Climbing Chamundi Hill (19 page)

Looking around the great bed—to him, Shiva's throne—he saw neither sandal paste nor betel for the ritual. He commanded Saumatri to bring all the proper items for the worship and was thrilled by her meek obedience. As the flames for the offerings flickered off her necklace, bracelet, and shining eyes, the moon arose—white as Shiva's teeth. Sangayya was meticulous with every detail, but Saumatri wanted to make him happier.

She summoned seven performers into the moonlit room, all of them beautiful women carrying musical instruments. One brought her mridangam drum; another brought a clarion. There were also a drone, a flute, and finger cymbals. The two remaining women—voluptuous and radiant—began to dance. As Sangayya proceeded with the linga worship, serving Shiva all night long, the women performed and danced beautifully, starting with the rare Raga Ranjani, with its sinewy solo, which is then joined by the mridangam leading to a suspensefully prolonged
syncopated beat. They played in the correct mood for the time of night, offering their art to God and their beauty to the young man.

Early in the new day's morning, the young man returned to the palace, glowing ecstatically like the fresh sun on the horizon. He saw my granduncle standing with some of the gentlemen who had returned from their own nocturnal affairs. Sangayya beamed at the group. “What an orgy! What debauchery! I can only regret, Uncle, that you were not there to enjoy the women. Please rest assured I was thinking of you the whole time. Tell me, sir, do these fine gentlemen—fine lovers, I'm sure—enjoy the same orgiastic pleasures in which I spent this last night?” He described in great detail the gorgeous Saumatri with her unusual symbols of devotion: the yellow ash, the white, smoothed-out rudraksha beads, her unusual truss and hairstyle. And he also recounted her profound theology and devotion to Parvati. The more he told them, the wilder was the laughter of the men in the group; they were all bending over, slapping each other on the back with shrill pleasure.

Tataji too smiled broadly, but his laughter was pure joy as he turned to the men. “Have you ever seen such simplicity and such strong devotion? Where else will you find a man who knows only Shiva as he seeks the pleasure of serving God above all pleasures?” The men all nodded in agreement and congratulated Sangayya.

“What a wonderful boy. I really liked him. But can you explain that space between a word and its meaning? Isn't it just another way of saying ‘perception'? You know, seeing or touching?”

We had just passed by a stunted banyan tree with aerial roots that would never make it to the ground. Too much rock, I thought, and the erosion on the steep slope had to be fatal. How did the tree get there in the first place?

The old man spoke. “No, my friend, not exactly. When we look at an object, say that eagle we saw earlier, the bird we see can be only what our senses grasp. It is never the object itself—you follow this?—but only as it appears to us. The mind controls every perception. It is the mind that reaches and holds on to objects like that bird, very much in the same way that a man who is drunk on todi reaches out to hold on to something in the dark.”

“You mean that we see with the mind's eye?”

“Yes, the mind's eye—excellent. Now, the name, ‘eagle' or ‘banyan tree'—or for that matter ‘rudraksha' or ‘pearl'—the name is neither completely arbitrary nor completely natural. Don't let our ancient philosophers fool you about this. You can call the rudraksha a pearl as much as you like—it will still fetch just a few paise in the market. And call your wife's pearl necklace ‘white rudraksha' in Varanasi's Vishvanatha Temple and they will ridicule you as a lunatic.

“But that still does not explain the ‘space' between the word and its meaning, does it?”

“Sorry, I'm meandering a bit. Language is special and subtle. It resonates between pure sound, ‘AAAAH,'” the old man grunted loudly, “and pure meaning, ‘ant.' One is a part of the universe like ocean waves, the other is an invented
game. Words resonate between these two extremes—that means they move back and forth. They do this quietly and unobtrusively: maximum sound one instant, maximum meaning the next instant.”

The old man paused for a while, and we stopped walking. He tapped on the ground with his walking cane and illustrated his words in the dirt. “Don't get me wrong. That motion has nothing to do with space, nor does it happen in time. It is more like something that happens inside a point, a theoretical place that must exist if there is to be a line, but a place you can never see.” He drew a line between several points.

