The Yoga of Max's Discontent

by Karan Bajaj

  • • •

  SIXTY HOURS LATER, early in the morning, the train reached Haridwar. Once again, as he had done a few years earlier when he had first arrived in the Himalayas, Max took a bus to Uttarkashi and stopped at a hotel, this time needing no warm blankets and hot water, his body immune to the craving for petty luxury. He had expected to wait a few days in Bhatwari until he found some intrepid motorcycle riders again, but he was pleasantly surprised to find a jeep making its last trip to Gangotri for the season.

  Max reached Gangotri late one overcast afternoon in the first week of December with everything he needed for the months to come in his backpack: three gunnysacks containing millet, chickpeas and kidney beans, a stove, a penknife to carve wood, matchsticks to build a fire, one change of T-shirt and pants, gloves and a jacket if it got colder than he could force his body to adapt to, and a bedsheet to cover the ground in a cave. Once again the village was deserted and the tiny houses and shops were covered with soft white snow. The wind gusted as he started on the deserted snow-covered trail to Bhojbasa. Clouds blanketed the sun and a wall of gray loomed ahead of him. A heavy rain began as soon as he passed the abandoned forest office building two miles into the hike. Rain seeped through the holes in his sweater, drenching his thin shirt. The rain turned into a light snowfall, then a blizzard. But this time he was prepared for the wetness and cold.

  Every day for the last six months, he had performed samyama on the Manipura chakra in his navel, the junction of the 72,000 root nerves in the body, and his body had revealed its most intimate workings to him. Each of the 72,000 root nerves was connected to 72,000 other nerves, all of which transferred prana, vital energy, to all parts of his body. With enough concentration, he could flow prana anywhere he wanted in the body. As he walked, he visualized the prana as a flame and his body as a vibrating stream of light and heat. He increased the prana in the nerves supplying his fingertips and toes to keep them heated. Simultaneously he pressed his chin to his neck and pulled his perineum to the spine when he walked. The two bandhas trapped the air in his torso and he rotated the air around fiercely so that it collided with his ribs, vertebrae, and sternum. The friction increased the heat in his body, making him immune to the drop in temperature outside. Now he felt no different walking up the snowy mountain than he had felt walking from the village to Pavur in the blazing heat.

  • • •

  HALFWAY UP THE trail to Bhojbasa, he saw six pairs of heavy boot marks and the sharp, narrow imprints of ice axes and trekking poles. Late-season hikers on their way to Gomukh. Wanting nothing to interfere with his solitude, Max abandoned the trail. He removed his shoes and scrambled up a cliff, letting his naked feet find easy grooves in the snow. Without gloves, his fingers held tight to tree stumps and rocks. He moved quickly. The air thinned as he climbed higher. He contracted his diaphragm, allowing his lungs to go down and his rib cage to expand so that the air pressure in his chest dropped significantly. The outside air rushed in, spreading fresh oxygen through his chest. He breathed comfortably and kept climbing higher, looking for a hospitable cave for the months ahead. None of the ones he passed looked suitable. Some were too narrow to build a fire inside; some too far from a source of water; others opened right onto the edge of a ravine. He could make any of them work if he had to, but this wasn’t an endurance test. He wanted to spend his days in meditation, not in foraging for food and melting snow to get water.

  Night fell. The snow abated. Max walked by the dim light of the half-moon, letting his bare feet guide him. He crossed a mile-long patch where the snow was so soft that he sunk up to his thighs with each step; then it turned into packed ice again. Another two or three hours in, he ran into a withered tree protected from the snowfall by a giant rock. Max cut its dry branches with his knife and put the wood in his backpack. He climbed higher, watching carefully to avoid hidden crevasses in the white blanket.

