It surprised the heck outta Joe that he was awed by the majesty of Indian sunsets. He wasn’t really the type. But there it was: the large orange sun slowly sinking into the hazy distance, magical, mysterious. He couldn’t imagine any sight ever impressing him more but he was wrong.
In February 1977 at Allahabad the largest group of people to ever assemble with the same purpose met on the banks of the Ganges. Fifteen million souls gathered at the Maha Kumbh Mela, and Joe was one of them. He arrived at dusk and looked out upon the festival from the edge of the town. He’d been in India nearly a year, had long ago recovered from the proverbial culture shock, but this was different. With both the slowly setting sun and the apparent endless sea of humanity stretched out across the plains he felt overwhelmed. And his very first thought was that he‘d surely never see anything like it again.
He walked for what felt like hours not knowing where to sit, to rest. Rain had made the grounds muddy and there were people everywhere: with cows, horses, camels, elephants, mules and dogs, lots of dogs. Joe saw a man buried up to his neck apparently for many days. He saw a man with one completely withered arm held up high apparently for many years. He saw a man with grotesquely long finger-nails grown apparently forever. He saw so many remarkable fantastic and often bizarre sights arrayed before him as he walked. Groups of yogis chanted, others sat somehow in silence even as grand processions, gurus with their entourages, meandered regally through the mela.
He got caught up in one of those. The Guru, with bright orange robes and several Rudraaksh malas, clearly renowned, sat on a huge elephant that was covered in bright Rajasthani red and orange carpets. Less ornamental elephants with devotees were trailing. The light was fading as the procession wound its way through. All around people were trying to touch the tail or even the feet of the great man’s mount hoping for blessings. It was incredibly dangerous. The crowd was frenzied. The elephant was increasingly skittish, wild-eyed, tossing its mammoth head, sidestepping. The mahout was freaked but the guru looked as though he was absolutely delighted, laughing and wagging his finger down at the pilgrims.
An inexplicable force impelled Joe to run alongside. As he ran he remembered hearing how people regularly died at the melas, sometimes trampled, and he felt a little indignant. He had to admit that the guy up there seemed fearless even while the elephant was barely under control. But as he ran alongside Joe kept thinking that a tragedy would certainly be his fault, this great man who put himself above everyone else. Which is exactly when the great man, whoever he was, turned around in his howdah, looked across straight at Joe with a piercing glance that stopped him in his tracks. "O.K. sure," the glance seemed to say. "But tell these people not me."
In a moment Joe was swallowed by the crowds. A parade of fierce naked Naga babas, sadhus covered in ash carrying alms-bowls or tridents, an ocean of humanity and all manner of creatures passed as he stood there. Ghee lamps along with camp-fires were being lit and he really didn't know how to take it all in. Each step landed Joe ankle-deep in mud and knee-deep in confusion. He was disoriented, tired and there didn't seem anywhere for him, to rest, to recover. Eventually he simply sat down where he was, in the mud. Then he simply lay down where he was, in the mud, while faces swam around featureless, expressionless. And the last of the day-light finally faded.
When he next opened his eyes Joe found himself in a circle of Yogis. He was dry, comfortable and there was a small fire dancing in rhythm to their chanting. He seemed to have stumbled into a sublime antiquity. Of course he realized he’d been carried, placed on a straw mat but remembered none of it. There was a bowl of jelaybees and curd beside him on the ground. As he took the first spoonful his head immediately exploded with the exquisite taste of it. The deep-fried sugar was like a powerful medicine. He was instantly healed and in fact he did feel great.
Seeing Joe sitting up, two of the yogis approached. One was a large heavy-set man in white kurta and lungi, long black uncombed hair, unsmiling but not in an unfriendly way. His eyes were unmistakable, distant and quite present at the same time. There was a deeply masculine beauty and dignity about him. People were pranaming as he passed. A young girl tried to touch his feet but he gently stopped her. He stood near while the other sat down on his ankles at the end of the mat. He was smaller, dressed in faded orange kurta and pajama with lotus-seed malas hanging around his neck. He also had long black uncombed hair but a wide smile and he spoke pretty good english:
“What is your good name sir?”
“Joseph, Joe.”
“Ah then you will surely be a great pitaji, father, isn’t it?”
“You know that do you?,” Joe responded feeling all of a sudden again a little light-headed.
“Not to mind. I am Hari only.”
The larger yogi said something in Hindi which Hari acknowledged by pranaming, half rising as Joe asked: “Is he your guru?”
Smiling brilliantly Hari responded: “He’s not my guru or your guru. He is simply guru. We call him Babaji.”
Babaji again spoke and Hari stood. “We will again talk. You are our guest. Rest. Eat.”
And they then both dissolved into the darkness beyond the circle.
