Another kind of eternity

Cameron Thomas Edwards
March 28, 2005
Berkeley, CA

Eternity

There are people, among them Alain Danielou and Ganesh Baba, who believe that Indian thought underlies most of what we call civilization in the world. It forms the esoteric core, handed down orally, around which exoteric religions and thought systems are built. Whether or not this is true, there is something about India that touched my soul in the way that great literature or art touches it, something eternal.

Sitting on the sunny balcony of the Sahi River View Guest House having breakfast one morning,



I met a fellow guest, a student of historical architecture. At the time I was reading Rana Singh's book, Towards the Pilgrimage Archetype (which I had just discovered downstairs at Indica Books without having any idea that Professor Singh was a close friend of Roxanne's and that we would be visiting him a couple days later).



I loved the idea that in Benares (aka Kashi) there is a great mandala of three concentric circles of 12 shrines forming pilgrimage routes in and around it. I felt I was seeing through the conspicuous decay to an ancient and glorious past. After all, Benares is often called the oldest city in the world.

Imagine my surprise when the architect told me that most of the older buildings in Benares date back only to the mid-18th century. It isn't the buildings themselves that are so old; it's the tradition. It isn't material surroundings that carry the stamp of eternity in India, though I saw very ancient temples in Bhubaneshwar, it's actions, like pilgrimage, and ideas.

And inaction. Compared to the west, India moves and changes very slowly. It is more receptive than active, more yin than yang. During a conversation about the current invasion of American culture in India, I heard someone comment, "India survived the Mogul invasion and adopted the best of Islamic culture, we survived the British Raj and adopted the the best of British culture. We will survive this invasion too, and take the best from it."

No wonder it feels eternal.

Liminality and synchronicity

The word liminality refers to a state of in-betweenness. In India, one is constantly aware of sharp contrasts: the rich culture and the poverty; the beauty and the pollution; life and death; the suffering and the joy. Religious references everywhere bring spirit to matter— on the dashboard of the taxi,



at the door step,



in the phone booth.



The proximity of opposites creates a mental and emotional space that is liminal; it is neither here nor there. A visitor, especially a first-time visitor like me, is pushed out of both realities into a third space, a liminal space in which one has little choice but to accept the two simultaneously.

And I think it is being in a state of liminality that opens one to synchronistic events.

Two photos, taken on the same day:

The first is our friend Durga riding her scooter and the second, the goddess Durga riding on her tiger.

Was the goddess able to manifest so patently because I stood at the threshold between mythic and material realities holding open the door?

Synchronicity

The last evening of our stay in India (not counting the 8 hours spent in the airport the following night) we were invited to the home of Jayant's uncle, Dr. Lokesh Chandra , a renowned scholar of classical Indian culture whose interest lies in its expression in other cultures and particularly in Buddhism.



A dignified and gracious man, Mamaji ("dear uncle") took us into his huge collection of art and texts, the International Institute of Indian Culture, and showed us a few the treasures stored there.



The collection, which was mostly acquired by his father, is housed in a complex a large rooms containing a labyrinth of gray metal chests of drawers which face each other around high tables. Mamaji picked up a wooden box of keys on heavy rings and walked briskly to a particular drawer. After unlocking it, he drew out a scroll wrapped in fabric and unrolled it on the table.

The scroll and Mamaji's explanation of its meaning astounded me thoroughly. It was a Japanese piece, the name and simultaneosly the image of Shiva in calligraphy.



The image on the scroll brought back the dream I had on our last day in Benares with exceptional clarity. "Here is the river," pointed out Mamaji, "and this is Shiva's hair." The stroke of the brush created a form so identical to my dream image that tears ran down my face as I looked at it.


I relate this incident because it shimmers with the magic that characterized so much of my experience in India. Where do such extraordinary experiences come from? Why was my whole month filled with examples of synchronicity ?

I have some thoughts on that to share but it's late, so they'll have to wait until tomorrow.

Commerce

We hired a car to take us from Delhi to Dehradun. In order to pay closer-to-an-Indian fare, we waited around the taxi stand for an hour or so. It would have been a great place to take pictures, but by then my American batteries had died and I was finding my way through the world of buying batteries in India. I took Krishna's advice to buy Duracell Plus only after discovering the hard way that the American custom of 'branding' is not respected in India. Apparently anyone can call their product "Kodak," or "Fuji," or whatever will sell.

