Why Does the Naked Baba Need an Umbrella?

Before I get to the naked baba, I'll pick up where my last entry left off... So much has happened in the last weeks that I am bound to lose myself in the attempt to recount it all, but I will try anyway.

2nd July, 2009

Dressed in my oldest salwaar kameez suit, I swallowed my fear and boarded a bus for Chamoli, a dot on the map that seemed like a good place to start. I was determined to continue walking, and from Chamoli I could walk west to Kedarnath or north to Badrinath, two of the four major pilgrimage destinations in the Uttarakhand Himalayas.

I walked only a few hours before I decided it wasn't such a great idea after all. Waiting for me in each new village were 50 staring Indian men, all eager to know if I was alone. I could feel my chest tighten as they asked me over and over, "akele? akele? akele??" I could tell them no - akele nahin - but what evidence did I have to back that up? It was just the sort of scenario I wanted to avoid...arriving in an unknown place and announcing to all the men that I was alone.

I freely concede that it was at best ambitious and at worst naive for me to imagine I could walk the roads alone. I may be a determined sort but I am not stupid; early the next morning I flagged down the first available jeep. It was headed for Badrinath.

You might recall that I have been to Badrinath before, with Omar the Spiritual Speed Racer and his faithful companion Usha (see photos from May). We stayed two nights - just enough time for me to visit the temple and get groped by a stranger - before we headed back to the kesh.

My jeep driver, Jagdish, had a kind face, and after three hours on the road he offered me a room at his family's home in Mana, the last Indian village before the Tibetan border. I remembered that I quite liked Mana during my last visit and readily accepted.

Soon I was settled into my new room in the village, a spartan affair with just enough space for two twin beds and a hanging light bulb. The local peoples were fascinated by their new neighbor; five or six of them crowded into my room to get a closer look.

As they stood there looking me over, I reminded myself once again that, as Indian culture does not have a concept for privacy or personal space, there is really no point in demanding it. You can try - as I and many others have in the past - but it is a lost cause. And as it is my choice to inhabit this alien place called India, it follows that I must be willing to relinquish my western comforts, including my personal privacy. But this, I confess, is an ongoing challenge...

. . . . .

Stepping into the small village of Mana is like stepping back into centuries past. At first glance, the peoples reminded me of Nepalis with their style of dress and the way they carry heavy loads using baskets attached to their foreheads. But as they made very clear to me, they are not Nepalis, Tibetans, or even Indians...they are Bhotias. A friend and I tried to clarify this point further, but the term "Bhotia" seems only to refer vaguely to some peoples of Buddhist decent.

And now seems an appropriate time to explain why there are no pictures to accompany this tale...

In the interest of minimizing my load, I decided not to carry my camera. It was, in fact, a surprisingly difficult decision. But I rarely take pictures anyway - something about it just seems so wrong - and leaving it behind seemed like a good exercise in non-attachment. So now I will have to make up for it with actual words...thousands and thousands of words...

After several days I met a young German boy (hereafter to be known as "Shepherd Dan") with whom I was able to freely roam the mountains around Mana. Together we explored all the local gufas (caves), waterfalls, valleys and one magic forest called Lakshmi Van.

Lakshmi Van intrigued us because it was a forest located above the tree line. We thought this unlikely and were compelled to investigate further. After 8 kilometers of a rather treacherous uphill climb - including one near-vertical stretch of glistening white sand dropping directly into the massive, rocky Alaknanda River below - we finally reached the magic forest, which turned out to be a patch of about ten trees.

If the "forest" itself left something to be desired, the path to get there more than compensated. I was especially fascinated by the thousands of sheep and mountain goats roaming the landscape; standing in their midst was, for me, akin to an out-of-body experience. Shepherd Dan was somewhat less impressed.

Only 22 years old, Shepherd Dan had the diplomatic air of a wise old soul. He had been living in Badrinath proper (3-4 km from Mana) for several weeks and introduced me to all the local ashrams where we could take food with the babas for free.

I really enjoy the ashram dining experience; everyone sits cross-legged in rows on narrow strips of burlap, chanting and singing as the ashram workers distribute plates and cups of water...jai ram shri ram jai jai ram...then come the large metal buckets containing standard ashram fare: copious amounts of plain white rice...jai ram shri ram jai jai ram...watered down lentils...jai ram shri ram jai jai ram...and chapattis (Indian wheat-flour tortillas). If we're lucky we also get a "vegetable," (usually a miniscule serving of spiced potatoes). And if we're really lucky, we also get something sweet, such as halva (semolina fried in oil and drenched in milk and sugar).

If you'll notice, this meal is 95% carbohydrates. It's cheap and good for babas, most of whom have waists the size of my thigh.

So while I'm not entirely sure why - is it the camaraderie? the simplicity? the marriage proposals from ashram staff? - I do love to eat in ashrams.

