Autobiography of a Sadhu Read online

  2

  I Dream India into Existence

  Clutching my diary and passport and with the rest of my worldly possessions slung over my shoulder in a small embroidered bag from Turkey, I walked down the gangplank into a new world whose sheer scale astounded me. I had never seen so many people in one place. There were colors I had never dreamed of and all around me new smells, new sounds, and seething activity. I stood there with my mouth open, trying to take it all in. I wanted to dive headfirst into the swirling colors.

  Instead, I pushed my way through the unyielding crowd of white-capped men in white shirts and pajamas and women in saris of every color and design clinging to their sisters or the hands of children without pants. When I emerged from the long lines of immigration and customs to the street, I was surrounded by hustlers offering me “cycle rickshaw,” “cheap hotel,” “taxi,” “change money,” “hashish,” “palm-reading,” “best tailor,” “cheap tickets,” “opium den,” and “he can grant your any wish.” I examined the card the owner of the last voice had handed me. On it was a picture of a scruffy-looking man with a short white beard and white gown. “Baba,” he said, before he was swept away.

  “Baba,” I repeated to myself. I liked the sound of it. It had a bounce, a primitive rhythm. Even though I didn’t understand exactly what it meant, its onomatopoeic quality rang out to me. It was like “papa,” but gentler. It seemed intimate yet possessed authority. I knew of Meher Baba, whose enigmatic smile was captioned “Don’t worry, be happy.” I had seen the bearded Mustan Baba on posters in the Haight Ashbury in the sixties, and read about the ageless Baba Ji in Paramahansa Yogananda’s Autobiography of a Yogi. The card that had been thrust into my hand seemed both a talisman and a signpost.

  I changed my last twenty dollars into rupees and, to conserve my meager resources, I hitchhiked, traveled ticketless on trains (and sometimes got thrown off), and walked. I slept in temples, ashrams, on the ground in railroad stations, and ate whatever I was offered. I visited holy places, cities, mountains, jungles, and famous landmarks. But it was the common people everywhere that touched me—their openness, their hospitality, their curiosity, their generosity. I began to fall in love with the land and its inhabitants.

  I experienced the euphoria of total freedom, a sense of unlimited possibilities. On any given day I imagined myself to be a gypsy, an Arabian knight, a maharaja. I quickly discarded my sturdy shoes for pointed slippers, my pants for striped pajamas, and my shirts for knee-length kurtas. I tied my long blond hair into a topknot. As I worked through my fantasies, I exchanged my slippers for sandals, and eventually opted for bare feet. Pajamas gave way to lungis, sarongs, and as I wandered further south, into the heat, I abandoned my kurtas and went bare-chested, a light turban protecting my head from the sun.

  I dreamed India into existence. Not that it was my personal private dream, but a believable movie reasonably constructed from the group psyche. It was comforting this dream, cushioned, as it were, with familiarity. It tamed the wild profusion of things, using the sights, sounds, and faces of India as its raw material. Everything might appear different from my ordinary world back home, but I knew that this was the way it was supposed to be. It was a good dream, it made me feel happy.

  I recognized India immediately, like meeting a blood relative for the first time, because I carried with me, deep inside, images corresponding to what I saw on the outside. Later I realized that these images resembled Orientalist paintings of nineteenth-century Europe. I saw that same domed dwelling as the artist Delamain. I learned to label it a dargah, the tomb of a Sufi saint. I searched the back streets of the Muslim Quarter looking for Deutsch’s water seller, knowing full well I would never drink that water. Guaranteed dysentery. But I would enter into his doorways.

  I dreamed the Orient, fueled on these images and others that filtered their way down a hundred years into my thoughts. By their circuitous expansion into popular culture, into literature and film, I was informed, prepared. I was ready for the sensuality, promise, terror, spirituality, delight, and intense energy that I had been promised. Thoughts appeared in my head that led me to compare and contrast normal with abnormal, the Same with the Other, and to assign categories to my experience of India: what it was supposed to be.

