If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir

by Om Swami

  I put my head in her lap. I knew this was the last time I would have this opportunity to experience my mother’s love; it would not be possible after renunciation. In her incredible acceptance of my decision, I also saw deep pain. But my resolve did not break. I did what I had to because this was the only way I saw to quench the thirst of my soul. Maybe Prof. Sharma was right after all: I was all head and no heart.

  I came back to India. In my drafts folder quietly sat the painful departure notes I had written for my loved ones while in Canada. Each note basically said that I was sorry for leaving them in this way but I had to take this step. I had long wanted to do this, and it was all I wanted from my life.

  I got power of attorneys drafted for my personal as well as company assets. I left Vivek with exclusive control and transferred my assets in his name. The lawyer advised me against this but his job, I told him, was to execute and not advise. I could have given my wealth to my beloved family but I felt that this wouldn’t be true renunciation.

  On 15 March 2010, I gave my father a tight hug before leaving the house. I had breakfast at my sister’s place and said goodbye to her. At work, I had a normal day. I printed letters and sealed envelopes. I made handover notes. I wrote cheques for some people out of the funds still sitting in my account—I wanted to give away every last penny I had and only live off the stipend money. Some investments were in a lock-in period so I couldn’t liquidate them. Meanwhile, I had informed my bankers a couple of months ago of my decision, and made sure there were no debts to be cleared. My parents were financially secure as they both received pensions. My siblings were also comfortably off. My employees would be looked after by Vivek.

  I had a nice lunch with Manik, a senior manager in our company, and a good friend. I told him I wanted to enjoy that day, and we went for a coffee. Vivek was out of town for a customer meeting. In the evening, I called Sandeep, my driver, who brought the car around.

  'Railway station,' I said.

  Sandeep was an extremely trustworthy person and quite attached to me. We had had many moments of laughter in the past thirty months. As he drove, we were both silent. I wasn’t thinking about the present or the future; I wasn’t thinking at all. I was simply quiet, the way I had been when I was leaving for Australia. These moments, when you are aware but not thinking, are blessed.

  After a while, I let the thoughts enter. I reflected on the people I was about to leave and people I had already left behind. I had had my share of relationships, both platonic and intimate. Until I was about twenty-five, I had absolutely no time for anything other than my immediate priorities— work and meditation. Gradually, it had dawned on me that I had missed something very important: I had not experienced myself completely. I had studied about purusha and prakriti, Shiva and Shakti, yin and yang; I had studied tantra and done tantric practices. But my understanding of sexual union in tantra was superficial; I had no practical experience.

  Always influenced by religious principles, I used to think that celibacy was essential for self-realization, a view I later found to be baseless and erroneous. I had known many girls and some had wanted me, but I had been driven by my own beliefs and wasn't ready for intimacy. It was also true that I didn’t really feel the need for relationships. I had tried to reciprocate, I had cared about certain people, loved them even, but I couldn't feel any attachment to them; their presence or absence didn't make any difference to my state of mind.

  'The trouble is,' one girl had said, 'there's nothing I can offer you because you have no needs.'

  She wasn't entirely wrong. My heart was always in the Himalayas. I longed to experience the state the Buddha had realized, the state yogic scriptures talked about, the transcendence the Vedas preached, the samadhi the ancient sages talked of. My samskaras, innate tendencies, continuously pulled me towards that state of being. The more wealth I created, the stronger this urge got, for I couldn’t understand what the fuss about money was. I’d tasted money, attention, fame and relationships, and become clear about the fact that none of these things could fill the void within.

  Marriage was not a part of my plan or my dreams either. I knew I would renounce one day and, therefore, I thought it would be unethical to consummate the relationship. Once again, I was rather naive in my thinking. I had always seen life in black and white, believing in absolute definitions—this was good and that was bad, this was moral and that was immoral, this was right and that was wrong. How tantra used sexuality to transform and transcend the self was not something I really grasped until I experienced it first-hand when I did my first tantric sadhana of Goddess Kali. And I learnt that life was really a huge, grey sea.

  Doing this particular tantric sadhana was supposed to give the practitioner a vision of Kali in a vivid dream. A process of three nights, it required invoking a mantra along with the energy of Kali in one’s partner. Honestly, I wasn't sure if a short sadhana would result in anything significant but how wrong I was. Not only did I get a vision of Kali but, at the time of consummation, I felt like the only entity that existed in the entire Universe, why, I felt I was the Universe.

  It was an experience unlike any other. Physical intimacy didn't hurt my conscience or my sadhana; on the contrary, it was incredibly beautiful and liberating. Any notion of sex or sexuality I had held was now transformed into an expression of love, a way of experiencing oneness. If I had any inhibitions about it earlier, I had none now.

  I even remember sitting down later and analysing why such a beautiful act was labelled a sin in the major religions. If you had sex within a societal or religious framework like marriage, it was acceptable, but if you dared to venture beyond, it was considered a ‘sin’. Who had made these rules? Some Hindu scriptures did not view sex so negatively. Nevertheless, they regarded it as a great hindrance towards one’s spiritual progress because lust can easily override one's intelligence and resolve. They argued that a seeker on the path must be chaste, he or she must be steadfast in practising celibacy so they do not become prey to temptations.

