by Danny Bent
I had got it into my head that everyone was honest and decent.
So I was devastated to be blatantly robbed whilst on the beach. Stupidly I had left my bag open with my wallet, SLR camera, video camera, $200 and ten thousand rupees of notes in it. I was planning to do some stick martial arts, so I had also left my bamboo rod next to it.
I left it for maybe one minute as I paddled in the sea and looked at the fishermen. When I got back, it was gone.
I searched everywhere. I asked anyone nearby if they’d seen the scoundrel who’d taken it. I could see my stick's imprint in the sand. After a fruitless search, I had to face facts – my stick was gone forever. My bag and all my valuables were still there.
* * *
Angela and I headed further south to meet the French Connection. At a local Nepalese bar we all celebrated by drinking rum before retreating back to the jungle where Angela and I had put our hammocks up between palm trees, leaving our bags in the sand. We stayed for five days, waking to the sun, diving into the sea, chillaxing and drinking. We ate fresh fish, caught off the beach and cooked in front of us, and devoured platters of fresh fruit. I was trying to recover my strength and energy.
My partner in crime from the UK, Michael Jackson (yes, that is his real name and, no, he doesn’t wear a white glove), had booked a holiday in India with twenty of his buddies. They arrived in Goa totally fired up and excited. The charms of India had seduced them already. With three of their group celebrating birthdays over the space of three days, they had a whole day of fun planned.
It started with Indian Olympics. What, you don’t know what that they are? They are track and field events, with an Indian twist. Splitting into teams of five, the first event was the 'onion bargee and spoon race' (a variety of egg and spoon race). Next came 'throw the chapatti' (a flat discus-type bread). The 'balance the curry on your head' race was next, followed by the finale - the elephant riding race. My team won all but the elephant race, but with no thanks to me. I was useless.
After the games we had a full team photo – the French Connection, Angela, the Jackson crew and me. Even though most of us hadn’t been in India more than two days, I was still the whitest person in the photo by far.
We had booked a club for our gang to have a Bollywood bad taste party to recuperate from this strenuous activity. You can imagine everyone dressed in a variety of Indian coloured clothing. The scary thing was that I had clothes like that in my rucksack to wear on a daily basis.
With a bit of help from my mum, I’d managed to get some decent ingredients for my dress sent out with Mike and, with the Fire Fairy being an artist 'n' all, I was in luck. Just as the food was being served at the party, a tiger roared on the beach. People climbed palm trees to escape, grabbed their children and ran to their shacks, and launched boats into the water to put a barrier between themselves and this fearsome tiger. Dogs howled and cows ran from their comfy sand seats. Angela had painted me from head to foot as a tiger, and I have to say I looked awesome.
Mucho dancing, free beers, congas, singing and photos with everyone in Goa ensued. A rather voluptuous Swedish girl wanted me to use my hands to paint her body in the same fashion. I looked at Angela who had somehow made a blow-up swan and some face paint look like something you might find on a Parisian catwalk. She gave me a nod and a smile and I got to work. It was a tough job but someone had to do it. So the tiger had a tigress and that meant more photos and more free drinks.
The next morning I awoke in my hammock with one hand on Angela and surrounded by a group of people. Through blurred eyes I couldn’t work out what was wrong. They were all staring at me. Looking down I saw the paint and realised I should have washed it off last night. Prowling down to the waters edge, to the surprise of sunbathers and joggers, I took a bath. Oh dear! It wasn’t permanent but it lasted a few days.
* * *
Whilst the UK had the worst winter in history, we had some tough times too - swimming with dolphins, surfing, kayaking, jogging on the beach and cycling to perfect jungle towns. One kilometre from the beach, Goa turns back to being India, barring the fact that Catholic churches occupy the towns rather than temples.
Everyone was having a wonderful time except Shirley who was sitting in the same spot for over a week. She’d got a layer of dust and sand on her and had acquired an expression of forlorn rejection.
