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.

Read the next part.

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.

Read the next part.

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.

Read the next part.

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.

Read the next part.

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.

Read the next part.

Blackhole Revelations

And then behold, I was given a vision, and the known and tangible world burned away, engulfed at first in a soft golden shimmer that quickly grew brighter and more intense until it shone like ten-thousand suns, blinding my poor and simple eyes with their dazzling magnificence.

And when the world had burned away, there was left the void, the great expanse of nothingness, infinite in it's non-existence. But what a paradox, how could this be? For I still perceived all of this, albeit with some other eye (or eyes), for my familiar eyeballs had surely been burned away with everything else.

No sooner had this thought been formulated, (and where had it been formulated? for my brain had certainly been burnt to a cinder as well), I was flung across this infinite space, and I did notice that now there were particles of light, floating freely, amidst the ethereal darkness. The glowing particles of light slowly started to coagulate to form orbs of light, growing larger, ever larger, until they did become those ten-thousand suns, but now impressively separated, by unfathomable distance, each commanding it's own domain.

And then I realised, and I know not how, that each of these suns was a god. And I asked how - how did I know this? Where was I? Who was I? What was the meaning of this vision and how was it possible?

And the answer came, like ten-thousand trumpet blasts, so horrendously loud that I was blinded by their deafening report. And encapsulated deep within the over-powering roar that had just filled the infinite space, was the knowledge that the answer existed, and had always existed, and the ten-thousand suns assured me it was so for they had been born of that answer, and I knew it was so. But they could not elucidate, for though the answer existed it was not in the tongues of men.

But I must know, I persisted stubbornly, even though I already knew, and I felt a deep dissatisfaction, for I somehow strangely still had an association with the tongues of men, though they were not yet in existence.

And so I was told that I must trace backwards from my association to the very beginning, through the tongues of men and the tongues of the animals and backwards still. But the more I descended down this path the further I got from the tongues of men and I could not surface back from the murky depths of the origins of language and thought.

And now the ten-thousand suns blazed forth, each in their own domain, and they emanated the planets, and the light they shone forth intertwined to form complex structures, infinitesimally tiny, yet I perceived them larger than each sun, for the more I delved into these structures, the more I broke them down, the more they returned to the form of their parents, the god-suns.

And so this is the meagre report I have carried back from that indescribable vision- that out of the nothingness proceeded the one, which birthed the two and was then split into the three, and four, and more and more, until there was a horde of existence, stretching out till infinity, and each was part of the other, whole and complete together and apart.

And slowly all the familiar forms were shaped and the deafening brilliance of the golden light subsided back to a mild shimmer and the world took on a new quality for it had been rebirthed.

Of What Dreams May Come

My fondest darling, verily I bid thee good night, and sweetest dreams may thou encounter in that realm of ether. But not forever - for thou shalt wake from those dreams, just as one day thou shalt wake from these.

Happy Earth Day

He who has eyes let him see

The truth is hidden like a jewel at the bottom of a lake. The searcher must dive to the very beginnings of time to retrieve it, but the weeds obscure his way and the glint of the sun's reflection in the waters can easily confuse. But dive deeper - for as long as he can hold his breath he can search, and he will eventually find it.

Humbug

Another birthday comes along
And everyone is going on
With birthday wishes
And gifts
And ooohing
and aaahing
Bah!
I wishes I wuss fishes!

Losing My Mind

I'm the last human being on earth, and I'm schizophrenic.

The Preservation of Memory

“To be born again you must first die.”

The words were unclear, both in their meaning and also because of the situation my ears were in. But somehow, the meaning of the words, murky as the water I was in, entered into the very centre of my being. I had a feeling that something was amiss, but I could not put my finger on it. Not right away at least, then it suddenly hit me – I was not breathing. I seemed to be undergoing some sort of sensory deprivation process. I could see but it was hazy, my hearing was fuzzy, my feeling almost numb, I could taste familiar tastes that I could not name. And I wasn’t breathing.

“I tell you the truth - no one can see the Kingdom of God unless he is born of water and spirit.”

