--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "Buck" <dhamiltony2k5@...> wrote:
>
> Trigunaji 1916- 1 Jan 2013
>

In honor of Trigunaji's passing, many will share memories of him. This is one 
such story. In New Delhi, India 1980, Indian Express Building, fourth floor, my 
Vedic Atom team and I were present with about 1,500 other Sidhas from several 
countries in the meeting hall with Maharishi when he formally introduced 
Triguna to us for the first time. The rest of the story resides in memory as 
images and sense impressions.

No one told us Triguna was about to arrive, but there was such a flurry of 
activity the day of his arrival that everyone felt something important was 
about to happen. After lunch that day, they passed around silver platters 
loaded with pea-sized pellets and told us to take what we wanted. No one said 
what was in the pellets, just that is was an ayurvedic rasayana. I ate two and 
in short order I was feeling pretty blissful. Placebo effect perhaps, but I'd 
never felt a kick that noticeable before. Sometimes I wonder if Trigunaji might 
have performed some ooga booga yagya over those little pills. 

That afternoon we filed into the hall to meet with Maharishi as usual. What was 
unusual is that they had lit hundreds of sticks of incense that filled that air 
with such a thick haze it seemed to neutralize the soot and smell of New 
Delhi's incessant mix of vehicle diesel and cow dung for cooking on the street, 
redolently wafting through our windows.

Maharishi introduced us to Triguna and was deeply respectful of him as an 
honored guest.  Then as if being in Triguna's presence, taking rasayanas and 
purifying the air with incense, was Maharishi's attempt to ameliorate some 
impending karma, the next day everyone started to get sicker than dogs. Some 
people became too sick to get on the buses that picked us up after evening 
meetings to take us to our various hotels, so they set up triage at the Indian 
Express. After a few days, the fifth floor filled with rows and rows of beds 
and languishing course participants. A physician administered free Western 
medicines for fever and nausea and a nurse helped attend to the patients.  

A good friend had a very high fever. She didn't seem to be getting the 
attention she needed from the nurse, so I watched over her in the makeshift 
infirmary for two days, applied cold cloths to her body to reduce her fever, 
and prayed for her. I remember her saying that if her parents knew she had such 
a high temperature, they would be really pissed. 

I was one of the lucky ones. I didn't get sick but developed a chronic case of 
"Delhi Belly," diarrhea.  I decided to see Triguna at his "office" for 
treatment. Two friends and I skipped the morning meeting, squeezed into a 
three-wheeled tuk-tuk and off we went. As we turned down a dirt road, we bumped 
over some railroad tracks and entered the other side of town, a woman swept the 
dirt floor or her hut, a street vendor sold betel leaf and a lunch shack served 
food on banana leaves. I was surprised how poor Triguna's neighborhood seemed.

Triguna's office is an open-air pavilion with about ten rows or long benches 
filled with thirty or forty patients moving one by one from the bench in the 
back to the bench in the front of the room where Trigunaji sits at a desk 
taking everyone's pulse. He spends one or two minutes per person. His son sits 
next to him. As Triguna takes someone's pulse, he says something to his son in 
Hindi who writes it on a slip of paper and hands it to the patient. There isn't 
an intake form to fill out. You just sit down on the bench in the back of the 
room and snake your way up to the front.

There's no apparent physician confidentiality or privacy. Whatever Triguna says 
to you, everyone gets to hear. One long-time TM teacher complained to Triguna 
about chronic headaches. Triguna told him he had a hot brain and should look at 
the moon.  If it had been me, I wouldn't have wanted a dozen people who know me 
hearing that.  I don't get headaches but whenever I see the full moon, I think 
of "Bill" and stare at the moon for a minute or two while I tilt my head to the 
right to see the rabbit.

It's my turn to see Triguna and the big moment has arrived. He takes my pulse 
and says, "Health good. Bowel bad." I almost burst out laughing. "Exactly," I 
thought, "that's why I'm here."  His son hands me a slip of paper, a 
"prescription" and tells me to take it to the "pharmacy" on the other side of 
the road, a walled-in courtyard with an open space between two small buildings. 
One of the buildings has tonics, elixirs, potions, ashwagandha waters, anything 
liquid in a bottle. A friend got a bottle of what she called sheep's pee. I 
don't know if it was really that but it sure was some god-awful smelling stuff.

The building on the other side of the courtyard houses the powders, gallons of 
herbs in tin cans. Everything inside the building is completely visible from 
the courtyard. You hand the "pharmacist" your "prescription" and you can watch 
him set to work.  He lays out a line of 4-inch square papers on a long wooden 
table. He reaches for a can of herbs, and puts a dash of the herb on each of 
the papers.  He gets another can and another and repeats the process until he 
fills the prescription. He then folds all the little papers into tidy packets 
and places them into a paper bag that says "AM" and into another bag, that says 
"PM." I paid seven rupees, about a dollar for the herbs and nothing for the 
doctor's pulse diagnosis. Triguna never accepted money for his services; it's 
against his tradition, which makes it an honorable profession by any measure.

Triguna's herbs were bitter. I managed to get the herbs past my taste buds by 
mixing them with a small shot of tea, bolting it down and then chasing it with 
a big cup of tea.  Never drink anything is India that isn't boiled. Anyway, the 
herbs didn't seem to work and I ended up taking Western medicine, which knocked 
out the bug in my "bad bowel." 

Jai Guru Dev, Trigunaji, rest in peace.



 
   

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