If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir (14 page)

'No … it will cost a lot of money.'

'Do you want to go or not?'

'Yes, I do.'

'How much?'

'But it’s too far!'

I was beginning to lose my patience.

'I’m asking you the last time. If you tell me the price, I can decide.'

'And back too?'

'Yes, I just have to be there for an hour or two, and will be back after that.'

'How many people?'

'Just the two of us.'

'Are you certain you’re coming back today?'

I looked at Manish. 'What’s wrong with him?'
              It was early in the morning, and I was on an empty stomach. I was going to meet my guru and a simple autorickshaw driver had managed to ruin my joyous mood and dampen my enthusiasm in a matter of moments. Such is the influence petty events can have on one at times.

I looked around to see if there was any other autorickshaw available. Just then, he said, ‘I'll charge Rs 600.'

I was in no mood to bargain. I nodded and hopped into the autorickshaw. Manish got in beside me.             

The autorickshaw proceeded slowly and it was past 9.30 a.m. when we reached the village. Soon, we were parked outside my destination—a school building. It looked reasonably large for that small village. I was surprised to see some police constables manning the entrance. It turned out that the school was an examination centre for the BEd exams, and the police were there to prevent cheating. Apparently, cheating was rampant. The teachers promoted it by providing the students slips of paper with the answers written on them; sometimes, they even wrote answers on the blackboard. Yet, I couldn’t quite understand why the constables were so heavily armed. They were carrying rifles. To confront whom? Those who brought the slips of paper?

Next to the large school building was a smaller building. I was told that this was an English-medium school that taught students till class eight. The children were singing their morning prayer, a classical eulogy of Ma
Saraswati, in melodious voices:

Veena vaadini var de

Var de veena vaadini var de

Priye swatantra rav amrit mantra nav

Bharat mein bhar de var de

Var de veena vaadini var de…

(O goddess, bless us with free thought, with divine wisdom. Fill this nation with the nectar of knowledge.)

I told a policeman that I was here to see Babaji. He directed me to a small house behind the school. I walked up to the house and paused at the door, which was ajar. An ascetic sat singing the raga alaap as if in some divine ecstasy. I stood there, completely mesmerized. I had never seen an ascetic like him. Years of austerities had tanned his skin. His dark face contrasted with his pure white beard and moustache, and I felt like I was looking at a beautiful solar eclipse. His long, white, matted hair was tied in an unusual knot on top of his head. He had an unusually large forehead like tapasvins normally have. He was also pot-bellied, as if he always practised kumbhaka, yogic retention of breath, like great yogis of yore. He sat cross-legged with the detachment of a jivanmukta, a cloth covering his thighs.

He stopped singing and looked at me. His small but still eyes had a hypnotic pull; they instilled fear and awe at the same time. The first glance he threw at me didn't just see me but saw through me, it imprisoned me. I surrendered then and there. The authority in his look said he owned the place. Actually, he looked as if he owned the Universe and everything in it. I knew I had met a siddha.

As I did a full-length prostration before him,Manish came up behind me.

'Who is he?' Baba asked.

'He’s my guide, Baba.'

I turned to Manish and said, ‘Can you please wait near the autorickshaw?' I sensed Baba didn’t like him there.

'Are you doing some research?' Baba asked me after a few introductory questions.

'No, Baba, I want to be initiated into sanyasa.'

'Why do you want to take sanyasa?'

'I have done many sadhanas. I’ve been experimenting and trying, and trying real hard at that, for nearly twenty years. But I haven’t been able to get to that ultimate state the scriptures talk about.'

'What sadhanas have you done?'

I named some.

'Are you a Brahmin?'

'Ji, Baba. I'm a Saraswat Brahmin of the Gautam gotra.' I told him my full name too.

'Then I will teach you.'

He asked some more questions and told me to stay in his ashram in Varanasi.

'I’ll see you at the ashram in two days.'

I prostrated again and offered him some money.

'When you have surrendered yourself, what use is this money?' he said. Leaving the offering by his feet, I walked out of the cottage, feeling blessed and fulfilled.
 

