The Seeker (18 page)

Max went back north the same way he had come, resisting the urge to stop in Dehradun and thank Anand, the Slovenian who had guided him to Ramakrishna. It wasn’t time. He hadn’t yet attained a spiritual union with consciousness, become the universal. He still identified himself as Max, one who was born, grew, decayed, suffered, and died and couldn’t alleviate anyone’s suffering because he hadn’t conquered his own. Yes, he had seen glimpses of the truth, a shimmering, blinding light dancing in the corners of the growing void within him. In those rare moments, there had been pure silence, just the One and no other. But the individual lump of salt hadn’t dissolved completely in the ocean yet. He had to go deeper still.

A little depleted after his samyama at the ATM, Max used the time in the train to restore his vital energy with kapalabhati, pumping his abdomen in and out, inhaling fresh air and exhaling the stale air with force. He smiled at his co-passengers, unbothered by their surprised stares. The hundreds of people pushing him, climbing over him to get in and out, the kids tugging his long hair, the men and women who touched his skin, the cockroaches who crawled on him and all the sounds and smells alive in a train carriage filled to many times its capacity, they were all him.

Sixty hours later, early in the morning, the train reached Haridwar. Once again as he had done a few years ago when he had first arrived in the Himalayas, Max took a bus to Uttarkashi and stopped at a hotel, this time needing no warm blankets and hot water, his body immune to the craving for petty luxury. He had expected to wait a few days in Bhatwari until he found some intrepid motorcycle riders again, but he was pleasantly surprised to find a jeep making its last trip to Gangotri for the season.

Max reached Gangotri late one overcast afternoon in the first week of December with everything he needed for the months to come in his backpack: three gunny sacks containing millets, chickpeas, and kidney beans, a stove, a pen knife to carve wood, matchsticks to build a fire, one change of T-shirt and pants, gloves and a jacket if it got colder than he could force his body to adapt to, and a bed sheet to lie on in a cave. Once again, the village was deserted and the tiny houses and shops covered with soft, white snow. The wind gusted as he started on the deserted, snow-covered trail to Bhojbasa. Clouds blanketed the sun and a wall of gray loomed ahead of him. A heavy rain began as soon as he passed the abandoned forest-office building two miles into the hike. His sweater was full of holes from the frogs that had made it their home in the ashram and rainwater seeped through them, drenching his thin shirt. The rain turned into a light snowfall, then a blizzard. But this time, he was prepared for the wetness and the cold.

Every day for the last six months, he had performed samyama on the
Manipura Chakra
in his navel, the junction of the 72,000 root nerves in the body, and his body had revealed its innermost workings to him. Each of the 72,000 root nerves was connected to 72,000 other nerves, all of which transferred prana, vital energy, to all parts of his body. With enough concentration, he could flow prana anywhere he wanted in the body. As he walked, he visualized the prana as a flame and his body as a vibrating stream of light and heat. He increased the prana in the nerves supplying his fingertips and toes to keep them heated. Simultaneously, he pressed his chin to his neck and pulled his perineum to the spine when he walked. The two bandhas trapped the air in his torso and he rotated the air around fiercely so that it collided with his ribs, vertebrae, and sternum. The friction increased the heat in his body, making him immune to the drop in temperature outside. Now, he felt no different walking up the snowy mountain than he had felt walking from the village to Pavur in the blazing heat.

Halfway on the trail to Bhojbasa, he saw six pairs of heavy boot marks and sharp, narrow imprints of ice axes and trekking poles. Late-season hikers on their way to Gomukh. Wanting nothing to interfere with his solitude, Max abandoned the trail. He removed his shoes and scrambled up a cliff, letting his naked feet find easy grooves in the snow. Without gloves, his fingers held tight to tree stumps and rocks. He moved quickly. The air thinned as he climbed higher. He contracted his diaphragm and lungs, allowing his rib cage to expand so that the air pressure in his chest dropped significantly. The outside air rushed in, spreading fresh oxygen through his chest. He breathed comfortably and kept climbing higher, looking for a hospitable cave for the months ahead. None of the ones he passed looked suitable. Some were too narrow to build a fire in, some too far from a source of water, others opened right on the edge of a ravine. He could make any of them work if he had to, but this wasn’t an endurance test. He wanted to spend his days in meditation, not in foraging for food and melting snow to get water.

