DAY 6 POSTSCRIPT: A LATE TWIST

The ride seemed much longer than it really was, but mostly because the roads are bad and overrun with slightly evolved primates, who drive trucks like free-for-alls going the wrong way in all lanes. Then we entered Kashi, the primordial concentration of cosmic light at the tip of Shiva's trident. The town was a concentration all right. Unruly drivers on narrow roads caused gridlocks all the time. It took an hour to finish the last four kilometers.

As we turned in at the main circle a thandai seller caught my co-pilot's eye and beckoned seductively.

"Mmmmm...thandai", I thought to myself as well.

After unloading at a hotel we headed out for dinner. The Thandai shop was on the way.

"Bhang thandai?" the man cheerily asked.

It had been a long day and we just needed some sleep, so the extra additions were politely declined and we tasted some pretty fine heart-of-North-India-cow-belt thandai.

We then started to explore this fascinating town that had tiny houses and temples, tightly nestled next to each other. Scores of winding roads that got narrower and narrower and finally cobbled little path ways, though this did not deter expert bicyclists and motorcyclists who could zip around these pathways with ease (and with not as many casualities as one would expect).

The river was dark and warm and stretched out into black infinity, merging with the night sky. A beautiful illusion owing to the fact that the entire city is built on the west bank of the river, facing east and the opposite side of the bank is devoid of any building.

The whole place exuded a strong sense of what it would be to live like in a religious Indian town hundreds of years ago. Everywhere there was a temple or a shrine, the town was filled with deities. And filth.

There's something about the rural North that makes it dirtier than the rest of the country! There were stinking piles of cow-dung-food-remnant-plastic-shit everywhere. It was as though there were no more definitions of beauty and ugliness, everything merged into a homogeneous whole.

We wandered by the evening puja of a Kali temple that faced the road. A priest stood in the narrow lane flipping a big dumaroo dhuggaddhuggaddhuggad as he faced the grotesque figure of the blood-thirsty goddess, that devourer of everything, Mother Nature in her destructive aspect.

She stared at us with her crazed-eyes-blood-dripping-tongue, as she stood sentinel before we entered the burning ghat.

"What's that smell?" my co-pilot asked naively.

"It's Death! MWAHAHAHAHAHA" I said.

"WHAT! I thought that was roasting meat!"

"It is!" I continued in dark comic vein.

"Let's get out of here", she panicked. For some reason this sudden confrontation with the dark aspect of Energy seemed to have shook her up.

We walked back trying to find a place to eat. It was pretty late for this sleepy little town and we didn't really know where to go. As we walked through the narrow pathways we proceeded to get increasingly lost.

"I'm feeling really strange," she said, "something came over me at the burning ghat."

"It's just death, everyone dies", but that was not the right answer.

The strange mood continued to hang over us at dinner. The restaurant walls were a sickly, hospital green, and the grungy hum of bad electrical wiring pervaded. The neon white tubelights flickered ever so subtly, it felt like we were unknowingly on the set of an Ingmar Bergman film in over-exposed-colour. We went in because it was the only place that was open, and the menu seemed nice. The fish in the aquarium looked like they were ready to die. The old man who ran the place also looked ready to die. There were dead insects in the electrical zapper that flickered like it was going to die. The food took a long time to come.

"Let's get out of here, I'm not hungry." she continued to be at unease.

"What's bugging you?" I asked.

"I don't know, I just feel really weird. There's something about this place making me feel uncomfortable. Like that buzzing, it feels like it's in my head or something. Something shifted in my perception."

I looked into her eyes, they were bloodshot. The preceding events trickled back slowly. Thandai seller. Customers before us drinking bhang thandai. Our drinks mixed in an uncleaned shaker.

"Oh! I'm stoned!" The realisation did not help, in fact it made her slightly more paranoid.

Eventually sleep wore the effects off. But not before we realised that my co-pilot had been complaining about my continuous smoking at the Mela. And a few hours earlier, as we turned past the main circle into Kashi, she thought for a moment "I wonder what it would be like to walk around in a strange place stoned?"

