Climbing Chamundi Hill (4 page)

“Yes, I've heard this often in Varanasi.”

“Varanasi? What were you doing there, if I may ask?”

He seemed to have a gift for ignoring my impatient tone of voice, which only forced me to play by his rules. I told him that I was living in Varanasi and working as a biologist. The Ganges, unfortunately, was a fine place to study if you were interested in polluted marine ecology. I'd been there for a year. The old man nodded vigorously, as though we had something in common.

“Ah, the pollution! I see…have you found much of it? Our Mother Ganga is said to be ever pure, you know.” His accent suddenly became exaggerated, as though he was mocking a foreigner's imitation of Indian accents. His eyes, I suddenly noticed, were a startlingly clear green—like a cat's.

“I'm afraid you've been misled. It's not very pure at all. It's got high levels of chemical pollution, organic, industrial, farm runoff—you name it. Just the sewage…You can imagine the health hazard to all those people who go into the river every single day…”

The old man broke in, “If I may ask, why did you choose this type work?”

“Lots of reasons. I don't know. I suppose it's intrinsically interesting for a biologist. Maybe it's important. For now I'm just trying to finish my doctoral work in ecological biology—inland marine ecologies.”

“But why Varanasi? Why the Ganges? Were you unable to find polluted waterways in America?”

“Touché,” I said, feeling irritation travel up my spine. He was nosy and he kept begging for permission to ask, then apologized for asking. I didn't feel like letting him poke around in my life just because he had told me a story. “I'm not sure. I've been to India before, but I wanted to stay a bit longer.”

“I understand. With your permission, let's get back to the leper…Do you think he might heal?”

“Okay. Sorry.” My heart wasn't really in this game, but he was waiting for some answer, so I spoke halfheartedly, academically. “There's a documented connection between psychological facts, say depression, and physical conditions such as infections. But this case, leprosy, is extreme. I mean, you see, leprosy is a disease of…”

“Yes, of course,” he interrupted again. “What do you think the story is about?”

It was a dramatic shift, but I went right along. “Betrayal. Sin and punishment. Maybe nobility. I have to say, though, it reminds me of one my grandmother's favorite stories. It's a Russian tale, a parable actually, she loved to tell us.”

“Would you like to tell it?”

“It's very short, and I'm no good at this. Just a little story about a man who falls into a well and clings to a bush that grows out of the wall. The plant gradually slips out, so he knows his time's getting short. But to make things worse, two mice—black and white—come along and start gnawing
at it. That's basically it. I don't remember how it ends. I suppose he falls down. I think it comes from Tolstoy's
Confession,
so he probably does die…You know those moody Russians.”

“Your grandmother was Russian?”

“No, not really. She was from the Ukraine—Kiev. My paternal grandparents came to America when their revolutionary dreams went bust in the late 1920s.”

“And how did she, your grandmother, explain the parable to you?” There was that teacher tone again. I decided to ignore it.

“My grandmother replaced her communism with enlightened humanism, then existentialism. She was a depressive. To her the story was about the absurdity of life—you know, a short burst of terror followed by eternal darkness. Just like her marriage, I suppose.” I heard a bird call in the trees—a parrot I thought, but I couldn't spot it.

“And you, do you agree with that?”

I did not want to commit myself to a clear-cut answer. He was poking around again and this was too close. “I guess so. Maybe.”

“And you think this story I just told you is similar?”

“Well, there's a fall down a cliff followed by a moral breakdown and a punishment, something like that. So I saw some similarity. You don't think so?”

“You're quite astute, for a scientist.” He giggled softly. “Of course, you can say a lot about India, but never accuse us of being absurd. My countrymen, you see, do not recognize empty space—a vacuum—precisely the sort of thing your grandmother dreaded. You've seen the walls of the temple at Somnathpur, no? Every square centimeter is accounted for. This one is a story about a world full of things, animals,
fruit, intentions, and errors. And every single thing means something. Everything is connected to everything else like the tree vines in that forest in the story.”

“So there is no randomness, no accidents or tragedy?”

“Not really. But don't get me wrong, friend. Of course, that does not mean that all's well in our world. On the contrary, things are usually very wrong. Listen to this story.” He stood up stiffly, and as I followed him up the steps, he told me the following tale.

THE BRAHMIN AND THE GOAT

On the banks of the Godavari, a magnificent river—the very Ganges of the South—a Brahmin was once getting ready to perform a sacrifice for his ancestors. He was a righteous and learned man, jewel of the three Vedas (he has mastered the Vedas and lives by their example), and a magnet for students from as far away as Varanasi. He commanded his students to prepare a goat by taking it down to the river, bathing it, hanging a garland of flowers around its neck, feeding it with grain, and in every other way consecrating it for its ritual beheading.

