If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir

by Om Swami

  The tantric path is about the inner worship of Krishna. A tantrik does not find union after death attractive; he wants to unite with the Supreme Soul while in the body. This requires complete annihilation of one’s societal conditioning of good and bad because a tantrik will engage in rituals that may be completely unacceptable to society. But tantra says that in order to experience and see God in everything, you must not be afraid of anything, you must face and experience all circumstances with complete equanimity. The tantric way of worshipping Krishna involves invoking his eternal consort, Shakti, through Radha.

  Baba never spoke about the successes he had in various sadhanas or if he did complete them all, but he had spent his entire life in nothing but sadhana, except the last few years when he got caught up in the expansion of his ashram. He had spent eight years in Kamakhya, the foremost tantra peetha, the land of tantric practices. In line with the austerities of hatha yoga, he had also done a number of practices, including pancha-agni-dhoona, where the practitioner draws a circle, seats himself in the middle and lights a fire in the four directions along the circumference of the circle; the fifth fire, the sun, burns above. Baba would do this for forty days during the height of summer from noon until 4 p.m. Pancha-agni-dhoona bestows upon the practitioner complete control over the fire elements in the body.

  In the rainy season, Baba practised jala vihara, water wandering, during which he simply lived under a tree. In the winter, he did jala dhara, water flow, by sitting under a leaking pot of ice-cold water. He would sit naked while 108 pots of water would be poured over his head from midnight until 4 a.m. These methods help the seeker gain complete control over the water element in his body. Baba had also done the khadeshwari sadhana, where he did not sit down for nine years at a stretch. For more than forty years, he had been on phalahara, a gluten-free diet. Since starting his special diet, he had only drunk water from the Ganga. He was given the title of ‘tantra samrat’, emperor of tantric practices, by an elite congregation of tantriks.

  There was not a tantric sadhana in any scripture Baba hadn’t done. All in all, his accomplishments were quite impressive. With all this sadhana though, Baba remained an angry man. Watching him, I learnt a powerful lesson: religion, and religious rituals and practices do not get rid of the restive tendencies of the mind because it isn’t just about practising a ritual or sadhana. What matters is how they are done, with what intent and sentiment they are performed. Above all, spiritual evolution requires hard work on the self, on one’s fears, patterns and conditioning. External worship doesn’t guarantee one will rise above one’s ego or ‘negative’ states such as anger, hatred and guilt. In fact, at Baba's ashram, the more religious a devotee seemed, the more rigid, narrow and egotistic I found the person to be.

  Watching my daily routine here, everyone around me thought me naive and foolish. They believed I couldn't see what I was being put through. Maybe they were right.

  'You are being exploited here,' Ranjay Pandey said once.

  'I know, Ranjay. But the truth is that I must only look at my own karma and not the karma of others. Ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, others are just mediums or triggers for my growth; I'm simply learning my lessons here. And I want to do my duty towards my guru unconditionally.'

  'Will you continue to let them exploit you like this?'

  'If my sadhana doesn't start by the date promised by Baba, I'll move on. But for as long as I stay here, I will live like a disciple should.'

  The truth was that the decision to stay or move on was not an absolute one for me. If Baba didn't have two extremely conflicting sides, making a decision would have been easier. On the one hand, he showed no compassion and didn't care whether I lived or died; he was completely focused on his construction projects and repeatedly broke his promises by postponing the date of my sadhana. He was a guru who swore and got angry like any other ordinary person, who rarely held a spiritual discourse or philosophical conversation.

  On the other hand, he was a great tantrik who had done extraordinary penance for decades, lived a simple life and spoke fearlessly. He was my guru, who had accepted me as his disciple and assured me he would guide me through my sadhana. What aspect of his was I to focus on, to believe? And what qualification did I have to judge my guru?

  11

  A Dog's Life

  When I was eleven years old, I had brought home an adorable puppy and named him Rocky. The owner had said it was a cross between a local breed and a German Shepherd; others said he was just a pie dog. Whatever be the case, he was an amazing animal. He was only a few days old when he came to us and remained a dear part of our lives for nearly ten years. He had a beautiful, white chest, a beige body and a smooth, silky coat. Always alert and sharp, his erect ears would further stiffen at the slightest sound.