DAY 6: BATH AND THE FIRST KNOT IS COMPLETED

with Maya Devi, the painful secretary and a guest appearance by Maharaj Shivraj Giri.

We woke up earlyish (the crazy and the faithful preferred to have their bath at the most auspicious time of the Brahma Mahurth which starts at 3am), had some chai and got ready to walk with Maya Devi towards the Sangam. We were not really sure if we wanted to take a dip - firstly we were confused with the events of the last few days, especially the misogyny and the secretary's disciple-cravings, and then of course the dirty water, the crowds, the cold. What purpose does this ritual serve? Is not the festival of the world within the body-pot and the Ganga and Yamuna its energy channels? Is the real dip at the base of the spine where the Ida and Pingala meet and emerge as the one Sushumna? After all Swami Vimalananda's interpretation does make sense, for if a quick dip in the icy waters of our revered-polluted rivers is all it takes to achieve liberation wouldn't most of India be enlightened by now?

Nonetheless we walked along with Maya Devi who had no towels or change of clothes, for she preferred to walk back dripping wet. As we walked towards the confluence we merged into the devotee droves as they marched towards their salvation. The air reverberated with loud-speaker announcements from the police telling people to be careful of unattended and suspicious items and to remember to clear out of the river quickly and keep the bathing queues moving along. And then there were the tragic messages of the lost and innocent - "Krishna Yadav who is wearing green shirt and black pant, your wife Radharani is waiting with child at the lost and found camp. Please come and collect", "Geeta Devi from Behrampur village, Geeta Devi who was last seen wearing yellow saree near Monkey Temple, please reunite with your family who is waiting for you at police booth near the fort" and suchlike.

We finally reached the sacred spot. People undressed in preparation - fat uncles with their white-threads and torn underwear applied mustard-oil over their multi-tyred abdomens, while children cavorted naked, running into the waters screaming and splashing each other without care, older women were unabashed about their sagging breasts, while the younger women hesitantly treaded in with all their clothes. Many stood shivering, offering water to the sun, baptising themselves thrice. While on the straw-covered banks people held up their wet clothes to dry, and groups of women formed make-shift changing rooms with their saris. In between the police took turns at chasing people with their lathis - "move along, give everyone a chance to bathe!"

"It's the world's largest communal bath!" I exclaimed in realisation.

We chose a spot to keep our things, we would take turns to go in - cosmic pilots first, then Maya Devi. Nearby a couple of foreigners surveyed the madness bewildered. "We're as confused as you are", I thought.

And then we went in - GANGA MAI KI JAI!

One thing was for sure - the icy water is intensely invigorating!

Having dried we started to walk back the way we came. Lost and found and other public service announcements continued to echo around us. 

As we neared our tent we heard sharp, glottal cries from another tent nearby - "HAI HAI HAI HAI AAAAAAAAALEKH! HAI HAI HAI HAI AAAAAAAAALEKH!" It sounded almost unnatural, like bursts of air involuntarily escaping the mouth of someone having a seizure. As we passed the tent from where the sound emanated a dozen ash-smeared, naked men simultaneously turned and looked straight into our eyes, as the one who was the source of the sounds let out one last loud cry - "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALEKH!" and pulled a long, hard drag from a chillum. For a brief moment I switched places, catching my own eyes through the eyes of the screamer as he turned to look at us.

Surreal moment finished, we continued along, debating how we could escape our insistent guru-wannabe. Back at the tent, we quickly packed our bags, ready to make a dash for it. We said our hurried goodbyes and started to leave when a sadhu walked in and informed us that he would escort us to the tent of the secretary. It seemed like there was no escape now, we'd either have to become unwilling disciples or concoct some pretense to get away.

I sighed as I saw his bulky frame in the distance, slowly we trudged towards him, my mind racing. "There you are," he said, "where were you going?"

