LETTERS FROM INDIA
Varanasi
August 1998
Visa Renewal Trip to Kathmandu, Nepal
My one year visa to India expired. I had hoped that the Home Ministry in Delhi would grant me an extension. But they shot down the 20 plus applicants in front of me and did the same with me. My next option was to apply at the Indian Embassy in Nepal.
4 of my friends, professors at other B-Schools in India had to renew visas at the same time. For the 48 hours prior to departure, I expected email from the other guys telling me where to rendezvous with them, but no messages came. So it looked like I would do Nepal alone.
As soon as the passenger exits the front doors of the Kathmandu airport terminal, he is mobbed by dozens of touts representing hotels and taxis, or just wanting to carry your bags. Before going through the front doors, I surveyed the array of signs being waved on sticks promoting various hotels. I picked the name of a hotel given to me by a friend, then put my head down and walked slowly but firmly towards my target. There was shouting and shoving, hands grabbed at my luggage and arms. Once I got close enough to the tout representing my selected hotel, the hotel staff drove off the failed competitors and I was escorted to their van.
The next morning I started the 7-10 day application process and took lunch at one of the many Southern California style restaurants in the Thamel District of Kathmandu. Many American and European cuisines are represented there, started by ex-patriots. Thamel is the meeting ground for aging hippies who never surrendered their 60’s counter-culture revolutionary ideals, incredibly fit trekkers and mountain climbers, and college age people who were born 25 years too late to be flower children but yearn for the lifestyle. Thamel caters to the needs of this clientele:
-Trekking shops with the most sophisticated high-tech climbing gear available.
-Mountaineering guide services.
-Street people offering “smoke”, counterfeit Swiss Army knives, and Tiger Balm.
I arbitrarily decided to eat Mexican cuisine. The first Mexican restaurant I came to was the Northfield Cafe. It has an outdoor garden with tables and chairs set up around the trees and shrubs. I took a seat and 2 minutes later my friends walk in. Nature knows best how to organize.
The visa application takes 5 minutes to fill out, then a week or more to await approval. What to do in the interim? Kathmandu offers some nice stops along the path. Pashupatinath Mandir is a Shiva Linga temple of huge renown. The “Non-Hindus Not Allowed” rule is strictly enforced, but viewing this temple from the outside is a nice experience. There is a hill just across the Bagmati River that overlooks the temple. From it the visitor can see the huge doors of beaten silver and the silver roof. Usually a Shiva linga is a smooth oblong black stone. The Pashupatinath Linga has 4 faces and is swayumbudh, self-created.
The temple is surrounded by the usual assortment of vendors selling rudraksha, spartik malas (crystal necklaces), flower malas, brass water pots, sweets, etc.
My MBA students were very excited about my visit to Pashupatinath. “Sir! Sir! Bring us back some string!” At the mala shops strands of string in various colors are sold. After purchasing, the devotee takes it to the deity and the pundit on duty presses it to the statue and recites some shlokas. The string now contains the blessings of the Lord and is worn around the wrist or neck until it frays sufficiently to fall off. So, let’s see: 230 students, plus 20 faculty. “How much for 250 string?”
“5 rupees each, sir.”
“No, no. I want the Nepali price, not the American price.”
“This is good price, sir!”
“OK, see ya.”
“Wait!”
“What?”
“Rs 2”
“Sorry”
After several more haggles, finally I get the price the tour guide says is fair: “OK, Rs 1”
“OK, give me 3 whole bunches.”
On this my second trip to Nepal I discover “Singing Bowls”. One day I pass a street vendor with brightly polished metal bowls about 6” in diameter. They don’t look like stainless steel or brass.
“What are these?” I ask.
“Singing bowels. 5 metals.”
“Panch Loha?”
“Yes. Listen.”
The vendor takes a smooth wooden wand in one hand and rests the bowl in the other. He places the wand on the outside rim of the bowl and using a stirring motion rubs it around the circumference. After a few orbits a beautiful bell tone builds up. A few more orbits and it reaches a peak volume. Varying the angle and speed of the stirring motion produces different sounds. One way emits a clear high tone another emits simultaneous middle and low tones of hauntingly beautiful resonance.