  I could see some sense in this, but what about the seeker who had reached the other shore? I couldn't see the wisdom in a lifelong vow of abstinence. Further, I thought it was unnatural and unnecessary. Besides, tantra offered a phenomenal way of transforming sex into a divine offering, and the only significant difference between ordinary sex and sex the tantric way is mindfulness.

  Tantra insists on awareness—the awareness of each breath, thought and emotion. Sexual desire can destroy awareness effortlessly. When overcome by lust, all boundaries between right and wrong, between good and bad, blur very quickly. But tantric mindfulness turns even lust into an awareness of emotion, it transforms it into love. This is a subtle but powerful transformation because the next time any sexual thoughts occur, you don’t experience a tide of lust but a wave of love. And this is no ordinary feat but an extraordinary metamorphosis: you have just successfully transformed one of the most powerful and innate human urges into a divine emotion.

  My experience brought home the understanding that love was undoubtedly the most powerful emotion, a wholesome expression of one's very existence. I realized there was no other emotion as complete and as healing as love. Even compassion may be a conscious choice, but love, love is the basis of our existence and therefore strikes a chord in our innermost being.

  This is why the Vedas recommended the slow and steady path to self-realization rather than an abrupt or early renunciation. They endorsed the institution of marriage, a life of moderation, the middle way. It all made sense to me now. I understood why the greatest sages were married, why even Krishna, Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma had consorts. The message here was not that marriage would bring self-realization, but that it could work as a catalyst for spiritual transformation. This is what the greatest seers and yogis had grasped.

  Essentially, a householder leading a truthful life and experiencing the various colours of life, in moderation, could reach the highest state of realization far quicker than a celibate tucked away in
a religious order but constantly battling with his emotions. Sex was not an experience to be fought and despised but to be understood and accepted. My views about marriage, however, did not change. Love was good, physical intimacy was good, but I didn't want marriage. I was also aware that a successful stint at tantra didn’t mean I had experienced the ultimate state or that I had become an adept or even an expert meditator. One vision of Kali wasn't enough for me; I wanted to see the Divine again and again. Further, I had not yet attained the perfect stillness of the mind. During my meditations, my mind still wandered off. Nineteen years had gone since I first started meditating, and here I was, not much better than when I started.

  Over time, I had become convinced that I needed a guru. Perhaps surrender to a guru was the way forward; a guru would be able to guide me and lead me to the ultimate state I so longed to reach. I genuinely believed that I wasn’t getting ahead in my sadhana because I hadn’t been initiated into the path of renunciation.

  'Sirji?'

  'Sirji?' Sandeep called me again.

  I looked at him.

  'We are at the railway station, Sirji.'

  I picked up the backpack I had brought from home this morning and said goodbye to Sandeep. I was on my way to Varanasi. There was no particular reason why I had chosen this destination except that I thought the great tantriks lived in Varanasi, and I’d be able to find a guru there.

  I first caught a train to Delhi as my connection to Varanasi was from there. In Delhi, I checked into a hotel for the night as my train was due to leave early the next morning. From my room, I called Canada and spoke to my mother and PB one more time. They both were unsuspecting, of course.

  When I reached Varanasi, I checked into a lodge and went straight to bed. The next morning, I went to a cyber café. In addition to the individual emails I sent out to a handful of people, I sent a common note to almost everyone in my contact list.

  The mail read:

  Dear all,

  Ever since I can recall, I have ached to dedicate my life to a higher cause, one different from just building material wealth. With that in mind, I have always wanted to go on a spiritual quest, a quest for the inner self. The time to pursue my mission has come, and I must start to give it some shape. My quest involves understanding and verifying the truth first-hand. The truth of self-realization, that is.

  Will I be successful? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I will still go ahead with my plan. Is this what I really want to do? I am only so sure. Is it worth causing my loved ones the pain of separation? To be honest, I don’t have an answer to this question. Each one of us is unique and born with a different purpose. The ultimate goal may well be the same; the purpose generally isn’t.

  The moment has arrived that I must embark on the spiritual journey of my life. For the last eighteen years, I have waited for this moment every single day. Please take care of yourself and each other. And know that it’s only my physical presence that is finding its nest someplace else, all else remains unchanged.

  From this moment on and for an indefinite period, I shall not be contactable using any mediums of the twenty-first century :). I am leaving my phone behind. All my email accounts will cease to exist. And I do not have a permanent address. Any reply to this email will bounce too.

  I am deeply grateful to you all for the extraordinary care, love and affection you have given me over the years. And I, from the core of my heart, beg for your forgiveness, for there must have been times when I hurt you with my thoughts, words or actions. If you forgive me, it’ll help me travel light.

  I most reverently bow to the Divine in you.

  Amit

  8

  The Siddha

  Fatigued and dehydrated after a whole day roaming around the ghats, I couldn’t sleep. There was nothing more to think of where the past was concerned; I just waited for the night to pass. Eventually, I got up at 5 a.m., had a long bath and went to the breakfast area. It was closed. I made several trips to the restaurant over the next two hours but the result was the same. Somewhat flustered, I went to the reception where I found the employees sleeping; some were on the floor while others slept on the couch.