I could still hear the muffled voice, I could even see the blurred outline of people, I could feel hands holding me. Was I hallucinating? Was this a bizarre dream? Where was this place and how had I come to be here? Random, disjoint thoughts flooded my head (though I was unsure if I did have a head) – “love can damage your health”, “breathe”, “genetic world”, “L’incertitude D’Heisenberg” and so on they tumbled out into the open where everyone could see them.

“Flesh gives birth to flesh, and spirit gives birth to spirit.”

Energy. Particles. Atoms. Molecules. Compounds. DNA. Code. Copy. Mutate. Transmit. Recreate. Energy.

The perception was beyond anything language could describe. I was a presence. Among infinite souls, both living and dead, and those that were neither. Thought was omnipresent but it was the kind of thought that cannot be articulated for such words do not exist in the spoken tongues of man. Memory of a collective past was suddenly accessible. Yet this was only a feeling and I could not hold on to it. But it came back, again and again, in waves. I was bathed in a warm feeling of ecstasy and I could suddenly love. Even things I had once hated. Love was the continuation of all things.

“I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

As my awareness floated in those waters, its physical representation struggled, out of conditioned response to the circumstances. Thoughts whirled by, ungraspable, as language faded away. The pure being of all around me melted into an indescribable, endless light that was also a completely dark void. The infinite in material form that was me. The infinite in energy that was me. The infinite that was everything outside of me. I had a sudden last recollection of my body as it gasped. But only for a moment as I felt the remnants of my extremities disappear into the rest of the black light.

And thus I remember my death and birth.

Mushie Filter No. 020

Ancient beautiful forests with trees that creak and groan. Winding pathways unfolding before us and we traipsed through the woods with a basket full of mushies like psychedelic nursery rhyme characters. The trees spoke, they watched us - tiny little things, stumbling along. An old tree Baba, ten feet high, sits cross-legged in Padmasana, in a state of Samadhi, or maybe just struck by lightening with thousands of little things within him that look like disintegrated flying insects, but probably not.

Rocks and boulders, intricately covered with the drawings of the little forest imps, telling their stories in drying fungi formations. They lie strewn around the stream and enable some fun stream hopping. La la la la with a basket full of mushies skipping along stones like turned-on-tuned-in mountain goats.

Cows with stories on their leather hides, (leave the leather hides on the cows), grazing, looking for their vegetable fix. Dinkle, tinkle, splinkle, pinkle - cow bells jingle jangle on the sand. Hipple hopple, they pipple popple down their paths to chill out land.

Zenlike in rolling pastures: happy-hoppy-high-up-hobos! This could be home forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Amen.



I don't take cameras and such devices on my travels, this photo is by a happy hobo princess

Jargon, Lingo and Vernacular of the Bangalore Middle School Kid (Including Some Etymology)

So, in a previous post, I promised the to inform the reader about dadikus. Now, unlike haikus or birdkus, dadikus are not a form of art; they're not even closely related, unless you are aesthetically impaired. Dadikus were what we, as kids, would call other kids who were fat. Yes, despite their sweet and innocent exterior, children can be spiteful and mean, and mercilesly ridicule other kids who are different.

Even Boney M sang about fat people. Remember that song?
She's crazy like a fool,
What about dadiku?

And that awesome refrain:
Dadi, dadiku
Dadi, dadiku

There were many other terms that were part of school kid dialect, back when I was a kid. Here's a listing.

da(n) - a friend, a mate. A term of endearment; predominantly male usage.
Usage: What da? Why you don't like me anymore da? What I did to you da?
There are many regional variations of this term, including macha, maam/s, bob, ra and ba.
Though I never used maam, I quite like the usage: What maams? How it is?

dadiku(n) - a person who is overweight, obese, fat, stout or even mildly pudgy.

djang(adj) - describing someone or something that is gaudy or excessively fancy; tacky.
(n) - a garish person.
This word is derived from the name of the famous guitarist Django Reinhardt - because he was so jazzy!
A common synonym for djang was djatang! and yes it comes with the exclamation mark at the end.

