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.
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