  While walking Rocky, we had to have a piece of bread in our hands to control him. Otherwise he would go after stray dogs or practically drag us in the direction he wanted to explore, as if he was the one taking us out for a walk. The scent of the bread was the only thing that reined him in, but not just any bread. He preferred a special type that had a currant on it, freshly baked the same day.

  Whenever we ate, he sat near us, continuously staring at our food and leaving us with no option but to share our meal with him. A piece of chapatti wasn’t good enough though; we had to add a little curry, pickle and yogurt. He wanted to eat exactly what we did, except for carrots. It was a simple relationship: we loved him and he loved us back.

  Once, while I was sitting with Baba, Nikki brought him his food. The meal was cooked lavishly in ghee. The heady aroma of spices—coriander, turmeric, cumin seeds and ginger—mingled with the smell of desi ghee and filled the air. My mouth watered. But Baba never liked anyone sitting with him when he ate, so I was about to get up but found I couldn’t. The sensations the food aroused in me were more powerful than my will at that point. I wanted that food.

  I was reminded of Rocky. I was drooling just like him, gazing at the food as if my life depended on it. I hoped that Baba, taking pity on me, might even give me a chapatti. Or, perhaps, knowing that I was barely surviving on biscuits and water, he would feel compassion and share his food with me. Perhaps my spirit of deep service during the time I had been with him might prompt him to give me a bite. But nothing happened. He wasn’t even aware of my leaving, so focused was he on his meal.

  I knew then that my love couldn’t melt him, and my service was of no value. Money I had mostly run out of. I had nothing left to give him. At the same time, I had another realization: what happens may not necessarily be about who you are or what you can give but also about what the other person wants.

  Basically, you can’t win people over if they don’t want to be won over by you. It’s not that they don’t want that love or devotion; they do, but just not from you. They have invested their emotions somewhere else. You want to be their pet but they only see you as a dog, a watchdog perhaps. You are attached to them, but they aren’t attached to you. From you, they get everything too easily, so perhaps you’re of no value to them. Ironically, if you don’t wish to be taken for granted, if you step back, they become resentful or angry.

  A devotee of Baba’s from another village invited him to his home one day, and Baba he said he would come. Meanwhile, the driver was absconding. He had taken leave for two days but wouldn’t return until many days later. Who would drive Baba was the big question. No one at the ashram, other than me, knew how to drive. Baba refused to go in a taxi; he wanted to go in his own car, a Toyota Innova. I offered to drive him there. He said, 'You are a sadhu and not a driver. I’ll take from you work that befits your robe.

  As the day drew closer, Baba raised the issue every evening. I said nothing, since he had already told me that he didn’t want me to drive. Yet I couldn’t see him worried, and this was truly a trivial issue. He spoke his mind one day and said he wasn’t convinced that I could drive. Apparently, it was a big thing in that village to know how to drive. I didn’t kn
ow such villages still existed in India.

  I had driven my Porsche at illegal speeds on the windy Highway 1 from Monterey Beach to Los Angeles, and I had spun the wheels at mind-numbing speeds on the highways on the East Coast. I'd measured the roads in Auckland and Oregon, in Sydney and San Francisco, Wales and Wellington, in many of cities across the world. I could squeeze my car into the tightest of spaces and took pride in that. I changed lanes fearlessly, regardless of the number of lanes or the traffic around me. And a village road would be complicated? I was rather amused.

  When the topic came up yet again, I offered to drive one more time. 'Abe tu bakland hi raha,' Baba said to me in Bhojpuri. He had just used a rather vulgar word to call me an idiot and tell me that I had remained an idiot. I lowered my head. While swearing was normal for Baba, it was the first time he had abused me. He immediately softened and gestured to Nikki to bring a packet of biscuits. Opening it, he gave me two biscuits.