lambukuchi(n) - derogatory term used to refer to an excessively tall person. Derived from the Hindi lamba - tall, and the Tamil kuchi - stick. Note: The person should not just be tall, but also excessively thin, and very stick insect like, you wouldn't want to insult a tall, heavy-weight.

poda(interj) - Get lost; shoo; vamoose! To add some flair to this term one could append a "dai" to the end. Eg: "Podadai loafer!"

mother promise(v) - possibly the highest ranking promise, though this could be superceded by "god promise", some auto rickshaw drivers consider them equivalent vows as they advertise on the back of their rickshaws - "mother is god". Possibly derived as a direct translation from the Hindi "ma kasam". Had more value if you pinched you adam's apple while making the promise.

porky(n) - an aimless bum not a character from Looney Toons. Can also be used with "naye" which literally means "loafer dog".

kulla(n) - used to insult a person who is of short stature. The people who would stand at the opposite end of a line from a lambukuchi.
(adj) - indicating a lack of height.

wothla(adj) - of inferior quality; worthless; crappy.

wol, wolla(n) - a blatant lie; an exaggeration.
(v) - the act of lying.
This could also be occasionally used as an adjective, eg. "He says his father is a CID, what a wolla fellow he is!"

karpa koodi(n) - an insulting way of referring to a person of dark skin tone. Literally meaning "black cunt".

aikalakadajimbanzee(interj) - exclamation of joy, mostly used when winning a point in table tennis. Ask this man for a better explanation. Some etymologists believe that this sound has its origins in the phrase "I clucked a chimpanzee", though there are few takers for this theory.

boochie(n) - a person who can be very clingy, annoying and displaying and overpowering desire to control everything and everyone using melodrama, hysteria and emotional blackmail. Boochies can be easily spotted by the things they say, like "fine, be like that!", or "do what you want!" etc. The usage is predominantly femine though it can be applied to men who display such traits as well (though some scholars prefer the use of the word "goochie" for the masculine form). Derived from the Tamil boochie - insect, indicating the person is like a bug or blood-sucking insect.
(adj) - indicating the qualities attributed to a boochie.
boochify (v)

So how many of you used these phrases back in the day? Let me see those hands!

Did I miss out any terms? Feel free to add on with definitions.

Put your hyperlink in, put your hyperlink out...and that's what it's all about!

So there aren't too many people who can be funny as well as be nostalgic about the 80s (my fave decade!), but Vishal Patel sure can. So hop over to http://www.vishalpatel.com and get your kicks you dirty animal!

Excerpts from the Joydev Mela

I have never met a man
Who did not make me sad.
I have never met a man
Who did not make me sad.
Perhaps it’s because
I have never met a man
To whom pain was not given.

            These veins are filled with worms,
            This body is rotting,
            Eaten away by pride.
            This body is made from mud
            And to mud it will return.

Even the birds
Fly away from me.
Even the birds
Fly away from me
Oh, why did I approach them
Drawn by their sweet song?

I waited all my life
To give all my love to you.
I waited all my life
To give all my love to you.
But you threw it away
Like filthy rags
That have soaked the dirt of the world.

Song of the Baul

Every year, in the third week of January, the little village of Kenduli, in West Bengal, decks itself up in splendorous colours and bedazzling lights, and prepares to host over a quarter of a million people who come to be part of the Joydev Mela. It’s a spectacular meeting ground for villagers and traders, sadhus and fakirs, and the purveyors of Bhakti in song – Bauls.

For the unaware, Bauls are wandering minstrels. Most of them lead rather ascetic lives. Some of them play indigenous instruments, like the ektara: a single stringed marvel, while other bang on anything available and sing in cracking voices. They all have a repertoire of songs that they have penned, along with a few famous Baul pieces, and these they sing – for their supper. The singing may not be brilliant but the lyrics are thought provoking. Unfortunately for me they sing in Bengali, so I was unable to understand most of the songs. One chap was kind enough to sing a song for me in Hindi, which I have translated (to the best of my abilities) above.

