Desolate in Delhi
My stay in the Valley of the Saints was drawing toward its inevitable close. I
accepted this
without concern, even though I could not remember having been as happy anywhere
as I
had been here, beside the swiftly flowing waters of the world's most sacred
river. I had
been living a life of constant satsang among the saints, sadhus, and swamis,
and working
daily with the brahmacharis translating the 108 discourses of Brahmanandaji.
However, I
had also enjoyed the freedom of the lone traveler to explore and investigate,
poking into
obscure corners of a place that might have been better off if time had
forgotten ita
possibility that disappeared without a trace when the Beatles arrived in '68.
No longer the pristine sanctuary of its legendary past, Rishikesh
nevertheless remains
a place where the real and the unreal can be compared like tomatoes at a
supermarket. I
had been generously treated to both.
The Gangadharishwar Ashram, my home for nearly six weeks, is located on
the west
bank of the river, exactly across from Maharishi's ashram to the east. Like
many of the
ashrams in Rishikesh, it has a dual function: first, as a home for those in
full time pursuit
of Supreme Knowledge, and secondly as a retreat center for householders and
others who
can only come for weekends or summer courses.
One such family from Delhi came to the ashram shortly before I
leftfather, mother,
daughter, two sons, aunt, and nephew. Late one afternoon a few days after they
arrived, I
watched as a trespassing monkey chased the little girl wildly around the inner
courtyard ,
to the intense amusement of her father, uncle, brothers, and some of the
workers at the
ashram. I suspect he was in love.
The next morning I was sitting in the sun beside the river when the
young lady sat
down beside me. Her name was Kanika. In the course of our conversation, which
covered a
surprising amount of ground in a fairly short time, she told me that she really
liked
studying Sanskrit because it was so easy. I flinched, but only on "that quiet
level," so she
didn't notice. I asked her how she liked mathematics. Just fine, she told me,
math was also
easy. I asked her if anything in school was difficult for her. She paused a
moment and said,
no, everything was easy. I was starting to feel awed by her radiant
intelligence, almost
forgetting that I was talking with a ten-year-old. Then I asked her what she
liked best in
school, and she told me that reading stories was her favorite activity. Her
favorite stories?
Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella.
We met by the river again the following morning. Kanika sang me a hymn
from the
Christian school she attended in Delhi, and I sang "Long Black Veil," the only
song I could
remember from beginning to end. A few days later my little friend and her
family left the
ashram. Her father, Mukesh, asked where I would be staying in Delhi and when I
would
arrive, and then they were gone.
My own departure came shortly thereafter. The most difficult part was
saying
goodbye to Swamini Maneeshananda, who had been my dearest friend and teacher
during
my stay at the ashram. At 75, Mata Ji had been at Gangadharishwar for 27 years.
As I sat in
the back seat of the taxi , she reached through the window and gently touched
my facea
rare blessing from a Sannyasi, and especially poignant when given by this one.
She had
recently told me that she felt she had fulfilled life's purpose, and now she
was only
"waiting for the body to drop." I certainly hoped she wasn't in any kind of
hurry, and as the
taxi wound its way through the village streets of Purani Jhadi, I finally
realized how
reluctant I was to leave.
The Maha Kumbh Mela was still in progress at Haridwar, and the train
station was
packed with sadhus and pilgrims. I took the Shatabdi Express to Delhi, arriving
late on
Wednesday afternoon. Then I checked in at the Namaskar hotel, just off the Main
Bazaar in
the Pahar Ganj, a low rent commercial district west of the main railway
station.
Thursday morning I went back to the railway station to buy my ticket
for the two-day
trip to Bangalore. On the way back to the Namaskar I bumped into Mukesh, who
had
looked me up as promised. The next day he came back to accompany me on various
errands I had to run in Delhi before leaving. We took an autorickshaw through
Connaught
Place and south along Janpath, past the India Gate and deep into the southeast
part of
New Delhi, where I had located a photo lab that could process my film quickly
and cheaply.
Then we headed west across town to visit a friend I had met in Rishikesh.
The pollution in Delhi is among the worst in the world. I had heard
that a day of
breathing in Delhi is equivalent to smoking 20 packs of cigarettes, so I found
no reason
to object when Mukesh offered me a smoke. However, he couldn't conceal his
disgust later
when I bought a bede and smoked it.
The afternoon wore on. As we headed north again, a peculiar thought
arose: I am
leaving this world, a voice inside me said, and the voice was my own. I have
since been
told that this is a perfectly reasonable thought for anyone traveling by
autorickshaw in
India, but somehow it seemed more profound and insistent. No, I did not take it
as a
premonition about leaving the body. I knew full well that this "vehicle" still
had a few good
miles in itthe problem was that there was nowhere left to go.
The dirt and the noise seemed more oppressive than ever, and the
endless clouds of
diesel fumes and carbon monoxide didn't help. But it was more than that. In
the world to
which I was presumably returning, I could think of nothing that had the
faintest bit of
charm left in it. Would I continue to write? Why bother, when I really had
nothing to say?
Would I seek fulfillment in a relationship? What would be the point? None of my
toys, none
of my enthusiasms, none of my old haunts appealed to me in the least.
We continued jolting and sputtering northward on Janpath, past Sonia
Ghandi's
palace with its armed guards at the gate, rolling into Connaught place shortly
after five
the peak of the rush hour, a literal and figurative descent into the maelstrom,
where the
noise and the intensity of the traffic are simply unimaginable if you haven't
experienced
them. It's probably as close to hell as you can get without a one way ticket.
As we got closer to the Pahar Ganj, the enormity of my loss continued
to reveal itself.
There was no bliss of the effulgent Self, no immanent merging with the Supreme,
only the
certain knowledge that the life I had lived was gone. The thought came again: I
am leaving
this world.
Mukesh dropped me off at the entrance to the Main Bazaar, and a few
minutes later I
was back at the hotel. As I climbed the steps to my room, I realized that I had
just enough
time to meditate, pack, and eat before catching the train to Bangalore.
I settled into a bleak and empty meditation. After about ten or fifteen
minutes there
was a knock on the door. Someone on the other side informed me that I had a
phone call
downstairs at the desk. I made my way down the narrow marble steps, vaguely
wondering
what fresh insults the universe was concocting to further crush my spirit.
The manager handed me the phone.
"Hello?"
The voice in my ear was sweet and familiar. Suddenly the cleansing
waters of the
Ganga were flowing all around me, and the brilliant morning sun of Rishikesh
was
sparkling in every wave and ripple.
"This is Kanika. I've been missing you
"
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