  But I was unable to understand then that there was another India right under my feet and before my eyes, an India that was different from my dream. I did not grasp that my idea of India told me more about my own culture, and how it imagined another culture than it did about this extraordinary land itself.

  India gradually began to reveal itself as sacred geography. Mountains were no longer masses of inert granite observing the laws man assigns to nature but living beings—gods and sages. Rivers became goddesses. I started to recognize everywhere the signs of these great beings, the spectacular signatures of nature. How else would we know where the great powers of the universe reside, how else would we know the meeting of worlds, if these places were not clearly marked? This topography is known throughout India in a voluminous mythological narrative, often conflicting, and confusing to me, but as such, the very source of mystery and wonder. I discovered that there were those who read the face of this Extraordinary World with its flags, characters, ciphers, and obscure words the way we read a book.

  When I started out, I had no guidebook or map and knew nothing of the lay of the land. The diary that I had kept since Amsterdam quickly filled up with names, places, and accounts of what I saw and heard. Wherever I went, I would learn of three or four more places to check out. I slept with it under my head and each night I looked through my notes for someone or some place that might be it. It? The place, the person, the key that would unlock the hidden language. The information Cartouche had given me formed a general outline. I traveled south, all the way to what was then called Trivandrum but is now Tiruvanathapuram, then slowly headed north again toward the Himalayas.

  I would set off to visit temples and holy men at a moment’s notice on the basis of a hot tip. I went to Puttaparti to see Satya Sai Baba, Ganeshpuri to see Baba Muktananda, Rishikesh to see Tatwala Baba, Varanasi to see Neelakanth Tata Ji, and Ananda Mayi Ma, as well as other luminaries on the way. They were all very impressive, especially Ananda Mayi Ma, a true living goddess. They all spoke of knowing oneself and the Truth, and there was something so familiar about their words that came to me in translation, something that resonated with what I already knew. At each stop I would ask myself whether I should become a disciple, but I always moved on within the day. I collected blessings but despite the authenticity and stature of these teachers, none of them blew me away, and that was what I was seeking. Besides, I always felt like an outsider in their ashrams.

  I told myself that the small inconsistencies and irritations that might manifest were masala, or spice. India was supposed to be dirty, of course there were beggars, and hustling was just a way of life. These things didn’t interfere with the dream but enhanced it. Potential allies would approach me from the street, from ashrams. They knew I was dreaming, and they were patronizing. Anything you want, they would say. Just pay the price of admission—and my 10 percent. Just a couple of bucks.

  I felt the power, the eye of holy men fell on me when I passed them at temples, on the road, and at bus terminals, and I felt it pulling me, as if reclaiming a missing child. Their hair matted, beards down to their waists, they would call me over, offer me tea, and, more often than not, a smoke. Sometimes marijuana, which they called ganja, or hashish, which they called charas, but always mixed with the tobacco of a cigarette, and smoked in a chillam, a cylindrical clay pipe which widens at the top.

  I learned to call these ascetics sadhus and sannyasis. Swathed in ochre cloth as a flag of their renunciation, they looked like the deities I saw in temples. People touched their feet and offered them sweets, flowers, and money. Yet I also sensed that they were marginal characters, proud of their distance from society, dropouts like me. They seemed to operate under a different set of rules. I sens
ed a kinship with them: The rules I had grown up with had lost their meaning, and my own goals varied from those of my society.

  The fact that they had some special knowledge brought out a hip arrogance in these sadhus. Their eyes twinkled, and I found their electricity magnetic. But there was a huge difference between us: They seemed to Know, and I didn’t. They all shared some secret, and I wanted to know whatever it was they knew. I wanted in, but I didn’t even have the categories in which to put these people who were more storybook than real.

  I learned that these sadhus and sannyasis lived in temples, caves, thatched huts, and in monastery-like retreats called ashrams. Sometimes they spent their lives wandering the jungles and mountains. They also practiced various spiritual techniques and disciplines called sadhana (hence sadhu) or Yoga. A sadhu who formalized his renunciation through a fabulous yet terrifying initiation ritual was called a sannyasi, or “he who has given up everything.”

