by Om Swami
Apart from the animals, there were other challenges to the body. A seeker goes through three types of obstacles: daihik, of the body; adhibhautik, physical; and adhidaivik, divine or environmental. My aches and pains were challenges of the body. The lack of food, resources and amenities were physical hurdles. The dangers posed by the wild animals or the unforgiving Himalayan weather were my environmental challenges; and there were plenty of all these.
High up in these mountains, massive storms arrived regularly: snowstorms, windstorms, rainstorms, hailstorms and blizzards. The sounds were deafening at times, as if unseen forces wanted to drive me out or the Divine was testing me, wanting to see if I still feared for my life. Or perhaps she was cheering me on, I couldn't be sure. Anyway, in these storms, you sense the magnitude of creation: one man, surrounded by gigantic mountains and dense forests, standing defenceless below thundering clouds and stormy, grey skies … But what could nature possibly want from an insignificant being like me? Everything I was or had, including my body, was bestowed on me by the Divine. It was a liberating feeling to realize that I had nothing to lose, and therefore, nothing to be afraid of.
During the storms, the mighty winds would push and pull at the thatched roof of the hut, raising it by a few inches for a few seconds before violently slapping it back into place. Every time this happened, hoards of insects that had collected in the roof, both living and dead, would fall on me. The roof was harnessed by ropes; otherwise, it would have simply flown away. I had managed to slip a tarpaulin under the ropes, and placed heavy rocks on top to hold the tarpaulin in place. But the winds were too strong and, every time a storm came—almost daily for four months—they would displace the tarpaulin. If displaced, it was of little use. Pradeep would climb up on the roof and patiently readjust the tarp after every storm.
On one occasion, there was a hailstorm. The sound of hail falling on the roof was deafening. I was glad that the wall behind me was properly covered with tarpaulin that had been secured with many nails. When I went out in the morning, I thought the wall looked somewhat different. It took me a few seconds to register that the tarpaulin was no longer on the wall but on the ground. In tatters. I figured that with the tarpaulin gone, rain would seep in through the wall. Since I sat by this wall, my bedding would also get wet.
This place had become unsuitable for me, but I was not prepared to leave under any circumstances. I looked up and said, 'Is that all you have? Show me what else you’ve got. I challenge you to move me from this place. I’ll die but I won’t move till I see your form. Why just the tarpaulin, take the roof, take the whole hut for all I care. You can torture my body, but my resolve is unshakable.' I wasn't feeling reverential but rebellious. This time, I decided to not have the tarpaulin replaced. I was prepared for whatever nature wanted to put me through. It rained umpteen times thereafter, and water did seep in, but it never wet my bedding.
I remember the first time it snowed; there must have been about 12 inches on the ground. I started walking towards Pradeep's hut, but found myself unable to walk after about twenty steps. The chill in the snow was unbearable. I had driven in the snow, I had even played in the snow, but I had never walked in it with just my slippers on; I wasn’t wearing socks. Walking another step became impossible; of course, there was no place to sit. I stood midway between the two huts, completely stuck. I could not go back and I could not move forward. I was now in extreme pain and thought my feet would just fall off. Pradeep was under instruction that if I went into deep absorption, I would skip my meal and have it the next day instead. Therefore, if I collapsed now, Pradeep was unlikely to come looking for me, assuming I was in samadhi.
I wasn’t worried about being attacked by wild animals if I fell down in the snow. And I wasn’t afraid of dying. I just didn’t want to leave my journey incomplete; I wanted to go right to the end. I looked up to the grey sky, the green trees around that were mostly covered in snow, at the pristine peaks, and they were all quiet, indifferent. I looked up at the gods even though I wasn’t expecting a miracle or help. I was carrying a walking stick with me, which I used because my knees still ached sometimes. I put all my weight on the stick and lifted my right foot to massage it with my free hand. But I could only do so for a few seconds because the other foot was giving up. This way, I alternated between both feet. I wanted to believe there was some relief but there was none. And now, my hands were completely numb and wet as well.
Chilly winds were blowing and the sky was now a dark grey. I thought that if I had to fall down anyway, I may as well move towards Pradeep’s hut. If I called out for him, there was a chance he might hear me. It took me another twenty minutes but I made it to his hut alive. Once there, I could not feel my feet for a while. When the blood did start to flow again, my feet hurt so badly I wished I didn’t have any feet. Not a nice thing to wish for.
After my meal, I now had the challenge of going back to my hut. I told Pradeep that if it continued to snow like this, it would become impossible for me to visit him. In such an event, I would just munch on some dry provisions and try to survive. He nodded, and packed some things for me to take back. I tied a polythene bag on each foot. Then, carrying the bag of provisions on my back, I began to walk back slowly. I was better prepared this time, and I made it. It was still hard, but nowhere near as hard as before. It’s amazing what preparation can do. The right preparation is the key to the greatest attainments, the antidote to all fear, the seed of competence and confidence, I concluded.