"We're going to Kashi. We'll be back on the 6th."

He looked uncertain. "Ok," was all he said. Something beyond us had voided his insistence. Relief! We quickly walked away before he changed his mind. 

Suddenly we remembered - the Poison Pooja! We turned back and took another route to the riverside, not wanting to cross paths with the Secretary again. Strangely enough his entourage pulled out of a turn onto the road we were on and he passed us. I averted my gaze, and he didn't stop his vehicle to call us.

Having finished our little ritual on the banks of the river, we headed back to the city to get ready for our next journey. It had been a strange few days and we felt like we were leaving with an odd taste in our mouths. But there was still time for one last magical synchronicity for this leg of the journey.

As I navigated our way out, my co-pilot in a moment of truth, stopped to ask for directions (as she usually does, not trusting my navigational skills). We were pointed to the straight and narrow, instead of the broader, common road I had intended to take. As we walked up the alleyway we saw someone we were not expecting to see - Shivraj Giri, an old and powerful ascetic who we had met on the banks of the Ganga three years ago. This was a yogi who had pulled a jeep with his penis (while it was wrapped around a sword), but I was in no mood for more sadhus and walked along trying to avoid eye-contact. Luckily he was engaged in conversation with some foreigners in his tent and we walked past him. I turned to look back and just then he turned around and caught sight of us, in slow-motion, like a movie. "Come", he motioned. And we sat down at his Dhuni.

He was in the middle of instructing his two foreign helpers on how to cook a dal for lunch, and laughed as he told us that these foreigners had much to learn. Then a bit more serious he gave us the two answers we were looking for.

One - "You two are sadhus. A sadhu is not made by vestments, a sadhu is made by his heart and thoughts."

Two - "Many sadhus here, don't think much of women. But where did they come from? Their mothers' wombs. If you don't have respect for women, if you do not respect the great mother, you cannot achieve liberation."

And then we left. Contented.

Read the next part.

DAY 5 POSTSCRIPT: HIERARCHY AND KARMA

with the guffawing Baba and the strange, strange vestment cripple.

"They want to make me Mahant! HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR" his raspy laugh shakes the tent. "The higher your position, the more fake you are! HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR!"

"Vestttttttments....give me some veeessssteeeemmeeeeents to baaaathe in the Ganga..." an eerie voice interrupts as a blind, cripple hobbles into our camp, his palms outstretched. His presence silences everyone, his minor-scale-sing-song voice makes my hair stand on edge. I quickly give him some money, which he rejects and screams "VESSSSTEMEEEENTS....ALLL I WANT IS VEESSSSTMEEENTS TO BAAAAAAATHE IN THE GANGA"

Read the next part.

DAY 5: ANSWERS AND QUESTIONS AND CONFUSION

with Maya Devi, the Mothers Superior, the crazy bead guy and his guru, Baba Rampure, Mangalanand Puri, Druvinka Puri, an assortment of Sadhus, Sants and Mahatmas, and unfortunately the Secretary once more.

Another day of Mahatma hopping and shopping. But first the Maiwada, where the Mothers congregate. Walking in brings a radiant peace as silence descends upon us. Strangely this is unlike the raucous banter and chillum shanter of the men. It seems more Shiva here, but perhaps it's because they love him more?

We are seated inside the tent of two silent Mais, they don't even care to tell us their names, instead they keep rolling their beads between their fingers. 

"Do you have any questions to ask?" Maya Devi giggles.

"Uhmmm..."

"Ask, ask, ask!" Giggle. Giggle.

A question of the house-holder versus the ascetic asks itself. And Maya Devi launches into her stream of consciousness. The words tumble forth, escaping her tongue before she thinks of them. She's clearly not in control. 

