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Date:
March 1, 2003
I'm sitting on the balcony of our hotel. I watched the sunset
over the Ganges River for 90 seconds. I counted as a way of focusing
my mind otherwise my thoughts spin out of control and I might as
well sit in the hotel room. I cannot simply be. Wind is billowing
down the Himalayas and through the river gorge, resurfacing the
water in feathery ripples. Chanting from one of the ashrams fades
in and out with the gusts as do the gongs of bells from a nearby
temple as pilgrims try to attract the notice of their gods. I am
drowning myself from the inside out with coffee. I have a migraine
from my spiritual questing. For the past few days, I have: climbed
mountains to worship the gods; been smeared in ash and colored powders;
been sprinkled in holy water; worn half a holy coconut like a hat;
chanted for peace; eaten dirty sacraments of sugar and puffed rice;
bounced up and down until I bruised my internal organs; bent myself
in yoga classes in shapes that, until now, were inconceivable; swum
across the Ganges and back again; floated boats of marigolds, roses
and candles down the river; and, of course, I have donated heaps
of money to God's self-appointed representatives. All this in hopes
of peace and enlightenment. But the only peace I found was stopping
whatever torture -- even sitting in silence -- I was performing.
As I mentioned, Ięve given myself a headache.
I was struck with an idea. I visited one of the local gurus, ShantiMayi,
an American woman from Akron, Ohio. At the gate, I asked her shaven
disciple for permission to visit. I explained, –In short, I want
some spiritual guidance. Ięve bicycled nearly 28,000 kilometers
around the world on a spiritual quest. Ięve come to appreciate life.
I am not fighting it or running away from it. In fact, I welcome
problems and suffering to temper my soul. But I donęt know where
to go next. Ięve always felt a desire to contribute something to
world; to fulfill my greatest potential which, seems to mean [according
to the Hindus and Buddhists] enlightenment -- becoming atone with
the universe with God. But, I donęt think I can achieve even the
first step -- peace of mind. Nor do I believe I have a enough faith
to invest years of my life in what seems a gamble. Nor do I want
to eliminate duality from my life. No me. No you. Perhaps, my path
is not a spiritual one. I just want to live, to be human. I was
hoping Shanti -- being enlightened -- can see through my emotional
baggage or just ask God where my path lies.” The disciple deemed
this an important enough topic to disturb her guru but the guru
refused.
This is Lakshman Jhula, a suburb of Rishikesh, the self-acclaimed yoga
capitol of the world where the streets and river are swimming with all
manners of holy men (and a handful of holy Western women): swamis,
sris, gurus, yogis, saddhus saying things like, –Osho [the most famous
guru of recent times] was a mosquito. I am [disciples use the present
tense even if their guru is dead] Oshoęs disciple. What does that make
me?” Or, –Today, I saw an eagle fly into the city. Normally, crows
chase the eagles away. But this time they didnęt. I saw the crows
sitting in the trees. They were just watching the eagle circle. I
thought, •This must be an eagle with a message.ę”
This is the idealistic version of India. My general impression of India
is quite different. The majority of people live in bronze-age villages.
In the south, these people are friendly and curious but, I think, have
little time for spiritual endeavors. In the north of India, –Itęs a
people eat people world,” as the Indians say. The overcrowding is due
to the Hindus belief that by having their ashes scattered in the Ganges
they will be freed from the Wheel of Life and Death -- instant
salvation. Each of the cities, Delhi, Bombay and Calcutta, have more
people than all of Australia.
Once, Debbie and I left the sparsely populated Great Indian Desert, the
peopleęs attitudes took a turn for the worse. One morning, as I was
breaking camp and hauling my belongings to the road, about eight
Indians volunteered to help. In a blink, they grabbed my helmet, water
bottle, another water bottle, a soda bottle, my toothbrush, toothpaste,
sunscreen and scattered. With the help of an old man, I recovered most
items. Another day, I was mobbed by some mischievous schoolboys. They
wouldnęt let me fill my water bottles from the tap because the moment I
turned my back they began rummaging through my panniers. I tried joking
with them, being their friend, giving them candy, slapping hands, even
yelling for the adults, nothing stopped them. Wherever I moved the boys
would retreat like ripples but behind me they would advance either
holding my panniers, preventing me from moving, or grabbing my gears
and water bottles. I resorted to walking out of town backwards. It was
the only way to keep them on the run. Then they started throwing
pebbles until I was backed against a truck. Luckily, it was just
leaving and I drafted it out of town at 52 KPH.
I have been cheated, robbed, mobbed, stoned and run off the road so
many times in Northern India that I have bought a bamboo cane that I
intend to attach sideways to my bike with a red flag to keep the trucks
an extra foot away. It is a useful instrument to keep people from
skipping me in line or walking around me in a crowded street. Even the
cows, used to being beaten by food vendors, flee my approach. But, I
admit, the main reason I bought the cane is to defend myself from the
mobs. The mobs of people only understand the language of corporal
punishment. I have even seen holy men threatening people with sticks
and stones. But, I hesitate to use it. Once I lost my temper when a
young punk tried to run me over three times and succeeding ramming me
on the fourth attempt by stopping in the middle of the intersection, as
if to make a turn, and tricked me into riding around him. I was so
furious that I reached through the passenger window, grabbed him by the
sweater and yanked him into his girlfriendęs lap. I would have probably
yanked him out of the window had not lost my grip when his sweater
ripped. It was one of those situations where I feel as if my passions
run amok on auto-pilot and my brain is thinking, –What the hell are you
doing?” I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. But, it was
too late. He got out of the car clearly with the intention of
eliminating the infidel and suddenly, every Indian within sight,
hundreds, began mobbing the intersection. The hatred was infectious and
I was the white bullęs eye in the middle. Luckily, one man kept the
peace long enough for me to plow my bike through the crowd and make a
quick getaway.
My path to enlightenment is a long one. Fortunately, the road to Nepal is only
300 kilometers long.
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