  It was 9 a.m. by the time they started serving breakfast. The sun was shining bright and the mercury was already on the rise. My vision of starting my day really early was a dream as unreal as the last twenty-four hours. Manish didn't turn up until about ten. Finally, we left the guest house.

  We went to a small ashram by the river called Sri Math. An old man, slightly hunched, came out and asked me where I was from and what I wanted. I told him I was in search of a guru who could guide me on the spiritual path. He asked me to follow him, telling Manish to wait outside.

  I was taken into a room where two men were sitting. One of them was going through ledgers and accounts; the other, wearing white robes, sat watching. I bowed before the man in white. He began asking me questions like why I wanted to take sanyasa and whether my parents knew about it. He wanted to know where they were based, what they did, how many siblings I had, if I had a job or a business and why had I left it, what else I was after… There were other questions as well but I can’t recall them now.

  After grilling me for about ten minutes, he said, 'Guruji is at the Kumbh Mela in Haridwar these days.' From the outset, I hadn’t sensed even an ounce of divinity in this man, but had thought that my faulty vision and shortcomings were causing me to misjudge him. The other man asked me a few more questions about my educational background and then said he was happy to see someone like me, whatever that meant. He told me I should really be in Haridwar since all the saints were gathered there. I wasn’t keen on going to Haridwar or anywhere else for that matter. I was certain that God had brought me to Varanasi for a reason.

  Just then, a short, fat man, also wearing white robes, entered the room. He sat on a couch and let out a loud belch. I didn't feel like bowing down before him, even though my culture and tradition required me to pay obeisance to someone in robes as they are a symbol of the dharma. I showed my discomfort at his mannerisms by not looking at him.

  'Where have you come from?' he said.

  'Ji, Delhi.'

  'Are the trains on time these days?'

  'Mine was late by four hours.'

  'These rascals can never be on time, they were even born late.' And he burped again. 'I ate a bit too much.'

  'Chotu! O Chotu!' He called out to someone.

  A minute passed.

  'O Chotu!' He raised his volume significantly.

  'Ji, Babaji.' A young boy appeared.

  'Why don't you ever answer the first time around? Even God appears faster than you do. Make four cups of tea.'

  'Not for me, thanks. I don't take tea.' I said.

  'We can get milk for you.'

  'Thank you very much, but I’m fine. I just had my breakfast.'

  'Make three cups then,' he said to Chotu.

  'So you’ve had your breakfast. Where are you staying?'

  'I’ve already been through this,' I said. I wasn't going to waste any more time here.

  I offered my respects to the men, left a hundred-rupee note and got out of there as fast I could. Manish was waiting for me outside. I told him what a disaster the place had been. He laughed; I laughed too. Then, he suggested another place nearby I could explore. It turned out to be an old building and I was immediately attracted to it. Although all the buildings in this area were old, this one was particularly dilapidated. Looking at it, I was convinced I would meet a siddha here, some great yogi who sat behind its walls hidden from public view.

  The main door was ajar. I knocked but there was no response. Manish pushed opened the door and we entered a courtyard. There was a giant peepul tree in the centre; its massive spread obscured a portion of the sky above. Leaves, soft and green, lay strewn on the ground along with dry brown ones. The walls were peeling; one could see the earlier coat of paint below the existing whitewash.

  There was a small washroom near the entrance
. I could see the floor was still wet, as if someone had just taken a bath. The tap was dripping and water was collecting in an old aluminum bucket. A mug of water sat close by, its handle broken.

  Nearby, I saw a room with the door ajar. It had three single beds, while an old Naga sadhu lay on a rug spread on the floor. He looked as weary as his surroundings and was quite old, perhaps eighty. I realized he was gasping for breath. He kept pointing at his mouth and chest to convey he was unable to breathe. I had been asthmatic all my life, so I knew what it was like to struggle for breath.

  I told Manish that we should take the sadhu to the hospital, and that I would pay for his treatment. Manish shook his head, saying he had been in the hospital until last week. He also informed me that there were other sadhus who lived there, and they would be back in the evening; this man was not alone.

  'How do you know?' I asked Manish.

  'I live around here, sir. I know this ghat and this baba too. You think anyone would leave this place unoccupied, and in this prime location?

  The other beds did look like they were freshly done, and I could see the bathroom had been used. I felt the truth of Manish’s words: the sadhu was not alone. But I felt sorry for the old sadhu.

  'Why isn’t he taking any medication?'

  'He has no money for medication and the government hospital has no facilities to help him.'

  'Let's take him to a private hospital. I'll pay.'

  'And what if he dies on the way? The police will say you killed him because you wanted the ashram. We'll get into trouble with the law.'

  Strangely, though cruelly, he made sense to me.

  When we left the building, I told Manish I needed to take a breather. I sat down on the stairs outside. I could not erase the sight of the old sadhu from my mind. Even my life could end in a similar way, and I understood that I needed to be mentally prepared for this possibility. How was I any different from the gasping sadhu? He had renounced his past and so had I.