The economy in India is very vibrant. Passing through so many different communities in autos and rickshaws, I thought over and over, it's capitalism in action!



The difference between capitalism here and capitalism there, as I see it, is that there, it's democratic capitalism, and here, it's increasingly totalitarian capitalism. There, there's something for everyone just about everywhere.



I saw rows of stalls sprouting up against the high walls of the new estates in the outskirts of New Delhi—the servants can't be expected to drive for everything the household needs. A folding table, a canopy and something to sell is all you need.



People, not corporations, are still supplying the people, though the corporations are making serious inroads, as the ubiquitous Frito-Lay's snack packets announce. But for now, the variety of stuff available remains stunning.



India is a shopper's paradise even to those of us willing to pay the non-Indian price.



But what about the poverty, you say. What about the beggars?

It's true that people in India seem to have their hands out all the time. In fact, I discovered that the asking for help seems to go right up the classes; people at each level are holding out their hands to those at the next level. But there's an explanation to this that makes sense to me.



It has to do with what has value. In India, theoretically anyway, there are advantages to being on both sides of the begging scenario. The beggar's position offers constant opportunities to be grateful, a state of mind that potentially moves you up the ranks in your next life. And the donor, of course, has the chance to be generous, which also gets points. Material goods are less important than your state of mind. The older person who gives up everything to become a renunciate, a sanyasin , is more respected than the rich man.

Ganesh Baba used to argue with my father, repeatedly telling him that the people of India were richer than the Americans because, no matter what their station in life, most Indians were happier than most Americans. I think Baba was right.

Chotiwala's gift

Rishikesh is a spiritual resort, like Benares and Bhubaneshwar, but up the Ganges a ways and considerably upscale. The Beatles visited it a few times in 1968 and liked it very much. So did I.



The second day of our stay the plan was to bathe in the river, but the weather was uncooperative. It rained most of the day, but that didn't stop some of the people we met there. And I managed to have my dip too.

There's a well-known restaurant in Rishikesh where we had several meals. It's called Chotiwala's, and Chotiwala sits at its entrance. Actually there are two Chotiwalas. One is real and the other is made of plaster. They're hard to tell apart.

The night before the planned Ganges bath I dreamed Chotiwala gave me a mantra. It was very long and I was surprised that I was able to memorize it easily. He directed me to go down to the river and immerse myself. I went out to the middle and let myself sink to the bottom reciting the mantra as I went down. I had to stay down there until I finished it, which was a long time. Fortunately it was a dream, so I could do it. I woke up as I broke through the surface into the air again.

That evening the rain stopped and Roxanne and I walked down to the river's edge. The sunlight was lovely



and the stones were out in their full glory. No wonder John Lennon wrote "The Happy Rishikesh Song" !

more Temples in Bhubaneshwar

We came back to Siddhi Madap from the 64 Yogini Temple,



and our fruitless attempt to find another guest house, hot and tired enough to nap for a while.

Voices outside the door woke Roxanne. Krishna, whose room was just opposite ours, had made the aquaintance of Raj, the young man who ran the mandap. They'd talked about the temples we'd seen and discussed the Lingaraja Temple, perhaps the best known in the city, and the only one off-limits to non-Indians. It turned out that a close friend of Raj's was a cook at the temple. Krishana had an idea. If Raj couldn't get me and Roxanne into the temple, could he perhaps get us temple prasadam?

Raj and his friend were happy to. A short while later someone came and carefully cleaned the marble deck between the two rooms. We were told to sit on the floor, and banana leaves were placed in front of us. The prasad , mixed dal and vegetables, excellent rice (aged ten years!), and coconut chutney with fresh pineapple, was brought over in the round pots in which it was cooked



and served on the banana leaves. I think it was the best meal we had on our whole jourrney.

Later that evening the two young men took us to a nearby temple, Mukteshwar , which, like the food, was the best yet. The intricate bas relief sculptures were pretty much intact, and such stories they told!



We returned late at night, when the engagement party was already winding down, to another meal prepared by the temple cook, just as good as the earlier one. Extraordinary.

Temples in Bhubaneshwar

After staying in the very modern, very clean city of Vizag (or Visakhapatnam - I don't know why it is that cities in India have so many different names), being in Bhubaneshwar was like going back in time.



To compound the effect, we stayed in the oldest part of the city in a hotel was really a mandap. (Now we know that a place called Siddhi Mandap is likely to be what it says, a mandap.)