For those next few days that camp became his camp, that group became his group. As far as Joe knew only Hari spoke english but they all communicated with Joe one way or another at one time or another. They gave food, joked, chanted, meditated with him. They taught him the true meaning of the mela. Joe wandered around drinking in all the sights, sounds but he always returned to his group.
Babaji was certainly some sort of venerated figurehead. Men and women came to pay their respect but there were no processions, no lavish shows of any sort. He seemed to simply command respect by his very countenance. He didn’t speak a lot. The camp life moved with a natural rhythm of its own. Mornings were soft, evenings magical. There was an aura of profound and pervasive peace.
Enigmatic as he was, Babaji seemed to know the exact moment Joe decided to leave. Joe saw him motion to Hari who sat down on the mat and immediately began: “You go to Benares isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?,” Joe responded without really being so surprised.
“Babaji requests you to visit his mataji, mama, with a message of love. He has not seen for long time”
“I can do that,” Joe said. ”You’ve all been incredible to me. But does he never go? Benaris isn’t far.”
“He cannot go but you must go. It is surely your destiny.”
At that point Babaji clapped his hands once and smiled down at the others. It wasn’t much of a smile but the first Joe had seen and it was warm. Babaji reached down, gently raised Joe up, embraced him for a few moments, wiped his eyes gently with strong hands then strolled away. Joe had no choice. He sat back down on his mat with eyes closed for about half an hour. Something remarkable, un-explainable had happened.
Hindus say Benares was the first city on earth. They certainly consider it the holiest in India. The city’s religious importance grew through the ages: as the Buddha gave his first sermon in nearby Sarnath at 500 BCE, as Adi Shankara established Shiva during the 8th century as its official sect, even as the Muslims ruled through the Middle Ages. It has remained a major cultural and spiritual centre of devotion, pilgrimage, poetry. It was home for Tulsidas, Guru Nanak, Kabir, Akbar.
Joe had long been fascinated by the burning ghats where Hindus believed being cremated would ensure their salvation. He wanted to see the temples and forts too. But mostly he wanted to see the ghats. He arrived at the bus station in the evening, immediately jumped onto a pedal-rickshaw and instructed the rather emaciated driver to take him to the Buddhist Vihar hostel. It was a long circuitous route that made Joe feel sorry he hadn’t taken a motor-rickshaw. The driver wasn’t young, he certainly wasn’t strong. So Joe gave a generous tip above the fare once they finally arrived. In the morning, however, he realized the hostel was hardly two streets from the station. That bastard had taken him for a ride, literally and figuratively.
The only thing Joe had to do before doing what he really wanted to do was deliver Babaji’s message and he wanted to do it first, get it outta the way. He wandered through an intricate maze of narrow alleys asking people for directions along the way. It was a thick market area. At a certain point he wasn’t so sure he’d ever find his way out, whether he found the right building or not.
Be that as it may he did eventually find himself in front of the address Hari had written, a terribly ancient stone building with ornate but worn-down wooden latticework. There was a balcony Joe suspected nobody should ever step onto, shutters hanging off of one hinge. Far from the beautiful dignified edifice it had obviously once been, its day had long passed. Because of her age of course the stiff and slightly stooped old lady who answered the door seemed quite right for the building. But she still had beauty and dignity, and she had Babaji’s eyes.
Language was their immediate problem. Leaving Joe in the doorway the old lady carefully crossed the lane and tapped on a window. Another lady came out, a younger version who Joe surmised was a daughter. She was undeniably beautiful, but it was in the eyes. They chatted for a minute before crossing over together and leading Joe into the house. The house was terribly dark, almost as if in mourning. It was not at all shabby, just dark. Thick curtains were closed. There was only one bare light-bulb. The floor, paneling and most of the furniture was dark wood. The carpets were burgundy-based persian types. They sat down at a large well-polished table with silk flowers in a vase. The younger woman, Radika, spoke English with a lovely British accent and so Joe relayed Babaji’s message. But suffice it to say he did not receive the response he was expecting.
For a few long moments Radika said nothing. She seemed incapable. The old woman finally prodded her and after hearing the simple message just stared at Joe with a look that could only be described as one of infinite sadness. The room seemed to have become even darker. Joe looked at Radika.
“I’m sorry. I thought...”
“You clearly have the wrong address,” she said softly but firmly.
“No, this is the address.”
As Joe was producing the paper the old lady simply rose and slowly walked out of the room.
Radika also got up rather curtly. “You must go.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just the messenger.”
“Firstly, my brother’s name was Raam Chandra,” she said somewhat indignantly even as her eyes welled up. “And he died in my arms after saving me from some very bad men, four years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m very sorry,” Joe stammered as he moved to the door, until he spotted a photo on the wall. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he saw clearly. “Just a minute. Who is that!?”
