If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir

by Om Swami

  Questions flooded my mind. No one around, young or old, renunciant or householder, seemed to have seen God: What if there was no God? What if I had no Maker but had just evolved over time along with other species? Perhaps my search for the Divine would prove futile and I would end up like that sadhu, wasted and abandoned.

  'How can a sadhu be dying like that?' I asked Manish.

  'They are not real sadhus, Sir. They smoke pot all day. Some are even fugitives from justice.'

  Despite this reassurance from Manish, I was unable to forget the old sadhu’s face for months.

  We went to another ghat after that. There, Manish took me to a temporary structure made from yellow tarpaulin. The door was open and I could see a Naga sadhu sitting on his knees, stark naked. A disciple stood near him. Wanting to meet the sadhu, I went closer to the entrance but the disciple stood up and asked me to keep away. Nevertheless, I peeped in. There was a bed on one side, some eighteen inches high, with a large lion skin spread on it. Numerous drums of food and other provisions were crammed into the hut and it was a messy little place.

  I handed the disciple a fifty-rupee note. The man smiled.

  'You want to have Babaji’s darshan? He knows everything. Before you even got here, he knew all about you,' he said enthusiastically.

  Upon seeing that Manish was a local, he threw him a contemptuous glance. I made to enter the tent. Suddenly, the baba began shouting excitedly. The disciple hurriedly told me that since the ascetic had allowed me a glimpse of him, he wanted to be left alone. I was asked to leave.

  I pulled out a hundred-rupee note, which the attendant took promptly.

  'Babaji, he’s your devotee, he wants your blessings.' He turned to look at the holy man and showed him the money.

  'Can I come in now? I asked.

  'No, that’s not allowed.'

  I pulled out another hundred-rupee note and he asked me to enter.

  I left that very moment. Till now, I had been open to the possibility that the sadhu was an evolved being who was trying to keep me away as he didn’t want to meet people. But, when more money finally opened the door, I knew this was not my destination. For me, both men were naked: one had bared his body and the other had sold his soul. I was reminded of a couplet by Kabir:

  ‘Guru jaka aandhara, chela hai jaachandh,

  Andha andhe theliye, dono koop parant’

  (The guru is blind, and so is the disciple. The blind is leading the blind, and both will end up in the well).

  I continued to wander around with Manish. I wasn’t sure where I was going but I knew what I was searching for. Sometime later, a building caught my eye and I was irresistibly drawn to it. From where we were standing, I could only see the back of the structure. I told Manish I wanted to go there.

  He took me up the flight of stairs to the road above the ghat and led me through another maze of streets until we arrived at the entrance to that building. There was a large iron door with grills; nestling within it was a smaller wicket gate. We knocked on this gate but no one opened it even though we could hear voices within. We waited and then knocked again. Finally, Manish put his hand through the grill and unbolted the door from the inside. We bent over to enter and found ourselves in a courtyard. To our right was a room; inside, four young men were chatting loudly. Across the courtyard was a small temple within which sat an older man.

  Seeing us, he came out. 'Where are you from?' he asked, barely managing to open his mouth as it was full of paan. Here we go again. Another interrogation, I thought. After fielding a few questions, I said, 'I want to meet Babaji.'

  No one had told me that there was someone called Babaji who lived here, but somehow, I knew. Call it intuition or plain hope. Rather than answering my question, the man pointed to Manish and said, 'Who is this lad?' He scanned Manish from head to toe. I had seen men leering at women, but this was the first time I saw a man’s gaze run over another man in this way. His eyes, however, were full of contempt.

  'He’s my guide.'

  'Hmm.'

  'I want to meet Babaji,' I repeated.

  The young men—they must have been in their late teens or early twenties—gathered around us. The man, who I discovered was called Mishraji, twitched his eyebrows, giving an instruction to the others. Two of them started calling out. 'O Dinesh Muniji, Dinesh Muniji! O Babaji, Babaji! Dinesh Muniji!' They called out over and over again until a door opened and a man stepped into the courtyard.