Bhubaneshwar, like Benares, is a holy city. It is the home of literally thousands of small and large temples, most of them sitting beside sacred swimming pools of various sizes called tanks.



Our first night at Siddhi Mandap, the mosquitoes who live in the tank at our door in addition to the promise of an engagement party for 400 that evening convinced us to look for another place to stay.

Very early the next morning, we took an auto to the 64 Yogini Temple .



There are several 64 Yogini Temples around India, and the one at Hirapur is one of the smallest,



but it is gem nonetheless.

Afterwards we looked around to see where we could stay that night. Good thing that Ramakrishna Ashram didn't want us. It would have been a big mistake to leave Siddhi Mandap!

(to be continued in the next entry)

Lebenshilfe

For a long time now, ever since Ganesh Baba was first my teacher, I've considered synthesis a goal, no, not a goal: the goal, the ultimate goal. For Baba, it was the synthesis of ancient and modern science, of the secular and the spiritual, of the East and West, of nature and spirit, of matter and consciousness. Then there's the synthesis of the masculine and the feminine, sacred marriage in alchemy, not to mention ordinary marriage, and the kind of synthesis that produces new ideas and inventions. Synthesis is central to all creation and to the highest aspirations of spirituality.

Not surprisingly, my journey to India was all about synthesis. It was a coming together of years of a vicarious understanding with real life experience; it was the East seen through Western eyes. And, not surprisingly, many of the teachers we met talked, in his or her own way, about synthesis: Atman and Brahman, Prakriti and Purusha, spirit in matter and matter in spirit, bringing light to darkness and darkness to light.

But until I came to Lebenshilfe , it was all only talk.



Lebenshilfe is a school for developmentally delayed children and adults. There are some 440 students, aged 4 to 45, a staff of about 130, and many parent volunteers. The student:adult ratio seemed to be around 8:2:1, 8 students, 2 parents, 1 teacher. The extraordinary thing about Lebenshilfe is the way traditional folk arts, like the Tiger Dance, are used to bring out the best in its students.



Sarah (Saraswathi Devi), the founder and director of the school, has culled the best ideas for special education from around the world and put together a program that carefully assesses the needs and capabilities of each child and provides an individualized program that nurtures the child's talents while supporting his or her weaknesses.

A walk through the campus reveals students working closely with adults in sunny outdoor classrooms,



practicing drums, dance, violin, yoga, woodwork, and embroidery.



Many of the children are from the villages and many come from very low castes. They are all disabled. And at Lebenshilfe they all shine.

technology in India 2: Devipuram

As I reflect on my memories of Devipuram, I am hearing, through a good set of headphones and the miracle of mp3, the voice of its Guru, Amritananda reciting a mantra he taught us when we were there.



Paradox is evident everywhere in Benares: in the nearly boundless seam between life and death on the ghats, in the pairing everywhere of terrible pollution with equisite beauty, in the intimate relation of creation and destruction. In Shiva's city, paradox manifests big, archetypal.

In Devipuram, the Abode of the Goddess, it glares less.

In some ways, Devipuram was the most primitive place in which we stayed. We slept on cots under thin blankets in beautiful little domes,



and ate simple food mostly cooked on the floor. There was no electricity in my half of the dome. The dogs eat the garbage but the crows get it first.

At some point I wrote in my journal:

"Tuesday (?) (date?)

There is a small dog lying next to me, one of many, though this is the skinniest. Never have I seen such a thin creature, all ribs, every bone visible, a living skeleton.

I think she will die soon, because she doesn't have the strength to fight the other dogs for food."



Yet in the morning, when we climbed the hill to the highest of the temples and did yoga,



or in the evening, when we went up again to sing , it couldn't have been more beautiful.





The Sri Vidya tradition is based on the image of the Sri Yantra and its associated mythology and metaphysics. The main temple at Devipuram is a three-dimensional Shri Yantra, with 108 manifestations of the Goddess on its petals.



Another journal entry, notes from a book borrowed at Devipuram called Sricakram: Its Geometry and Metaphysics (G. S.Murty) begins with a drawing of an equilateral triangle inscribed in a circle. It reads,

"The center of a circle does not change no matter how many diameters are drawn - this infers the existence of an invariable among variables.

The triangle is a metaphysical symbol of the triad, sattva, tamas and rajas, the gunas - 'guna' indicates a rope or chord that can bind together two objects - according to Vedanta, the visible world is a play of the three gunas.