"What is this or that? What is here or there? What is up or down? Who makes these differences? Is it just our eyes? Or our minds? Or our hearts? Who is to say what is right and what is wrong? What is better and what is worse? Who makes positions? Who makes hierarchies? Are they natural? Do they just flow forth? What is real and what is not? Are we to believe the report of our eyes or of our hearts? Am I higher than you or lower? What is the point if I think of myself as beautiful? Who am I? What is all this around me? Is there a point to the meaning I give to all of this? Or should I just live in bliss? Uncaring about the world outside? Should I just praise Him, for He is the source of my life? And the Devi dances, like Shakti, forming us, forming our ego, and so we must just flow, and glow. This is the show. This you must know."

The silent Mothers nod in agreement. "My disciple speaks the truth," she laughs, "who is the real Guru here? You or me?" Giggle!

"Do you have more questions? Ask. Ask!" Giggle. Giggle.

"How did you...."

Another bitzkrieg of words. Does it matter who speaks? 

"When was the..."

The answer is in your heart. Or in silence.

And then it's time to move on to the mainstage to meet the frontmen, the headliners, the show-stoppers, the crowd-pullers. Maya Devi hustles us inside pushing past pilgrims and devotees who have walked for miles to get a glimpse of the ash-smeared holymen. 

"Baba, my brother stole my property, and he..." a tearful villager starts narrating his tale of woe.

"Go, go, it will all be fulfilled!" The crazy bead guy doesn't let him complete his story. He grins as he doles out sacred ash wrapped into little packets with old  newspaper. With this little token of faith everything is healed, all problems are solved, all questions are answered (even before they are pronounced). Does the power lie in the ash, or in the holymen, or in the believer?

The rest of the crowd stares, pushing each other for a glimpse of the sacred. 

"Put down some money," the bead guy's guru laughs, "or get outta here! Don't just stand around. First money, then miracles!"

Clearly this is the comedy section. Sardonic, cynical, skeptic. If you can get your faith past that, then you might just be able to move mountains with mustard seeds.

"More questions?" Mataji giggles.

An awkward silence ensues as everyone awaits the inquisition.

Some thinking. Then the question asks itself - "What is the difference between Dhyaan and Bhakti?"

It's a good question. 

A moment of silence, as the robed comedian draws from his reserves. Then the answer.

"Bhakti is everything. Bhakti is of different kinds. Bhakti is love. Bhakti is prayer. Bhakti is faith. Bhakti is practice. Bhakti is devotion. Bhakti is the gateway. Dhyaan is just a technique, a single-pointed focus. Bhakti is the superset. Dhyaan is a specific kind of Bhakti."

It's a good answer.

Let's move on. And now introducing the International act. The star performers from distant lands!

More questions - "What is the purpose of this show? What is the meaning of this great carnival? What is the reason for this paradoxical performance? The need for this crazy circus?"

"Sacifice and blessings. Sacrifice results in blessings. Not just the sacrifice of the ego, though that is one aspect of it, but a sacrifice of comfort, a sacrifice of money, a sacrifice of ideas-held-dear. And blessings that the holymen bring to the people. It is the faith that through sacrifice comes eternity. This is the external symbol of the primordial sacrifice."

And more questions - "How does one recognise the Guru?"

"Through love. Through an intense desire to serve, to touch the feet of the Guru, in respect, to bend the back and break the ego. Let's say your father was a traditional healer. Your home was his dispensary, where he toiled all day, making medicine to heal the sick. As you grew up your father would ask you for help. He would ask you to get this ingredient, or mix these leaves and roots, or deliver these instructions to a patient. By the time you were twenty-five, even though you had never been to school, you had transformed into a master physician. And this was through service. By following each and every thing your father told you without question. With diligence and love."

By now we've had a better understanding of this complex system of secret knowledge and ancient techniques, passed down carefully from mythical ancestry. From single points elaborate root networks descend, sometimes losing their secrets along the way. There's no easy way to tell whether you hear the truth or just a Chinese whisper. Except for direct experience, intuition and faith. These are the only gauges. And above all is Love.

Then there is also the power of the name. The name of the Guru and the lineage. What secret power is held within the name? This is unclear, but it certainly is an entry point into this labyrinthine world. An all access-pass to meet the performers backstage. Should we get ourselves a bead-badge?

