Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer

by Sarah Bamford Seidelmann

  It's not completely silent outside either. People from far and wide seem to be waking up and getting their holy microphones warmed up for a chanting competition in which, apparently, the one who chants at the highest decibel level wins. The most amplified chant so far this morning is: “Svaha. Svaha. Svaha. Ommmmmm.” (Svaha is pronounced “svahh-ha”). The sound of crackled chanting arrives in strange warped waves from upriver as well. Here in the grove, our relative silence feels sweet.

  I take off my shoes, moving bulkily in my layers like a Sasquatch. It's around forty-five degrees Fahrenheit this morning. I've got on long underwear, a polar fleece jacket, a huge scarf, a wool hat, and a GoreTex parka. In my stocking feet, I enter the grove. The ground feels soft and almost bouncy, like cork. I learn later that it's cushioned with packed dung, an excellent and inexpensive insulator. We meditate on a bed of excrement. Put that in your metaphorical pipe and smoke it.

  Like others before me, I pull a slightly scratchy wool blanket from the large metal trunk at the entrance of the meditation area and look around for a spot to sit. There's an elevated temple where some people are already sitting, but I don't feel drawn there, thinking it is intended only for advanced yoginis. Sitting near a tree seems like more fun.

  Other pilgrims file in silently, claiming their spots. A few opt for the elevated, open-air temple housing the square hoven used for fire ceremonies. Others sit upright in plastic Walmart-esque chairs, wrapped in blankets.

  The lights suddenly go out, and we're thrown into total darkness as the official meditation begins. I hear a musical tone from our campus loudspeaker and a low, beautiful male baritone voice begins chanting: “Ommm. Ommm. Ommm Shahnthhhhheeeeee. Shanteee.” It's incredibly soothing. I'll hear many beautiful chants in the weeks ahead, but this simple chant is the one I enjoy most. I try to see who's singing, but it's too dark to tell, so I close my eyes.

  Other Sanskrit prayers are sung, but I don't recognize them. The singer finally returns to the original melodious chant—“Ommm. Ommm. Ommm Shahnthhhhheeeeee. Shanteee”—and then falls silent. With an effortlessness I only experience in bits and pieces when I'm alone, I quickly drop into an easy meditation—unfocused focus—and time passes unnoticed. Even my pain body seems to nap in the presence of this sweet lullabye. A deeper awareness awakens and seems to be listening.

  Slowly, the dawn chorus begins. The distant hum of drums grows as well, and the millions of chanting pilgrims upriver join the birds’ refrain. Wind blows through the trees, gently dancing the fat, stiff leaves. I feel as if I'm listening to a muffled, underwater Wembley stadium full of prayers both beastly and human. Despite the clanging bells, rule-breaking pilgrims, and my irritable pain body, I have momentarily connected with the Om of it all. This is why I've come.

  CHAPTER 30

  Light Karmic Rinse

  It is wonderful, the power of a faith like that, that can make multitudes upon multitudes of the old and weak and the young and frail enter without hesitation or complaint upon such incredible journeys and endure the resultant miseries without repining. It is done in love, or it is done in fear; I do not know which it is. No matter what the impulse is, the act born of it is beyond imagination, marvelous to our kind of people, the cold whites.

  Mark Twain, on attending the 1895 Kumbh Mela, in Following the Equator

  For the Kumbh Mela, an enormous city pops up out of nowhere every twelve years. And it's been happening for thousands of years. Every twelfth year, when the Ganges recedes in October, dropping thirty feet to its lowest level, this area goes through a population explosion. Over the course of the Mela's fifty-five days, fifty to seventy million people will pass through a seven-square-mile area. It's the largest gathering of humanity in recorded history. Roads are built, electrical wires strung on poles, toilets dug, and temporary pontoon bridges floated across the rivers—all to ease the flow of people and traffic, and to improve safety.

  The Mela grounds straddle two rivers, the Ganges and Yamuna. The thousands of individual tents erected range from tattered canvas lean-tos the size of an apartment kitchen in Brooklyn to full-scale ashrams resembling airplane hangars at LAX. Each teacher or guru intending to share his or her teachings stakes out a spot.

  On our first morning, after meditation, we're treated to a fascinating lecture on the origins of the Mela by Ben, the stocky, dark-haired, spiritual head of the organization hosting this trip. Gentle breezes cool us in the outdoor lecture hall as we sit on plastic lawn chairs. Ben's voice is low and soothing—perfect for inducing a nap. I try desperately to stay awake because his content is so engaging.

  He draws a map of the Yamuna, Ganges, and Sarasvati rivers (the third being an unseen mystical river) that merge to become Ganga, as the Ganges is fondly called by all—arguably the most sacred river in the world. The confluence of these three rivers is known as the sangam, which is considered the most auspicious place to bathe. It's a power spot, where the veils between the material and spiritual worlds are believed to be thinnest and where oceans of karma can be washed away. Weirdly, it looks exactly like the place where I find Alice when I journey.