In the end sadness descended on my world. Angela decided to leave. She left me a note saying she didn’t like the feeling of hurt that had been creeping up on her. Worrying about the pain she’d feel when we parted, in typical Angela fashion she had confronted it head-on, packed her bags and left.
So the next morning it was back to me and Shirley. I felt guilty for coming back to her only when Angela had gone, so I brought her a token to make it easier, some oil to lubricate her to make the rest of the ride more pleasurable. I tenderly wiped her down and pumped up her tyres. It felt good to be back, just the two of us. It’s how it’d been the whole way. We knew we could rely on each other. As my and her memory of Angela floated away on the currents of the sea, Shirley slowly softened and started to purr as I span her pedals.
Chapter 41
On the balmy morning of the 27th of September 1953, in a small poor fishing village – Parayakadavu, in the Quilon district of Kerala - a baby girl was born. Her parents gave her the name Sudhamani. She came into this world not in tears as babies usually do, but with a beaming smile on her face, as if professing the joy and bliss she was to bring to the world.
Sudhamani spent the years of her childhood and teens immersed in intense spiritual practices in order to present a living example to the world. Even as a small child, she could often be found absorbed in deep meditation, totally oblivious of her surroundings. By the age of five, she had already begun composing devotional songs laden with deep mystical insight.
Another quality Sudhamani manifested from this tender age was her love and compassion towards her fellow human beings. Though only a child, Sudhamani did whatever she could to ease the suffering of her elderly neighbours. She washed their clothes, bathed them and even brought them food and clothing from her own home. This habit of giving away things from her family’s house landed her in deep trouble, however, no amount of physical abuse or punishment could stop the expression of her inherent compassion. She later said "An unbroken stream of Love flows from me towards all beings in the cosmos. That is my inborn nature."
‘Amma’, as she is known all over the world today, has inspired and started innumerable humanitarian services. She has earned international recognition for her outstanding contributions to the world community. She is recognised as an extraordinary spiritual leader by the United Nations and by the people all over the world.
Though Amma makes no claims for herself, those who watch her closely notice that she is the greatest example of her teaching. Her disciples and believers take in her teachings by just watching her.
For the past thirty-five years, Amma has dedicated her life to the uplifting of suffering humanity through the simplest of gestures – an embrace. In this intimate manner Amma has blessed and consoled more than twenty five million people throughout the world.
When someone asked Amma why she receives every person who comes to her in a loving embrace, Amma replied “If you ask the river 'Why do you flow?', what can it say?”
Amma spends most of her waking hours receiving the distressed and all who come to her for comfort, day after day without a break.
A New Yorker recently said “Amma's hug is the greatest humanitarian work, in my opinion. I believe that her embrace gives the inspiration and the strength for all other humanitarian work which spreads the message of love and compassion.”
* * *
I was coated in a greasy white layer of Factor Ginger sun cream, and droplets of sweat ran down my face before making a leap to land on Shirley's handlebars where they’d sit drying out in the fierce heat. The temperatures rose to well over forty degrees and my brain, still protected by my hel
met, boiled in its casing. I found myself wondering why I had left the calm sands and cooling waters of Agonda beach, the fun times, my friends, and the Nepalese boys who’d been so wonderful to me. But deep down I knew why. Tomorrow I had a meeting with destiny.
Amma, the hugging mother, had always been on my radar. She is a lady who travels the world giving energy and hope through the simplicity of a hug. This is my kind of lady. The mother hugger.
She had been in Gokana for a week, and tomorrow was her last day before beginning another world tour. I couldn’t be so close to her in her home nation without going to see her. With the heat eating away at my energy levels, I needed to take as much as I could from her hug.
Gokana, located on the coast and surrounded by lush green forest, is a Mecca for the spiritual traveller. When I arrived I saw a beautiful village ruined by Western influences - heaps of rubbish that the local people weren’t ready to deal with, Westerners pushing through the streets ignoring the local man squatting on his hind feet looking to sell small tokens to feed his family, Westernised restaurants full to the brim. People seemed to be missing the point. So preoccupied with their own quest for enlightenment, they were ignoring the people around them at best, being outright rude at worst.