“And the line in that metaphor is the equivalent of the river that purifies?”

“You are a wonderful listener, but just a bit off, young man. The line too is a theoretical or conventional reality, whereas the river is Shiva consciousness. Let me give you another example. Can you say Kathakali? Ka-tha-ka-li.”

“You mean the Kerala dance? Katakali.”

“Yes, well, close enough. Notice when you say the word—say it again—notice how your breath behaves. Sometimes it blows free, and sometimes it stops. It stops on the ‘t-h,' does it not? Actually, somewhere between the ‘t' and the ‘h.' How long does it stop?”

“I don't know, one tenth of a second?”

“Perhaps. Who can measure? But there is a point—an instant—where the stop gives way to the next aspiration. The point of absolute stop is an instant between the previous aspiration and the next one. When you say the word ‘Kathakali,' the word flows out as though there are no stops, and yet without the stops there would be no word. This is a metaphor for the point of consciousness I am discussing. A
whole world hangs on it, but it is only a point, less than an instant.”

“Okay, I think I follow this.”

“Sangayya was gifted at slowing things down to such an extent that these points stretched out, and they consisted of nothing other than Shiva himself. The instants of consciousness—mere points—were more real than the reality pegged onto the instants—convention—and for the boy this was Shiva.”

“But why call it Shiva? Why not call it just consciousness?”

“Do you remember that story about Shiva and the holy men? Where the great god danced like a crazy madman?”

“I sure do.”

“That's your answer, then. You see, Shiva is the most contradictory and confusing of gods. He is one thing and its opposite: divine and worldly, sexual and ascetic, sublime and crazy. He is the very embodiment of paradox.”

“Wait, let me finish the thought. The instants of consciousness are also paradoxical because they do not really exist, and yet everything that does exist hangs on them!”

“Yes, bravo! That's very impressive. You see, there is no line without dots, no consciousness without either instants of awareness or the ‘screen' on which they are manifest. But neither of these exists either.”

I suddenly recalled my last night in Pune. I had been up for over two days due to an all-night wedding in a village the night before. My back was worse than usual, and I was nervous about the flight back home. I went up to the roof to meditate, facing west for once—away from the moon. I decided to focus on the pain and almost immediately entered a state of dissociation. The pain did not disappear,
but it became someone else's pain—a stranger sitting slightly in front of me, below and to the left.

After some time my consciousness floated back in the direction of the meditator, whose back was turned to me, and entered his body. But my consciousness did not take over the body. Instead, it began to ride piggyback on the mindless body. I should have been a whole person then, body with mind. But the fit was a bit off so the body acted first and only then did my will intend to perform the act. The man stood up, then decided to stand, moved a hand to scratch, then willed it. I decided to urinate over the side of the roof, only to discover that it was already happening. I laughed, then intended to laugh. Each action took place before the thought it was supposed to obey.

The gap was precisely one instant—less than a second—but to me, at that time, it seemed huge. It was enough time for a loop of silliness that made me feel like a boy in Naples hanging on to the back of a trolley that was going very fast where it had already been. A decision emerged to decide to intend something in order to break the cycle. But that made things worse. It sent me spiraling downward, and I became dizzy and had to shake my head. I found myself sitting in the original meditating position on the roof, facing the west, still away from the moon.

I never gave this episode much thought—it didn't seem particularly “mystical” and it was hardly much of a psychedelic ride either. Now it made perfect sense—it was a bit of Sangayya consciousness.

I'm no philosopher and hardly a mystic. Important insights, what few I've had, have always just snuck up on me—like stupid thieves who break and enter to bring things in. This was such a moment, and the instant I became aware
of knowing something new, I felt a gust of cool wind from the west. It ruffled my hair and dried my sweat.

“What are the other gods like?” I asked the guide earnestly.