At some point we met an eccentric American guy named Romas who convinced us that we could sleep under a rock at the base of Neelkanth mountain (6,600 m / 21,654 ft), only 6 km from Badrinath proper. For some reason this seemed like a good idea, so we packed our warmest things and headed up the valley.

The venture turned out to be the most unexpectedly magical experience of my life.

Along the way we met several cave babas, including one Japanese who has been living in Badrinath for the last four years in a small but first-class cave with a great view of the mountain. He made us chai while we listened to the BBC on his shortwave radio.

(random aside: I used to have some impression of the BBC as being somewhat more "objective" and reliable than other news outlets, but in Koji Baba's cave I suddenly understood why it is simple propaganda just like all the rest. It's amazing what becomes clear if you can just get away from it for a while! I'm tempted to expound my case further, but I have no alcohol and, well...politics no longer falls within the scope of this blague.)

Koji Baba had fashioned himself an instrument - a one-stringed bass guitar, if you will - from a large stick, one string, a couple of screws and a plastic bottle. Shepherd Dan pulled out his mandolin (actually not a mandolin, but a similar instrument from Greece, slightly smaller and with only three double strings) and, after rendering a few songs, presented the instrument to Koji Baba as a gift. It was an emotional moment that I cannot hope to capture in words. Thank you, Shepherd Dan, for your inspired example of selfless generosity, an experience I will never forget..

As we continued on our way, we could see and hear Koji Baba rocking out on his new instrument (must be quite a thrill to go from one string to three!), his silhouette bouncing along to the music as he danced on the rock in front of his cave.

Further along the path we saw a giant brown and white eagle, and then we saw many of them. We watched in awe as they climbed to six or seven thousand meters (18,000+ ft) and then, with wings outstretched, proceeded to glide down, circling effortlessly through the air for ten or fifteen minutes on end. I suddenly understood the significance of phrases referring to "where the eagles fly." They were majestic and peaceful and inspiring to witness. Later we found some fresh eagle feathers, the size of my head and fluffier than anything I could imagine. I wanted so much to keep them, as a memento of this impossible valley, but in the end I left them in the crevice of a huge rock. Some things just can't be possessed.

At some point we stumbled upon a patch of wild strawberries and soon we were all crouched on the ground, munching the tiny red berries as quickly as we could gather them. What they lacked in size they made up for in flavor, and I turned into a giggly nut, thrilled by the specter of wild strawberries growing all around me. I kept wondering...is this really happening? Are we in a storybook fairytale?

I could describe the wild horses grazing peacefully on the mountainsides, or the small patch of furry white, star-shaped edelweiss flowers, or the vast waterfalls and looming glaciers, but I'm no Steinbeck, and you've got plenty of other things to do. So I'll just say that Neelkanth valley was memorable and leave it at that.

. . . . .

But this is India, after all, which means that there are plenty of Indians creating memories as well. That takes us out of the fairytale genre and into the realm of science fiction/horror.

My first moment of horror came early, on my second day in Mana. The morning began innocuously enough; I awoke to a beautiful sunny day, stepped outside to brush my teeth at the water tap alongside my neighbor ladies, and decided to head up to Vyas Gufa.

Ved Vyasa was the legendary author of the Vedas (sacred Hindu scriptures), and supposedly he authored a few things in this very cave, hence the name. I climbed up to the cave and planted myself next to the two babas hanging out there.

One thing I love about India is that you don't have to do even a single thing for the adventures to begin...

I was hoping to continue up to Mujhkund Gufa, where supposedly Lord Krishna had left his footprint. But the babas told me I would need a guide, and they clearly weren't volunteering for the task (they were more interested in smoking chillum or playing volleyball with the Indo-Tibetan army guys). So I contented myself with observing the environs.

Slowly more people began arriving and four men inside the gufa began playing the harmonium and chanting, their voices broadcast on loudspeakers outside the cave. An ornately decorated Naga baba from Shimla - Hari Om Giri Baba, who I had already met several times before - arrived and took the spot on my left. I joined him in chanting and clapping to the music while organizers prepared the fire for a havan ceremony. I assumed it was some kind of holiday, which is not unusual because every day is a holiday in India.

Soon, a young man in a black sweater, glasses and a dhoti (a sarong for men) sat down on my right and said, "My guru told me to come talk to you" (how's that for an opening line?!). He turned out to be Rahool, an Indian from Gujarat who grew up in LA and was spending a month in India with his guru. Hari Om Giri Baba didn't appreciate Rahool so much and gave him the evil eye while we chatted. Soon it was time to go inside the gufa for the start of the ceremony.

I was surprised when 30 people managed to cram themselves into the small dark cave for the opening ceremonies, and a little anxious when the influx of bodies continued unabated. As the air thickened with incense and body heat, I decided it was enough and began pushing through the mass of bodies in the direction of the cave entrance. I was relieved to get out, until I realized that outside it was even worse...