  Past midnight, more than ten hours after he had begun climbing, Max came across a suitable space. A large outcropping in the jagged mountain slanted above flat snow-covered ground, protecting it from wind. The still air smelled of pine. Yellow-gray roots broke through the snow on the ground under the projecting rock. He cut a stem with his knife and sniffed it. Mushroom or something like it. They would serve him well if his rations ran out. He looked around for water. Finding nothing, Max turned with the mountain, holding tight to the jutting stones, walking gingerly on the narrow, rocky path that separated him from the deep abyss thousands of feet below. The cliff turned sharply. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his navel, pumping prana with force into the fingertips that held the edges of the rocks on the outside of the mountain. Nothing could stop him from falling if his fingers went numb. His heartbeat increased. He inched forward.

  The path opened into a large stretch of sharp, snow-covered rocks. Max let go of the cliff. He rested on a rock and breathed slowly. The red heaviness in his forehead reduced. Another mountain arose on the opposite side of the furrowed ice, fifty meters away. Six or seven natural caves lay at the bottom of the cliff. Max’s spirits lifted. Yes, this could work. The mountains on either side would obstruct the wind. All he needed was a source of water and this could be home for a few months. The air smelled heavy with dew, but he couldn’t see a drop of water around. He walked toward the caves.

  • • •

  THE GROUND BELOW him shifted. Max looked down. The ice was crumbling beneath his feet. The earth was swallowing him. He jumped back—and crashed into freezing, icy water.

  A stream.

  He had mistaken the thin layer of ice for solid land. Now he was drenched in icy water, but at least his water problem was solved. He pulled himself out and grabbed his dripping backpack. Rubbing his wet hands, he applied the Maha Bandha within seconds to generate heat within his body once again. He stared at the thin ice shimmering in the moonlight. Bluish-white water seeped through the cracks on its surface. Was he ready?

  Max walked to the edge of the lake and concentrated on the caves on the opposite side. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled one hundred and eighty times, emptying his mind of images, letting the universe guide him forward. He retained his breath ten, twelve, fifteen, seventeen minutes, until he couldn’t hold it any longer. Next he exhaled quickly, forcing out the breath left in his torso and making the torso empty like a deflated life vest. He concentrated on the prana vibrating within him and thrust it upward with force. His body was now light as a feather. Max performed samyama on his navel and visualized every root nerve of his body alive with the same stream of minute energy particles that the water in front of him was. He took a step forward. Energy merged with energy. There was nothing under his feet.

  He was walking on air.

  More steps.

  Still nothing under his feet.

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to hold his breath very long, he moved faster in space. He felt the dampness of water on the soles of his feet. He pulled his abdomen in and exhaled with force. Again he walked a fraction of an inch above the water, on air.

  A few steps later, he ran out of breath. He choked and inhaled a rush of air. Immediately he felt the weight on his feet, cold water touching their bottoms.

  He opened his eyes. He was less than five meters away from the shore. He could do it. Max brought his right foot forward but fell into the water. Quickly he swam to the other end and pulled himself and his backpack out. He had done it. Almost. He had walked over more than forty-five meters of water—with his backpack.

  Max put his backpack down on the ice. He breathed normally and visualized the energy flowing like a river through his body once again. Millions of energy particles vibrated within his body, in the air below his feet, and in the air around him. He exhaled and forced his prana up. His feet lifted two feet above the ground. He pulled his abdomen in sharply and pushed out the air left over in his torso. He rose another foot above. Max held his breath and stood suspended in air. Cold wind touc
hed his bare wet feet, sending tingling sensations up and down his spine. He stood in the air for a few minutes, staring at the soft white half-moon above, feeling its blue-white light alive within him. Inhaling with control and pulling his prana down, he landed softly on the snow. He was ready for the last phase of his journey.

  • • •

  MAX TOOK OFF his wet clothes and squeezed the water out of them. Shivering and spent, he stood naked on the edge of the lake. The cold cut into his bones. The stars were so close he could pick them out of the sky. The paw marks of an animal, likely a Himalayan bear or snow leopard, formed an elegant ellipse on the ice below him. Soon he would be one with the sky, the stars, the tall cliffs, the white snow below him, and the animals that danced on it. This was the final step. He wouldn’t leave the caves until he was enlightened, became the Tathagatha, the one who was gone, whose body remained in the world but whose mind had become the universal, complete.