  The day of the visit arrived, and there was no driver in sight. Nor could anything be arranged as an option. This village was far, about 30 km away. Baba finally asked me to drive him. As I drove, Baba seemed pleased with my driving and said to the others in the car, 'This boy drives better than Pandey Driver.’ Then he waved his hand at me and said, ‘Just go slow.'

  When we reached the devotee’s village, we found that they had set up a tent outside the house. Baba sat on a platform that had been specially decorated for him, and I was about to sit on the floor when the host brought me a chair. I looked at Baba. He nodded and I sat down. This was the first time I had sat on a chair in front of Baba; I suppose it was allowed because his platform was still higher than mine.

  Baba knew a few sentences in English. In fact, he knew present indefinite tense thoroughly. I never heard him speak in any other tense whenever he did speak a little English. 'Bhhaat iz tha dipherence bhitwhin Indiaan and phaaran khulture?' he asked me in front of everyone. I smiled and started answering in Hindi, but he asked me to speak in English. I was feeling rather strange because no one else knew English there. Since it was Baba’s order, I spoke a few words. He then told me to come up on the platform and give a discourse on Western culture in English. I went to the dais and spoke a few sentences in English; then, I switched to Hindi and gave a spiritual discourse for the next thirty minutes. Baba gave a discourse as well. It was an interesting session.

  We were invited to eat in the host’s house after that. They spread a sheet on the floor, and had us sit on it. We were served puris fried in ghee, delicious pumpkin curry, chickpeas, lemon and mango pickle, ginger marinated in vinegar, raita made from fresh yogurt mixed with spices, and grated bottle gourd. I found myself devouring the food; this was the first time in months I had eaten a decent meal. They also offered us mangoes, and I took one gladly. When they asked me if I wanted another mango, I nodded with enthusiasm.

  While I had been eating my meal, I had become aware of a certain melancholy in me. Never before had I cherished a meal as much as I did this one. I had always been a picky eater, and perhaps I had taken the availability of good food for granted. I used to think that life had a grand purpose for me, and was confident that there was nothing I couldn’t attain. I had believed I knew better than most people. If truth be told, I had thought I was special. What had I been reduced to?

  Here I was, sitting on the floor in a queue, having devoured my food, eagerly awaiting my second mango. I may have fancied myself as a monk but, in reality I was a beggar. Unlike ascetics, a beggar only takes and gives nothing in return, not even a blessing. I had nothing to offer my hosts in return. I began crying quietly, and a couple of tears fell into my meal. When a mango was held out to me, I raised my hands to receive it without looking up.

  Images of beggars flashed before me: worn out, ragged, dirty, smelly, unruly, drugged, creepy, strange, mad beggars. Today, I was one of them. The eagerness with which I'd waited for my food, the possessiveness I felt towards it while eating, the craving I experienced for the mango—how was my need any different from theirs? I understood why beggars savoured food they found, even if it wasn’t tasty. All of a sudden, I knew what being one of them was like. And it dawned on me what having no choice actually meant.

  From being a beggar, I was briefly elevated to the status of a driver when we had to go back. On reaching the ashram, Baba said he was tired and I offered to massage his legs. It was nearly 10 p.m. when he fell asleep, while I continued to massage him. After a long while, my back became stiff because Baba was lying on the bed with a mosquito net around him while I was bending over, with just my arms extended under the net. I don’t know how many hours passed before Baba suddenly woke up and asked what I was doing there. I told him I was pressing his legs. He told me to go to bed and, turning over to his side, went back to sleep.

  I prostrated before him and quickly made my bed. I lay on my back, and it felt nice to stretch out. It was a quiet night, like most nights here. The sky was full of stars, the moon was shining and the sound of the crickets was oddly comforting. Baba was snoring softly, and a gentle breeze was blowing; it felt as if nature was resting. Nidra Devi, the Goddess of Sleep, must have caressed me as I fell asleep in her embrace. I used to get up at 4 a.m., but I overslept and got up half an hour later.