Night fell. The snow abated. Max walked by the dim light of the half moon, letting his bare feet guide him. He crossed a mile-long patch where the snow was so soft that he sunk up to his thighs with each step, before it turned into packed ice again. Another two or three hours in, he ran into a withered tree protected from the snowfall by a giant rock. Max cut its dry branches with his knife and put the wood in his backpack. He climbed higher, watching carefully to avoid hidden crevasses in the white blanket.

Past midnight, more than ten hours after he had begun climbing, Max came across a suitable space. A large outcropping in the jagged mountain slanted above flat snow-covered ground protecting it from wind. The still air smelled of pine. Yellow-gray roots broke through the snow on the ground under the projecting rock. He cut a piece with his knife and sniffed it. Mushroom or something like it. They would serve him well if his rations ran out. He looked around for water. Finding nothing, Max turned with the mountain, holding tight to the jutting stones, walking gingerly on the narrow, rocky path that separated him from the deep abyss thousands of feet below. The cliff turned sharply. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his navel, pumping prana with force into the fingertips that clung to the edges of the rocks on the outside of the mountain. Nothing could stop him from falling if his fingers went numb. His heartbeat increased. He inched forward.

The path opened into a large stretch of sharp, snow-covered rocks. Max let go of the cliff. He rested on a rock and breathed slowly. The red heaviness in his forehead reduced. Another mountain arose on the opposite side of the furrowed ice, fifty meters away. Six or seven natural caves stood at the bottom of the cliff. Max’s spirits lifted. Yes, this could work. The mountains on either side would obstruct the wind. All he needed was a source of water and this could be home for a few months. The air smelled heavy with dew but he couldn’t see a drop of water around. He walked toward the caves.

The ground below him shifted. Max looked down. The ice was crumbling beneath his feet. The earth was swallowing him. He jumped back—and crashed into freezing, icy water.

A stream.

He had mistaken the thin layer of ice for solid land. Now, he was drenched in icy water but at least his water problem was solved. He pulled himself out and grabbed his dripping backpack. Rubbing his wet hands, he applied the maha bandha within seconds to generate heat within his body once again. He stared at the thin ice shimmering in the moonlight. Bluish-white water seeped through the cracks on its surface. Was he ready?

Max walked to the edge of the stream and concentrated on the caves on the opposite side. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled one hundred and eighty times, emptying his mind of images, letting the universe guide him forward. He retained his breath, ten, twelve, fifteen, seventeen minutes, until he couldn’t hold it any longer. Next, he exhaled quickly, emptying his torso like a deflated life vest. He concentrated on the prana vibrating within him and thrust it upward with force. His body was now light as a feather. Max performed samyama on his navel and visualized every root nerve of his body throbbing with the same stream of minute energy particles that the water in front of him was. He took a step forward. Energy merged with energy. There was nothing under his feet.

He was walking on air.

More steps.

Still nothing under his feet.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to hold his breath very long, he moved faster in space. He felt the dampness of water on the soles of his feet. He pulled his abdomen in and exhaled with force. Again, he walked a fraction of an inch above the water, on air.

A few steps later, he ran out of breath. He choked and inhaled a rush of air. Immediately, he felt the weight on his feet, cold water touching the soles.

He opened his eyes. He was less than five meters away from the bank. He could do it. Max brought his right foot forward but fell into the water. Quickly, he swam to the other end and pulled himself and his backpack out. He had done it. Almost. He had walked over more than forty-five meters of water—with his backpack.

Max set his backpack down on the ice. He breathed normally and visualized the energy flowing like a river through his body once again. Millions of energy particles vibrated within his body, in the air below his feet, and the air around him. He exhaled and forced his prana up. He levitated two feet above the ground. He pulled his abdomen in sharply and pushed out the leftover air in his torso. He rose another foot. Max held his breath and stood suspended in air. Cold wind touched his bare wet feet, sending tingling sensations up and down his spine. He stood like that for a few minutes, staring at the soft, white half moon above, feeling its blue-white light alive within him. Inhaling with control and pulling his prana down, he landed softly on the snow. He was ready for the last phase of his journey.