**********

“Don’t keep your money lying around on the ground like that - it might blow away in the wind.”

“It’s not my money, it’s God’s money, he can do what he wants with it.”

He banged away furiously on his upturned steel plate as he sang himself hoarse and delighted the small crowd. He wore only a loin cloth in the winter freeze while I shivered despite a sweater and a shawl. Next to him a small cloth bundle in which he carried his lack of possessions. People in the crowd gave him money, mostly five or ten rupee notes which he gratefully accepted, touching them to his head and then holding them towards the sky before leaving them on the ground.

**********

Something in Bengali

“I don’t know Bangla”

“Oh, where are you from?”

“Bangalore”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were a Baul, you look like one, that’s why I asked you in Bengali, ‘what do you think of Bappi da?’”

As I stood on the banks of the Ajoy river, in the fast fading evening light, this passer-by stops and stares at me, then he starts to walk up to me, his eyes intently fixed on me until his face was a few inches from mine. I smiled, and he thought I was a Baul, I’m not sure why. Perhaps he seriously wanted to know whether Bappi Lahiri could be considered a good musician, or perhaps he was making a joke that was wasted on me. I don’t know!

**********

“There must be something about being a Baba…see how many there are.”

Shankar Baba is possibly the nicest and most amicable Baba I have met, he gave me the address and phone number of his Calcutta Ashram. He was a Shaivite and I think he was trying to be funny.

**********

“Do you think you can get me a job in Bangalore?”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t know, something easy?”

“What can you do.”

“Hmmm….nothing.”

“Erm…can you drive a vehicle, or cook or sew?”

“No”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, I studied till the eighth.”

“I don’t know if you can find a job very easily in Bangalore, you need to have some skill”

“What about a government job?”

This sweet simpleton, though he knew very little, obviously knew enough about government jobs.

**********

Something in Bengali

“I don’t know Bangla.”

“Oh, where are you from?”

“Bangalore”

“Then what language do you in sing your songs in?”

“Huh?...NO!, I am NOT a Baul.”

Yes, it happened again. Perhaps I can pen some songs and wander in the wilderness.

**********

“Doll set….Rs. 12”

“Toy air gun….Rs. 12”

“Toy train…Rs. 12”

“Magic box…Rs. 12”

And so on and so forth….

Recorded message blaring on loudspeaker at all-items-fixed-price-Rs-12-only shop with big boards indicating fixed-price-Rs-12-only prominently displayed in Bangla, Hindi and English.

**********

"MANOJ!......MANOJ!.....MANOJ!"

With hundreds of thousands of people milling around, the narrow village pathways are jammed - people jammed. Even four adults holding hands can lose one of their friends causing the remaining three to walk around forlornly, still holding hands, yelling out their friend's name in hopes of a joyful reunion. From what I have learnt from Bollywood, they will not meet for another twenty years, by which time their long lost friend would have become an infamous underworld smuggler, while the other three would have joined the police force. It will be a tragic reunion for Manoj and his friends.

**********

"We all have wives and children, but every year, at this time, something stirs in our hearts and we have to leave them and make this journey to Joydev."

One fifty something man, who has been coming to the mela for the last forty something years told me about the origins of the mela. Apparently back in the day there was a Krishna Bhakt called Joydeva who prayed fervently for three days and then Krishna appeared to him and gave him the gift of writing lyric. He went on to become a famous poet who wrote a number of poems about Krishna and his playboy antics. He also told me there still exist the footprints of Krishna where he appeared to Joydeva, though I could not locate the spot from the directions he gave me.

In the centre of the village there stands a large, bizarre 13th century temple that is dedicated to Joydeva. It's walls are decorated with carvings illustrating the life of Krishna as well as some bits from the Ramayana. Overall the whole village as well as the mela has a Vaishnava feel to it.

Necrosis

Pale and sickly she lay, her grandmother applying a cold compress to her burning forehead.

“You are young, cheru” her grandmother said, “and your body is ready to fight; if we old people get sick, no, papapa…but you will be back on your feet soon.”