It was about noon by the time we got back to Varanasi.  I checked out of the guest house and said goodbye to Manish, my guide for the last two days. 'Please call on me again,' he said sweetly. 'If you don't like it here, I can help you find another ashram.' I thanked him again and headed to Baba’s Varanasi ashram as I had been instructed.

At the ashram, Dinesh Muni opened a room for me. I walked in and looked around, not that there was much to see. There was no bed and no bedding, just a bare floor. And a mouldy cupboard. The room was nice and cool though. I lay down on the floor and stared at the fan. It rotated slowly and creaked as it went round and round. Welcome to self-realization, it seemed to be saying.

The hard floor was uncomfortable. I asked Dinesh Muni if it was possible to get a mattress or a sheet. Without bothering to reply, he went upstairs while I waited in the courtyard on the ground floor. After a while, he called out my name from the first floor and, when I looked up, he flung down a thin, filthy rug down. It landed beside me in a cloud of dust, which triggered off a bout of coughing. Gasping for breath, I reached out for my inhaler and took a double dose.

As I waited for the coughing to subside, I wondered at Dinesh Muni’s behaviour towards me. It didn’t occur to me until much later that he was after money. Had I known this at the time, I would have given him some money. It would have made my life easier, and his too. To my surprise, I also learned that even though he looked and acted every bit unlettered, he was actually doing a PhD at Benares Hindu University. It only reaffirmed my faith that bookish knowledge could take one only so far. Here he was, doing a doctorate in Sanskrit but clueless about humanity or humanism. Especially considering that the word ‘Sanskrit’ means one who is cultured.

There were four other residents in the ashram and they were full-time students in different colleges. They helped in the ashram chores and, in return, got free food and accommodation. Later that day, I went to the market. Rather than wasting time while I waited for Baba to come, I thought I would buy a book or two. I picked up some tantric texts, which would come in handy over the next few months I spent with Baba: they would keep me busy during the day and serve as my pillow at night.

Four days went by while I eagerly waited for Baba. I'd been longing to see him since our first meeting. In fact, not a moment went by when I didn't think of him. Meanwhile, I made another trip to the market to buy books and took Pawan, one of the students, along with me. I offered to buy refreshing lassi for both of us. He was shy at first but then had three glasses.

On our way to the bookshop, Pawan opened up and said his father owned a tea stall back in the village. Being Brahmins, it was his father's dream that Pawan become a Hindu priest.

'Is this what you want to do though?' I asked.

'Yes, but it's very hard studying and working together,' he said dejectedly. 'By the time I'm done with the ashram chores, I'm so tired I just want to sleep.'

'Have you spoken to Baba about it?'

'I can't speak to Babaji. He might get really mad at me.'

'Really?'

'Yes. Actually, I'm curious, how did you know about Babaji?'
'I didn't. Life has brought me to him and I’m sure Baba is my guru.’

'I think Babaji maybe furious if you call him just Baba.'

'His wish is my command, Pawan. I'll call him whatever he wants.'
Pawan wasn't entirely wrong because everyone else did call him Babaji. For some reason though, from day one, I called him Baba. I felt closer to him by addressing him in this way, but I did so with great love and reverence.

At the bookshop, I asked Pawan if he wanted to buy a book, but he shook his head. When I insisted I wanted to get something for him, he said he wanted a bottle of Coke. I thought it would be a good idea to get something for everyone in the ashram. We got a large soft-drink bottle, sweetened mango drinks and two packets of biscuits.

The students jumped with joy to see the shopping. Dinesh Muni softened a bit and gulped down the one-litre bottle of Coke. This treat became a regular feature. Whenever I went to buy books, I would get a couple of bottles of Coke and biscuits for them. I would also get biscuits water for myself. It was sheer joy to be able to drink that cold water. There was a fridge in Dinesh Muni’s room but I never went there and he kept the cold water to himself. Besides, he would drink straight off the bottle, so I wasn’t keen on drinking from it.

