Ben takes a few minutes to explain the meaning of the sounds composing the mantra and how it ties into my life's work. The meaning of the Sanskrit syllables magically and elegantly expresses all I hope to do in my lifetime. It feels perfect. He instructs me, however, not to focus on the meaning of the words while meditating, that it's the vibration of the words that will transform me. “By repeating this mantra, something will begin to grow within you,” he says. “It may grow into an oak, a lotus, or a peach tree. It remains to be seen.” Mango would be nice, I think.
In the days that follow, I take my mantra with me to the sacred grove and something does begin to grow in me. I repeat the new mantra silently, using my mala beads in the way Ben had shown me to keep track of the number of times I repeated it. The mala keeps my hands occupied so I can focus on the syllables, in the same way that chewing gum helps me do my taxes and other less intoxicating chores.
I also notice myself chanting the mantra silently in my head after I crawl into bed. The syllables come to me spontaneously several times throughout the day. The mantra seems to keep part of my brain busy so my true self can connect with all that is.
As the sounds begin to nestle into my brain and body, I begin to trust their ability to grow something within me. Just thinking of my mantra brings me to a place of sweetness.
CHAPTER 33
The River
We can't help being thirsty, moving toward the voice of water. Milk drinkers draw close to the mother. Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, shamans, everyone hears the intelligent sound and moves with thirst to meet it.
Rumi, 13th-century Sufi poet
It's 5:00 in the morning on the big day, and I'm feeling contemplative as I lie in the dark on my cot. It's Mauni Amavasya—the New Moon day on which both the sun and the moon are in Capricorn—the day with the highest spiritual power for bathing of the entire Kumbh Mela. My sham baptism on the boat had felt insufficient. So I'm hoping for a true baptism today.
The day before …
I nose around, asking other more daring and reckless pilgrims if they plan to bathe. Surely I'm not the only one wanting to do this. I keep hitting dead ends. One of my fellow pilgrims explains that the actual bathing is simply a metaphor for the inner work we are doing here. Others are fearful about the pollution and the amount of bacteria in the river. I try to explain, in medical terms, that bathing in the Ganges is no more dangerous than changing a baby's diaper—assuming, of course, that you don't inadvertently swallow the diaper's contents. People stare at me blankly after I tell them this, as if I am one sandwich short of a picnic. I forget how trusted governmental recommendations have become.
Then I run into a vibrant, silver-maned yoga instructor who is on the staff. I tell her that I really want to bathe in the Ganges and that it is something I envisioned doing in community with others.
She agrees that it is beautiful to do it in a group and tells me that I may be able to connect with an Indian woman who has been bathing in the Ganges every day since we arrived. “I'll let her know that you'd like to join her, Sarah.”
Thirty million pilgrims are expected on the grounds today. The sound outside intensified last night, overflowing and adding to the usual peak of drumming and chanting at 3:00 in the morning. A fresh intensity took over around 4:00, and now a new preponderance of flutes is rising over the enormous humming Ommmm of it all. I do an expedited loving-kindness meditation for all of the pilgrims. May they be free from suffering. May I be free from suffering.
I move quietly through the darkened hut to gather my backpack and head directly to the sacred grove, settling onto the dung floor with my freshly minted mantra and my rudraksha-seed mala. I fumble initially to move the beads as I've been instructed, with my right ring finger and thumb. As I settle in, the beads begin to flow nicely through my fingers. I'm feeling deep joy here, immersed in the beauty of the Ganges and the sounds of millions of chants and prayers from other pilgrims.
As my meditation comes to an end, I notice that several of the teachers are beginning to gather around the sacred fire kund in the grove. The fire leaps and crackles to life as it is prepared for our work today as a community. Offerings of tiny black mustard seeds, dried blossoms, and ghee are fed into the flames, which sizzle and pop as they're consumed. We'll be praying here later today to remove fear from humanity and to heal the earth.
The woman I'm supposed to meet for bathing today is nowhere in sight. I sit on a bench at the top of the stairs to the river. Fifteen minutes pass. I feel a bit panicky, as if this is my only chance. It's now thirty minutes past the designated time to meet, and I worry that they've already left to go to the river.