On the way back the Secretary spots us once more. The car window rolls down - "tell Surinder Puri to escort you to my tent later," he says gruffly.

Back at the camp Maya Devi spins her web of madness thick and fast. "I refuse to eat food defiled by the dirty, smoke stained hands of that boor!" she screams.

The boor,(or more respectfully, Booraji) has suddenly been caught in his own snare of rules and regulations. Later I sneakily take the opportunity to point out that I don't care for the rules, by eating off a used plate - the spit of my lover cannot defile me! Later still Mamlesh Puriji would cement this lesson, but for now all hell has broken loose!

And it gets worse more sadhus arrive, each bringing their own baggage of rules, their own scriptural injunctions, their own doctrinal interpretations. Meanwhile I am taught one good rule - use your own saafi when sharing a chillum, don't be defiled by the other's saliva. Having shared this nifty advice, Surinder Puri ji takes me to meet the Secretary, while my co-pilot is left to deal with the rule-bookers!

In the waiting room I am introduced to another Mahatma, with long dreads and a beautiful chiseled face. He coughs non-stop and spits out thick gobs of phlegm.

"Make a chillum for the Mahatma", Surinder Puri says. 

I take out the resin and proceed to make a chillum. As we smoke it, I have my first opportunity to use my own, personal, undefiled saafi. Having inhaled I pass the pipe, keeping my rag safe with me. I soon realise there never was a better time for separate saafis, as the Mahatma bursts into another bout of coughing after pulling from the pipe. "I'm not supposed to smoke, the damn doctors tell me," he wheezes, "because of this damn tuberculousis that I've contracted. But nothing will happen with this chillum, for it is a chillum of love." He looks deep into my eyes with a warm smile. There is something about him. Could I have shared his saafi and been fine? I'd rather not have found out. But a few days later I saw him looking hale and hearty, he told me the disease was gone and his karma had been burned away.

Then I'm taken in to meet the Secretary. He looks me up and down and then motions me to sit down while he turns to his disciple and proceeds to yell at him, throwing the filthiest abuses at the poor student. Turning back to me he says "so, I have decided to make you both my devotees. Tomorrow is a good day. After your bath, come and meet me and I will give you the Guru-mantra for the householder's life."

I nod in acceptance of the guestlist pass. 

Back in the tent, my co-pilot is a wreck. She doesn't want to stay in this misogynistic place anymore. She has been arguing with the patriarchs, quite unsuccessfully, about the place of a woman in society. They refuse to budge from their contention that a woman's place is at her husband's feet. A woman who takes care of her husband, and is true to him will never be harmed, for this is the power of a woman, (they say), to raise a family and love her lord.

Time to navigate away from troubled waters. But after the bath tomorrow.

Read the next part.

DAY 4 POSTSCRIPT: GIVING UP THE POISON

courtesy Sarada Devi

Two prickly, green fruits of the dreaded thorn apple are yours for offering. One for him and one for her. Penis and vagina. On the day of the full moon, carefully craft the union in sand, and place flowers around their transient bed. Then the inextricably entwined lovers must be bathed in milk, and finally the poisonous apples must be offered with much awe. With this the venom will bubble forth and then be washed away into the eternal flow of the river. 

And then she left.

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DAY 4: NIGHT & GOLDEN LIGHT, IN SEARCH OF LEELA AND A FIGHT.

with Maya Devi and Sarda Devi, along with Booraji, Surinder Puri, the Pandit, and unfortunately, the Secretary.

The golden haze stretched on forever. Unable to fathom the magnitude of the mythical city we went back to the camp. Now we knew our way around, at least somewhat.

Leaving out bags in the tent, we set off to find Surinderji. At the entrace to the Association we were greeted, by now familiar faces. Inder Puriji sat us down for more chillums and chai. In hindsight this kept us away from possibly the first encounter with the Secretary. But we were fated to meet. As he passed by Surinder Puri introduced him - "Guruji", gesturing that we should touch his feet.

