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