Biscuits and bottled water became my preferred meal because here, they didn't make breakfast till 11 a.m. In the dhabas outside, the only breakfast available consisted of puris and samosas, both deep-fried items. I used to get up around 4 a.m., and waiting till mid-morning wasn't a good option; nor was eating puris. Of course, biscuits weren’t ideal either, but I had to survive.

In the evening, moths and other insects thronged the cooking area. Much to my amazement, the students and Dinesh Muni were perfectly fine with it, not making any attempt to cover the food. Even the wheat flour was left uncovered at night, and you could see scores of dead insects in the flour the next morning. The first time I saw the sight, I was shocked, and didn’t think it was prudent to throw away the flour everyday just because we didn’t cover it at night. But they had other ideas. They would simply sift the flour, throw away the dead creatures and proceed to make the dough. I tried to suggest an alternative method a few times, and tried to cover the flour at other times, but Dinesh Muni took this as interference on my part, so I stopped. I ate that food like everyone else, accepting it as part of my experience there.

There were other aspects of living there that took some getting used to. Slippers were not permitted in the ashram, not even in the washrooms, which were incredibly dirty. Squatting barefoot over the Indian-style toilet was the greatest torture I'd ever put myself through. To add insult to injury, I hadn’t used such a seat in over a decade. I felt tired quickly, but this situation, as it turned out, helped me prepare for life in the Himalayan forests; there, I was able to attend the call of nature effortlessly.

Within the first few days at the ashram, my feet became extremely dry and cracked. Till now, I had never been barefoot for more than a few minutes; here, I was barefoot all the time. I washed my feet every couple of hours but that didn’t help.

The physical discomforts didn't bother me as much as waiting for Baba did. I was constantly thinking about him. He had said he would be there in a couple of days but there was no sign of him. I wanted to go and visit him in the village, but everyone dissuaded me. ‘You must wait here because that was Babaji’s instruction to you.'

Finally, I couldn’t wait any further, and decided that I was going to see Baba at his ashram. The next morning, I put a set of clothes and some toiletries into a small polythene bag and left for Baba’s village. I left late so I could buy his favourite sweets, paan and newspaper. It was just past 11 a.m. when I got there. I almost ran from the autorickshaw to his cottage for I couldn't wait to see him. Entering his room, I prostrated before him and placed the offerings by his feet.

I thought Baba would be happy to see me again. He, however, spoke to me as if he had no recollection of our earlier meeting and no idea that I had been waiting at the ashram in Varanasi. I was as bewildered as I was disappointed, but shrugged aside my feelings, thinking that this was perhaps Baba’s way of testing me. After a little while, he said, 'Alright, let’s talk today.'

He asked me about my education and background. He was delighted to hear that I ran a software company and other businesses, and that I had lived in various countries. But, above all, he was particularly pleased to know that I spoke English and that I had received my higher education abroad. Subsequently, he would tell anyone who came to visit that I was an MBA from Australia.

I requested Baba to grant me permission to stay back at the ashram and serve him. He didn’t respond right away. I sat quietly near him. After a while, a girl entered the room. He told her that I wanted to be his disciple, and asked her if she was comfortable with this. She nodded and they spoke to each other in Bhojpuri, the local language, which I couldn’t understand. After that, Baba told me I could stay back. I let the autorickshaw go.

This girl, Nikki, used to look after Baba and cook for him. He only ate food that had been cooked by a kumari, and no one else was allowed to partake of that food. It was probably linked to his tantric practice. He treated her like his own daughter. I was introduced to the other people living in the ashram. There was Nikki, of course, who used to stay with Baba in his room. Her brother used to come and sleep there because Baba, as a matter of principle, never stayed alone with Nikki. He always made it a point that someone else be there. Then there was Shesh Muni, a disciple, who was two years older than Baba.  Baba’s driver, who everyone called Pandey Driver, also lived there. His full name—I was one of the rare few to ask him—was Hari Om Pandey.