I looked into his eyes, there was no warmth, they were cold, shifty, beady eyes. Not wanting to offend anybody we bowed at his feet.

"Come, I must speak to you," he said tersely.

"Oh, there's always time for speaking!" Thankfully Inder Puriji intervened for we had not finished our chai nor our chillum. The Secretary walked away in a huff. We sat around sipping the steaming brew. A young ascetic in a leopard print wrap had his portrait painted while Surinderji waited patiently.

Then Surinder Puri took us to another fire, a few tents away. "Behold, a Mahatma", he pointed out another robed character with a flourish. We touched his feet, without prompting this time, and sat down in the circle around his sacred fire. I don't remember his name, but he had a sheen, he glistened like a snake, the crystals on his neck glittered, his teeth sparkled white against his slick, dark skin. We sat around not knowing what to do. More smoke as the devotees praised the Mahatma.

And then we had our first viewing of the complex hierarchy that is the Master-Disciple tradition. A dozen or so celibates of all ages, shapes and sizes, some with matted hair, others bald, some youthful, others ageing, appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to prostrate at the feet of the shiny one. It was a steady stream of obeisance, as they sprawled on the ground, some grovelling at his feet, while he ignored most of them and continued to smile his sparkly smile at us.

And then we were shepherded back to our camp by Surinderji.

Back at the tent, we settled in around a more homely fire where Maya Devi, an old friend, and a crazy being, was in good spirits.

I first caught sight of Sarada Devi, as she came out of her tent. She was beautiful, it seemed like the earth sang with her every step. Not wanting to stare at this radiant Devi I continued to focus on the activities of Panditji. He was young and smart and friendly, with a vast knowledge of ritual and custom. He always fed the sacred fire before serving us chai, thanking it for the energy it provided.

Meanwhile Sarada Devi had sat down next to me, she hummed with energy, and soon a warm golden light had enveloped us. Then she moved away and the ethereal sensation disappeared as quickly as she did.

"I have seen the source of the prime soul" she would later say, as she held my gaze, a twinkle in her eye, an intense love pouring forth from her being. I knew exactly what she meant.

But before that we had a visitation from the Secretary. He exuded a proud air as he listed his position, his accomplishments and his possessions in a failed bid to impress us.

"I only respect devotees of the Guru, not devotees of God", he said.

"But what is the difference between God and the Guru?" I asked.

He never answered a single question directly. Instead he rattled off in Sanskrit, he imposed himself upon us. He insisted that we become his disciples.

"But this is not a marketplace", I said (though I would soon find out I was not entirely correct), "one must be certain. Taking a Guru is no trivial matter."

He was persistent, like a salesman who thinks he is doing you a favour. But we did not bite and he left in a huff once again.

However, he had managed to leave the place with a jarring edge, a vibe of obsequious fawning, of blind following of rules, of fundamentalism and bigotry. And things went downhill from there.

The beauty of the Devi was shattered. The simple devotees, aping their 'Guru', mocked her, called her names, rejected her love. "Only the Lord knows the feelings of his true lover, and those in love are mad," she said. And those who thought they were sane dutifully told the insane their place.

There were rumblings of a fight. So we hastily left in search of a Leela performance - the Divine Play. But as the divine comedy would have it, there was none - only the realisation that we ourselves were the Leela, wandering around like cows searching for the cowherd.

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DAY 2-4: CHAI AND SECURITY

with the Colonel

The crumbling house reverberated with footsteps running to quiet the incessant yipping of a nameless canine. The mansion, once alive with the laughter of children (as they fled from angry maids who tried to dress them up for school), was now a ghost of its former self. It had slowly been turned into a fortress, with each new wrought-iron door, with multiple padlocks and barb-wire fence. Security reasons, you see.