  Dinesh Muni was a short, dark man with a sparse beard. His hair, jet black and a little curly, was tied behind his head. He looked at me with such disdain that I gave myself a hasty once-over to see if I was dressed alright.

  'He’s the baba,' said the men in unison. I looked at Mishraji and he nodded.

  'What do you want?' He wagged his head to put emphasis on his question.

  'Not you, I want to meet Babaji,' I said.

  I got everyone’s attention now because they thought I already knew who the bona fide baba was since I had refused to accept Dinesh Muni’s claim. My conclusion, however, was based on my assessment of his energy and attitude. It was not hard to see that he was not a particularly evolved being. He projected no radiance, his speech had no depth. His voice cut through my thoughts as he told me that Babaji wasn’t there. Scolding the boys for disturbing him, he stormed off.

  I sat down with Mishraji to find out more about Babaji. He explained that Babaji spent most of his time at another ashram about 80 km from Varanasi. I asked him for the address but he sounded reluctant to give it to me; perhaps he just wanted me to plead. I insisted. Finally, he gave me a vague idea, saying it was in a village called Kasvarh. 'Just get there and ask around. They will guide you,' he said.

  He took pains, however, to tell me the things I had to buy for Baba. I was not to go empty-handed but take some items as an offering. He dictated a list that included two different types of sweets, dry fruits, a special pack of paan, the day’s newspaper, flowers and anything else I wanted to offer him.

  I was ready to go and meet Baba the very next day. Manish said he wanted Baba’s darshan as well. I agreed. He had been with me for the last two days and deserved this opportunity as much as anyone else. At 6 a.m., I shook awake the people at the reception so they could unlock the main door for me. Manish was waiting for me outside. No shops, absolutely none at all, were open, so I couldn’t get any of the items I was meant to buy.

  We asked an autorickshaw driver if he would take us there.

  'All the way?'

  'And back.' I added.

  'That’s too far. No, I can’t. It will be expensive.'

  'Tell me how much? Maybe I can pay.'

  'No … it will cost a lot of money.'

  'Do you want to go or not?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  'How much?'

  'But it’s too far!'

  I was beginning to lose my patience.

  'I’m asking you the last time. If you tell me the price, I can decide.'

  'And back too?'

  'Yes, I just have to be there for an hour or two, and will be back after that.'

  'How many people?'

  'Just the two of us.'

  'Are you certain you’re coming back today?'

  I looked at Manish. 'What’s wrong with him?'

  It was early in the morning, and I was on an empty stomach. I was going to meet my guru and a simple autorickshaw driver had managed to ruin my joyous mood and dampen my enthusiasm in a matter of moments. Such is the influence petty events can have on one at times.

  I looked around to see if there was any other autorickshaw available. Just then, he said, ‘I'll charge Rs 600.'

  I was in no mood to bargain. I nodded and hopped into the autorickshaw. Manish got in beside me.

  The autorickshaw proceeded slowly and it was past 9.30 a.m. when we reached the village. Soon, we were parked outside my destination—a school building. It looked reasonably large for that small village. I was surprised to see some police constables manning
the entrance. It turned out that the school was an examination centre for the BEd exams, and the police were there to prevent cheating. Apparently, cheating was rampant. The teachers promoted it by providing the students slips of paper with the answers written on them; sometimes, they even wrote answers on the blackboard. Yet, I couldn’t quite understand why the constables were so heavily armed. They were carrying rifles. To confront whom? Those who brought the slips of paper?

  Next to the large school building was a smaller building. I was told that this was an English-medium school that taught students till class eight. The children were singing their morning prayer, a classical eulogy of Ma Saraswati, in melodious voices:

  Veena vaadini var de

  Var de veena vaadini var de

  Priye swatantra rav amrit mantra nav

  Bharat mein bhar de var de

  Var de veena vaadini var de…

  (O goddess, bless us with free thought, with divine wisdom. Fill this nation with the nectar of knowledge.)