At the time I arrived, about ten construction workers had taken up temporary residence on the premises as Baba had commenced the construction of a third building, a degree college for girls. Baba asked me to go and rest in the nearby hut. 'Ji, Baba,' I said at his instruction. These were the words I uttered most often with Baba. No matter how absurd the instruction, if it came from his mouth, I simply said ‘Ji, Baba’. And I only ever spoke if he wanted a response from me; for the rest of the time, I remained silent. I wanted to be a real disciple in every way, giving him all I had: my body, heart, mind and soul, as well as my financial resources.

The holy books state that there are only two types of conversations that occur between a guru and his disciple: a guru asks, and the disciple answers: or, a disciple asks and the guru may choose to answer. There is never any debate between a guru and his disciple, there is no room for answering back. This is the Eastern culture, which I respected and valued. The hut Baba had directed me to was crumbling and badly in need of repair, and cobwebs covered the walls. A thin mattress lay in a corner. As soon as I unfolded it, spiders and other insects scurried out. It was full of dust; in fact, it seemed as if it was made from dust.

Pandey Driver arrived a few minutes later with a water pipe and hosed the place down. I requested him to shake the mattress vigorously to get rid of the dust as I was asthmatic. He obliged, but the mattress remained dusty. I covered my face and gave it another shake. The dust got to me anyway. I took a couple of puffs of the inhaler to recover and sat down to rest. In the afternoon, Baba sent a message for me to have something to eat in Shesh Muni’s room.

Shesh Muni’s room was made with unplastered bricks and had a tin roof. A dirty basket containing potatoes lay in a corner, while old metal and plastic containers had been placed on the shelf that lined the walls. Rats, big and fearless, were jumping freely on these jars and boxes in broad daylight. God knows what was in them, for Shesh Muni only ever ate a specific type of lentil with potatoes. He was a heart patient, so there was absolutely no oil in his meals. There were no spices or chillies either; in fact, there was just no flavour or taste in his food.

There was a single bed in the room, which had a couple of bare mattresses; there was no bed sheet. The pillow was truly soiled, as if it had never been washed. A bunch of keys, a few really old pens without caps and some coins lay next to the pillow. An old table fan was making a disturbingly loud racket.

One corner was adorned with a more modern item: a gas stove, but it turned out no one was allowed to use it except in an emergency. They cooked food on a kerosene stove instead. I had a vague memory of seeing a stove like that when I was three or four years old. When you pump it to release the kerosene, it makes a great deal of noise. Then you have to light it. Shesh Muni would later lose a part of his luxuriant white beard while lighting that stove. Unsurprisingly, the brick floor was rather dirty.

A couple of days after I arrived, I discovered that Baba was getting his cottage renovated. It had two rooms, a washroom, a kitchen and a small lobby. Apparently, he was short of funds. Worried about minor expenses, he had decided to compromise on the renovation. I ventured to tell Baba that he had practised austerities all his life, and there was no longer any need to do so. I suggested getting an air conditioner for his room. When he said he didn’t have the money, I told him I would buy one for him. He informed me that the power outages there lasted longer than the hours when there was power, so the air conditioner would be of little use. I offered to buy a power generator. He asked me who would pay for the diesel to run the generator, and I said I could cover it from the monthly stipend my company paid me.

Baba liked my offer, and gave me the permission to pay for the widgets, fixtures and all. He also asked me to get fancy lights and two small chandeliers for the two rooms. I wanted to serve my guru in every possible way; had he asked me to sever my head and put it at his feet, I would have done it without a thought.

Baba asked about my savings, and the amount of money I had in the bank. I told him the truth. I also explained that I had technically given all my money away when I left; the reason some money remained in my account was that some people had not cashed their cheques, probably due to their love and concern for me.

The next day, the plan to buy the air conditioner and other items was put into action. Baba sent for a man called Ranjay Pandey. He turned out to be a noble man who would play an important role for me later. Ranjay brought his SUV to pick me up. A couple of other people joined us, as Baba wanted them to accompany me. He stated that I was quite naive and the shopkeepers would rip me off. I simply said, 'Ji, Baba.'