by Ruskin Bond
In Yamunotri, Haridas felt as if he was experiencing the piercing cold of the Magh-Paush months when, in the plains, the summer skies were raining fire. He didn’t have much bedding with him, having deemed them excess load. Sadhus usually own a shawl in which they place a few essentials, a blanket, and tie up into a bundle. This bundle they sling over one shoulder. In the other they carry a sling-bag. They are used to traveling thus laden, an alms bowl in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. An especially devout sadhu might put a statue of Thakurji in another bag and sling it around his neck. A marginally literate sadhu might also carry a copy of Tulsidas’s Ramayan along. Sadhus have been described as laden jackfruit trees. It is the stuff they carry slung from their shoulders, necks, and arms which makes them seem so. But Haridas and his friends favored carrying as little as possible. And now they cursed their shortsightedness. Had they not found an abundance of dry firewood, the nights would have been difficult to endure. They reached Yamunotri before afternoon. The sky was calm, and the noontime cold wasn’t excessive but was increasing in intensity as the sun slid down to the western horizon. They couldn’t be sure about the conditions at night, or they would have immediately set out for Kharsali again. But the Vedic sages have declared: “Fire cures snow.” Fire really did prove the ideal antidote to cold for the party. Having built a roaring fire of massive logs, they spent the night basking in its warmth.
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During a brief stay in Uttarkashi, they were assured that yogis and mahatmas were to found in good numbers ahead. They set out eagerly. At their first halt they were told that a mahatma lived in a village close by, near a freshwater spring. The village fell three miles off their route. Haridas was extremely pleased. Vaishnavdas, too, did not want to disappoint his young traveling companion. They reached the village. The mahatma turned out to be a hermit. They stayed with him for three days. The mahatma’s learning was limited to Tulsidas’s Ramayan. But it was difficult to say if he completely understood the Ramayan. Yes, he was a practitioner of the yogic practice of pranayam and also had a smattering of Rajyoga. Haridas had already gained—under the tutelage of Baba Gopaldas—as much knowledge as the mahatma. They learned that the mahatma had lived there for a decade. And that he had traveled extensively. The man was of no use to Haridas, and he couldn’t direct Haridas to an accomplished yogi either.
They enjoyed a dip in the hot springs of Gangnani and pressed on. The climb up Sukhi Chatti didn’t seem excessive to them, even though it was much more difficult than the Devaprayag incline. They reached Harsil, which is also called Hariprayag by the priests who live there. Soon after, they reached the rope bridge spanning the Bhairav Valley, having crossed the Ganga in two places. The one to cross this bridge, suspended from rocky mountains which seem to touch the sky itself, used to be considered a man intrepid and great. There is no sign of the bridge now. People cross the valley over an iron bridge constructed at a lower height. That unfortunate soul who desired to stand in the middle of the structure and gaze down upon the Bhot Ganga—a silver wire meandering below him—would find his very life-force sucked out. The journey of six miles after the bridge, over paths shaded by deodar trees, was pleasurable. They reached Gangotri (height: 10,300 feet). The appeal of Gangotri had not yet reached its present proportions and, other than the temple built in honor of Mother Ganga, only a few wooden huts could be seen. Vaishnavdas and some other sadhus insisted that they should press on to Gaumukh. Gaumukh is the place where the Ganga issues forth from a huge hunk of ice. A distance of perhaps sixteen or eighteen miles. And no roads. They had to pick their way among boulders. In some places, patches of unmelted snow still remained. They had their audience with Mother Ganga. It wasn’t possible to walk back the same day so they had to spend the night where there was neither a village nor shelter. They spent the night in a hollow, shivering from the cold.
At that time there were no sadhus of the Digamber sect in Gangotri. How would they dare to live there, being forbidden by their faith to wear clothes? Even the thickest of blankets and quilts could offer no protection from the cold there. But, with practice, one can endure cold to a large extent. This is evidenced by the fact that, now, more than half a dozen Digambers live in Gangotri. About twenty or twenty-five years earlier, it was Swami Krishnashram alone who demonstrated such courage. But even he would climb down to Harsil or one of the other villages in winter. Which is where he now stays the year round with his woman disciple, submerged in an uninterruptible trance.