Somehow, in the span of less than 20 minutes, thousands of Indians appeared and started moshing in front of the gufa. A sea of people pushed and shoved each other to get closer to the gufa entrance and I was going in the wrong direction. I managed to squeeze my way to a stone ledge nearby and take refuge on top of it. From there I could make out my Shimla baba, beckoning for me to come where he was on top of the gufa, but already it was too late. Bodies upon bodies precluded any movement whatsoever. I spotted Rahool in another corner, but he was gesturing for me to stay put.

It seemed that more and more people were arriving, and airspace was running out. Then I saw what the fervor was about; two Swamis - from Andhra Pradesh, I learned later - were slowly making their way toward the gufa.

Holy men are not to be touched, so they moved with a small cushion of airspace around them as their devotees allowed them to pass. They made it to the top of the gufa and waited for the microphone and loudspeakers to be adjusted.

Meanwhile the masses were turning ugly. As more and more people shoved their way forward, some began resenting my position on the stone ledge. I fought them off as they tried to grab my clothes and hair and pull me down. I screamed at them in English, calling them animals and refusing to budge from my spot. At some point, a woman was pulled beneath the crowd. Three or four of us tried to pull her back up, but the crush of bodies made it virtually impossible. I began to fear for my life.

By now Shimla baba was also indicating that I should stay put. But this was a moot point, as there was not a single place for me to go.

Finally one of the Swamis began speaking...in Telugu. Now, I don't need to tell you that I don't speak Telugu. So you can imagine my state of mind, trapped on a stone ledge in the now-blazing sun, inches from a mass of sweaty bodies just waiting to suck me under, and subject to a speech I had no hope of comprehending. Every ten minutes or so, a few people in the crowd behind me would become irritated and start tugging on my legs or clothes. I ignored them and gripped the stone harder; there was no way in hell I was going anywhere.

After nearly an hour I had pretty much given up any hope of early escape and was daydreaming (my trusty method of mental escape) when I noticed Rahool had forced his way to within two meters of me and was motioning for me to follow him. By now the crowd had settled into a rather listless state, depleted by the sun or perhaps just enthralled by their guru's words. I decided to take my chances and dove into the crowd shouting "chapal, chapal," hoping to locate my shoes and escape before the masses could suck me under. After miraculously managing to locate both my shoes, I stretched out my arm towards Rahool, who grabbed me and literally dragged me out of there.

While individual Indian people can be sweet and charming, Indian crowds are scary as hell. One of the reasons I dislike them so much is because they force me to get aggressive. It's everyone for himself; push and shove or get pushed and shoved. I can't help but think back to D.C., where you can get ahead if you're just willing to step on everyone else.

. . . . .

During my ten days in Badrinath/Mana, I managed on four or five occasions to visit Taptkund, the hot spring bath near the main temple.

At first I was shocked to witness the writhing mass of half-naked Indian ladies shouting and shoving each other to get to the water. Had the water been a bit cooler I could have waded in and escaped them altogether, but as it was I had to fight for my spot at the edge just like everyone else, and believe me this was no easy task.

These Indian ladies had no qualms about grabbing my bucket from my hands, or my soap, or shoving me out of the way if it suited their needs. I invite anyone out there with knowledge on the subject to assess my claims, to defend and/or explain the mentality of these beastly women, because I was (and am) nonplussed. They were worse than animals.

By my last visit to the bath, I had grown cold and cynical. When someone grabbed my bucket, I grabbed it back. When someone shoved me to the side, I shoved back. When an Indian woman complained that I was splashing water, I shook my hand dismissively in her direction. When another one bitched because I wasn't adequately covered (the water, like most everything else in these places, is holy), I shouted back with sarcasm, "that's because I'm taking a bath!"

Clearly, it was time to move on.

. . . . .

Shepherd Dan and I agreed to hitch hike to Kedarnath, our next holy stop on the pilgrim route. We spent our last day making the rounds and saying goodbye to all the characters we had come to know and love. Early the next morning we set out walking in the hopes of catching a ride to Joshimath, a town three hours away that was rumored to have both cake and a working internet shop.

At first many jeeps and cars stopped, but only so the Indians inside them could get out and pose for pictures with us (we must have posed for hundreds of photos in the span of one week). We walked for 30 minutes in the rain before a jeep filled with young Sikh boys from Punjab finally picked us up...

. . . . .

And that, my friends, is all I can manage for this installment. But now that I am back in the kesh (emotionally and physically exhausted enough to stay put for a while), I have plenty of time to continue this tale...as well as expound on all the new thoughts and insights generated by my latest adventures on the road…

Of course I’ll be back, because I'm sure you're all dying to know why the naked baba needs an umbrella (feel free to speculate if you think you have an answer...)

Still (barely) clinging to sanity and still (barely) practising non-violence in the South Asian Subcontinent,


LMA
ॐ शांतिः ॐ
(Om Shanti Om)