The Way of Ghee

by Stephen Brown

  “Where is the man who lives in the cave?”

  “Yes! Finally!”

  “No mystery there,” he said “I live in the cave,” and with that he looked directly into Joshua’s face, meeting his eyes for the first time. In that stare, in those deep, unfathomably brown eyes, Joshua suddenly saw everything - Time, Existence, and the Universe in its entirety. He saw the Earth, the stars, galaxies spinning across Space and Time which stretched out in all directions for eternity. He saw birth, death and beyond. He saw more in that one brief look then he could ever hope to remember, let alone comprehend. “And so - for a few days at least - do you,” the old man said.

  The young Canadian fell from his haunches and collapsed on the floor, stunned and speechless. The next thing he knew he was waking up on a straw mattress in the cave.

  *

  Casting aside the rough-woven blanket he saw his pack neatly stacked by the foot of his low, wooden cot. He stumbled outside to see the sun just over the horizon to his right. Feeling somewhat nauseous and a little dizzy, he walked over to the fire where the old man still sat, stirring gently away. Sitting down slightly dazed, he began a controlled breathing exercise, staring at the sun. After a few moments of this, with the sky colouring in a dazzling display of pinks and purples, he turned to the old man, who had said nothing since his emergence from the cave.

  “Thank you for, err, you know,” Joshua began. His throat and mouth were dry and his voice crackled and croaked. “I don’t know what came over me. I must have fainted.”

  “No mystery there. The air is thin up here, and you had been walking all morning with your heavy bag. Take some water.”

  Josh thanked him and drank deeply, emptying the cup and refilling it twice from a gourd sitting next to them on the floor. When he was half way through his third cup he stopped and looked up guiltily.

  “Wait a minute - you have enough water don’t you? For you I mean. I don’t see any streams or rivers or anything. Sorry, I didn’t mean to drink so much. I didn’t think.”

  The man smiled at this last statement. Joshua frowned and looked about. It was true though; from where he sat he could see no signs of a spring or any other water source. Ok, there was the river down in the valley below, but that was out of the question. It would take at least half a day to get there and back again. The last creek he had passed on his way up here was a good three hours away and there was nothing as far as the eye could see in the other direction, beyond the cave. Maybe behind those boulders…

  “Where do you get your water?”

  Again the man smiled. “No mystery there.” He motioned with his hand to the boulders behind them. “On top of the rocks are a number of small shallows. The water gathers there forming little pools. It freezes at night and I collect it in the mornings.”

  When it rains,” Joshua said, sceptically. The man smiled and wobbled his head. Josh was not convinced though. That would never produce enough water to live on, he thought. Not all through the year. There must be a stream nearby, flowing out the back.

  “Ahh, yes, a small river, yes. When it rains for a time a small river opens up and I fill my pots, but don’t worry! There is enough! Drink,” he encouraged, “drink. Besides,” he continued after a short pause, “if you are going to be thirsty, better it be tomorrow than today.”

  Joshua put the cup to his lips once more and the old man went back to stirring his pot. After he had replaced the vessel upside down on top of the gourd as he had found it there was yet more silence. The man seemed totally absorbed in stirring the pot and Joshua thought it strange he hadn’t asked who he was, what he wanted, what he was doing here - nothing.

  Despite the obvious remoteness of the place and the infrequency of visitors he must get, the man had not shown even the least curiosity in who this visitor actually was.

  “So, I guess you’re the Yogi then.” A faint smile appeared on the old man’s lips. Joshua heaved himself up and went into the cave. Rummaging around in a zipped compartment in his backpack, he removed a small package and took it back outside. The last of the sky’s colours were beginning to fade into the night.

  “My name is Joshua Laden. I’m a Canadian. I’ve studied Yoga back home on and off for about three years now, but I’ve come to India to learn more. To learn the real thing. I went to a couple of ashrams, but they’re all the same. That’s why when I heard about you I knew I had to come and see you.

