tree Sangayya had never seen a green almond actually fall off. The dried almonds, pecked and eviscerated by birds, seemed to belong to the soil under the tree, while the perfect fuzzy ones remained contentedly on the branches. Frozen in his attentive crouch, waiting for a sign perhaps, the boy attracted my granduncle’s attention, because the old man had observed the small chain of events and was fascinated by the boy’s singular attention.

  Tataji was a great soul, a heroic devotee of Shiva, a man who saw god in all things. In the thin, undersized boy, whom everyone regarded as a moron, he immediately recognized a pure simplicity, a delicacy of consciousness that not even the tiny sparrow possessed. That night he made some inquiries and discovered that Sangayya’s parents simply let him wander about, thinking him too simple for either schooling or work.

  The boy spent his days roaming or just daydreaming near the river. For hours he would sit by the banks of the Godavari, lowering himself under bilva or banana trees into the tall weeds. He had a favorite anthill into which he would gently poke a small twig, allowing a few ants to explore its length and watching one or two daring ones venture onto to the hand holding it. To Sangayya they were not fire ants or red ants, but only “ants,” the anthill was the ants’ “home,” and the almond twig was just a stick. He saw the ants in great detail, each with its own personality, appearance, and walk. He addressed them individually—but it is hard to say what they replied. No one knew what the world looked like behind those wide black eyes and perpetual smile. He spoke simply, using the most general nouns, but spent hours studying the minutest details of life around him. He lived in a buzzing world of small organisms and fragrant plants in a richness where not a speck of perceptual space remained for emptiness and abstraction. His mind could have been the laboratory for ancient Vaisheshika philosophers who speculated on what is more solid—the particular object or its class. But for the boy, that wide space between a thing and its name was a mysterious and vast universe, later to be filled with the presence of Shiva.

  Despite his busy schedule, Tataji began to spend afternoon hours with the boy, watching the breeze ruffle the leaves—my granduncle explained that it was the wind that made the blades of grass bend in the same direction at the same time. Sometimes they dozed, or Tataji would tell Sangayya stories about his own childhood, about gods, or about demons and sprites. The boy loved the stories of Krishna’s boyhood and Rama’s heroic adventures. But surprisingly, his favorite stories were about Shiva, and over the years he developed a curious love for the tale of Shiva in the pine forest. My great uncle told it repeatedly, never in quite the same way and always simply.

  “A very long time ago, much before our grandfathers were born, but not so long ago that the world was young, the great sages lived in the Himalayan mountains in a pine forest. They lived there with their wives, but they took vows of austerity. Some stood on their big toe, others remained immersed in freezing water, while yet others dined on moss alone. One day Shiva came to pay a visit to these great men, but they could not recognize him. This was because he was stark naked a
nd completely covered in ashes, with his markings erased. His eyes were wild and red, he had crooked teeth, and his hair flew about as he moved. His penis and testicles were covered with red chalk. He yelled and laughed or smiled mischievously while dancing erotically, bewitching the wives of the sages who had come out to see him. Meanwhile, his own wife, Parvati, matched his every move.

  “The mighty sages, who had accumulated vast spiritual powers through their hot austerities—enough to destroy a god—began to curse him, calling him an ass and a demon. They were outraged by his vulgarity, by his disrespect for their way of life—their dharma. They cursed his penis to fall off.

  “The great god only smiled at their rage and responded, ‘No one has the power to remove my linga, but if your wish is to castrate me, so be it.’ He disappeared before their very eyes, having first removed his own linga.

  “The world, bereft now of God, quickly sank into chaos. The sun went cold and the seasons lost their rhythm. The sages tried to return to their blend of asceticism and domestic routines, but they became uncertain about how to balance their duties, so they lost their virility. In their confusion and despair they sought out the divine grandfather, Brahma. They told him about the naked madman with the crooked teeth and vulgar dance moves, about their curse, and everything else that took place before their world fell apart.

  “That ancient god marveled how miserably such distinguished men had failed to recognize the supreme Lord, the creator, sustainer, and destroyer of all the worlds, master of the great eons. Was it any wonder their world had come undone? Brahma instructed them to create images of the divine linga, perform rituals of propitiation for the god, control their anger at all times, and learn to master the inner self. The sages returned to the pine forest and worshiped the linga image of Shiva for a full year.

  “When spring came around again, Shiva returned to his original form and visited the hermitage, which was now lush with trees and vines, awash with the colors of hundreds of flowers, and alive with buzzing bees. The sages were quick to recognize him this time; they praised him calmly, with hands pressed together above their heads. With the lightest smile, the great god accepted their pleas for forgiveness offered along with garlands of flowers and perfumed incense. Shiva assured them that those who delight in the ashes of the Lord shall have their sins burned away, having obtained the highest fulfillment from God. He taught the sages how to perform the Shiva worship with the icon of the linga using perfumed water, blades of holy grass and flowers, and many other implements. Since then the sages have been able to follow their austere vows and maintain the life of householders as well. They became established in their dharma, knowing that God was pleased with them.”

  The first few times Sangayya heard this famous story, he said nothing but stared intently at Tataji. He asked to hear the story again, insisting that Tataji repeat every detail. Gradually, as the years passed and the boy heard the story hundreds of times, he would start to giggle and ask questions. “What is a linga? Do I have one? How could the linga just fall off? Why were the sages so angry at the naked man? Why was it so hard to be an ascetic and a married man? Why did the world become chaotic when God disappeared?”

  Tataji patiently answered all the questions, over and over again. He began to take the boy, then the young man, to the large Shiva temple in town, where he showed him that the bewildering linga worship was merely a simple devotional service to God as honored guest—a bathing followed by feeding and refreshments. “Sometimes God is our guest,” he would say, “and sometimes we are his.” He took Sangayya to the bathing steps on the banks of the river in town where holy men covered in white ash, with long matted hair and bloodshot eyes, bathed near the burning grounds, just as the story had spoken of the god himself.