  The sadhus that I met all over India emulated and worshipped Shiva, the great ascetic god of the Hindus. I began to notice this god everywhere. In pictures, posters, and statues, Shiva is usually depicted as a long-haired, three-eyed, effeminate-looking man, ash-white in color, sitting in deep meditation on a tiger skin, two eyes rolled upward and the third one closed. He wears a cobra around his neck and the five-day-old crescent moon in his hair from which a torrent of water (the Ganges or Ganga) springs forth. In his hand he holds a trident, with a two-headed drum dangling from its spikes. The great bull, Nandi, waits on him and serves as his divine vehicle. This naked ascetic, the great god Shiva, roams the three worlds (Heaven, Earth, and Hell) in ecstatic bliss. He is the first baba.

  Because his meditative state of pure consciousness is considered to be the very foundation of the universe, the prerequisite for creation, Shiva is worshipped as a phallus. In his temples, this phallus, called a Shiva linga, usually takes the form of a large, naturally polished, egg-shaped stone, preferably coming from the Narmada River that flows east to west through central India.

  I became enchanted listening to stories of gods, yogis, shamans, and other sometimes-bizarre sages. I heard of sadhus performing great austerities, acquiring superhuman powers, called siddhis, attaining great wisdom and the highest levels of consciousness. Every devotee had stories of superhuman feats that his guru had accomplished. There was Shri Shri Shri Sivabalayogi, who had remained in perfect yogic absorption for twenty or thirty years, not eating or speaking, and barely breathing. He appeared in public once a year, during the rites of Shiva, when the doors of the temple in which he sat were pulled open. There was Baba Ji, about whom Yogananda wrote. He was hundreds of years old, could appear at several places at the same time, and transport himself in a flash anywhere he wanted to go. There were those who could fly, travel to other dimensions, sit naked all winter on a glacier, enter the bodies of others, heal the sick, and raise the dead. There were those who knew the Truth. I wanted to meet these extraordinary men and women, and to understand and experience just what the human possibilities in this Extraordinary World were.

  I wanted to know my own possibilities, who I was, and where I belonged. I had to find someone who knew, and who could and would tell me. I was desperate to know how I fit into the cosmic scheme of things. I was determined to find my very own Dharma, my correct path, as I continued to wander through India, looking for clues and ready for anything.

  However, I had a language problem. Yes, English is a major language in India. It is spoken everywhere and is the mother language of many Indians. One can easily get by in English anywhere in the Indian subcontinent, except with sadhus. Of course, one can communicate, English or no English, as one can all over the world with aware or awakened people. But in an Extraordinary World, where metaphor may drive reality, when esoteric instruction is as precise as a computer program, comprehension and articulation in the sage’s own language is highly desirable. Among the traditional sadhus, yogis, and shamans I met, none spoke English. This was not surprising, but I found it extremely frustrating. I had started to learn Hindi but feared that it would take years before I could have a real conversation with or take instruction from one of these adepts.

  My first three months in India went by very quickly. As my visa was about to expire, I decided to go to Delhi where I would either find a way to extend it or travel to Nepal and obtain a new one there. I met a young sadhu while waiting for the train in Nasik, north of Bombay. We struck up a quick friendship and managed to communicate despite the fact that neither of us had command of the other’s language. What we did have in common was our long hair.

  Thumping himself on the chest, and shaking the dreadlocks that hung halfway down his back, he called himself a Naga Baba, a yogi. Naga means “naked,” and indeed many Naga Babas have abandoned all clothing, but to these yogis, their initiation into nakedness meant that they had given up everything of the Ordinary World, including its social behavior, rules, rituals, and books. I saw them as the Hell’s Angels of babas.