  “My friends, they gave up - hey, it’s a long journey and I’m not going to criticise them for going back. I guess I just had to keep on looking.” He held out the small package. “Swamiji, I brought you some vibhutti from the ashram. Please accept it as a gift.”

  The man looked up at Joshua, smiling. “But I have plenty ash right here, if I need it,” he said, touching the silver-grey edges of his fire pit.

  “But this is sacred ash, blessed by the Swami at the Prakamya Ashram.” Still not taking the packet, the old man replied.

  “Ahh yes, Swami Sreevinas. He came to see me once.” Picking up a handful of ashes from the fire pit he let them run back out through his fingers, watching them as they fell. “When you return, give my old friend some of this.” Then he laughed and looked up. “Remember the look on his face?”

  Joshua was sure it was a question; that he had asked him as if it had already happened… Slightly disconcerted, he put the packet of vibhutti down near the old man’s feet. It was still there untouched after the Yogi had risen and gone into the cave some time later, presumably to sleep.

  The fire seemed to dwindle and die almost immediately after the old man had gone. Joshua yawned and stretched. It had been a long day. He picked up the packet himself and tucked it into a pocket along with a small bag of ashes from the fire, before following the Yogi’s example and making his way back into the cave. Exhausted, he crawled into bed.

  *

  Before dawn the next day Joshua was up. He left the cave in the chill of darkness, spying the old man sitting cross-legged on the floor as he did so. The old man’s eyes were closed peacefully, a short stump of candle burning in front of him.

  Two hours of yoga saw the sun come up over the elephant rock and Joshua smudged himself with vibhutti and began his meditation. How long he sat he did not know - customarily it was about an hour, give or take ten or fifteen minutes. When he opened his eyes the old man was sat by his meagre fire once more, three full gourds of water to his right. I must have been deep, Joshua thought, I didn’t hear a thing. As he approached, he saw there was also a small pile of chapattis and a pot of lentils. God, I must have been really deep!

  “Hungry?” the man asked.

  “You betcha,” he replied and ate his fill, being urged to finish everything off.

  “You must eat all you can,” the old man advised. “One of your Western thinkers - maybe he was a Roman, maybe he was Greek. Maybe he was from France, or somewhere else. Wherever he was from, he said ‘any civilisation is only ever three meals away from revolution.’

  “An individual’s principles are the same. Except maybe she can last a little longer, six meals, seven. Hmm, seven? I don’t think so. Somewhere between three and six.” He fell silent for a moment as Joshua wiped the clinging remains of the lentils from the side of the pot with the last chapatti. “Or perhaps it doesn’t matter about the meals, so long as she’s not wet.”

  He picked up his bubbling pot and carried it to the overhang in front of the cave. A minute later, it started to rain.

  *

  Seated at the entrance to the cave shortly after, Joshua sat watching the triangular strips of coloured cloth tied to a number of ropes which criss-crossed outside like the half-finished web of a drunken spider. Those prayer flags exposed to the wind fluttered and snapped like marionettes being danced by the breeze, the mantras scrawled across each one in fine, black script being read by the rain.

  Before it had become too heavy, the old man had scooped up the hot coals of his little fire and rebuilt it where he now sat. Although Joshua did
not see him do it, he must have added a few sparse twigs, as they now brought the pilgrim out of his reverie with their cracking and popping.

  “Where do you get your fuel Swami?” he asked.

  “No mystery there,” came the reply, and with a sweeping gesture with one hand he drew Joshua’s attention outside. Any number of low-growing, woody shrubs were dotted about the ridge all along the pathway, right up to the elephant rock.

  Joshua stared open-mouthed, incredulous and suddenly very uncertain. He was sure that yesterday - indeed that very morning, only five minutes ago - there had been nothing, no vegetation at all, and he said as much.

  “Do you think perhaps that is because you tend to look, but do not see?”

  “But there was nothing there! I remember! How can there be anything up here, in this soil? This is… this is… there was nothing there! I’m sure…” he tailed off.