Everywhere the western traveler goes he is greeted by very friendly Nepalis saying, “Namaste!” These folks then pitch an irresistible deal involving your rupees going into their hands. After awhile, we suspect “Namaste” is Nepali for “Gives us your rupees.”
Pokhara, Nepal
After a couple of days we have seen the mandirs, visited the Buddhist stupas, bought gifts for friends, and sampled the cuisine at Sausalito East. We decide to take the tour bus to Pokhara. Pokhara is the staging area for the Annapurna Mountain Range. The foothills immediately adjacent to town seem huge by Kathmandu standards; but these foothills seem like footstools to the enormous Himalayas just beyond them.
One of the nearby foothills is a 2200 meter peak called Sarankot. Our tour bus arrives at 2 PM. We eat a quick lunch and decide to try to reach the El Cheapo guest lodges near the top of Sarankot before 6 PM sundown. We depart at 2:45 PM and walk for a half hour before starting up the incline. Another half hour before the slope gets serious.
Painted markings on the rocks inform us how far to the top. We see we are at 2 hours. We are cutting it close. But decide to go for it.
3 locals are walking with us. They live 1/4 of the way from the top and offer to guide us to the top if we are too slow to get there before dark. The locals look like half Sherpa, half Guerka and all mountain goat. Even at a slow pace we are sweating and puffing; for them this walk is a yawner. The timings to the top are all in English, so we figure they are for the benefit of gringos like us. Despite numerous rest stops we hit the lodges at 5:45 PM.
We check into Didi’s Lodge. Didi is Hindi and Nepalese for “Big Sister”. Every woman and girl in both India & Nepal is called Didi by someone. Didi checks us in. The rooms are Spartan: concrete shell, corrugated tin roof, no running water, common toilet, hard mattress, no sheets, comforter and pillow.
We each take a room. Other rooms are occupied by a group of Europeans and a group of Japanese. When one of the other guests lights up a cigarette, we can immediately smell it. By 11 PM things settle down and we get some sleep.
Dawn is 6:30 AM. We arise at 6 AM and make the final ascent in the dark. As we reach the top we see a faint huge white something in the sky above us to the North. Gradually the sky gets lighter and we can discern the snow capped peaks of our gargantuan neighbors. According to Upanishadic and Puranic stories, mountains are the outward physical form of celestial beings with incredibly long life spans. Each of our neighbors seems to have a silent, powerful personality that makes it easy to believe that these are conscious entities.
Each night hundreds of trekkers, hippies, climbers, tour groups, and spiritual seekers fill the many lodges of Sarankot, then make the final climb to the top before dawn: Rush hour traffic in the Himalayas. By 8AM the crowd has descended for breakfast and our group elects to do our morning meditation program up here in the refined prana (pure air) of the mountains. We all enjoy extraordinary meditations that morning.
We descend to Pokhara and rent a canoe. We paddle out to the Varahi Mandir on a little island in Phewa Lake. Varaha is the Boar Incarnation of Vishnu. In another age, Earth had sunk low in the cosmic plane. Vishnu incarnated in the form of a boar, balanced the Earth on the tripod formed by his snout and 2 tusks, and lifted it up from the cosmic gloom into the light. Varaha is the 3rd of Vishnu’s 10 incarnations.
Next day we take the tour bus back to Kathmandu.
After 10 days of waiting, my approval for an Indian visa comes through, but not for the other guys. They go to the consulate and she approves them without confirmation. We silently wish she had just approved us the first day since telexed confirmation appeared not to be really needed. It seems that the Indian system is one of management by exception: the applicant fills out a form indicating home address; the application is telexed to the Indian Consulate nearest to that address; if the Consulate records show no problems with the applicant for visa renewal, the staff will either do nothing or telex back approval. In most cases they opt to send no messages. So if after a suitable length of time the Indian Embassy in Nepal receives no objections, it can assume the applicant is OK. Now we can return to India.