Finally, I spot an Indian-born American man from our group and ask him if he knows anything about this elderly woman who bathes. He nods and asks a nearby local staff member something in Hindi. The staff member gestures toward the main dining hut. The man from my group grabs my arm and says, “Come on!” his face lighting up, almost as if he's more excited about it than I am. I am swept along the trail. We're running.
We quickly find the older woman on the path near the dining hut. She's with a young man who assists her and her niece, who speaks English. The young man is dressed neatly in a vest and shirt similar to the ones our Ganges boatman wears. He's carrying a plastic shopping bag. Her niece has on a simple cotton sari and a cardigan sweater.
The man who swept me here explains, in Hindi, that I'd like to join them. She nods to me, unsmiling, and then seems to ignore me. Her eyes are dark and furtive. The niece is bubbly, smiling, and welcoming at first, but then her eyes drift to my outfit—long black yoga pants and a navy kurta—and she says, in a half whisper: “You aren't going to take off your clothes, are you? You can't, because it would be disrespectful.” I quickly assure her I have no intention of stripping. I plan to immerse myself fully clothed. She appears relieved, then says: “Also, Auntie really doesn't like to talk at all during these things, so please understand.” I immediately fall silent, happy to comply.
The four of us walk silently down the winding dirt road toward the village's path to the river. We pass through a grove of Banyan trees as the soft morning light cuts through the lingering fog in broad shafts. The onion-shaped dome of nearby Patanjali's temple peeks over the treetops. It's silent, except for the birds’ sweet early morning conversations.
Auntie is petite—barely over five feet—and she walks in a slightly labored way with a stooped posture. She's focused and solemn as she moves steadily along the path. Her black hair is shot with silver and pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She wears a dark sari and a long, heavy cardigan to keep out the chill.
We come to the end of the road and pass through a large gate with a nod to the camp's guards, then take a sharp right and step down into an old, narrow cobbled lane with small bluffs on either side.
River-soaked local pilgrims returning from bathing stream steadily past us up the hill. I keep my head down, staying close to my group. When we arrive at the riverbank a few moments later, Auntie pauses and stands back, appearing to take inventory of the situation. The three of us wait for her direction.
The morning sun shines brilliantly on the river. Several hundred local people are here in various states of bathing—some are in the water, others are already out and getting dressed. A few Indian army officers stand at the periphery, keeping an eye on things. I hear the shouts and cries of children. This place is alive and beautiful, vibrant with the flow of the river.
Auntie suddenly points off to the left and we begin to move carefully and silently along the shore toward her selected area. The young man spreads a plastic tarp on the muddy shore and indicates that we should all lay our dry things on it. I slip off my clogs and step onto the packed, wet silt in my stocking feet, not wanting to offend by setting foot on Auntie's possibly sacred tarp.
Now that I'm closer to the water, I can see hundreds of flowers, mostly gold-orange and mustard-yellow marigolds, floating and bobbing at the wat
er's edge. Dozens of sticks of incense burn happily, having been poked into the river's soft bank.
I slip off my wool socks and step onto the cold, slippery ground. The riverbank is somewhat steep, making graceful navigation into the water challenging. Auntie removes her sandals and socks and, with the aid of her helper, steps gingerly into the river. She motions to me and to her niece to come closer and to cup our hands. I step into the river and stand a few feet away from Auntie.
Standing thigh-deep in the water in her sari, Auntie pours a few tiny, black mustard seeds into our outstretched hands and demonstrates how to moisten them slightly in the river and spread them on our faces. Her beautiful, warm, brown face, weathered by the sun, is now covered with the small black seeds. The niece and I both immediately do the same. I close my eyes and feel the sun warming us.
The water is brisk and refreshing, like the spring-fed Minnesota lakes where I'm used to swimming. After we've anointed ourselves with the seeds, Auntie begins to make her way into deeper water supported by her helper. My feet slip and slide on the slick, silt-carpeted river bottom. It feels as if I'm trying to balance on the curved surface of a wet clay pot that's just been formed. I slowly feel my way along the bottom into deeper water, encountering small, sharp pebbles along the way.