  “Are you? How many coals are there on the fire? How many peaks on the far side of the valley? How many bends in the river below?” He paused and then “How many boulders make up our little home here?” Joshua remained speechless, stupefied. “You told me yesterday you wanted to learn the real thing. What do you mean by that?” There was no answer. “This is the real thing,” he continued, shoving Joshua playfully in the chest, sending him rocking. “This. Life. It doesn’t matter if you are in Canada or the Himalaya, in London or Timbuktu.

  “Seven coals is the real thing. Fifteen mountain peaks is the real thing. Four bends, thirty seven boulders, big and small. That is the real thing. Not anything I can tell you. Not anything you can read about in a book. Life is real Joshua Laden from Canada. You are living the real thing, only you don’t notice.

  “You look, but you don’t see. You hear, but don’t actually listen to what it is you’re hearing. You haven’t paid any mind to all the smells in this place.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don’t go around the west side of the rocks by the way. Now there’s a smell you don’t want to know about!” Laughing, he gave his pot another stir. Seeing the young Canadian was in a certain amount of distress, the old man put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Would you prefer me to tell you that the Fire burns simply because I want it to burn? Because I love it as a part of myself and it loves me? Would that make any sense to you? Would you be happier to hear that? Would you accept it? Could you accept it?

  “It’s better this way, trust me Joshua Laden from Canada. I collect enough tiny twigs for the day each morning and store them in the cave.” He filled a cup from a nearby gourd and handed it over. “Just before I collect the water,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  Joshua drank, his eyes far away in the distance. He drank four full cups. The old man took the spoon from his pot and put it to Joshua’s lips.

  “Take this,” he said. Without really looking Joshua opened his mouth and the old man poured in the whole spoonful of thick, golden liquid. “Now go and lie down, sleep if you must. When it stops raining go for a walk. Go on now.”

  It was so softly spoken, with such compassion, that Joshua knew he had never heard such a beautiful voice. And yet it was a command as well, and his legs were obeying of their own volition. By the time his mind caught up with his body he was already on his bed.

  *

  He returned from his walk just after the sun had dipped out of sight. The sky was magnificent and he felt much the same. The sleep, the walk, that foul tasting goo he remembered eating - something had made him feel wonderful, truly at peace with himself and the World around him.

  Maybe it was just talking to the Yogi. What had he said, about this being real, life itself? About living, really living; being aware. There was something in that, for sure. Right now, and for the last two hours or so, Joshua had for the first time in his life felt himself. At one with the World; a part of the World, and with that came a feeling of completeness he had never known.

  He strode quickly to the fire and sat down by the old man. The fire was still small, he was still stirring, and the pot was still bubbling. He noticed a pile of chapattis and another pot of vegetable curry. Although it was obviously for him he waited silently for the food to be offered.

  “Take, take. Don’t wait for me. Go on, eat, you must be hungry.”

  “Starving,” he replied and set about the dinner with joyful ferocity. When he was half way through he looked at the Yogi and at the pot he was fixated on. “Swami, what is it in that pot? What was that stuff you gave me?” He tore another piece of chapatti and scooped up some sauce.

  “Ahh, finally!” came the answer. Although he did not actually look at Joshua, he did lift his head to make his voice better understood. “Do you know some people have travelled all the way up here, gone through everything a person goes through on that journey and never even asked? Well done Joshua Laden from Canada, well done!” He lifted the spoon from his simmering brew and tilted it gently, watched the golden liquid as it flowed back into the pot. “This is the ultimate key. This is the answer to every question you could ever ask. This,” he paused dramatically, “is ghee. You will notice that I am stirring it clockwise. Always clockwise. This is very important. It has to be clockwise. But more of that tomorrow. How was the walk?”

  “What? Err, yeah, the walk was fine,” Joshua said dismissively, “what about the ghee though Swami? Can’t you tell me now? Why clockwise?”

  “Tomorrow I said. Your walk was only fine? The way you almost skipped across the cliff top would have made me think different.”

  “Ok, yes, sorry; the walk was magnificent - but you said that ghee was the answer to all our questions? To any question I could ever ask?” Joshua was almost jumping out of his skin with excitement. He felt on the very edge of something here - this was it!