  He walked over the sharp rocks in front of the caves, inspecting the area. All seven caves were blocked with ice. A fifteen-foot-tall boulder with a flat surface and sharp, serrated edges stood in the middle of the row of caves. Max climbed on top of it and sat cross-legged on its wet surface. Almost immediately, he fell into a deep trance, sensing a shimmering, vibrating presence within him, around him. He understood now why the Himalayas had been the home of spiritual seekers for centuries. Every rock, every surface, vibrated with the energy of the One.

  Max slid down the boulder. Putting on his T-shirt, pants, gloves, and hiking boots, he began clearing the snow from the mouth of the first cave, the tallest in the row of seven. He broke the particularly hardened lumps with his boots. The noise resounded through the hundreds of miles of silence. He scraped and kicked for an hour, slowly opening the mouth of the cave an inch. This would take a long time, perhaps the whole night, and there could be no shortcuts. If fresh snow deposited on top of the packed ice, he could be buried alive inside.

  Two hours later, he had cleared the mouth sufficiently to peep into the cave. It smelled of wet earth but looked warm and spacious. A winged creature bumped against his face, screeching. A bat. The sound was picked up by other bats inside. The still air filled with shrieks. Max smiled. At least he would have company if he felt too lonesome. He liked his new home already.

  Max chipped away at the packed snow for another couple of hours. The hole was now wide enough to melt the remaining snow with fire without the risk of smoke filling up the cave.

  He retrieved the matchboxes and tree branches from the jacket inside his backpack. None of the matches would light. He set them aside and performed samyama on the tree branches, becoming one with them, visualizing a bright yellow flame coursing through him, the branch’s wooden bark, the tip of dried green leaf. A tiny spark burst out on the wood. Not enough to light the damp wood. He concentrated harder. Sweat formed on his eyebrows. This time a huge spark flamed at the end of the branch. Still the wood wouldn’t light. Max wrapped the branches in his jacket and continued scraping off the snow from the cave entrance with his bare hands.

  He tried lighting them again after a few hours. The wood was still too wet. Max broke the branches into smaller pieces. No more sparks. He felt dizzy. His muscles ached. He had wasted too much energy testing his new skills. He needed to rest and restore his prana. Max looked up at the sky. Could he trust it not to snow for a couple of hours, just until he squeezed into the warm cave and took a nap? A snowflake fell on his shoulder, then another. The universe gave him his answer. He began scraping the snow once again.

  He heard a slight sound on his right.

  A Himalayan bear?

  Max whipped around.

  A man stood on top of the boulder.

  Max rubbed his eyes.

  Yes, it was a man. Fiery black eyes shining in the moonlight, gray hair falling to his hips, and a thin yellow-orange cloth wrapped tight around his lean, hard body. A yogi. He was staring at Max.

  • • •

  MAX WALKED TO the boulder and folded his hands.

  The man jumped down, scowling at Max, his eyes glinting. He pulled his gray hair behind his head.

  Max concentrated on the Ajna chakra in the center of his forehead, the seat of all memory of all lifetimes, accessed the reservoir of language, and spoke in Hindi. “Mera naam Max hai. Main is gufa mein rehna chahta hoon,” said Max.

  The man didn’t react.

  Max repeated in English. “I’m Max. I want to live in this cave,” he said.

  The man raised his right hand and touched his thumb with his bony index finger again and again.

  Max didn’t understand.

  The man repeated the gesture with both hands.

  “No, no, no photograph,” said Max in Hindi. The man had likely confused him for a tourist because of his T-shirt and khakis. “Not tourist. I want to be a yogi.”

  The man’s gaunt face softened. He turned around and went into a cave on the other end, easily pushing away the snow that blocked its mouth. Unlike Max’s cave, his was covered by fresh snowfall, not packed ice. Reassured by the presence of another yogi nearby, no matter how taciturn, Max cleared his cave with renewed vigor.