The students did as they were instructed. They bathed and groomed a large goat, and just as they were ready to garland it, the goat burst out in laughter—a long and ringing laughter, like that of a human being.

“What are you laughing about?” asked the shocked students, but the goat kept laughing. “Tell us what it is, or else the Brahmin will be very angry!”

At those words the goat stopped laughing and began to cry. He moaned and sobbed like a grieving parent and refused to respond to the students' questions. Finally he said, “Take me to your master and ask me in front of him.”

The students led the goat to their guru and told him what happened. The man looked at the goat with amazement and asked it why it laughed and why it cried. This time the goat was quick to respond.

“As your students were bathing me and getting me ready for the sacrifice, I suddenly remembered my past lives. I remembered that long ago I had been, just like you, a Brahmin who knew all the Vedas and all its secret rituals. I remembered that one day I performed a sacrifice for my ancestors in which I beheaded a goat. For that one crime I was condemned, through
karma,
to live five hundred lives as a goat, each ending with a beheading. I have now lived all but this one life, and today I shall end the punishment and return to life as a man.”

“I am very happy for you, dear goat,” said the Brahmin. “But then, why did you cry?”

The goat paused before answering. “I was thinking of you.”

A chill ran down the Brahmin's back. He had thought the ritual texts made him safe, but now he realized that if the goat should die, his own fate
would be sealed. So he said to the goat, “Do not worry, dear goat. I shall not kill you.”

The goat laughed again. “You have already consecrated me. The wheel of karma cannot be stopped.

Whether you resolve to kill me or to save me, today I shall die by the force of my own actions.”

The Brahmin instructed his students to free the goat, but to watch it carefully to prevent any accident. It was a clear and beautiful day, but as the goat stretched its neck to feed from a bush that grew under a cliff, a thunderbolt suddenly struck a boulder, which crashed down and decapitated the animal.

“So, my friend, can you say why the goat died? Whose karma killed it?”

It was a quick little tale, much less than I expected. We had only covered six or seven steps at the pace he was setting. The sun emerged from behind the cloud, and I squinted as I answered. “To me it looks like his own karma. He even said so himself: ‘I shall die by the force of my own actions.'”

“So he did. But isn't it also the goat's karma that causes the Brahmin's downfall? Despite the fact that he tries to protect the goat?”

“Yes, I agree, but that seems so unfair! I mean, if it's the goat's lot to die, why should the Brahmin get entangled in that? Maybe the Brahmin had to work out some of his own karma and at that point in time their karmas—can I even use the plural with that word?—got tangled. Or something like that.”

The old man searched his mind for a few moments, then said, “Imagine two cars colliding at an intersection. Four people are injured. How many sets of karma have to operate for such a catastrophe to happen? Could you sort such a thing out?”

His example made me think of medieval theological disputations, and I blurted out, “I don't know, but it's all theory anyway. I mean, that's only one of the things that makes karma so absurd. You don't really believe in this karma business, do you?”

The old man smiled expansively, showing stunningly white teeth. “You're right. Not quite like that. But let's look at it a bit differently. Suppose karma is just a symbol for something. What would that something be? Is it destiny? Morality? Justice? Well, of course it could be all of those. But let's take a risk. Say that regardless of what karma stands for, it always works more like a whole fabric than a single thread. You can't separate one individual destiny from others. Everything you do, no matter how trivial, is connected to what others do and what they experience. You throw away a rusty nail. For one person it might mean a flat tire and a missed appointment, for someone else it may mean a great find—a trade for a rotten banana, a modest meal. When we speak of karma in India, we often mean that people, all beings, are tethered to each other.”

“I think that's a scary image. I prefer to think of my destiny as mine alone and, barring any more major accidents, up to me. It may sound cocky, but in some basic way I feel free…Oh, and one other thing, if I do something wrong, I expect to be personally accountable; no one else should be.” My words came out a bit self-righteously, perhaps too…American. I expected a rebuke.

“That's very well put. We Indians are not so fond of this situation either—we call it
samsara.
Everything is tied together in endless interweaving strings of action and counteraction, death, rebirth, and redeath. That's the condition of the world, unfortunately.” Off to the west and above us an eagle suddenly dropped like a rock and disappeared around the shoulder of the hill. “And if you think the Brahmin had it bad, you should see what happens in the next story.”

THE DEATH SENTENCE

There was a woman called Gautami who lived on the edge of the forest. One day as her son was playing in the woods, he was bitten by a snake and died. A fowler, hearing the woman's cries, came running and captured the snake. He held up the animal, which was squirming and protesting loudly, and spoke.

“Dear madam, this wretched creature is the cause of your son's death. Tell me what to do with it. I can throw it into the fire or cut it to pieces. Personally I'd prefer to burn it alive—it deserves a slow painful death.”