The guide removed his woolen cap, but this time he dropped it into his bag. As the wind played with his thick white hair he said, “Let's look at Vishnu.”

THE WEAVER WHO BECAME GOD

Under the mountain range, which you can see only if you go as far as the horizon, is a modest city called Pratapa-Vishama. The king of that city, some time ago, was a short and fat fellow—King Brihatsena. He was a pretentious man and even his name—“Mr. Large Force”—was pompous, for his army was minuscule. He kept only as many soldiers on hand as was necessary to put down a rebellion likely to erupt due to the onerous taxation he imposed on the poor citizens.

The royal palace towered ostentatiously over the city's main boulevard, where merchants and craftsman spent the better part of the day trying to sell their wares. If the city was known for one thing above all else, it was the excellence of its carpenters, masters of the trade who worked the ample supply of walnut and sandalwood from the nearby forests. Even competitors admitted that their boats could
outlive the river, and that their cabinets were more valuable than the most precious contents. Down that main boulevard, two friends—a carpenter and a weaver—enjoyed strolling in the evenings, when the light softened and made even the palace glow kindly.

One day, on the eve of the annual spring festival, the two friends were strolling arm in arm, and the sun was beginning to set behind them. The weaver, whose name was Prasad, spotted the king's daughter standing on the balcony high up above the boulevard. That very instant he was smitten by the little arrows of the love god, Kama. The girl, Sulocana, was fair-skinned with long slender limbs, and her eyes glowed with a brilliant golden light. As the weaver looked up at her, she was scanning the street absentmindedly, completely oblivious to individual faces in the crowd, but Prasad felt as though their eyes met.

“Did you see that?” he asked his friend. “She noticed me. She likes me.”

The carpenter looked at his friend with amusement. “Yes, my friend, of course she did…and she blew me a kiss too.” But teasing failed to derail Prasad's strange new obsession. He rambled on about the previous life he must have shared with the princess, fretting that the distance and barriers that now separated them undermined the handiwork of destiny. In the following days these fantasies mushroomed into elaborate plots; to his bewildered friend all of this suggested a profound delusion. “She loves me, I know it…but she's locked up in that palace. I have to get there. We must unite!” Every evening
was now spent loitering beneath the balcony, which was far too high to climb up to.

“You must help me, my friend,” he begged—melodramatically lowering himself on his knees before his best friend. “If I don't get up there, she and I will both perish.”

The carpenter was a sensible man and did his best to disabuse Prasad of these dangerous delusions. But he was also a perceptive young man who knew where to draw the line between friendship and mothering—in short, he decided to help his poor friend. And, in fact, he happened to rank among the elite carpenters of the city; perhaps he was the very best. One day he came up with a plan that required all of his great skill. He constructed an airplane that was shaped like a bird, the very image of Garuda, which was Vishnu's own vehicle. For wings he used the astonishingly light sal wood, which he sliced into thin boards. Then he made a discus that would have pleased the great Protector of the Law. Meanwhile Prasad managed to obtain the type of clothes that Vishnu might wear on a nocturnal visit and dyed his skin blue—he was a thorough and determined impersonator.

The aircraft was superb. It took off with a short run into the light breeze, gained height, and carried Prasad swiftly toward the clouds. The weaver fumbled with it for a while until he learned how to glide, rise with the hot streams, and surf the cooler drafts. Made fearless by love, he quickly became skilled enough to navigate the plane directly onto
the royal balcony. There, Sulocana was stunned to witness the descent of Vishnu himself in his very own body. The god was smiling beatifically if a bit breathlessly, then surprised the girl by speaking her name. “My dear Sulocana,” he said, “I flew down from the distant heavens because of your great beauty. I had to see for myself who this mortal was about whom all the divine damsels were gossiping in envy.” The ploy worked charmingly and the girl proved a willing victim. They spent the evening making love in Sulocana's quarters, and thereafter the great bird landed on the balcony every evening.