The past had to be defended against the onslaught of the new and ugly. In a town where the careful architecture of a bygone era was being swallowed by naked brick buildings or plastic malls, this was one of the last refuges of a memory. A memory of another India, now long forgotten, perhaps occasionally spoken about at cocktail dinner parties where the old guards gathered to reminisce.

Their fortitude in these turbulent times was touching, as they valiantly defended the last stand, steeling themselves with Darjeeling Chai.

In this town only the Pot Festival stayed alive, though even she had changed her garb to a gaudier shade.

We were indeed privileged to get a glimpse of the past, to have a vague whiff of the former glory of a colonial nation, of blood-shed and partitions and hidden doors where boxes kept memories for a few decades more.

The vanguard still stands strong, for how much longer is hard to predict. But the steps still reverberated with those old memories, held securely with glass, nails, wire, bricks, pooja, vastu, astrology, homeopathy and chai.

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DAY 1 POSTSCRIPT: SEVA - AN INTRODUCTION

with Inder Puri and Surinder Puri

Having untangled ourselves from the first knot, we carried the thread on to the only address we had - The Association Without Vehicle, of the Ten Names.

We were promptly stopped at the entrance. Here we understood our ineptitude, for we had not taken the password to access this strange world of mysticpolitik

Who were we? Where did we come from? Who did we have to meet? Why? How? What was the secret name that would grant us access? A deluge of questions. And answers we had none.

But they were not menacing, instead we were warmly welcomed and seated in the tent of the gate-keeper-king. He offered us chai and chillum, as is customary, reminding the others - service is first, interrogation last.

Finally we managed to contact a resident from our host's camp, who came to our rescue. We were shown to our tents and given the address, the path, the way, the signs, the names of the masters, the password to the inner worlds inside the outer worlds. But that was all understood later. First was confusion and before that we headed back to the crumbling remnants of the 'real world'.

The second bead was the words of Surinder Puri - the Pot is for serving others.

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DAY 1: SHRINGAR

 with Govind Anand Giri

The first meeting with the Pot Experience wove itself together like different threads interlacing in a loom.

It was late evening, the air was cold and misty (as it continued to be throughout our stay), and we wandered in search of our camp. We had no address, nor an understanding of the intricacies of navigating in this mythical town that had reared itself up on the exposed riverbed. As we walked along sandy footpaths, past the glittering lights of toy facades, we had no idea of what to expect.

A glimpse - a momentary meeting of eyes was all it took for the threads to start intertwining. They jumped up and called us to their sacred fire where they warmed their naked, ashen bodies.

And we turned (almost involuntarily) and accepted their invitations - the threads locked! Later we would realise it may not have been chance, for almost all the ash-smeared actors would call out as we passed by, and it was we who would decide to accept the invitation. Or was it? What turned our feet? What pulled our heart-strings? Who decided the patterns? Where was the Master Weaver? Did we meet to learn something? Or exchange something? Nonetheless, we were drawn in to become the centre of attention.

Our first introductions to greetings and salutations, bowing and hierarchy, ritual, custom and tradition were awkward. Namaste and dhanyavad did not cut it - the language out here was different - formal and expressive, bejewelled and potent. But more on this later, as it was clarified to us, like ghee.

Then came the chillum. Who willed it? Was it my enthusiasm or the ashen-faced's desire? Perhaps the latter, though he vehemently denied it. Perhaps it was karma, as the tola found its way into his hands and in one deft manoeuvre he pulled us further in, tightening the knot and placing the initial bead at this meeting point - the first of many sangams yet to be revealed.

One bead was supposed to be worn around the neck, the other soaked in water overnight and the essence to be drunk the next morning. And this was how we absorbed the first lesson.

Was he real or fake? Judgement had to be suspended. A challenge was thrown forth. Does one need the crutch of energy coiled inside little leaves, squeezed into black resin or can one unfold the sleeping Shakti unaided? House-holder versus celibate? Confusion and unanswered questions but the challenge was accepted.

This is Shringar, he explained - adornment, the finery that bedecked the resplendent cosmic weave.

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