“Oh, Arjunaka,” the mourning woman replied, “you are completely misguided. Let the serpent go. It does not deserve to die.” The fowler was stunned by the bereaved woman's response, but she spoke to him patiently, softly. “You will just be compounding one sin with another. Killing the snake will not bring
my boy back to life, and surely the snake can do you no harm. And, not least, this snake has a mother too, who will grieve for him as I do for my dead boy. Would you want to go to hell for causing her grief by killing her beloved son?”

The fowler's confusion now gave way to reproach. “Madam, yours is the view of exceptional individuals, those with a great soul. Most of us are more practical. I know that if the victim were my boy, I would feel a deep satisfaction from revenge. Everyone you ask would tell you that I should kill the snake.”

Gautami responded, “No, I don't agree. This kind of grief can't be healed by revenge. Besides, basically good people should try to remain good. The resentment that breeds revenge can only lead to further pain. Only forgiveness reduces pain. And let me assure you that you don't have to be a saint to think this way. At any rate, this may surprise you, but I feel that the death of my boy was predestined.”

That last statement, a new twist in the debate, did not catch the fowler off guard, for he responded immediately, brushing it aside. “I beg to differ, madam. This snake is your enemy and killing the enemy is always a good thing. And moreover,” he added with passion, “it's not just the matter of your son. This creature will continue to attack others—virtuous animals and people—who count on me for protection.”

None of this made any difference. Despite his repeated, sensible appeals, the fowler could not get
the mother's permission to execute the snake. She maintained that since her son would not be brought back to life, there was no point in compounding with revenge the violence that killed him. Even the fowler's arguments that gods sometimes kill and that sacrifices can be violent did not sway her. In the meantime, the snake kept trying to interrupt and say something, but every time he opened his mouth, the fowler tightened the noose and choked off his words.

Finally, when the argument reached an impasse, both people looked at the animal, who now sighed and spoke to the fowler. “Arjunaka, you fool. How can you blame me? I'm just a snake! Don't you get it? A snake, a lowly ground-hugging reptile!” He puffed himself up, gathering momentum now that he was allowed to speak. “I don't have a will of my own. I was sent by Death to kill the boy. You may not believe this, but I had no intention of hurting the child, and I certainly felt no anger toward him. It is Death that deserves your condemnation—it is his crime.”

The fowler answered angrily, “Why, you pompous little airbag. Don't try to pass on your guilt. Even if you killed the boy at the instigation of Death, you were still the instrument of the killing. Just as sure as the potter's wheel and rod create the pot, you are the cause in the death of this child. You deserve to die!”

But the snake was no mean philosopher, for he exhaled—like the great Shankara in debate—and
said, “Ah, the pot and its causes. In order to make the pot, all the causes have to come together. There is no pot with just the wheel or only the rod. And to bring these causes together you must have an intentional will—a plan. If I am just one cause, like either the wheel or the rod, and I have no intention, I can only be innocent.” He shook his head in triumphant exclamation and snickered.

The livid fowler looked at Gautami in frustration, but spoke to the snake. “Very well, you may not be the prime cause or even the agent. But you are the immediate cause. It was
your
poison!” He turned to Gautami again. “Let's not lose sight of common sense, madam. It was he who killed the boy. How can anyone possibly deny that?”

“I have to stick to my guns, sir.” The snake calmly shrugged what little shoulders he had. “I was merely a bit player here—a secondary cause—not the instigator. And because I have no will of my own, I am innocent. I mean, would you blame the branches of dry trees for spreading a forest fire?”

The fowler turned red with rage. He screamed at the snake. “Words, you're so clever with words. You killed the boy, and I should just kill you now and be done!” The snake was now in immediate danger of dying.

Just then Death himself appeared and placed himself between the fowler and the snake. He seemed pale and smaller than one might expect. Looking at the snake reproachfully, he said, “Snake, it's true that I sent you on this task. But don't keep blaming me!
Neither you nor I are responsible for the death of the child. Just as you were my instrument, I am the instrument of Time. It is Time, not Death, who controls all things. He pushes the clouds around, he mixes the particles of matter, spins the planets and stars, and blows the wind. Time is the mover of all things. You knew this, so why did you blame me for the death of the boy?”

The snake remained unflappable. “I did not mean to blame you, O Death, for this tragedy. I'm only saying that I was sent by you. Whether any blame is yours or not is not my business to pronounce. I'm trying to save myself here.” Then he turned to the fowler and added. “You heard Death. He does not deny sending me to kill the boy. You can let me go now.”

However, the fowler only dug in his heels more deeply. “I heard Death, yes—fine, but even if he is responsible, that does not absolve you. Both of you are to blame. I curse Death for harming the innocent boy, but I shall kill you for doing the dirty work!”

Now Death spoke again. “Neither one of us is a free agent, fowler. We both depend on Time. It is not proper for you to find fault with us.”