  I told a policeman that I was here to see Babaji. He directed me to a small house behind the school. I walked up to the house and paused at the door, which was ajar. An ascetic sat singing the raga alaap as if in some divine ecstasy. I stood there, completely mesmerized. I had never seen an ascetic like him. Years of austerities had tanned his skin. His dark face contrasted with his pure white beard and moustache, and I felt like I was looking at a beautiful solar eclipse. His long, white, matted hair was tied in an unusual knot on top of his head. He had an unusually large forehead like tapasvins normally have. He was also pot-bellied, as if he always practised kumbhaka, yogic retention of breath, like great yogis of yore. He sat cross-legged with the detachment of a jivanmukta, a cloth covering his thighs.

  He stopped singing and looked at me. His small but still eyes had a hypnotic pull; they instilled fear and awe at the same time. The first glance he threw at me didn't just see me but saw through me, it imprisoned me. I surrendered then and there. The authority in his look said he owned the place. Actually, he looked as if he owned the Universe and everything in it. I knew I had met a siddha.

  As I did a full-length prostration before him,Manish came up behind me.

  'Who is he?' Baba asked.

  'He’s my guide, Baba.'

  I turned to Manish and said, ‘Can you please wait near the autorickshaw?' I sensed Baba didn’t like him there.

  'Are you doing some research?' Baba asked me after a few introductory questions.

  'No, Baba, I want to be initiated into sanyasa.'

  'Why do you want to take sanyasa?'

  'I have done many sadhanas. I’ve been experimenting and trying, and trying real hard at that, for nearly twenty years. But I haven’t been able to get to that ultimate state the scriptures talk about.'

  'What sadhanas have you done?'

  I named some.

  'Are you a Brahmin?'

  'Ji, Baba. I'm a Saraswat Brahmin of the Gautam gotra.' I told him my full name too.

  'Then I will teach you.'

  He asked some more questions and told me to stay in his ashram in Varanasi.

  'I’ll see you at the ashram in two days.'

  I prostrated again and offered him some money.

  'When you have surrendered yourself, what use is this money?' he said. Leaving the offering by his feet, I walked out of the cottage, feeling blessed and fulfilled.

  9

  Letting Go

  It was about noon by the time we got back to Varanasi. I checked out of the guest house and said goodbye to Manish, my guide for the last two days. 'Please call on me again,' he said sweetly. 'If you don't like it here, I can help you find another ashram.' I thanked him again and headed to Baba’s Varanasi ashram as I had been instructed.

  At the ashram, Dinesh Muni opened a room for me. I walked in and looked around, not that there was much to see. There was no bed and no bedding, just a bare floor. And a mouldy cupboard. The room was nice and cool though. I lay down on the floor and stared at the fan. It rotated slowly and creaked as it went round and round. Welcome to self-realization, it seemed to be saying.

  The hard floor was uncomfortable. I asked Dinesh Muni if it was possible to get a mattress or a sheet. Without bothering to reply, he went upstairs while I waited in the courtyard on the ground floor. After a while, he called out my name from the first floor and, when I looked up, he flung down a thin, filthy rug down. It landed beside me in a cloud of dust, which triggered off a bout of coughing. Gasping for breath, I reached out for my inhaler and took a double dose.

  As I waited for the coughing to subside, I wondered at Dinesh Muni’s behaviour towards me. It didn’t occur to me until much later that he was after money. Had I known this at the time, I would have given him some money. It would have made my life easier, and his too. To my surprise, I also learned that even though he looked and acted every bit unlettered, he was actually doing a PhD at Benares Hindu University. It only reaffirmed my faith that bookish knowledge could take one only so far. Here he was, doing a doctorate in Sanskrit but clueless about humanity or humanism. Especially considering that the word ‘Sanskrit’ means one who is cultured.

  There were four other residents in the ashram and they were full-time students in different colleges. They helped in the ashram chores and, in return, got free food and accommodation. Later that day, I went to the market. Rather than wasting time while I waited for Baba to come, I thought I would buy a book or two. I picked up some tantric texts, which would come in handy over the next few months I spent with Baba: they would keep me busy during the day and serve as my pillow at night.