'Thus we arrive at the realization that the universe of multiplicity is supported by ONE invisible truth, the center of the circle.' p.15."

The Abode of the Goddess.

Train travel. What can you do?

The very first train we took in India was three hours late. Four of us, Martine and Christian just off the plane from Paris and Roxanne and I barely in India longer than that, met at the station in New Delhi at 6 AM. We left at about 9:45.

The cavernous waiting room of the station didn't have seats and the floor was already crowded with people, so we explored a bit and in time found the 2nd class waiting room upstairs, in which there were a few plastic garden chairs. Apparently some repairs had been done recently.



For the first leg of the journey, we traveled 2AC, which means our seats were in an air-conditioned sleeper car with two berths set up like bunk beds. Not bad. For the second leg the 2AC car was discontinued, and we were given seats in a 3AC car instead. Three berths on top of one another means that you can't sit up when the berths are unfolded.



We arrived in Benares at 6 the following morning. Walking single file behind a red-shirted porter with three pieces of our luggage on his head and one in his hand, we crossed the waiting room to the counter, where we hoped to get the refund due to us. We passed whole families sleeping on their luggage. Among the blankets, shawls, and papers laid in neat squares on the floor was one piece of newspaper. Aligned perfectly with the others, the only difference was that instead of a person sitting on it, there was a monkey.

Needless to say, the refund was not available. The proper desk would open at 8. "Eight?" Everyone chuckled. Not likely. The refund was substantial enough that Roxanne and I decided to wait. This time we found the cafeteria.



Roxanne managed to convince someone to open the desk and give us our refund a little before 10.

One of the differences between the west and India that struck me most is the level of patience, acceptance, in India. "What can you do," so often tagged on to the end of a story, is not a question — it's a statement. For me, being in a place where so much is accepted with equanimity was very comfortable, a state of consciousness I like. There's so much less tension when people are more willing to accept their lot: a refreshing change from bigger-and-faster-is-better, work-crazed America.

Acceptance, of course, has two sides. It does impede Progress, which is so central in the west. It is routinely blamed for having kept the caste system and other outdated customs like suttee in place.

But personally, I didn't mind waiting for trains. There's always so much to see, and sooner or later the train will come, after all. This is the way it is; what can you do?

Traffic

One of my first impressions of India, waiting in Newark for the flight to Delhi, forms the main metaphor through which I see road travel within India.

Bounded on two sides like the "line," traffic on the road moves forward steadily and organically at a level of organization much more complex than on western roads. For one thing, the modes of transport are incredibly diverse, a reflection of the intricacy of the culture. Then, each unit: car, truck, motorcycle, auto-rickshaw, bicycle-rickshaw, bicycle, ox- or buffalo-drawn cart, cow, elephant, pedestrian, dog, whatever, always fills the next empty space. There's an accepted hierarchy, a caste system, for who moves forward first. (Basically, more power wins, but power is a complicated concept.)



Except in big cities, you rarely see red lights, stop signs, or police, though more police than lights or stop signs. The traffic generally moves forward on the left, but an empty space is filled whether it's on the proper side of the road or not. Most vehicles don't have rear or side view mirrors, and what mirrors there are usually point at the back seat. Sounds pretty frightening, doesn't it? But it works. The trick is that each driver is only responsible for not hitting whatever is in front of him.



It is true that there are statisically more accidents in India than in many other countries, but not what you'd expect. Considering how crowded India is, the system works remarkably well. During my month-long stay, which involved quite a few extended road trips, I only saw an animal hit once— an aggressive lorry-driver cuffed the last cow in a herd crossing a country road — and we only had one taxi-driver whose style was truly terrifying. In general, I felt as safe as I do in the west, perhaps safer.

For me, the worst part of road travel is the pollution, both the noise and the air.

The noise is integral to the system. One is expected to honk the horn when passing or going around a corner or curve. It's considered polite and safe. So, day and night, horns are honking in India. Lots of them. Not very nice.

The air pollution is even worse. Except in big, sophisticated places like New Delhi, there are no rules about emissions. The smell of exhaust is awful. The yogic practice of khumbak, holding your breath, comes in very handy, as does the end of the dupatta (scarf) for covering your nose and mouth. And when you travel by rickshaw or auto, you're right out in the open, inhaling all that horrible stuff.

Still, it's easier and cheaper to get around Delhi without a car of your own than it is to maneuver the public transportation system in New York, and riding though the countryside in an auto or rickshaw is an absolute delight. As to the noise and crowds, as the Indians would say, what can you do? And, as to the air pollution, as an American I say, do something! Not soon, now!