Varanasi, India
After we get our visas in Kathmandu we decide to return to our colleges via Varanasi. Varanasi is the ancient name for the city the Mogul’s named Banaras. It is also known by its Vedic name, Kashi. It is Shiva’s city. Legend has it that this city is never destroyed, not even at the end of each cycle of creation. Kashi is said to sit on the middle fork of Shiva’s trishul, trident. Archeologists think it is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world. Its unbroken history goes back before the Roman Empire, before the founding of Rome, before the Acropolis of Athens, before the Egyptians built the Sphynx and Pyramids at Gaza. The philosophies and culture are the same now as then: Brahmin pundits still chant the Veda, seekers and enlightened still make their pilgrimages here, people of all castes make their final journeys here to die and be burned at the smashan, cremation grounds, on the East side of town. Banaras is a happening place.
Varanasi is more Indian than the rest of the country. The myriad of densely packed pathways winding their way through the city, the overpopulation, the Hindu temples and Moslem mosques all contribute to a culture that is very Indian.
Varanasi is a flash point. The Shri Kashi Vishwanath Mandir is virtually an armed encampment. Indian soldiers surround the mandir (Hindu temple) and the masjid (Moslem mosque) next door. In the last 1000 years Kashi Vishwanath has been destroyed 4 times and mosques built on each of the predecessors. The current Kashi Vishwanath is mandir #5; the mosque next door sits on site #4. Each access to the mandir and mosque has metal detectors and soldiers armed with shining automatic rifles with large ammo clips.
The evening of my arrival in Varanasi, Dr. Larry Geeslin, a colleague of mine working in Lucknow, and I go for a walk. He is a veteran of 4 previous trips to Kashi, and has studied Diana Eck’s superb book, Banaras, City of Light.
We walk 2 blocks to Dasashwamedha Ghat. Dasashwamedha is where a king performed 10 Horse Sacrifices. A devotee taking bath at this spot is said to gain the same benefit as performing 10 Horse Sacrifices.
The path spreads out to 30 meters wide with a railing in the middle and becomes steps leading down to the shore. Each step has a shabbily dressed old man or woman lying there. “These are beggars who have come from all over India to die in Varanasi and thus obtain final liberation,” Larry tells me. “A fund has been established to pay for their cremation services.”
We turn left, North, at the river and head downstream on Mother Ganga. The Ganges runs Southeast through most of India, but a bend in the river bed has it running North here Varanasi. This is supposed to be very auspicious. Just as in Jyotish, Indian astrology, a Graha (planet) moving retrograde (reverse of its usual path) through a Bhava (house) conveys special significance, so does a river temporarily reversing its course signify auspiciousness. For many reasons, Banaras is considered blessed.
After about 10 minutes Larry points ahead to some bonfires far up ahead. “Those fires have been lit continuously for thousands of years. They are the funeral pyres of Manikarnika Ghat.”
A strange thrill runs through me. In the West, the dead are buried. Christians believe that at the end of creation, all the bodies of everyone who ever lived will return to life and then stand before the Son of God for judgment. Burial is the accepted norm. It is considered the “decent thing to do.” I am familiar with it. Cremation is unfamiliar to me. It is strange. Images of animal flesh barbecued on an open fire come unbidden to my mind. After seeing so much death and destruction on the 6 O’Clock News for so many years, am I capable of being shocked? Do I feel a faint twinge of horror?
We walk forward. 3 fires are burning. I do not see charred remains of human bodies. All I see are large fires. I do not smell roasted flesh. I smell the sweet odor of chandanam, sandalwood.
Pilgrims bathe in the Ganges before sunrise. I get up before dawn and head to the river. Hundreds of boats are already filled, boatmen rowing tour groups up and down stream. Indians are bathing and brushing their teeth in the refuse laden river water.
I walk up to Manikarnika Ghat. In the dawning light the fires seem so homey. Logs of freshly cut sandalwood 1 foot thick by 7 feet long are criss-crossed to a height of about 3 feet. As the fires burn, the wood and ashes are swept closer together until it resembles small campfire. The entire ghat is clean and fresh smelling.