“That’s my brother.”
They looked at each other, kept looking at each other, until finally Radika said: “You better come across and have a cup of tea.”
In February 1977 at Allahabad the largest group of people to ever assemble with the same purpose met on the banks of the Ganges. Fifteen million souls gathered at the Maha Kumbh Mela, and Joe was one of them. He arrived at dusk and looked out upon the festival from the edge of the town. He’d been in India nearly a year, had long ago recovered from the proverbial culture shock, but this was different. With both the slowly setting sun and the apparent endless sea of humanity stretched out across the plains he felt overwhelmed. And his very first thought was that he‘d surely never see anything like it again.
He walked for what felt like hours not knowing where to sit, to rest. Rain had made the grounds muddy and there were people everywhere: with cows, horses, camels, elephants, mules and dogs, lots of dogs. Joe saw a man buried up to his neck apparently for many days. He saw a man with one completely withered arm held up high apparently for many years. He saw a man with grotesquely long finger-nails grown apparently forever. He saw so many remarkable fantastic and often bizarre sights arrayed before him as he walked. Groups of yogis chanted, others sat somehow in silence even as grand processions, gurus with their entourages, meandered regally through the mela.
He got caught up in one of those. The Guru, with bright orange robes and several Rudraaksh malas, clearly renowned, sat on a huge elephant that was covered in bright Rajasthani red and orange carpets. Less ornamental elephants with devotees were trailing. The light was fading as the procession wound its way through. All around people were trying to touch the tail or even the feet of the great man’s mount hoping for blessings. It was incredibly dangerous. The crowd was frenzied. The elephant was increasingly skittish, wild-eyed, tossing its mammoth head, sidestepping. The mahout was freaked but the guru looked as though he was absolutely delighted, laughing and wagging his finger down at the pilgrims.
An inexplicable force impelled Joe to run alongside. As he ran he remembered hearing how people regularly died at the melas, sometimes trampled, and he felt a little indignant. He had to admit that the guy up there seemed fearless even while the elephant was barely under control. But as he ran alongside Joe kept thinking that a tragedy would certainly be his fault, this great man who put himself above everyone else. Which is exactly when the great man, whoever he was, turned around in his howdah, looked across straight at Joe with a piercing glance that stopped him in his tracks. "O.K. sure," the glance seemed to say. "But tell these people not me."
In a moment Joe was swallowed by the crowds. A parade of fierce naked Naga babas, sadhus covered in ash carrying alms-bowls or tridents, an ocean of humanity and all manner of creatures passed as he stood there. Ghee lamps along with camp-fires were being lit and he really didn't know how to take it all in. Each step landed Joe ankle-deep in mud and knee-deep in confusion. He was disoriented, tired and there didn't seem anywhere for him, to rest, to recover. Eventually he simply sat down where he was, in the mud. Then he simply lay down where he was, in the mud, while faces swam around featureless, expressionless. And the last of the day-light finally faded.
When he next opened his eyes Joe found himself in a circle of Yogis. He was dry, comfortable and there was a small fire dancing in rhythm to their chanting. He seemed to have stumbled into a sublime antiquity. Of course he realized he’d been carried, placed on a straw mat but remembered none of it. There was a bowl of jelaybees and curd beside him on the ground. As he took the first spoonful his head immediately exploded with the exquisite taste of it. The deep-fried sugar was like a powerful medicine. He was instantly healed and in fact he did feel great.
Seeing Joe sitting up, two of the yogis approached. One was a large heavy-set man in white kurta and lungi, long black uncombed hair, unsmiling but not in an unfriendly way. His eyes were unmistakable, distant and quite present at the same time. There was a deeply masculine beauty and dignity about him. People were pranaming as he passed. A young girl tried to touch his feet but he gently stopped her. He stood near while the other sat down on his ankles at the end of the mat. He was smaller, dressed in faded orange kurta and pajama with lotus-seed malas hanging around his neck. He also had long black uncombed hair but a wide smile and he spoke pretty good english:
“What is your good name sir?”
“Joseph, Joe.”
“Ah then you will surely be a great pitaji, father, isn’t it?”
“You know that do you?,” Joe responded feeling all of a sudden again a little light-headed.
“Not to mind. I am Hari only.”
The larger yogi said something in Hindi which Hari acknowledged by pranaming, half rising as Joe asked: “Is he your guru?”
Smiling brilliantly Hari responded: “He’s not my guru or your guru. He is simply guru. We call him Babaji.”
Babaji again spoke and Hari stood. “We will again talk. You are our guest. Rest. Eat.”
And they then both dissolved into the darkness beyond the circle.
For those next few days that camp became his camp, that group became his group. As far as Joe knew only Hari spoke english but they all communicated with Joe one way or another at one time or another. They gave food, joked, chanted, meditated with him. They taught him the true meaning of the mela. Joe wandered around drinking in all the sights, sounds but he always returned to his group.