  The next day, Baba called me to his room. A few minutes later, a couple of other people joined us. Worldly talk began and I sat there, uninvolved in the gossip. Lying beside me was a book on Kabir. I had bought it in Varanasi, and Baba had borrowed it. I picked it up thinking it was better to read the words of the saint than listen to aimless talk. As soon as I lifted the book, I felt a familiar but greatly magnified pain in my right hand, just below my thumb. Before I could realize what had happened, I saw a scorpion the size of my palm crawl away. It had been hiding in the book. The other two men in the room saw it and crushed it immediately. I felt bad for the scorpion.

  How come you breached the peace pact? I asked the dead scorpion. Of course, no answer came. Perhaps our agreement was territorial and therefore limited to only the thatched hut. Or perhaps this was the Divine will. Either way, I accepted what came my way. A bluish tinge appeared on my palm, which swelled up in no time. Baba instructed Sanjay, the young man who was pressing his legs, to take me to the village hospital on his bike.

  The physician there was a homeopathic doctor but gave all kinds of other medication as well. His clinic was crowded and its ambience reminded me of a veterinary clinic I had seen in my childhood. A decrepit basket overflowed with used syringes, soiled bandages, empty sachets and other medical waste.

  On bare wooden beds, some patients sat while others were lying down; everyone had been put on a drip. The doctor came up to me and said, ‘Don't worry, I’ll give you the injection myself.’ He clearly didn’t want to leave me at the mercy of his assistants. He tried to give me an injection at the spot where the scorpion had stung. The syringe didn’t go in properly and it hurt dreadfully. He tried again, this time suddenly and swiftly, and I nearly howled in pain. I wasn’t even keen on getting the injection in the first place because it wasn’t an antidote but merely a painkiller; however, it was Baba’s order. Ranjay arrived soon after, and took me to the ashram.

  A few hours later, I became extremely sick. My temperature soared, I started vomiting and the injected area turned purplish blue. Thank God, I had lost all appetite as there was no food to eat. Even the packets of biscuits I used to keep in the hut had been raided by field rats. I suffered like this for a couple of days. Baba chastised me for not being my usual self, for not smiling while interacting with others. Eventually, he noticed that I was really sick and scolded me, saying I wasn’t strong enough. In actuality, he was getting nervous seeing my condition.

  Ranjay came in the evening and saw my swollen, infected hand. And I looked emaciated, like a skeleton. The weakness was even more prominent now because of the vomiting and complete absence of food for the past few days. He was alarmed to feel my body temperature. He spoke to Baba and told him that I nee
ded immediate medical attention. He wanted to take me to the hospital he ran in the village.

  ‘Take him away from here.’ Baba sounded frustrated. Ranjay rushed me to his wife, Dr Vani, who was a gynaecologist and obstetrician. She examined me quickly and asked if I was allergic to anything. Then she started me on intravenous antibiotics.

  'I hope it’s not some pregnancy-related medication,' I joked.

  She became slightly nervous and said, 'No, I practise general medicine too.'

  She began showing me the medication.

  'I was just making sure so you won’t have me admitted for delivery tomorrow, you know.'

  We all laughed. It felt good, human to do so; I hadn’t laughed in a while.

  A few minutes after the drip started, I began feeling a tightness in my chest and was unable to breathe. I didn’t have my inhalers with me. It had all been so rushed that I completely forgotten to carry them; usually, I took them with me wherever I went. There was such a struggle to push my breath out beyond my throat. I tried gasping, panting and even deep breathing, but nothing worked. Dr Vani became even more nervous.

  This was a village and it was nearly 9 p.m. There were no shops open at this time. Since she didn’t specialize in treating asthmatic patients, she didn’t have inhalers or any other medication that might alleviate my misery. Ranjay and I decided to go back to the ashram to get my inhaler. His driver had already left for the day, and he didn’t know how to drive a car, so he took me on his bike. It had been raining; as a result, we had to contend with scores of insects as Ranjay struggled to get me to the ashram. That distance of 8 km felt like an eternity, and I wondered how I would survive.