Max took off his wet clothes and squeezed the water out of them. Shivering and spent, he stood naked on the edge of the lake. The cold cut into his bones. The stars were so close he could pick them out of the sky. The paw marks of an animal, likely a Himalayan bear or snow leopard, formed an elegant ellipse on the ice below him. Soon, he would be one with the sky, the stars, the tall cliffs, the white snow below him, and the animals that danced on it. This was the final step. He wouldn’t leave the caves until he was enlightened, became the
Tathagatha,
the one who was gone, whose body remained in the world but whose mind had become the universal, complete.

He walked over the sharp rocks in front of the caves, inspecting the area. All seven caves were blocked with ice. A fifteen-foot-tall boulder with a flat surface and sharp, serrated edges, stood in the middle of the row of caves. Max climbed on top of it and sat cross-legged on its wet surface. Almost immediately, he fell into a deep trance, sensing a shimmering, vibrating presence within him, around him. He understood now why the Himalayas had been the home of spiritual seekers for centuries. Every rock, every surface vibrated with the energy of the One.

Max slid down the boulder. Putting on his T-shirt, pants, gloves and hiking boots, he began clearing the snow from the mouth of the first cave, the tallest in the row of seven. He broke the particularly hardened lumps with his boots. The noise resounded through the hundreds of miles of silence. He scraped and kicked for an hour, slowly opening up the mouth of the cave to an inch. This would take a long time, perhaps the whole night, and there could be no short cuts. If fresh snow fell on top of the packed ice, he could be buried alive inside.

Two hours later, he had cleared the mouth sufficiently to peep into the cave. It smelled of wet earth but looked warm and spacious. A winged creature bumped against his face, screeching. A bat. The sound was picked up by other bats inside. The still air filled with shrieks. Max smiled. At least he would have company if he felt too lonesome. He liked his new home already.

Max chipped away at the packed snow for another couple of hours. The hole was now wide enough to melt the remaining snow with fire without the risk of smoke filling up the cave.

He retrieved the matchboxes and tree branches from the jacket inside his backpack. None of the matches would light. He set them aside and performed samyama on the tree branches, becoming one with them, visualizing a bright yellow flame coursing through him, the branch’s wooden bark, the tip of dried green leaf. A tiny spark burst out on the wood. But not enough to light the damp wood. He concentrated harder. Sweat formed on his eyebrows. This time, a huge spark flamed at the end of the branch. Still the wood wouldn’t light. Max wrapped the branches in his jacket and continued scraping the snow off the cave entrance with his bare hands.

He tried lighting the branches again after a few hours. The wood was still too wet. Max broke the branches into smaller pieces. No more sparks. He felt dizzy. His muscles ached. He had wasted too much energy testing his new skills. He needed to rest and restore his prana. Max looked up at the sky. Could he trust it not to snow for a couple of hours, just until he squeezed into the warm cave and took a nap? A snowflake fell on his shoulder, then another. The universe gave him his answer. He began scraping the snow once again.

He heard a slight sound on his right.

A Himalayan bear?

Max whipped around.

A man stood on top of the boulder.

Max rubbed his eyes.

Yes, it was a man. Fiery black eyes shining in the moonlight, gray hair falling to his hips, and a thin yellow-orange cloth wrapped tight around his lean, hard body. A yogi
.
He was staring at Max.

Max walked to the boulder and folded his hands.

The man jumped down, scowling at Max, his eyes glinting. He pulled his gray hair behind his head.

Max concentrated on the Ajna Chakra in the center of his forehead, the seat of all memory of all lifetimes, accessed the reservoir of language, and spoke in Hindi.

“
Mera naam
Max
hai
.
Main is gufa mein rehna chahata hoon
,” he said.

The man didn’t react.

Max repeated in English. “I’m Max. I want to live in this cave.”

The man raised his right hand and touched his thumb with his bony index finger again and again.