  Four days went by while I eagerly waited for Baba. I'd been longing to see him since our first meeting. In fact, not a moment went by when I didn't think of him. Meanwhile, I made another trip to the market to buy books and took Pawan, one of the students, along with me. I offered to buy refreshing lassi for both of us. He was shy at first but then had three glasses.

  On our way to the bookshop, Pawan opened up and said his father owned a tea stall back in the village. Being Brahmins, it was his father's dream that Pawan become a Hindu priest.

  'Is this what you want to do though?' I asked.

  'Yes, but it's very hard studying and working together,' he said dejectedly. 'By the time I'm done with the ashram chores, I'm so tired I just want to sleep.'

  'Have you spoken to Baba about it?'

  'I can't speak to Babaji. He might get really mad at me.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Actually, I'm curious, how did you know about Babaji?'

  'I didn't. Life has brought me to him and I’m sure Baba is my guru.’

  'I think Babaji maybe furious if you call him just Baba.'

  'His wish is my command, Pawan. I'll call him whatever he wants.'

  Pawan wasn't entirely wrong because everyone else did call him Babaji. For some reason though, from day one, I called him Baba. I felt closer to him by addressing him in this way, but I did so with great love and reverence.

  At the bookshop, I asked Pawan if he wanted to buy a book, but he shook his head. When I insisted I wanted to get something for him, he said he wanted a bottle of Coke. I thought it would be a good idea to get something for everyone in the ashram. We got a large soft-drink bottle, sweetened mango drinks and two packets of biscuits.

  The students jumped with joy to see the shopping. Dinesh Muni softened a bit and gulped down the one-litre bottle of Coke. This treat became a regular feature. Whenever I went to buy books, I would get a couple of bottles of Coke and biscuits for them. I would also get biscuits water for myself. It was sheer joy to be able to drink that cold water. There was a fridge in Dinesh Muni’s room but I never went there and he kept the cold water to himself. Besides, he would drink straight off the bottle, so I wasn’t keen on drinking from it.

  Biscuits and bottled water became my preferred meal because here, they didn't make breakfast till 11 a.m. In the dhabas outside, the only breakfast available consisted of puris and samosas
, both deep-fried items. I used to get up around 4 a.m., and waiting till mid-morning wasn't a good option; nor was eating puris. Of course, biscuits weren’t ideal either, but I had to survive.

  In the evening, moths and other insects thronged the cooking area. Much to my amazement, the students and Dinesh Muni were perfectly fine with it, not making any attempt to cover the food. Even the wheat flour was left uncovered at night, and you could see scores of dead insects in the flour the next morning. The first time I saw the sight, I was shocked, and didn’t think it was prudent to throw away the flour everyday just because we didn’t cover it at night. But they had other ideas. They would simply sift the flour, throw away the dead creatures and proceed to make the dough. I tried to suggest an alternative method a few times, and tried to cover the flour at other times, but Dinesh Muni took this as interference on my part, so I stopped. I ate that food like everyone else, accepting it as part of my experience there.

  There were other aspects of living there that took some getting used to. Slippers were not permitted in the ashram, not even in the washrooms, which were incredibly dirty. Squatting barefoot over the Indian-style toilet was the greatest torture I'd ever put myself through. To add insult to injury, I hadn’t used such a seat in over a decade. I felt tired quickly, but this situation, as it turned out, helped me prepare for life in the Himalayan forests; there, I was able to attend the call of nature effortlessly.

  Within the first few days at the ashram, my feet became extremely dry and cracked. Till now, I had never been barefoot for more than a few minutes; here, I was barefoot all the time. I washed my feet every couple of hours but that didn’t help.

  The physical discomforts didn't bother me as much as waiting for Baba did. I was constantly thinking about him. He had said he would be there in a couple of days but there was no sign of him. I wanted to go and visit him in the village, but everyone dissuaded me. ‘You must wait here because that was Babaji’s instruction to you.'