Pilgrimage to Vindhyachal

On Thursday, when we five, Christian and Martine, Krishna, Roxanne and I



were together in Benares, we rented a taxi and went to Vindhyachal for a day. Our intention was to visit the central temple first, and then each of the three outlying ones that form an equilateral triangle around it.

Luckily for us, Krishna's family makes a yearly pilgrimage there, so he'd known the pandit of the central temple since childhood. We were warmly welcomed and served tea, and we had the privilege of using the pandit's immaculate toilet, a real rarity in that part of the world. Then, as we sat comfortably in his three-sided sitting room that opens onto the pathway to the temple, we were suddenly joined by seven gentlemen who looked like college professors to me. Since we were already seated in the sofa and chairs, they pulled up some of those plastic garden chairs you see everywhere in India. Then, without saying a word, they began to chant. The chant filled the space and resonanted so deeply that I felt like it rearranged my cells somehow or jiggled my molecules. Then, as abruptly as they came, they left.

The pandit explained that they were Brahmins who came once a week. We were most fortunate to have been there at just that moment. The Brahmins had recited a vedic hymn to peace .

Visits to the three temples on the vertices of the triangle followed. At Kalikoh, the monkeys interested me most.

At the next temple, it was Roxanne's friend, Dinesh Baba, one of the Aghori babas she interviewed for her dissertation.



I thought the last temple, Tarapeeth, had the best Nandi, the white bull who guards Shiva's temples.


And here is the mahant of Tarapeeth:

Really, the day at Vindhyachal deserves three or four entries. I didn't even mention the Hanuman Baba!

technology in India

The day we went to Konarak, near Bhubaneshwar, we spent a few hours climbing around on the temple and then Roxanne said, "There's a group of sadhus around here who do some great singing. They keep a dhuni. I've been there before. Let's find them."

A dhuni, she explained, is a sacred fire that is always kept burning. But it was the singing she wanted to hear. I wasn't so sure about leaving the temple grounds because we'd paid the non-Indian price to get in, which was ten times the Indian price, but we walked the perimeter until we could see, hidden by a berm of earth, a little village. Visible from where we stood was a cemetery and sure enough a very smoky-looking hut, definitely worth a look.

Not far from there we found the back exit to the temple, which was open (we could have saved paying the Indian or non-Indian price to get in if we'd wanted), so we went out and back around the fence to the village. As soon as we walked into the cemetery some young sadhus approached us and then an older one. He had long ash-laden hair tied up in a topknot and wore a long red shirt and lungi. Luckily they spoke one of the languages Roxanne knows, and pretty soon we were being ushered into the hut, which was incredibly black and smoky-smelling. At its center was a trianglar fire pit, on the sides low shelves with metal dishes and pots of them, and in one corner a bed. The ceiling was almost entirely black.



A straw mat was laid on the earth floor for us to sit on. The baba who kept the fire looked like he was in his late forties or fifties and spoke reasonably good English. It was the middle of the afternoon, so the fire, which he claimed had been burning continuously for 5000-6000 years, was down to embers. Roxanne asked him some questions about the singing (unfortunately that baba had died) and his lineage, and then he invited us to return at sunset. One of the younger men said something to him quietly to which he answered, "Of course they are sadhaks (seekers). Otherwise they wouldn't be here!"

.

We walked back to our guest house, found Krishna, and the three of us returned to the cemetery at dusk. The sadhus already were making a lot of noise when we returned, banging drums, chanting, ringing bells, wishing the sun well as it went down, but there was no kirtan-singing. Again we entered the blackened hut where we found the monk deep in meditation, his eyes rolled up so only the whites showed. We sat down on the mat and joined him in silence. After a while he came to and began a long chant while he scooped ghee (clarified butter) out of a little pot and threw it on the fire. The fire liked that and began to burn brightly.



When the chant was over, Krishna volunteered that his family used the same mantra every evening at dinner time and offered to sing a song for the sadhu. Krishna is quite an extraordinary singer and it was obvious that his song was a success. As Krishna sang, the sadhu slipped back into a trance, and so did Roxanne and I. We sat a long time, even after the song was done.

Imagine our surprise when the phone rang. I opened my eyes to see the sadhu leap across the room, pick up a cell phone from the bed, and answer it.

It seemed like an important call so we got up quietly and left.

Technology in India.