It continued to snow but I managed to get to Pradeep’s hut daily because I wore a pair of worn woollen socks the temple folks had given me; they offered me some respite from the snow. Even though they would get wet, it was still better to have a layer between bare feet and snow. At least I could walk. The snow decreased after January but patches of snow would remain outside my hut till April, and the surrounding peaks were covered till the last day I was there.
The winter made other aspects of daily life rather difficult as well, attending the call of nature being the foremost. I had to go in the woods for the task, which was not a problem. But walking to the woods in the snow, and then squatting on the snowy ground as my feet became numb in a matter of moments, was not an adventure I cared for. In some ways, it was even harder than meditating. There, I could tame my mind through alertness and persistence. But here, my body was subject to the laws of nature.
Bathing in winter wasn’t easy either. It was icy cold, of course, and it felt like I wasn't bathing but rubbing snow on my body. On the day it snowed for the first time, I had taken a bath at 1 a.m. When I sat down for my meditation, my body was like ice. I covered myself with a quilt, and it took nearly two hours to feel the warmth again. Yet, there was something divine about bathing on clear nights in the Himalayas, especially when the moon was waxing. In the quietude of the wilderness, through the gaping holes of my hut, I could see the silvery mountains illuminated by the moon.
Sleep was another painful experience. Due to the extreme cold, not once did I manage to sleep with my legs stretched out. Further, if I accidentally made a swift movement and the quilt shifted ever so slightly, the biting wind that blew through the hut would make its way in, and it would take an hour to get back the warmth. As it was, I slept for no more than two hours at a stretch; if an hour was lost in feeling warm again, no time was left to rest.
My cotton quilt was rather small. Given the space, it wasn’t possible to have a bigger one. I could either cover my feet properly or my head but not both, and I always chose to cover my feet. I discovered that I could not lie flat on my belly or back and have the quilt tucked under me on either side.
You might wonder why I didn't source more clothes or snow boots, or make myself more comfortable in the hut. Why did I choose to continue putting up with these obstacles? It was not because I wanted to punish myself or feel like a victim. The answer is rather simple. Our identification with the body is so strong that most people spend their lives simply taking care of the body. The body f
eels cold, let's clothe it; it feels hot, let's remove the layers; it's hungry, feed it; it's tired, give it rest. We become so preoccupied with fulfilling the body’s many desires—cleaning, feeding, clothing, decorating and protecting it, that we become its slaves.
A true yogi must rise above the needs of the body. Just like an athlete must push herself to test her pain barrier, to test her limits, a spiritual aspirant must learn to control his body. When we start to tame the body and its needs, taming the mind becomes easier. The yogi must become indifferent to comforts until he has attained not only the state of emancipation but also learned to live in it.
Most of the difficulties I faced were linked to my body. Should I have been concerned about these hardships to the extent that I wanted to make myself comfortable instead of focusing on my meditation? No, not in my world. ‘If you want comforts, go sit in a serviced apartment,’ I used to tell my body. 'If you want God, then shut up and meditate.'
I had always believed that my time in Baba’s ashram was a preparation for my time here in the mountains. It was, to an extent. But living here, I realized gradually that there was a lot more that the Universe wanted to teach me. Confronting tougher physical challenges here was part of the process I was being put through: to test my resolve and courage, to hone my inner skills, to deepen my meditation. Finally, all my hardships were opportunities for surrender. Without total surrender to the Divine, I knew the Divine would never manifest before me.
Not everything was uncomfortable though. It was a real treat to be in Pradeep’s hut because it was made of stone and kept nicely warm. Actually, both of us kept the fires going: he kept the outer fire alive while I kept the inner fire alive; both had a purpose.
Yet there were ways in which Pradeep tested my patience. He was an incredibly talkative person, a complete contrast to me. The moment I would enter into his hut, he would start talking, and do so non-stop. He would tell me what the rats did last night, what provisions they ate up, what games they played, how they fought and so on. Imagine ending a long stretch of meditation and having to hear about rats right after.
But there was a lot more in Pradeep’s repertoire. He would talk about his interactions with the villagers and what happened when he had gone down the previous day. Or he would tell me about his past, and the stories would criss-cross each other in a dizzying manner. I heard about his trip to a famous temple in Kerala where, while bathing, he realized that the water he was bathing with was the same water that was flowing back into the tap, so he was bathing with bathed water.
He told me how he had hurt his finger once, and it was badly crushed and bloodied. He asked his brother to take him to the hospital but his brother insisted that he wouldn’t leave till he was dressed appropriately, and busied himself combing his hair, getting dressed, applying face cream and talc, etc. In desperation, Pradeep ran to the hospital by himself, and his brother arrived on his scooter after the dressing was done.
Thanks to Pradeep, I learnt about a certain cult in south India where four people would pin down a pig and a man would tear apart its stomach using nails. They would then dip bananas in the pig’s blood and eat them. He told me the story of a certain barber in his village, who was watching cricket while cutting a child’s hair. The batsman hit a six and the barber, in his excitement, accidentally snipped off the child’s ear. 'What happened to the child?' I asked. 'He ran out, and his father came in and gave the barber a thrashing,' Pradeep said.