  Over the years Sangayya became consumed with Shiva. He knew nothing of theology and hardly anything at all about dharma or the law. But he developed the habit of covering his skin with white ashes, and he chanted the many names of God whenever he remembered, repeating them with every inhalation and exhalation, replacing his previous silence with a quiet stream of divine mantras. He learned to use bel leaves as an offering to Shiva when he was in the forest, where—alert as a deer—he was always on the lookout for rudraksha trees. Sangayya was never seen without rudraksha beads, which he made himself from the fruit of the tree. His beads were polished brown, always the size of large figs, and always with the perfect five grooves between the thorns. Gradually, that vast space that separated the world of discrete objects from the world of names filled with the energy of Shiva. Sangayya’s simple consciousness became increasingly God-centered until he saw Shiva in all things.

  Evenings in the city descended with the smoke of cooking fires mixed with promises rising out of fragrant incense sticks. It was the wake-up time for thieves and adulterers, while for Sangayya evening marked the time for linga worship. He observed noblemen carrying flowers and fruits, along with betel leaves, valuable clothing, and ornaments—all wonderful ritual offerings to Shiva—as gifts for their mistresses. Sangayya, who knew nothing of sex and less of prostitution, congratulated them on their devotion as he watched them admiringly. They laughed and waved back.

  Late one evening, almost ten years after their friendship began to blossom, Sangayya asked my granduncle if he could join these men. Tataji, who knew the full depths of Sangayya’s simplicity, laughed and agreed. Making sure the young man was properly dressed in fresh cotton clothes with a silken vest, Tataji sent him, with a chaperon, to a beautiful and devout courtesan named Saumatri.

  Sangayya had never seen anyone so lovely, other than Parvati herself, whose golden image faithfully flanked Shiva at the great temple in the city. Nor had he ever seen such a palace, with its quartz steps, gold-plated floor, pearl-shaped plaster designs made of musk, and strings of gems that served as lamps. Only the celestial mansions of Shiva could be so luxurious, he thought, feeling now that he had entered the divine realm of his great Lord.

  Imagine his surprise when the beautiful woman began to bathe his feet—those same feet that crushed the lumps of clay at the river’s edge—and, scandalously, now drank the water that ran off into the crystal basin! She was no Parvati. He felt a stern reproach rising in his chest, but it quickly dissolved, for she now took his hand and led him into her inner chamber, gesturing with a sweep of the hand in the direction of a polished wooden bed that dominated the room. It was covered with a down mattress and decorated with marigold and rose petals. On the floor were strewn oleander flowers, and in a crystal bowl were manjaris—mango flowers for gentlemen who needed extra help.

  “Ah, of course,” he thought, “this is Shiva’s throne, right here in the center, and this lovely woman is not Parvati, but one of the god’s attendants!” Sangayya smelled a subtle fragrance riding the soft breeze from the window, as if to confirm his observation. He looked around and found a simple blanket, which he carefully spread on the floor before the great bed, preparing a space for the ceremony.

  “I shall follow the usual procedure,” he announced simply, “and may I suggest that you follow my example?”

  She lowered her eyes and smiled acquiescently. Sangayya then smeared white ash, which he had brought in a pot, over his entire body until he looked like Shiva. He worked deliberately, concentrating intensely as usual. When he finished he turned to examine the great lady. She had not followed his lead, but responded to his inquisitive look by telling him that she was emulating Parvati, who covered her own body in yellow ash. Then she showed him her glistening skin, oiled with turmeric massage oils.

  “Where are your rudraksha beads?” he asked, pointing at his own thorny necklace.

  “The dark ones are too sharp and salty,” she apologized. She showed him her magnificent pearl necklace. “I have these white ones. They have become round and polished because I wear them all the time.”

  That truly impressed Sangayya. “Yes, I understand. Such devotion! Polished rudraksha beads…and look, you have one in your nose! That is co
mpletely new to me. And look again,” his voice rose in excitement, “even in your hair. What a great devotee of Shiva you are!” He looked admiringly at her tiara. Saumatri was embarrassed by his undeserved admiration. She shrugged. “Only God understands these things. It’s not even mentioned in the Vedas.”

  In all his years of participating in rites of worship for Shiva along with the village and city folk, Sangayya had rarely seen such modest devotion, nor had he ever seen such extraordinary symbols. He contemplated her form thoughtfully, then noticed that the lady’s hair did not conform to Shiva’s matted shape. “Your hair, madam, why don’t you wear it matted as Shiva does?”

  “Oh, but I do. I merely leave half unmatted to make it easier to place flowers for the worship ceremony.” She turned sideways and showed him the beautiful red Chinese rose in her braid. “I also sprinkle it with ashes,” she added pointing out the decorative tassels.

  “Well then,” he continued to inquire, “why don’t you wear a truss?”

  Saumatri showed him her full-length silk sari and exclaimed, “This is my truss, dear man. I cover my entire body to shield it from the eyes of nonworshipers.”

  Sangayya was overwhelmed by the lady’s profound virtues and by the majesty of her unfamiliar school of theology. He fell at her feet and begged for instructions in the ways of her devout sect. And so she spoke to him at length, softly instructing him about Parvati’s austerities on Mt. Kailasha, about her own vows following the great goddess, her learning in the holy texts, her rituals and devotions. The beautiful harlot, who normally spent her nights entertaining noblemen, spoke to simple Sangayya about the milk she used for bathing the linga along with the roots, fruits, leaves, and vegetables that nourished the divine couple. This man, who saw Shiva in all things and performed Shiva worship in all his actions, simple Sangayya, was impressed.