MEDITATING IN DEVAPRAYAG
Haridas—Baba—did not want to move on from the forests of Kunao at all. It was an ideal spot to conduct meditative exercises. He spent a week there, subsisting on leaves and herbs. But hunger began to affect his meditative exercises. It was the Kartik month of 1977. And so Baba departed Kunao, casting longing eyes at his little meditation hut. It wasn’t suitable for him to continue living in Lakshmanjhula. He climbed uphill and reached Devaprayag on the third day. Some sadhus told him that half a mile from Devaprayag—across the Ganga—was a cave in which a sadhu once meditated. Haridas Baba had come to Devaprayag for him. About a quarter mile from Devaprayag, right on the bank of the Ganga, was a hollow which could be made habitable. There was no other cave for at least two miles around that spot. He couldn’t arrange for meals there either. But he would surely find alms in Devaprayag. If he reached the priests’ houses at either 10:00 or 11:00 a.m., they would give him a roti without too much fuss. His spot, on the shore of the Ganga, wasn’t perfect but since he couldn’t find another he decided to winter there. With a little labor, it wasn’t difficult for him to make his cave habitable. A man from the village nearby pitched in too, and soon his cave was windproof and insulated. Baba possessed two blankets and an alfee, a garment made out of blankets, which he could use against the cold. Other than these he had two shoulder cloths, two loincloths, and a kamandal. He would go seeking alms two or three days, and receive roti or rice from about four households with ease. This food was enough for twenty-four hours. A footpath near the cave led up to the village but no one seemed to use it.
The priests had come to know that a baba had taken up residence on the riverbank but no one visited him all winter. Baba lived there for a little more than six months. He enjoyed his meditation practice and made significant progress as well. Yet he wasn’t entirely satisfied. Thoughts of mealtimes would keep distracting him. The facilities of the forests of Kunao didn’t exist on the riverbank. Summer arrived. The doors of Badrinath opened for darshan. Pilgrims began to make their way from and to the plains. These pilgrims were the people off whom the priests of Devaprayag would make their money. A pilgrim on his way up might ask: “Are meditators, saints, or yogis to be found in caves around here?” The priests would take their clients to the Pretshila (Spirit Rock) and other places of pilgrimage in and around the area. They began to include Hari-baba’s site of meditation on their itinerary. Seeking darshan with hands folded in veneration, some would offer a few rupees before going on their way. The priests’ sons or others from the village would come back and take the money away. Baba had nothing to do with money. Things might have been bearable had they been limited to occasional audiences but there were some pilgrims who would refuse to budge until they had heard a few sage words from Baba. This soon began to irk him. He undertook a vow of silence and even had this information written out on a board. But there were some imbecilic pilgrims who would say, “It’s all right if you can’t speak. Write out a few words of wisdom; that will serve our purpose.” One pilgrim pursued him for three days and left only after Baba scribbled a few words.
Baba now had no choice but to leave his spot. Pretshila is about two miles from Devaprayag on a bank of the Alaknanda river. There was a small unoccupied hut with a temple nearby. Baba arrived in the month of Saavan and took up residence. He began to be known as “Mauni Baba” on account of his vow of silence. There was a village nearby which included a few priestly households—alms wouldn’t be a problem. Th
e priests would bring travelers to the Pretshila in the daytime. While Gaya is the “official” site from where the spirits of the dead find deliverance, not every Hindu priest recognizes and upholds this monopoly. So they have established “shila”—consecrated stones dedicated to the worship of spirits—in various places. Badrinath, too, has Pretshilas and the priests of Badrinath live in Devaprayag. Naturally, they had established a Pretshila in Devaprayag, too. The hill inhabitants may be backward in many areas of life but their priests are very advanced in establishing dubious centers of pilgrimage. It is because of this that there is a rash of Kashis and Prayags in the region. The offering of rice and pulses is specific to Jagannathji but these offerings can be monetized and are now hugely popular in Badrinath, too. The Pretshila terrified people. After all, it was the spot where spirits from all directions—east-west, north-south—would be brought and set free. They would hardly let go of their ancient habits. They could catch hold of anyone at all, and thus no one would dare come to the Pretshila in the evening. There was an uproar among the villagers: they said spirits gather at the Pretshila for a nightly conference. Any unfortunate who might stumble upon the conference wouldn’t return with his life intact. But Mauni Baba lived there. He was indeed a master, which was why the ghosts and spirits could do him no harm. And because of this, people began to revere Mauni Baba more and more. It was also widely held that the area was infested with scorpions, so poisonous that a sting to a man’s vital parts could even kill him. There were many in the hut Baba occupied. He lived there for two months and the scorpions were kind to him, just as the ghosts and spirits were. Baba would sleep through the day and carry out his meditative exercises through the night. At times he would lie down at noon—after lunch—through to evening, meditating. This was the time when the pilgrims would visit. Thinking that Baba was asleep, they would leave him be.