  The old man sighed and then looked up, stopping him dead with a stare just like that first one the morning before. “Have you forgotten already? Should I be disappointed in you Joshua Laden of 637, Bennett’s Avenue, Vancouver, BC, V6L 7TZ? Do you not remember the connection you felt right up until only four minutes ago? You are ready to throw that feeling away so soon, with the first shiny carrot dangled in front of you?” The Yogi released him from his stare and Joshua sagged, hanging his head in shame.

  “I’m sorry Swami.”

  “Don’t be sorry; just don’t do it.”

  “Ok, yes, sorry; you’re right of course.”

  “When I remind you of that ‘of course’ tomorrow, you will scoff.”

  “No Swamiji, really. Look, I’m sorry. My walk was wonderful. I felt - still feel - more at peace, more whole than I think I ever have! How is it I feel so much more myself, as an individual, when I also feel so… at one with everything else? So… together; so much a part of something?”

  “No mystery there. You feel a part of something rather than apart from everything. When you decide to fall with the rain, only then do you become a raindrop. Until then you are simply living in the clouds. What use is a carburettor, or a spark plug on its own? It is only as a part of the engine that it can fulfil its potential. And so it is with Man.”

  There was silence again. It was totally dark by now and the glow from the coals breathing red and orange in the breeze was the only light for miles. For ten minutes they sat; fifteen, twenty, and then suddenly Joshua looked up with a frown.

  “How did you know my address?” he asked sharply. The Yogi shook his head and smiled.

  “No mystery there. Is it not written in your passport under ‘next of kin’?”

  “You went through my stuff?” Joshua almost yelled, incredulous.

  “I never said that.” The old man’s eyes now shone in the darkness and suddenly Joshua was very afraid. “You would rather I told you how I really know? Do you want to ask, while you’re about it, where all those vegetables came from for that curry you just ate? Or the flour for the chapattis?”

  Joshua felt sick to the stomach. He jumped up and ran thirty yards before collapsing to his knees. He vomited noisily, violently. When he was done he stayed cro
uched where he was, almost foetal, breathing heavily. He eyed the huddled shape of the old man by the fire with fear and apprehension.

  “No need to skulk in the dark. Come and take some water. The food never tastes as good coming back up as it did going down.” Sensing Joshua’s reluctance, the old man stood and looked over at him with soft eyes. Then he turned to stare out across the valley into the night. “Listen tonight Joshua. Before you go to bed sit and close your eyes and just listen. In the morning you can tell me what you hear. Goodnight,” he said, and walked inside the cave leaving Joshua alone with the night.

  He did not move for some time.

  *

  “Why do you pick out Krishna in particular for your praise?” the old man asked the next morning. He had observed Joshua applying vibhutti and reciting his morning mantras, but had waited in silence until the Canadian had finished his breakfast before bringing it up.

  “Well, He was the last incarnation of Vishnu. The most recent.”

  “And the last, or most recent, is always the best?”

  “Given that He appears in the form most befitting for that Age, I figure that form must still be relevant today, and will be until the next incarnation comes along.”

  “The most relevant.”

  “The most… appropriate.”

  “The most appropriate.”

  “Or, yeah, you could say the best, I guess.”

  The old man pointed to Joshua’s Oasis T-shirt. “What was the name of Oasis’ last album?”

  Joshua told him as an automatic response without wondering at the bizarre nature of the question.

  “Was it their best?”

  “No way! No, no, no, no, no! ‘What’s the Story, Morning Glory’ was much bet-” He stopped himself. There was half a minute’s silence, the old man just looked him, smiling. “Ok, point taken. So are you saying we shouldn’t cast aside what’s old and always look to the new?”

  The old man wobbled his head – yes, no, maybe. “Joshua,” he said finally, “slip inside the eye of your mind; don’t you think you might find, a better place to play?” The Yogi spoke in a sing-song voice.

  “What?” Josh gasped.