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.
Read the next part.
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.
Read the next part.
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