There are pilgrims all around us, but I feel a quietness within and without, as if the ordinary world has been temporarily snuffed out to lay bare this extraordinary one. I'm about mid-hip-deep in the water now and I gather my intention: Please—I want to be of service in the world, to help others heal, to relieve suffering, or to do whatever it is I'm best suited to do. I want to become the highest possible mother, daughter, wife, and friend. This is my prayer.
I plug my nose and make a series of three dips, being sure I completely submerge the top of my head each time. I'm relieved and so happy to have made it to this place, and so grateful that a way was opened for me to do this. My baptism is complete.
Or maybe not. Auntie motions to me. She pantomimes with her hands for me to go out into slightly deeper water. I'm confused. Do I require extra purification? She indicates that additional dunking is necessary, so I obediently move until the water is just above my waist. I repeat my dipping procedure, submerging my whole body and head three times. When I rise out of the water after the third dip, Auntie nods and her beautiful brown face breaks into a broad smile. She is pleased.
Auntie invites me to come closer again. She motions for us to reach into a plastic bag her helper has handed her that is filled with dozens of freshly picked flowers. I reach in and grasp a handful of soft, feathery, blossoms—deep-pink bougainvillea and mustard-colored marigolds. Auntie partially submerges the flowers cupped in her hand, then turns to the sun and holds the flowers up high, repeating the motions three times. Then she finally releases the flowers to bob downstream with the flow of the Ganges.
The morning sun is still fairly low in the sky above the trees flanking the river. As we make our silent offerings together, it seems as if we drop into slow motion. The sun seems to shine temporarily brighter and the river sparkles more vibrantly. The sun gives us heat, light, and energy without ever asking for anything from us. With our simple offering here at the river, we express our gratitude. We are all being held in the beating heart of this place—temporarily knit together by the sun, the silt, and the powerful moving water. Standing together, we are blessed—one body and one heart.
CHAPTER 34
The Grove and the Jungle
And one of the historical Buddha's very first teachings, recorded in the Avatamsaka Sutra, says “the Earth expounds Dharma,” meaning, I think, that the very world we live in describes how to awaken.
Jaimal Yogis, Saltwater Buddha
My fellow pilgrim Lloyd is a mystical-looking American with a flowing white beard and who sports a white kurta. He's a free spirit and appears to be completely at home here on the Ganges. When he tells me about himself, it's clear he's also a lifelong seeker. We get talking about shamanism, and he shares that his own mother's spirit appeared to him after her death to apologize to him for locking him in a psychiatric ward for two weeks decades earlier. His encounter with her spirit gave him a lot of peace. In retrospect, Lloyd says: “Being locked on that ward was perfect; it taught me to be compassionate.” When he was discharged, he decided to become a psychologist. For decades, Lloyd had a successful therapy practice and loved his work.
Lloyd is curious about the shamanic healing work I do. “Would you be willing to do a healing for me?” he inquires, eyes hopeful. I laugh that an opportunity to serve as a healer shows up mere hours after my proper baptism in the Ganges. And it's not even lunchtime.
This is my first shamanic “house call.” I'm used to doing healing work in my own sacred space at home or in a formal group setting, not in India on a riverbank. Over time, I've found my own way to open sacred space, a divine mash-up of several different methods I have learned. I beseech my healing spirits to help me out.
Lloyd and I agree to meet at 2:30 that afternoon down by the sacred grove. Lloyd is requesting a healing for his hip. He wants to be pain-free so he can do his work in the world as a “wandering bodhisattva,” defined by some as an ordinary person who sets sail to be Buddha-like in the world, practicing compassion for all beings. His hip pain is limiting his mobility and his ability to travel comfortably.
The sun shines on us and a beautiful breeze blows through the large trees flanking the Ganges. We arrange ourselves on some borrowed wool blankets on the dry grass. I have only my rattle with me.