Babaji was certainly some sort of venerated figurehead. Men and women came to pay their respect but there were no processions, no lavish shows of any sort. He seemed to simply command respect by his very countenance. He didn’t speak a lot. The camp life moved with a natural rhythm of its own. Mornings were soft, evenings magical. There was an aura of profound and pervasive peace.
Enigmatic as he was, Babaji seemed to know the exact moment Joe decided to leave. Joe saw him motion to Hari who sat down on the mat and immediately began: “You go to Benares isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?,” Joe responded without really being so surprised.
“Babaji requests you to visit his mataji, mama, with a message of love. He has not seen for long time”
“I can do that,” Joe said. ”You’ve all been incredible to me. But does he never go? Benaris isn’t far.”
“He cannot go but you must go. It is surely your destiny.”
At that point Babaji clapped his hands once and smiled down at the others. It wasn’t much of a smile but the first Joe had seen and it was warm. Babaji reached down, gently raised Joe up, embraced him for a few moments, wiped his eyes gently with strong hands then strolled away. Joe had no choice. He sat back down on his mat with eyes closed for about half an hour. Something remarkable, un-explainable had happened.
Hindus say Benares was the first city on earth. They certainly consider it the holiest in India. The city’s religious importance grew through the ages: as the Buddha gave his first sermon in nearby Sarnath at 500 BCE, as Adi Shankara established Shiva during the 8th century as its official sect, even as the Muslims ruled through the Middle Ages. It has remained a major cultural and spiritual centre of devotion, pilgrimage, poetry. It was home for Tulsidas, Guru Nanak, Kabir, Akbar.
Joe had long been fascinated by the burning ghats where Hindus believed being cremated would ensure their salvation. He wanted to see the temples and forts too. But mostly he wanted to see the ghats. He arrived at the bus station in the evening, immediately jumped onto a pedal-rickshaw and instructed the rather emaciated driver to take him to the Buddhist Vihar hostel. It was a long circuitous route that made Joe feel sorry he hadn’t taken a motor-rickshaw. The driver wasn’t young, he certainly wasn’t strong. So Joe gave a generous tip above the fare once they finally arrived. In the morning, however, he realized the hostel was hardly two streets from the station. That bastard had taken him for a ride, literally and figuratively.
The only thing Joe had to do before doing what he really wanted to do was deliver Babaji’s message and he wanted to do it first, get it outta the way. He wandered through an intricate maze of narrow alleys asking people for directions along the way. It was a thick market area. At a certain point he wasn’t so sure he’d ever find his way out, whether he found the right building or not.
Be that as it may he did eventually find himself in front of the address Hari had written, a terribly ancient stone building with ornate but worn-down wooden latticework. There was a balcony Joe suspected nobody should ever step onto, shutters hanging off of one hinge. Far from the beautiful dignified edifice it had obviously once been, its day had long passed. Because of her age of course the stiff and slightly stooped old lady who answered the door seemed quite right for the building. But she still had beauty and dignity, and she had Babaji’s eyes.
Language was their immediate problem. Leaving Joe in the doorway the old lady carefully crossed the lane and tapped on a window. Another lady came out, a younger version who Joe surmised was a daughter. She was undeniably beautiful, but it was in the eyes. They chatted for a minute before crossing over together and leading Joe into the house. The house was terribly dark, almost as if in mourning. It was not at all shabby, just dark. Thick curtains were closed. There was only one bare light-bulb. The floor, paneling and most of the furniture was dark wood. The carpets were burgundy-based persian types. They sat down at a large well-polished table with silk flowers in a vase. The younger woman, Radika, spoke English with a lovely British accent and so Joe relayed Babaji’s message. But suffice it to say he did not receive the response he was expecting.
For a few long moments Radika said nothing. She seemed incapable. The old woman finally prodded her and after hearing the simple message just stared at Joe with a look that could only be described as one of infinite sadness. The room seemed to have become even darker. Joe looked at Radika.
“I’m sorry. I thought...”
“You clearly have the wrong address,” she said softly but firmly.
“No, this is the address.”
As Joe was producing the paper the old lady simply rose and slowly walked out of the room.
Radika also got up rather curtly. “You must go.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just the messenger.”
“Firstly, my brother’s name was Raam Chandra,” she said somewhat indignantly even as her eyes welled up. “And he died in my arms after saving me from some very bad men, four years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m very sorry,” Joe stammered as he moved to the door, until he spotted a photo on the wall. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he saw clearly. “Just a minute. Who is that!?”
“That’s my brother.”
They looked at each other, kept looking at each other, until finally Radika said: “You better come across and have a cup of tea.”
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