The practice of the focusing of the senses is such that it can be accomplished sitting or lying down. But it’s true that, performed lying down, sleep is a tremendous impediment to meditation. Therefore, of the five base conditions which impede meditation, sleep is considered the topmost. But in reality, sleep is itself a meditative state reached once the trammels of illusion and the claims of the world have fallen away. When a man is in deep sleep, all his mental processes are at a near cease. That state we seek by stilling the mind, sleep brings to us daily, unfailingly, as a way to calm the body and give it rest. However, when meditating, the attempt is to bring about that state even as the mind and the body remain conscious and aware. When one meditates, continually negotiating the push and pull of sleep and wakefulness, and seeks to unite the mind and its distractions in one seamless whole, sleep casts its shadow upon the mind, banishes it from existence, and reveals itself. The opportunity which nature has granted us, to give all the organs of our body rest and rejuvenation through sleep, is itself a barrier to meditation. On lying down, the entire body becomes motionless and one is sleepier then than when one is sitting and the mind, instead of centering, becomes enwrapped in slumber. Once fatigue falls away, sleep no longer affects the mind. Hari-baba would frequently fall asleep while meditating. But how long could sleep keep him in its clutches? As soon as it would leave him, he would make all efforts to center his mind once more. Haridas somehow stretched his time in Devaprayag for two more months, dealing with constant interruptions to his practice of meditation. Thus, when winter set in, he returned to Rishikesh, and his little meditation hut in Koyalghati.
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IN SEARCH OF THE SNOW LEOPARD*4
Peter Matthiessen
OCTOBER 21
We leave Rohagaon as the first light tints the snow peaks to the south.
Outside the village, two little girls in wool boots and bead necklaces, carrying water, tarry on a corner of the trail to watch us go; minutes later, I look back, and they still stand there, little ragged stumps on the daybreak sky.
All around, the sun fires the summits, yet these steep valleys are so shut away from light that on this trail above the Suli Gad we walk for two hours in dim daybreak shadow. Here and there wild roses gather in clear pale-yellow bloom, and a flight of snow pigeons wheels up and down over the canyon far below; we look in vain for tahr or other creatures on the slopes across the valley. Wildlife has been scarce all along the way, with no sign at all of exotic animals such as the moon bear and red panda.
The trail meets the Suli Gad high up the valley, in grottoes of bronzelichened boulders and a shady riverside of pine and walnut and warm banks of fern. Where morning sun lights the red leaves and dark still conifers, the river sparkles in the forest shadow; turquoise and white, it thunders past spray-shined boulders, foaming pools, in a long rocky chute of broken rapids. In the cold breath of the torrent, the dry air is softened by mist; under last night’s stars this water trickled through the snows. At the head of the waterfall, downstream, its sparkle leaps into the air, leaps at the sun, and sun rays are tumbled in the waves that dance against the snows of distant mountains.
Upstream, in the inner canyon, dark silences are deepened by the roar of stones. Something is listening, and I listen too: Who is it that intrudes here? Who is breathing? I pick a fern to see its spores, cast it away, and am filled in that instant with misgiving: the great sins, so the Sherpas say, are to pick wildflowers and to threaten children. My voice murmurs its regret, a strange sound that deepens the intrusion. I look about me—who is it that spoke? And who is listening? Who is this everpresent “I” that is not me?