I call my helping spirits one by one as I move through the six directions (North, South, East, West, Above [Upper World], and Below [Lower World]. As I move through them, I feel each spirit I call arrive, and they place themselves around Lloyd. Then I lie down next to Lloyd and put in my ear buds so I can hear the rhythmic drumming that will carry me. I travel my own well-worn path up through the clouds and into the Upper World, a place filled with loving and compassionate spirits that are felt rather than seen. My spirits huddle close and give me a recommendation for a specific kind of healing. A unique design is given to me that I'm to bring back and “install” in Lloyd's spirit. But when the spirits give me the design, I feel suddenly embarrassed.
It looks like a lingam. It's a very simple primitive drawing that looks like a phallus—or I suppose it could be an open-ended cucumber or the broken half of a paper clip. But it feels phallic. I plead a little with the spirits, telling them that I feel embarrassed to give this symbol to a man I hardly know. What if he's insulted? The spirits laugh and then get serious with me. “This is the symbol,” they tell me calmly. Firmly.
So, I return down the same path and bring the symbol back to Lloyd. I rattle in all directions to seal the deal, then return one last time to check back in with my spirits. Sometimes they give me a “last word,” or something my client needs to know. I've discovered that these words are often very significant. This time, Alice instructs me: “Let Lloyd know his mother says she's very proud of him!” When I share the spirits’ last words, I notice a tiny tear escape Lloyd's eye. Even if it appears that not much is going on, when feelings flow enough to bring a tear, that is often a sign that something is, in fact, happening.
Afterward, Lloyd seems quiet. I sense our special connection has come to an end.
Lloyd asks how he can pay me. I'm caught off guard. I tell him, since this is an odd circumstance, there's no need for him to pay me. But if he feels he needs to, he can pay me whatever he's inspired to give. I jokingly say that I'd be happy to receive a juice box at the next place we stop, as juice boxes seem hard to come by around here. He seems somewhat confused by this suggestion, but I'm just trying to be buoyant and leave things open to whatever he feels comfortable doing. I'm feeling unattached—at least to the money, if not to the outcome.
Next morning, 5:00 arrives earlier than it seems it should. Though it's hard to leave my soft cloud of a sleeping bag, I'm eager to return to the meditation grove one last t
ime. Tomorrow, we depart for Khahurajo. The soft, cool darkness is dominated by the eerie cries of peacocks. Everything sounds better, I think, when it's free. The peacocks are a mirror for how I feel—temporarily unfettered; not a mom or a wife or a daughter. I'm not expending energy to create a harmonious household. I'm not pulled in a million different directions. It's just me.
As I walk in the cool air, I feel submerged in sacredness. The peacock—consort to Quan Yin, the goddess of compassion—comes to mind again. Each of the eyes on this goddess's peacock's feathers represents her uncanny ability to “see” the suffering of humanity, to hear its cries for compassion. It's as if the mythology and animals of this place are designed to get us out of bed and guide us into seeing each other and caring for each other. “Wake up, wake up! There is suffering in the world. No time to waste.”
The Kumbh Mela behind, we make the twelve-hour bus journey to our next destination. It's here I will finally meet Nathan, the man that everybody has been buzzing about with great rapture … their teacher! At our new camp in Khahurajo, I wake to the sounds of robotic chimes calling us to meditation. Dagnabbit, I've overslept. I quickly dress and emerge from our new hay hut.
The sun is just beginning to rise and subtle light begins to permeate the sky. We're surrounded on all sides by small, craggy hills studded with large, bare-branched trees. I see a few monkeys sitting as sentinels high up in the branches keeping watch over their troupe, just as I've seen them do in Africa. This camp is nestled in the jungle of India and looks an awful lot like the untamed bushveld I saw in South Africa—bare trees, cactuses, and dense thickets. There appears to be more irrigation here, however, because I've also seen bright green fields of mustard and many more large deciduous trees.
I trot off in the near darkness to the campus's brand-new temple, where I remove my shoes, go up the stairs, and enter the first inner chamber, my wool socks gliding on the polished granite floor. It's hot and airless in here. Eight others are already seated in silence in front of a beautifully framed pair of calligraphied yoga sutras. I sit and try to meditate, but I find the atmosphere extremely stifling—almost oppressive. After ten minutes, I leave, as catlike as possible, to try the next chamber.
Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer Page 19