One night a chambermaid could no longer contain herself and excitedly told the king and his wife about the nocturnal visits their daughter was enjoying with a great celebrity. The royal couple hid behind a curtain, where they witnessed, to their endless joy, the visit of Vishnu with their very own Sulocana. They softly withdrew from the room until the couple finished their play, but they did not go far. As soon as the weaver had settled into his little nap, he felt a soft tug on the foot of the bed, which made him bolt upright.

“A thousand apologies for waking you up, O Lotus-Foot Lord,” the king huffed. “We could not help noticing that God himself chose us for his family. The honor is too great, O Infinite Pervader.” He looked over at his wife, who motioned him vigorously with her hands to go on. The king, sweating and breathing hard, continued, “Of course our beautiful daughter was promised to another, to a mighty king no less, but
…that is…you being God, that is no problem. No problem.” He bowed and genuflected.

The weaver finally shook the cobwebs from his eyes and caught on. But what could he say? What would Vishnu say? He stared dumbly at his new father-in-law, waiting for a chance to put on his trousers and disappear.

“Very well, My Lord—son, I shall leave you to your rest. Please make yourself comfortable in my modest home.” He followed his wife out, both pivoting stiffly at the doorstep and bowing one more time.

The next day King Brihatsena declared war on the three kingdoms that surrounded his little state. In his confidence he did not even bother to address his withered little kadamba tree, under which stood the neglected royal shrine, before setting out for battle. It was a wonderful opportunity to capitalize on the greatness of his new son-in-law—after all, the coffers were nearly empty. The three neighboring states were far more powerful than Brihatsena's ragtag army, but they surrendered without a fight on Vishnu's reputation alone, for the god was now a member of the household. A quick agreement was drawn up for handsome tributes, which made Brihatsena euphoric—for all of a fortnight. Soon he began to regret just how easily it all came, and thought about how much more he could have obtained with just a little bit more effort, perhaps even some bloodshed. So he doubled the tribute, then quickly tripled it.

The neighboring kings had avoided war because they feared taking on Vishnu—it meant certain destruction. Now they felt they had no choice; their very existence was sapped by the greedy tyrant. So all three rounded up their forces, and the combined army marched on Pratapa-Vishama. The king, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, had by now lost all touch with reality, and he personally led his meager forces out of the fortified city to meet his enemies on the battlefield. He was quickly routed.

Bleeding, his clothes in shreds, the king managed to limp back into the city and quickly up to his daughter's quarters in the palace. “Darling,” he whined, “where is that wonderful husband of yours? We're desperate for his help outside the city—it's a massacre out there. Please summon him, honey.” The weaver was just then taking a nap in the bedroom. His young wife tiptoed in and gingerly shook him awake. As he stretched and yawned, she filled him in.

Prasad was snared in his own trap. He realized instantly that his day had come, that death was at hand. Moodily he stared at his beautiful, innocent wife. It's not her fault, he thought. In his heart he whispered good-bye. As the princess watched, the weaver packed up his Vishnu gear and heavily mounted the wooden contraption. He managed to take off from the balcony and, barely missing the town's one minaret, he flew over the city walls toward the enemy forces. “I am dead, I am dead,” he repeated to himself. Then he began to yell, “Run
away! Vishnu's coming!” raising his voice as best he could.

Far above in the divine mansions, the gods were watching the sad little comedy with interest. Vishnu's supporters had been critical of their friend for letting this masquerading weaver get away with his mischief for so long, debasing the great god's reputation. They now split into two camps. Some said, “Let him die, Lord. It's time for this fraud to pay his debts.”

Others responded, “Don't let him die, Lord. His enemies think he is you; they believe God himself is flying overhead. If he dies, they will think they killed you!”

The first group responded, “He's a scoundrel, sir. If he wins today, his master will become greedier and there shall be no end to this charade.”

The others said, “Find another time to stop the charade, sir. This is basically a decent man—don't let him die.”