There is a nice small Shiva Mandir overlooking the ghat. The old Brahmin who tends it is indifferent to my presence. From there I catch site of western tourists approaching the smashan, cremation grounds, with looks of horror on their faces. Feeling a little smug with my few minutes more experience I am faintly amused at their undisguised repugnance.
The Doms are a caste of people who have conducted the cremation services for thousands of years. The whole time I was at the smashan, I did not ever see anything that shocked my western sensibilities. The bodies are carried on a palanquin born by 4 of the Doms. The body is wrapped head-to-toe in a thick shroud, usually encrusted with gold brocade. First stop is submersion in the Ganga. Then it is placed on the pyre of wood, more wood placed on top, and ignited. It takes 200 kg of wood for one cremation. By the time the shroud burns, the remains are indistinguishable from the kindling. Everything appears normal and natural. From dust we come, to dust we return. It takes 4 hours to burn the physical remains.
In his book Aghora, at the Left Hand of God, Robert E. Svaboda describes how the Aghora yogis perform sadhana, spiritual practices, at the smashan in order to remind themselves of the ephemeral nature of this body. Bodies are not built to last. After watching a few turn to dust, the watcher realizes the evanescence of the body. There is something more to this life than the concerns of the material, there is something permanent and eternal to life and it lies deep within the transcendent. It is consciousness itself.
The feeling of the place is one of peaceful dynamism. A constant stream of mourners and tourists passes through, the Doms are busy carting firewood, the merchants are selling shrouds and sandalwood powder, and the pandits are performing services. All is orderly and active, yet serene and peaceful.
Several years ago I went to a Des Moines, Iowa cemetery to pay my respects to a college buddy of mine who had passed away. I mentally said a few words of farewell, but they seemed superfluous. So I sat and meditated for a few minutes. I left both the Varanasi smashan and the Des Moines cemetery feeling a sense of fullness and completion. Life has purpose. Death of the body is not death of the soul. Rather, death of the body is merely a transition from one form of existence to another.
The first stop in Varanasi is supposed to be the Kala Bhairav Mandir. Bhairav is the terrible aspect of Shiva. All of the rest of creation has Yama as the God of Death. In Kashi, Yama is forbidden to enter and Bhairav fulfills the function of judge and executioner. Going to Bhairav’s temple is like checking in with the magistrate or police when you first enter a city. The Bhairav Mandir is deep in the old city. The streets are only 2 to 3 meters wide. They are filled with children, cows, whizzing motor scooters, and beggars. Everywhere you go are small shops fronting on the pathway with a vendor seated on a mat looking out. Customers look into the shop, usually only 1 meter deep and point to what they want. The buildings on either side of the narrow paths are several stories high and run continuously without break. This plunges the walkways in a perpetual gloom. The paths are intricate. It requires questioning locals at every turn and fork to find the Kala Bhairav Mandir.
According to Hindu belief, when a person drops the body, he is judged by Yama’s jurisprudence operation. His bad karma earns him severe punishments in various hells. When he finishes his penance, he goes to the heavens to enjoy the fruits of his good actions. When his good merit is exhausted he reincarnates for another go around. However, if a person is lucky enough to die in Kashi, he receives a much more intense torture at the hands of Lord Bhairav, but the duration of punishment is much shorter, and, here’s the kicker, he doesn’t need to come back. Moksha. Liberation. Final emancipation from the cycle of rebirths. Despite the intimidating reputation of Lord Bhairav, the elderly pujari greets us warmly.
Now that we’ve checked in with the top cop in town, we are free to explore his city. Our first job is to find our way out of the labyrinth. It takes us 45 minutes and frequent stops for directions to go less than a mile to the nearest major street. I suspect that Bob Dylan wrote “All Along the Watch Tower” after having visited Varanasi: “There must be some kinda way outa here / said the beggar to the thief / there’s too much confusion / I can’t get no relief.”