  The man appeared next to him again. He gave Max a piece of paper. Max looked at it in the moonlight. It had one sentence written in many different languages: “I have taken a twelve-year vow of silence.” And it was signed Baba Ramdas.

  Max touched his heart to convey that he would respect his wishes.

  Baba Ramdas gave Max a fifteen-inch-tall black stick. Max sniffed magnesium. Yes, this would work better than the matchsticks. Max held it vertical and struck his knife against it.

  Baba Ramdas nodded.

  Max struck again and again until he got the angle right. He was rewarded with a crackling flame. Max thrust it against the wood. It still wouldn’t light.

  Baba Ramdas went back to his cave and brought four pieces of dry tree bark and a handful of pine needles.

  Max followed his lead and made a platform with tree bark. He placed the branches on it so that the ice wouldn’t wet them. Once the branches were stable, he scattered pine needles on the pile and created a spark with the magnesium stick. The wood caught fire immediately. Max threw on more pine needles and the fire rose higher. The snow melted quickly.

  Max folded his hands and thanked Baba Ramdas. He tried to return the magnesium stick, but Baba Ramdas wouldn’t take it. Max thanked him again.

  Max stooped into the musty cave, using a burning branch for light. The bats screeched their welcome. The cave was fifteen feet wide and eight feet deep, just enough for him to stand comfortably upright in. He was pleasantly surprised by how warm it was inside. Rocks jutted from the floor at odd angles, but he found a flat stretch at its back. A scorpion scuttled away when he spread his sheet on the packed wet mud. His bed. His home. Max doused the burning stick and lay down on the sheet. He tried to meditate, but his weary eyes closed.

  28.

  In the days that followed, Max adapted slowly to the silent but inhospitable Himalayan terrain. Observing Baba Ramdas quietly from a distance, he learned to walk over the frozen stream without falling in by pausing every few meters and exhaling sharply the air that inevitably collected in his torso. On the opposite end, he would strip bark and needles from the pine tree and pull from the ground the mushroom-like root he’d seen on the first day. Back in his cave, he melted large quantities of fresh snow on his stove to collect just a small trickle of water, barely enough for cooking the roots and beans. Over time, he observed that the intricately shaped snowflakes trapped air in them, making snow a good insulator. Piling too much snow in the pan caused its bottom to burn without melting the snow, so he added just an inch at a time. He began to get more water sooner. Even so, it was usually midday by the time he ate his first meal.

  In the afternoon, he would practice pranayama, now no longer a slow, meditative breathing exercise b
ut a frenzied grab for the oxygen he had lost foraging and walking across the stream in the thin air. Evenings were spent in performing samyama on his navel to lower his metabolism so that his heart could supply blood to his body’s extremities. Next, he focused on the Anahata chakra, the heart center, reducing his heart rate so it didn’t pump irregularly in the low air pressure. Too depleted to perform samyama again, he dealt with the ever-increasing supply of spiders and scorpions by sweeping them out of the cave with a brush he’d carved from the pine tree. Once this was done, he would sit to meditate, but his body felt tough and rigid like steel from the day’s exertions, and sleep overcame him immediately.

  Two months passed, then three. He no longer had a watch or a calendar, but somewhere in the back of his mind he always knew exactly what day it was. The winter didn’t ease. The lake remained frozen, the vegetation sparse. Max’s heart was silent like the mountains around him. He went through the day, foraging food, making a fire, melting snow, collecting water, practicing pranayama, feeling a quiet detachment from his body and its needs, yet expending effort all day to keep it fit and functioning.

  When it continued to snow in April, Max contemplated going back to the plains so he could spend more time in meditation. But Baba Ramdas’s silent, majestic form held him back. What will, what concentration, he must have built in thriving alone on the mountain for twelve years. His face betrayed no strain of effort; his eyes never asked for companionship; he was alone, complete, in silent communion with the divine, the goal Max sought but which seemed to be slipping away from his grasp.