The fowler scoffed at this. “That's absurd. If everyone were dependent on Time, as you put it, then there would be no freedom. And if that were true, how would pleasure possibly arise from doing good things, and anger from doing ill? The fact that these emotions do arise is a sign that we are in fact free. Now what do you say to that?”

It was a terrific point that stumped both Death and the snake. Death merely mumbled again that they were both tools in the hands of Time, but he seemed to have lost some conviction. He started to sweat too. At that very moment Time himself arrived on the scene. He turned his grandfatherly head toward Death, then the snake, then the fowler, and finally the grieving mother.

Judiciously clearing his throat, Time spoke. “Dear Arjunaka, you should know that neither Death nor the snake is responsible for the boy's death. For that matter, I am not responsible either. If you want the responsible party here, you must look at karma. The boy was killed due to his own bad karma from a previous life. None of us has any bearing on the store of merit or demerit anyone accumulates. Karma clings to people as light and shadow are related to each other. It's inevitable and tenacious. So there you have it—there is no other cause for this sad case.”

The mother nodded, turning to the fowler to second Time's words. “You see? It's all the child's karma. Maybe I also did something bad in the past that contributed, but certainly the snake had nothing to do with that. Now release the snake.”

The fowler shook his head sadly. He was completely outnumbered and outranked. He did not like the idea of releasing the snake to bite again merely because of metaphysics. And if karma was a legitimate moral argument, what was he to make of his own violent profession? He laughed bitterly, but released the snake.

The shady area at the foot of the hill was now behind us, and a large granite rock sloped on the right, with a few cactus plants and eucalyptus saplings clinging to the cracks. Heat radiated from the granite onto the path and I found myself standing on the hot soil of the monsoon runoff.

I could not decide whether I admired this story or detested it. It started out with a noble woman showing compassion toward a killer, even making an idealistic case against capital punishment—at least one could look at it this way—but then the story degenerated into a vaudevillian act poking fun at personal accountability. I stared straight ahead, waiting to see if I needed to say anything. The old man, as usual when he finished a story, stopped climbing.

“How do you like the metaphor of the pot and the wheel? I embellished it rather nicely, don't you think?”

I thought his question a bit mischievous, but his green eyes were as clear as a child's. “I'm no philosopher, but if you'll pardon me, I think the metaphor is ridiculous. I'm with the fowler on this one. Assembling a pot out of different elements and deciding to kill someone are in no way similar.”

“Because one has a mind while the other is just a material product?”

“Yes, sort of. It's like a machine that will not run if it's missing one part, a piston or a spark plug. All the parts are necessary. With the mind, say the intention to buy groceries, there's just one simple conscious fact. Even if you have no money, or no shop, you still can have the intention.”

The old man rubbed his hands together, relishing the conversation. “So cause and effect—chain links such as death, time, karma—these can apply to material things, but not to mind?”

“Yes, roughly speaking, this is so. Even if those three characters—death, time, and karma—meant anything, say, like gravity or alcohol, they still would not be causal. Maybe circumstantial.”

“Because intention is simple consciousness and therefore independent of material causes…”

“Well, yes.”

My guide looked at me with deep interest, as though he had misplaced something in my eyes that he was trying to locate. But he was smiling. “That's a strange sentiment coming from a biologist, no?”

“Maybe. I'm just a marine biologist, an ecologist. I really don't know anything about philosophy of mind. Our fields are so specialized nowadays, you know.”

“You mean fragmented? So, even though you are a doctor in biology—yes, almost—what you know about the brain and the mind is no different from what a layperson like me knows?”

“Maybe. But sometimes we have to trust common sense, especially when it comes to consciousness. Only I know what I know, and I know it firsthand. This certainty, the way my thoughts and impressions feel to me, you can't remove it with brain science.”

“‘I know what I know'—I like that very much. With your permission I shall try to remember to use this in the future…But hypothetically, please bear with me, if mind were only matter, then wouldn't it be subject to the laws of matter?”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“And then we could speak of intention as somehow connected with death, time, karma, or even gravity and beer, no?”

I nodded. He shrugged, then pronounced the entire matter a mystery to him, as though the point of the exercise was just to find out what I thought. The old man pointed up at the rock, “See that spot, under the eucalyptus? It's a favorite place for couples at sunset. Do you have a girlfriend—you're a handsome young man!” The question was more irritating than the hot ground, but he winked and smiled at me. Then he began to walk, and I realized then that until that instant I had not thought about my feet in some time. Then he broke the silence.

“Look, my friend. I know it seems to you that we Indians are trying to avoid personal accountability with this karma and transmigration business…”

“You bet,” I interrupted.

But he continued calmly, “Let me show you why all of this is sad to us, and why it matters.” As we moved slowly, he told me the following story.