Purification in India – Part I

I lay in the dark room.  The concrete wall outside the window blocked what little sunlight might have made it through the perpetual haze of Varanasi.  The air was thick and dank.  The bedsheets, flimy.  But all this receded away into the distance, along with the figures filtering in and out, speaking in heavy accents a mix of medical jargon and Hindi.  Even the needle prick was dimmed.  My entire awareness was absorbed inside, in the air moving in and out, in relaxing my stomach as it twisted and rose.  In gently excusing the dark thoughts that wandered through.  I felt my hand cradled, and a melody drifting lightly, lifting me out of the suffering I always sensed would be waiting for me in a lonely hotel room somewhere in southeast Asia, and guiding me into the ocean of love that surrounds us, even when we do not feel it.  “Om namo, bagavate, vasu deva ya.  Om namoooooo, bagavate-eee, vasu deeeevaaaa yaa.”  Ishwari was singing me a lullaby.  And I was finally a child again in my mother’s all-emcompassing care.

The experience of India is difficult for the mind to understand.  I have heard stories for decades of the poverty and pollution, the chaos and devotion, and although the surge of recent economic success has somewhat rounded out its edges, wandering through it is not unlike swimming inside a coral reef.  Rickshaws, buses, and stray animals zip backwards and forwards, first in two lanes, then in five, snaking in and out in a super-conscious flow of alert presence as schooling rasps dance past eels and anenomes.  Colorful sarees flash like fin flicks among a harmonious cacophony of cars beeping, cows mooing, and chants drifting.  Shiny scrapers tower among shacks constructed of discarded billboards and amorphous concrete foundations punctuated by bamboo scaffolding and rebar tower as majestic reefs.  Every scene contains a dash of every part: poverty and affluence, livestock and new cars, packaged goods and lettuce leaves.  There is no segregation, no hiding from reality, and yet nothing more rebellious than weary acceptance shines from even the most unfortunate pair of bright, deep eyes or radiantly beautiful face.

My mind wanted outrage, a rising of the masses against economic injustice, a revolution in each soul to strive for more and better.  But I slowly began to accept that there is nothing wrong with India.  And that any attempt to interfere would be fruitless.  The real problems were the constrictions of ambition and judgement in me.  There is no shame in poverty.  There is no inefficiency in chaos.  This land still pulses with an innovative, resourceful vitality that has fueled spiritual and technological advances for humanity for millennia.  There was nothing for me to do but surrender, to let India burrow deep, inhaling the thick scents into my lungs, coating my throat and hands with all She offered, receiving the vibration of saints into my cells, and praying that what was truest in me would endure and what was delusion would be stripped away.  And as though I was being breathed by some cosmic lung, cycles of intensity, collapse, and cleansing moved through me, twin forces of inner tumult and the power of saints swirling like a hurricane and wiping me clean.

My first experience of this cycle began in Rishikesh, a rural town tucked into the Himalayan foothills and bathed by the river Ganges.  During a purification ritual on her banks, I wrote my envy and gratitude on a palm leaf and released it into the water, feeling a sparkling serenity rising through me.  I bathed my hands and feet, anointed my head, and followed an impulse to climb back up to Arundahti Guha, a small cave where saints have meditated, and let the deep peace of the waves, purple stones, and leafy canopy envelop me.  Shortly after, we visited the ashram of Sivananda and my initial resistance to empty shows of reverence dissolved into startling clarity fueled by his teachings and the palpable presence of his ashes:  God = Love + Truth.  What is more true and right than that my former crush should adore another, and what more loving austerity for me than to release them both with blessings?  And in the midst of that love and truth, watching from a distance and feeling my grief, I do find an experience of God.  Sivananda’s face, like a whisper from an ancient time, welcomed me home, and I wanted nothing more than to lay at his feet sheltered under his wise and gentle gaze.  But this was not my home.  I invited him inside me, deep in a place beyond both mind and forgetfulness, so that I could carry him with me wherever I go.

In ancient Varanasi, I found the India I have heard rumors of for years.  Steps leading down to the Ganges where the dead are taken to be burned, animals with open sores tethered in narrow alleys, sewing businesses crammed into tiny concrete nooks, the poor grabbing my clothing and pushing their wares, my first rickshaw ride whisking me from one near miss to the next with the thrill of carnival ride.  I sat in a boat in the middle of the Ganges, sweat pouring down my entire body, taking a transcendent mantra deep inside.  I stood before the door of Lahiri Mahasaya’s home, making room for the produce carts to squeeze past, one hand on my heart and the other on its dark wooden panel, and I saw it open to a dark corridor, a welcoming servant, and the guru’s smiling face full of affectionate stillness.  Then that evening I was consumed by envy of a fellow pilgrim’s sweetness, by shame in the part of me that dishonors and rejects the light, that banishes me to wander lonely and distanced from the love and warmth I see as just beyond my reach.

And in that space, in that tension between coming home and feeling perpetually outcast, bacteria invaded my core and I fulfilled what felt like a lingering karma.  I huddled on a grimy bathroom floor, in the dark, alone, my body rejecting all nourishment, but still not beyond comfort.  My breath never left me.  Its rhythm soothed me like a promise of enduring love.  And without regret, without expectation, Ishwari held my hand.  There is nothing I could do to deserve it.  Or to lose it.  Outside the other pilgrims meditated at more shrines, set flowers afloat on the Ganges, watched ancient looms weave beautiful silks, but there in the darkness, I was missing nothing.  I belonged, undeniably, in the shared journey we were all taking towards our deepest self, towards god.

A fellow pilgrim later shared that during the blessing of the Ganges, as everyone was absorbed in the fireworks and music and flowers and boats jostling for position, she simply sat quietly, burrowing deep inside.  A young boy hopping between boats to sell chai paused in front of her, gently honoring and sharing her peace.  In that moment, we were all undeniably together: she in the silence, he in gentle recognition, me in my breath, Ishwari singing.  Feeling separate – lonely, jealous, ashamed – is only for those who believe their body is all there is.  And for those who have never been touched by what is unconditional.

Nancy