Leaving Shirley in the shade, I made sure she was comfortable before I headed off, carrying my staff with a number of blow up monkeys attached to each end. I met Kathleen, a Chinese girl with dark pools in her eyes that made you feel as though you could dive right in. She was standing open-mouthed, staring, looking on at the whirlwind of white-clothed Westerners brushing past her on either side and tutting that she was in their way. I put a hand on her shoulder and asked in pigeon English “You OK?” She turned to me and I almost fell over when she replied in a strong Geordie accent “Ahm OK, but ahm not sure aboot these fowk, ye knaa what ah mean, leik?” nodding towards the white ants busying themselves.
We stopped and looked at each other. Did we really want to submit ourselves to this?
Entirely sceptical, Kathleen and I stepped into Amma’s ashram, a temple built to house the hundreds of people that come to visit Amma when she’s in town. The ashram was like the ants' nest. Westerners dressed in white, looking like their farts don’t stink, and looking down upon those who arrive with animal balloons all over their new bamboo stick dressed in every colour under the rainbow with feral ginger beards.
The ashram had history beatifically enshrouded within it. The sight of so many Westerners fussing over the ancient Indian ashram was surreal and we whipped out our paparazzi cameras to capture the moment.
A voice came from behind us. “Please put your cameras down”. We turned to see a girl in white about our age looking ferociously cross. “And delete your pictures or you’ll have bad karma.”
Bad Karma for appreciating the beauty? The hard-nosed woman, let’s call her ‘Bitch Face from Hell’ (BFFH), was clearly unimpressed.
Kathleen stood incredulously and slowly opened her mouth to respond. “Forget about it,” I told her. I knew it was going to be a bit like a circus in here and had kept telling myself that I was there only to experience one second – the hug.
We entered the hall where Amma performs her Dasham (her hugging Cocoon), to be greeted by wonderful live music and gorgeous food to fill our bellies after long journeys. Washing our plates and leaving them for the next people to come in, we then joined the back of a huge queue that wove round the ashram, ending at the feet of a rather short and tubby lady - Amma. As we weren’t staying the night at the ashram, we were allowed to queue with the Indians during the day, something which turned the noses of those in white up further.
In the queue I whipped out the orgasmatron and proceeded to spread some love. Even those who weren’t being touched smiled and laughed, watching as Indian ladies rolled their eyes in ecstasy as the thin metal arms encased their heads. I began to gather a crowd as people looked to be entertained as they waited. Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder. “This is not allowed – you are obstructing my view of Amma.” I’d managed to piss off BFFH #2. I looked into the distance where Amma was just a spot in the distance amongst many others.
Two hours passed and we were getting close. We could feel the excitement. I’d told Anju next to me that I had cycled here from England and she and her friends were gathered round me in an excited gaggle asking questions and poking fun at my freckled skin. I’d made Amma a bouquet of flowers out of balloons and, sure enough, I was told off by BFFH #3, #4 and #5 who insisted that bringing balloons into the ashram was, you guessed it, bad karma. These guys were so at peace.
All the BFFHs (1-5, plus a lot more) were all fighting each other to be part of the entourage that sat behind Amma, struggling to get a spot within four metres of her, and then desperately striving not to be pushed aside by another BFFH by slowly digging knees and elbows into other people's backs to get that inch closer as thousands of people came to have their hug. One second, maybe two if she likes you. Again I found myself wondering why we were there whilst we passed in front of these people.
As in many religions and in the animal kingdom, keeping your head below those above you is paramount. As I got close to Amma, Indian ladies touched my shoulders and helped me to my knees. Looking up, I could see into Amma’s eyes and feel the strength in them. I handed her the flowers. She beamed and gave them to the person beside her, asking for them to be put into her bedroom. Wow!