The Golden Temple, Shri Kashi Vishwanath, is another “Non-Hindus Not Allowed” temple; but unlike Nepal, the issue is negotiable. We stop in to see the CEO of the temple foundation. We are permitted to enter the mandir. It is a smallish temple for one so famous and controversial. In 5 minutes we have paid our respects to the culture.
Across the path and down a few meters is a very dark alcove. In the darkest corner of that alcove is a black backdrop with a small silver mask seeming to float above the ground at eye level. On the floor are tiny flames rising above small ghee lamps with an iron ring in each. This is a Shani Mandir. People who have difficulties in their Jyotish chart with delays, lameness, infirmity, or low station in life come here to propitiate Saturn. Each of us drops Rs 2 for a ghee lamp.
We next pay our respects to Kashi Karavar. It and Manikarnikeshvara are mandirs where the visitor enters from ground level, then looks down a deep well to see the Shiva Linga 2 or 3 stories below. Devotees are not permitted near the Linga, only the Brahmin priests officiating at the mandir can get close to their god.
Next we visit Siddhi Vinaayak, a Ganesh that grants the Sidhis, super-normal abilities. It is an orange-painted abstract representation of the elephant-headed, human-bodied deity that removes obstacles. Some mandirs have deities that are so well wrought that they appear to be works of art. But they are not art works. To followers of santaanam dharma, the Hindu faith, these objects are a physical manifestation of the deity. Not a representation, not a substitute, but the actual god. Some of the idols are very abstract, unformed, even deformed crude approximations. This Ganesh is one of these. No raiding conquerors will steal this deity to take back to a foreign capital, no concern necessary that precious gems and metals will be removed from it. Yet to his worshippers, this icon is a powerful manifestation of God.
After several hours of finding our way along dim streets, we need some sun and fresh air. So we head for the Ganges and hire a boat to paddle us around for awhile. The view is magnificent. Incredibly ancient buildings, the first 2 stories are sheer rock that protect against the annual flooding. The ubiquitous satellite dish antennas top most buildings giving an odd contrast of antiquity and modernity.
The Sangam at Allahabad
There is something subtly alluring about Varanasi. I feel like I could come back here again and again yet not grow tired of its variety. But after 4 days it is time to move on.
I am making my way back to Delhi via train. Next stop is Allahabad. Allahabad contains one of the 4 Khumbha Mela sites of India. It is located at the confluence (sangam) of the Ganges, Yamuna and the now dried up Saraswati Rivers.
Larry and I get a boat to take us across to the mela grounds. We stop midstream for the ritual bath in the sangam. Hundreds of people are bathing from small boats at the confluence of the 2 visible rivers: the deep green Yamuna and the muddy brown Ganges. As the 2 rivers flow together the distinction between the 2 streams remains very visible. Many of the guidebooks state that this sangam at Allahabad is the most auspicious bathing spot in India. The pre-Moghul name of Allahabad was Raj Prayag or Prayag Raj, that is, King of the Sangams.
Every year a small mela is held in Jan.-Feb. with approximately half a million people attending. Every 6 years is an Ardha Mela of about 5 million people, and every 12 years is the Khumbha Mela of 12 million people. January to April of 2000 is the Mahakhumba Mela that occurs once every 144 years. It is expected that over 20 million people will attend.
Think of a state fair dedicated to spiritual matters. Every philosophy, creed, sect, guru, swami, baba, and procedure for attaining God realization is represented here. Mela-goers come from all over India to sample experience of the divine.
India has 4 melas, each located where the nectar of immortality spilled when the devas and the asuras struggled to possess the Amrit Kalash. The largest of these 4 sites is located in Allahabad. (The others are Nasik, Ujjain and Haridwar)
Also near the mela grounds is one of the residences of the Shankaracharya of Jyotir Math. The current Shankaracharya is a few years younger than I am. Larry wants to drop by his ashram and pay our respects. I am having difficulty imagining someone of my generation attaining the erudition and consciousness necessary to achieve recognition as the standard bearer for intellectual and experiential mastery of the Veda. What would I say to him? Fortunately for my spiritual deportment, the Shankaracharya is out of station and I don’t have to contend with the social niceties for dealing with saints.