“I feel like I’m dying the”, the girl mumbled feebly.

“Eh! Again the same nonsense you say child! The will to live is what will speed up your recovery, so don’t say all this rubbish! Anyway, the doctor is on his way today.”

“Water, grandma.” She had been ill three days now.

“Children nowadays,” the old lady clucked as she hobbled towards the kitchen, “why, I can barely see, but with these meagre inlets of light I can fight a buffalo!”

Three days ago the young girl had woken up feeling drained. When she fainted while washing the clothes, her grandmother had put it down to the illnesses that adolescent girls suffer from, and told her to get a days rest. But the next morning when she woke up feeling worse than before and with a temperature higher than normal, her grandmother quizzed her to determine what could be ailing the girl.

“What have you been eating? When did you take a bath? How long were you in the sun?”

There was nothing in the girl’s answers that could diagnose her fever. So her grandmother decided to administer general medication. Various herbs with known healing properties were ground with a mortar and pestle and the resulting paste was included in the girl’s diet.

The next morning she could not get out of bed. Her body ached, her arms and legs were limp, her eyes sunken. She had no appetite and refused the porridge her grandmother had made for her, claiming the very sight of food would make her nauseous.

“We must call a doctor!” the old lady told her son, the girl’s father. Fourteen years ago, his wife had died giving birth to their only daughter. He had been a depressed man with a melancholy humour since that day. If it were not for his mother, obstinate in her old age, the house would have fallen apart. It was she who decided the daily routines and delegated household tasks among the three of them.

“But, it will take a whole day, ma” he groaned. They lived in a small village that was mostly self-sufficient. People were born here, lived their hard, simple lives here and eventually died comfortably when their time had come. It was a quiet and boring village where nothing eventful ever happened.

“That is why you must set off today, so that you can be back tomorrow, before the sun sets.” The old lady responded.

“But, it’s only a fever, why are you so worried? Children get sick you know.”

“And I know that as well, but I can see no reason for the child’s illness, and my usual medicines are not working. Also she looks frighteningly weak. Did you see her this morning? Her skin looks sick and wrinkled as if the flesh has gone. Poor cheru, papapa….now go! I’ve made some food for you to take also.”

What else could he do? Taking the food his mother had prepared for the arduous journey, he wrapped it in some leaves and cloth, tucked some money into his garments and headed out. If he was lucky he would find a bullock-cart or perhaps even a caravan, on the road a few miles away. If he did he wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the town.

The girl had fallen into a stupour when she had returned with the glass of water, so she dabbed some water on the child’s lips with her fingers. The girl’s lips moved slowly, taking in the moisture, or perhaps she was trying to say something, or maybe she was just dreaming.

“Don’t worry my little cheru,” the old lady said, lovingly stroking her frail granddaughter’s hair, “papa’s getting the doctor, they must be on their way right now even. They’ll be here in a few hours.”

Her grandmother looked out of the window, the sun was low in the sky, the girl’s father would return with the doctor any time now. She had been frightened by what the girl had told her the previous day. Those dreams of death and sacrifices and blood and life that her granddaughter had drowsily recounted were what had prompted her to send for a doctor. Or should she have sent for a priest? Could someone have put a curse on the child? But who would want to harm this sweet little thing? Everyone in the village looked kindly upon her – this hardworking and innocent, motherless child. But let us wait for the doctor first. Despite her old age the grandmother still had a stronger faith in tangible science than in the rituals of god.

When she came back into the room an hour later the girl was still asleep. Her fingers twitched slightly. The bones in her arms could be seen. She had been a healthy girl, never had a major medical complaint before. Now she had lost so much weight that she looked hauntingly corpse-like. Her eyes were shut in a placid sleep and the dark circles around them made her look aged and tired.

They old woman felt her forehead, the fever seemed to have come down. She would get well soon now. But where was her son and the doctor? A doctor’s wisdom is always more reassuring than one’s own medical conclusions. The girl would need lots of rest and a good diet to get her back to her earlier fitness, and the doctor would most probably prescribe some medicines to aid her progress.