The voice of a solitary bird asks the same question.
Here in the secrets of the mountains, in the river roar, I touch my skin to see if I am real; I say my name aloud and do not answer.
By a dark wall of rock, over a rivulet, a black-and-gold dragonfly zips and glistens; a walnut falls on a mat of yellow leaves. I wonder if anywhere on earth there is a river more beautiful than the upper Suli Gad in early autumn. Seen through the mist, a water spirit in monumental pale gray stone is molded smooth by its mantle of white water, and higher, a ribbon waterfall, descending a cliff face from the east, strikes the wind sweeping upriver and turns to mist before striking the earth; the mist drifts upward to the rim, forming a halo in the guarding pines.
Leaving the stream, the trail climbs steeply through the trees, then down again under the rock of a dripping grotto, a huge cave of winds. Beyond rises a grassy hill set about with red cotoneaster berries and the yellows, blues, and whites of alpine flowers, and above the hill, like an ice castle set atop a nearer peak, soars Kanjiroba. In twilight, the path descends again to the upper Suli, where camp is made beside the roaring water. We shout to one another and cannot be heard; we move about like shades in the dark canyon.
OCTOBER 22
At dawn on this east side of the canyon, the ground is frozen, making a ringing sound under the stave, and ice slivers glimmer in the brooks that flow into the torrent. Moving upriver in near darkness, we find a bear’s nest in a hackberry—our first sign of the Asiatic black bear, called the “moon bear.” The bear sits in the branches and bends them toward him as he feeds on the cherry-like fruits; the broken branches make a platform which the bear may then use as a bed. In a corner of this nest, a blue rock dove—the wild ancestor of the street pigeon—has late-October young, as yet unfledged. We make a bear’s breakfast of wild berries touched by frost.
A forest of dead pines, dank river caves, and hearths of travelers; two caves are fitted with wood shelves, as if these places had been hermit habitations. The shelves are marked with the swastika, that archaic symbol of creation that occurs everywhere around the world except south of the Sahara and in Australia. It was taken to North America by the ancestors of the American aborigines; in the Teutonic cultures, it was the emblem of Thor; it appeared at Troy and in ancient India, where it was adopted by Hindus, then Buddhists. The reversed swastika is also here, in sign of the B’on religion, still prevalent in old corners of these mountains; since it reverses t
ime, it is thought to be destructive to the universe, and is often associated with black magic.
Faint musical cries ring through the trees above the water noise. In the dim light, I cannot find the caller, and walk on. He calls again, and now I see him, in a small woodland grove across the river; he is a settler, cutting the wild grass for winter hay. I am glad to see him, yet sad that he is here; even this wild region of the Suli Gad will disappear. Because we cannot speak over the river, we merely smile, and he puts his sickle down and lifts his hands, placing his palms together in simple greeting. I do the same; we bow, and turn away.
Near a fork where a tributary stream flows down from the B’on village at Pung-mo, the deep forest across the torrent has been parted by avalanche, and on this brushy slope, a dark shape jumps behind a boulder. The slope is in bright morning sun, but I glimpse the creature only for an instant. It is much too big for a red panda, too covert for a musk deer, too dark for wolf or leopard, and much quicker than a bear. With binoculars, I stare for a long time at the mute boulder, feeling the presence of the unknown life behind it, but all is still, and there is only the sun and morning mountainside, the pouring water.
All day I wonder about that quick dark shape that hid behind the rock, so wary of a slight movement on the far side of a rushing torrent; for I was alone, and could not have been heard, and was all but invisible in the forest shades. In the list of Himalayan mammals, black bear and leopard seem the best choices, but no bear that I ever saw moved like this animal, and no leopard is a uniform dark red or brown. Could it have been a melanistic leopard—a “black panther”? But I have seen leopards many times in Africa, where the species is the same; in rough terrain of bush and boulders, the leopard is much less apt to spring for cover than to crouch, flatten, and withdraw.