Vishnu listened carefully and found that both sides made sense. “Let me see for myself,” he announced, and in an instant he became a murmur inside the heart of the weaver. He found himself inside a blindingly black, bottomless pit of terror, a fear as deep as he had never seen in his entire creation. The poor weaver's heart was imploding in his chest, sending urgent signals of despair to his brain. But deep inside was a minuscule grain of courage—a speck of determination. The Pervader of the Universe came in for a closer look at that tiny place. Suddenly he realized that the weaver was thinking, far beneath his own
conscious awareness, “I shall die like a god, I shall die like a god. Even Vishnu will be proud.”

At that very instant the god Vishnu saturated the person of the weaver and his flying machine with his own being—the weaver became Vishnu. He routed the invading armies, driving them noisily from the gates of the city. When his work was done, he flew back to the palace, into the arms of his beloved.

“First Shiva, now Vishnu—you know, I never could figure out your complicated polytheism.”

“Well, my friend, that's a matter for another day; we are too far up the mountain now. But rest assured, this is a story about faith, not about God.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“In the previous story one-pointed consciousness was the subject: the simplicity that serves as the gateway to higher states of being. But this was not the river yet, not a flow. There is still discipline and will, and your experiences, though transcendent, are still isolated. Do you agree?”

I was flattered by his tone, and I nodded, though I wasn't really sure.

“The move to the next stage is far more difficult, my friend. What comes after gateway consciousness is sheer terror, the terror of complete dissolution.”

“Why is that?”

“The move from one-pointed consciousness to stream consciousness feels like death, death followed by rebirth. Some people experience this movement as exhilarating. To you it will be sheer terror.”

“But why?”

“Because of your karma, dear boy, the stuff of your soul. It's not that you are too passionate, though you are. And it's not that you're too judgmental and harsh—especially with yourself. Mere habits can be broken. You are carrying a load of pain that is so deep that it makes up your very fiber. Your American psychologists might say that this pain is locked up in the deep subconscious—but that's not a very happy image—I never liked the basement metaphor. It's more like DNA: substance mixed with form. Even the burn in your bare feet cannot remove the more essential pain. You come to depend on living this way, leaning on your suffering, using it to sort out the world into good and bad, right and wrong. The move to stream consciousness ends this old pattern—and so it feels like dying.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

“I know because you communicate it. Your nightmares for instance, those huge black snowflakes that drift down from a pale blue sky, threatening to swallow you. Night after night you wake up on the floor next to the bed, shivering in cold sweat, curled up like a fetus. They started long before your accident, when the flakes became fiery—no?”

“I don't see how you could possibly know about my dreams. That's uncanny…”

“This stage—if you make it this far—will be the worst crisis of your practice, my friend. Your brief moments of euphoria when consciousness settles down through meditation will be followed by something worse than even the fear of dying. In fact, I think death doesn't frighten you enough. This will be more like absolute dissolution, eternal incarceration in a pitch-dark closet, psychosis.”

“Eternal?”

“Who can say how long? Certainly longer than you'd like.
But listen to the story. Somewhere at the core of that crisis a faith will sustain you. Not belief—that's too shallow. Belief is always about something: ‘There is a god,' ‘The sun will rise.' Faith is both more and less than that: a simple affirmation of being—optimism in the face of chaos. You have no idea it's there, and you must face the terror before that faith opens up. When it does, you will be flooded with divine consciousness, a radiant grace.”

“Is that moksha?”

“Don't be silly. Of course not.”

We climbed quietly for some time, one step after another, slowly. Then I gathered the courage to ask, “What will it be like after I enter that new realm of consciousness?”

“I can't say, and if I could, I wouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I did, you would end up creating precisely what I suggested, which would eliminate the miracle of grace.”

“Are you saying there is no one objective way of experiencing this state of consciousness?”

“It is different for everyone, and it can shift wildly. It is not even a ‘state,' as you put it. The only thing that may be said is that unhindered consciousness obeys no rules. Some are immersed in deep love; others disappear to themselves without a trace. The possibilities are endless.”