  The young baba, who wore only an ochre cloth around his waist, couldn’t have even been my age, which was nineteen at the time, as he was failing miserably in his attempt to grow a mustache out of peach fuzz. He was going to see his guru in Ujjain, one of the most ancient and sacred cities in India. “I am nothing,” he said, “but my guru is everything.” So I decided to postpone my Delhi trip and accompany him instead. How could I pass up this opportunity?

  When we arrived, the young baba took me to the simple Shiva temple where he lived with his guru and several other sadhus. A great tree spread out over much of the courtyard protecting it from the scorching rays of the sun. His brash behavior melted away in front of his guru, and he became the boy that he was and went right to work. I was enjoying the company of his guru, an old laughing Buddha of a man, but the young baba, after touching his master’s feet, and offering a small box of sweets with a coin on top, quickly departed to the kitchen area to prepare vegetables.

  “Here? There? Where you will go?” the old baba asked me in his broken English. He waved his hand in a circle. I knew what he meant. I was running around like a chicken without a head. If I hadn’t wanted “in” as much as I did, I might not have felt so outside and could have enjoyed the exotic locale as a spiritual tourist. I felt a subtle shift in my perception. There were doorways, passageways, in my dream of India, whose entrances had proved inaccessible. Could I dream my way through the labyrinth? Perhaps. But I sensed I needed some additional tools. It requires a leap, I thought.

  After sunset, evening worship began. Two babas, standing in the temple, banged brass plates with wooden mallets, alternating two beats each, a tempo that started to sound like the rhythm of time. The old baba looked at his watch, he shook it a few times, and looked at it again, then he put it to his ear. Obviously it wasn’t working.

  Helped by two of the younger babas, the old one got on his feet and led us over to the temple. We walked up a couple of steps through medieval archways into the mandapa, or meeting hall, where already half-dozen babas had gathered and were ringing the heavy gunmetal bells hanging down from the ceiling on long chains in front of the holy of holies, the inner temple housing the Shiva linga. The smoke from the incense and wood resins created a haze in the hall. I strained to see the priest pouring water on the Shiva linga and then decorating it with flowers. The crowd swelled, another dozen enthusiastic babas had arrived. The baba-priest now waved a brass butter lamp, five wicks and five flames, in circles in front of the linga, while a couple of drummers whacked their dholak drums.

  I stood on tiptoe behind the frenzied worshippers so that I could watch the priest, his head swaying to the hypnotic beat, offering Fire to the god Shiva. I tried to get closer, but everyone had the same idea; the crowd surged. The pulsating sounds were overpowering, pulling me like an ocean riptide, filling my veins with liquid rhythm. I began to lose control and tried to resist.

  Then I caught myself. What was I doing? Why fight it? Let go! My eyes closed for a moment, and my
body starting swaying to the percussion—brass plates banged, bells jangled, and drums cracked. I felt myself dancing. I opened my eyes to see the crowd give way before me. I moved slowly forward, rising up from the temple floor with every step, a few inches at first, and then I was dancing on air. Soon I began to float, supine, four or five feet above the ground. I was able to put my head just inside the holy of holies, which had a low arch, and saw five little fire deities, little Agnis, dancing in front of Shiva in the form of a large egg of naturally polished black stone. The wet black stone radiated heat that made me sweat, and it made a sound like Om that hummed louder and louder until it consumed all the other sounds. Maybe it was the Mother of all Sounds.

  Everything was suddenly very quiet, and I became aware that there was nothing holding me up. At the same time I realized that I was no longer attached to my body, and I fell to the ground with a great crash.

  Hara Hara Mahadev!

  They were shouting,

  Hara Hara Mahadev!

  When I was able to focus again, I saw the heavy round jowls of the old baba who was cradling me. Ten faces looked down at me with concern.

  Hara Hara Mahadev!

  They kept shouting as the old baba made me sniff some more camphor. I tried getting up but was too weak to move.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Shiva like you,” smiled the old man.

  When I finally gathered my wits about me, it seemed likely that I had passed out just where I had been standing. It had all become too much for me—the noise, the excitement, and my exhaustion from traveling. But, I had left my body and entered into another state of consciousness.