Once, Pradeep had a job in a charitable hospital where he had to boil 40 kg of milk every day. He would cool it down and eat all the cream from that milk. When Pradeep was tired of such tales, he went back to what the rats had done the night before. For instance, one day, he had accidentally touched the tuft of hair on his shaved head with buttery hands. That night, the rats thought fit to nibble on his hair.
When you have been meditating all night and you are both enraptured and exhausted from the intense experience, and you sit down to have your first and only meal of the day, these stories are not exactly entertaining. I needed silence and I begged for him to be silent, but the childlike Pradeep didn’t understand. He simply could not remain quiet. You can’t blame him though. I was meditating and working on stilling my mind; he was simply there to assist me. It is not natural for our species to remain in isolation or to be quiet for long periods, and it is the basic nature of the human mind to express itself.
Since I was living in solitude, perhaps only I could understand Pradeep’s restless state of mind. He was outgoing and chatty, used to living in busy ashrams in bustling towns. Here, he was in terrifying solitude and had absolutely no one to talk to. In the woods, you can talk to the trees and to the wild animals and, if you can hold yourself together, you can talk to yourself. Those companions didn’t fascinate him though, and admittedly, these weren’t easy companions. So, he was compelled to talk to me.
There was no doubt that Pradeep’s dedication for me was absolute. In fact, he had completely won me with his humility and devotion. But I felt frustrated with his meaningless rambles until it dawned on me that the Universe had planted him there to test and train me. The only way I could deal with this situation was by learning to remain calm and unaffected. How was this situation different from living in the world anyway? When I was there, life told me stories, good and bad. People had told me stories, long and short. The world had told me stories, true and untrue. My religion had told me stories, factual and fictional. Every experience life put me through was a story in some form. And now Pradeep was telling me stories.
I learnt that I didn’t need to accept or react to Pradeep. I couldn’t stop hearing but I didn’t have to listen. Above all, the Divine lived in him as much as in me, so how could I reject him? Whatever life had to offer me through him was just fine. That's what love is: to be at ease. And that's what I learned with him around: to be at ease. I had never shouted at anyone, I had never had a fit of rage. But if there was any vestige of anger in me, I wanted to drop it completely. I had been given the perfect opportunity now. Extraordinary bliss with an anger-free mind is an epiphenomenon, one of the by-products of intense meditation.
Sitting cross-legged for long stretches of time wasn’t hard for me, but doing so absolutely unmoving was a big challenge. In fact, it was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. I went through a phase of excruciating pain in my knees. Walking just a few steps was a daunting task as I couldn’t even lift my feet due to the pain. I had two choices at that moment: to quit and go see a doctor, or persist. I chose to persevere and continued with my sadhana. I prayed to the sages, to the seers in the Himalayas, to my siddhas and asked them to help me. After about a month, the pain in the knees started to subside a bit. Still, I was sitting for ten hours at a time, and maintaining my concentration wasn’t easy with the pain.
To reach the transcendental state, to go beyond the physical body, you have to reach a state where you can completely forget about your body. Bodily movements are highly detrimental to good meditation because they make you aware of your body. Therefore, it's absolutely essential to sit still in meditation because a still mind lives in a still body and a still body helps in stilling the mind; they complement each other. Just like you don't need the raft once you cross the river, these conditions no longer apply once an adept has mastered the art of staying in samadhi. At that time though, I was a seeker and not an adept. I hadn't yet learned to go into samadhi, much less stay in it.
Given all the challenges I'd ever faced, by far the most difficult one was the current one: to still my mind completely. Initially, every few minutes, my concentration would lose its sharpness. With persistence and alertness, however, those few minutes stretched to about half an hour, and then a little longer but, in any case, maintaining my concentration beyond the first hour proved rather difficult. My aim was to concentrate on Mother Divine without losing focus. If you don't know what I mean, simply think of an object. Now try to visualize the image with your eyes closed. After a few seconds, the i
mage in your mind will start to fade. Beginners can mentally hold the image for a few seconds; good meditators can do so for a few minutes; great meditators can do it for many minutes and the accomplished ones can do it for over four hours. I wanted to go beyond and meditate on Mother Divine all the time, twenty-four hours a day.
A loss of concentration is the biggest hurdle for a meditator, and the only way I knew to cross this obstacle was by not giving up. Persistence and patience had helped me achieve what I had wanted thus far, and I hoped these qualities would work again this time. They did, for my concentration began to stabilize over time. I remember wanting to get up at times because the pain was unbearable or because I was extremely exhausted, but I would tell myself that this time would pass; even if I did anything else, the time would continue to tick, so I might as well meditate.
Crucially, I knew I had to persist because the path of yoga was one of great discipline and rigour. Whenever I felt tired, I would remind myself that I did not leave my family, home and comforts to rest or relax; I left them to attain the supreme bliss, to be one with God. I was often reminded of a devotional song my mother used to sing in Punjabi when I was a child: 'Bhagwan da milna sehaj nahin, puthi khal lahani paindi hai' (It isn't easy to attain God, one has to go through many hardships).