The old lady went to prepare some dinner for the doctor, who would no doubt be exhausted and hungry from the journey. The sky was a deep red, the colour of blood that had coagulated.

Having finished her cooking she came back to check on her daughter, muttering about her son’s lack of motivation in anything he did. There was a strange smell in the room, she could not place it, but it had an acrid sense to it. Her heart skipped her beat – the child! Had something happened to her little cheru? She leaped towards the bed. The once pretty girl now looked old and haggard, but she was still breathing, her chest heaved slowly and sometimes jerkily.

“Oh, cheru…what is wrong with you darling?” She could detect the odour emanating from the sleeping child’s skin. It wasn’t a putrid smell, but it wasn’t fragrant either. She rubbed the girl’s neck, there was a sticky moisture that clung to her skin.

Getting up on her creaking joints, she hurried off to the kitchen and heated some water with fragrant spices. “What diseases we have nowadays and my poor, poor cheru has to get them.” She said, running back to the girl’s bedside.

With a cloth dipped in the hot water she rubbed the pale, lifeless skin of her granddaughter. The girl seemed to breathe a little better now. She undressed the girl and continued to bathe her with the damp cloth. As she moved down to the girl’s stomach she dropped the cloth with a start. There were drops of viscous, dark brown liquid just below her navel. No, it wasn’t blood. The old woman was relieved for a moment. She wiped the liquid off with the cloth to reveal a row of tiny puncture marks on the girls abdomen. What was this? She pressed her granddaughter below her belly where the marks were, a few more drops oozed out and then stopped. A watery residue followed and then nothing more came out. The old lady was sure it was not blood. She wiped off the rest of the substance and looked closely at the marks. What were they? Had something bitten her? They looked like insect bites.

She lifted the girl up with ease in spite of her age, for the child had lost so much weight that her body was very light. She checked the bed sheets for bugs! Her clothes, under the bed, the mattress - nothing!

As the night grew darker, the old lady fell into an uneasy sleep at her child’s bedside, still wondering what could possibly be wrong. She could not understand why the girl was sick, nor what the marks were or where this strange liquid had come from. And why had her son not returned? All these thoughts formed a haze around her and caused her to dream strange things.

As she slumbered her granddaughter moaned softly. The rest of the creature continued to slither in through the window even as it attached itself to the girl’s abdomen.

“Cheru? Cheru?” The old woman was still disoriented as shook the sleep from her eyes. She had felt something. Her dulled eyes could not make out what she saw, but she was sure that she had seen something move. She looked at the girl’s face, she looked peaceful in her sleep, happy almost. She felt around there was nothing. She pressed the girl’s forehead, the fever was gone, and she seemed a little cold, but she was breathing normally.

She was woken up the next morning by someone at the door. It was her son with a handsome young man.

“Oh thank god you’ve come” said the old lady. She looked disheveled and frightening. “ I don’t know what’s happened to that child, but I’m glad you made it. Come in, come in.”

The doctor examined the girl in her room, while the old lady prepared breakfast as she recounted to her son how terrible his daughter had looked the evening before and how strange the night had been.

The doctor walked into the kitchen as the old lady laid out the food on the table. “The child is perfectly fine” he announced.

“That’s great news” the man said, and to his mother “see, I told you she’d be fine.”

The doctor continued, “she doesn’t even seem like she was ever ill!”

“But what about the marks?” the old woman cried.

“What marks?” asked the doctor.

The old lady led him into the room and screamed when she saw the girl sitting comfortably on the bed.

“What happened grandma?” the girl asked smiling.

The old lady lifted up the girl’s dress to point out some marks that didn’t exist. The doctor and her son exchanged glances.

“I’m feeling fine grandma” the girl said, still smiling.

“But…but…she was almost dead last night, and there were these marks on her stomach, with a brown, sticky, bad smelling liquid…”

Later as the doctor prepared to leave he took the girl’s father aside and told him “you have a beautiful, healthy daughter, but I’d be worried about your mother – I think she’s getting senile!”