As she put her arms around me, I have to say it felt wonderful (but you know I do love hugs). She sang a soft mantra into my ear. The notes resonated in my mind and brought peace and comfort. Surely my time was up; but she was still holding me in her arms. I could feel the eyes of the BFFHs boring into my head. Keeping my eyes closed, I let the hug linger. I started to feel awkward but it was too nice to let go. I could make out odd words as Anju told her that I’d cycled from England. She let me go. As I stood to leave, I was forced back to my knees by hands behind me. Touching my head, she fed me chocolate, putting it into my mouth as if I were a Greek god. She then summoned everyone in the ashram to give me a cheer and a clap. Wow, wow, wow!
Finally I was allowed to get up and, with my head bowed, I self-consciously made my way back. Another hand grabbed me from behind. It was Anju. She had a fierce grip for a tiny lady. She said Amma had asked her to tell me she wanted me to sit next to her. So Amma’s guards pointed at the many BFFHs and told them to move aside to allow me through next to Amma, to share our energies.
I was sitting next to one of the most highly respected spiritualists in the world. I couldn’t help but smile.
Bad Karma my ass!
Chapter 42
As I sat there, I witnessed a disabled and blind band come to the ashram to sing and play music. It was some of the most amazing music I’d ever heard. Deprived of their sight, their hearing had become finely attuned, and the notes that emanated from this huddle of people, dressed in rags, who had to be lifted into position because of the deformities to their legs was the perfect end to the most spiritual of experiences. My emotions rose and fell like a ship riding a storm-ridden ocean.
Wrapped in the protective arm of Amma, I felt relaxation sweep over me, completeness. Kathleen winked at me and waved as she left the ashram. That night she was hoping to set off back to her original homeland, China. After witnessing the beauty that Amma’s hugs were bringing to those who came to see her, I stood up, to the surprise of the people around me. I was really enjoying sitting with her but I had my own journey to complete, my own cause to give MY energy too. Back on my bike, I managed to cycle in the relative cool of the evening until darkness descended.
A man I used to work with in the city, Robert, had seen my story in the paper and had paid £300 into my account, telling me to buy myself a nice meal. £300 would feed me for a year in India. I made a pact there and then that every time I ate from now on I would treat someone else to food as well. A man sat in the street as I entered a café. I invited him to eat with me. As he sat at my table, the owner tried
to shoo him away, but I told them he was with me. Now in Karnataka the local language is Kannada. My English and basic Hindi were useless. A fantastic game of charades told me that my guest had four children, a small house and no job. I, in turn, told him, unintentionally that I was from space, I liked to ride camels and I didn’t have a job either.
The following day, as I moved inland, I found myself in the hills. I needed to drink constantly to remain hydrated and my head pounded with the intense heat. I mulled memories of the past weeks, and I was angry at myself for having spent so long in Goa. I’d wasted a lot of time being a bum. If I wanted to arrive at the school within a week, I had to ride every day, all day. It would have been so nice to relax in the shade during the hottest hours, but instead I had to plod on.
Setting off early so that I could avoid the heat, I’d arrive in cafés at midday, order a thali, put my head on the dirty table and pass out until the food arrived. As I got further into the jungle, the thali would arrive on a banana leaf, the rice would be dolloped from a bucket, and an array of curries would adorn it.
In one of the cafés I met a self-hypnotist from Germany who taught me how to hypnotise myself by concentrating on squeezing an imaginary ball in my hands and evoking the feeling I wanted to achieve. I wanted to cool down, so I imagined cool rivers, freshly-squeezed lemonade poured over cubes of ice and ladies in bikinis fanning me. I’m not sure if it was down to the bikinis, but it had absolutely no effect.
As more hills lined my way, it got harder and harder to make progress under the unrelenting sun. My sweat dripped continuously onto Shirley and I couldn’t help being a little embarrassed. I would cycle in the midday heat, wobbling from one side of the road to another as my brain cooked, but she kept me safe. I developed a headache that I couldn’t lose - sunburn, sunstroke. The last days were the hardest by far. But I wasn't going to miss my deadline. As I crept closer and closer to Chembakolli my emotions built up.