  I stare at Ben's rough sketch on the drawing board. “All rivers are considered feminine,” he tells us, “in the same way that we consider the earth to be feminine—our Mother.” Suddenly, I see a penis-shaped (lingam-shaped) strip of land that seems to penetrate the crotch where the two feminine rivers (lady legs) come together, and I begin to see an obvious sexual metaphor of creation. The sangam is the womb. It's the spot where Alice always stands—an elephant in the womb. I glance quickly around the open-air, thatched-roof lecture hall, but no one else seems to be sharing this Bevis and Butthead “ah-ha” moment with me.

  In the past two years, with Alice, I've received many mystical teachings about a river confluence where three sources converge to create a single river. In these experiences, I stand on a spit of land where the material and spiritual rivers (sources) come together. From this small patch of land, I observe matter and spirit merging with the third element—my mind, my thoughts, my consciousness—to form one beautiful, deep, powerful flow.

  It suddenly hits me that this river is both within me and without. As I returned to this spot over several visits, I eventually found myself sitting on this spit of land watching a single, wide, deep, powerful river, which sometimes had small candle offerings floating on it. The message seemed to be this: If I can create that state of peace in my own mind through concentration or focus on this little spit of land, I can be a part of bringing spirit and matter into form. I can, literally, be a part of the creation process.

  Seeing my inner world reflected so literally in the external world stuns me.

  Ben reports that, due to the enormous number of bathers, levels of E. coli bacteria in the river are extremely high, so we won't be bathing in the Ganges. Instead of taking a full dip, as pilgrims have done in previous Melas, we'll take a boat out into the sangam and sprinkle water over our own heads, saying our prayers there.

  I can't believe my ears! No bathing in the river? I have mixed feelings about this announcement. That's why I'm here! Yes, I can dip metaphorically as well, but I hadn't envisioned this plot twist. I'm on a pilgrimage to bathe in the Ganges! How can I not bathe?

  At the same time, I feel secretly comforted. I have an out. Maybe I won't need to discover how chicken I am to immerse myself in the river, to have my own faith tested. As I contemplate all these conflicting thoughts, I notice a truth arising in me. I've come too far to let fear stop me now.

  Before salvation, lunch is served. After noshing on hot dal, fresh tangerines, and rice in the thatched dining hall, all 150 of us are herded down to Ganga and loaded into separate boats, all of them ancient and painted in vivid colors that are slightly faded by sun.

  These boats aren't open on top like the boats I'm used to. They have raised, rough, splintery wooden decking on which we're instructed to perch. We're mostly middle-aged pilgrims, and, despite all the yoga asanas some of us have done,
we're clumsy as we crawl and wobble into position.

  Using their long steering poles, wiry boatmen move us quickly across the widest part of the river to the sandbar at the center. The current of the river quickly absorbs our little crafts and wants to take us along with her. Our boatman steps overboard into the strong thigh-high current and pulls us upstream with ropes that are secured to the other shore, digging his feet and legs into the wet sand to gain traction, his legs, arms, and torso visibly strained by his intensive physical labor. Though the current appears subtle on the soft rippling surface, Ganga's power is deceiving. It's going to be a fight to get to our upstream destination. I can only imagine what the Ganges must be like to reckon with when she's swollen to flood stage. Swallows dart and swoop in the sky above us, making shadows on the water.

  As we slowly make headway and travel further upstream, we finally catch our first glimpse of the Mela proper—a rather vulgar, smoggy sea of neon-trimmed tents and flags. A great deal of dust has been kicked up by the millions of pilgrims, shrouding the whole affair in an enormous, hazy cloud. I'd conceived something utterly different—an event of great beauty. From this vantage point, however, the actual Mela resembles a carnival in an odd, oversized used-car lot in Kansas at the end of a hundred-year drought.

  We soon arrive at the auspicious sangam, the powerful confluence within the river, though there's also a spot of land there. Here is where the veils between worlds are thin. This is the metaphorical womb (or the “holy hoo-hah,” depending on your point of view) in Ben's sketch. This is the place where we will sprinkle our heads with water and say our prayers.

  After spending eighteen months thinking about this moment of washing all my karma away and saying my prayers, I'm caught off guard. My boatmates and I glance around at each other quizzically. We all seem a little stunned. We don't call upon deities or invoke anything in particular as a group.

  Struggling to keep our balance, we wordlessly take turns rather awkwardly leaning over the boat's splintered edge to cup a few ounces of river water in our hands to spill over our heads. I have a feeling of being in someone else's church—regimented and a bit silly. It feels like a fraudulent baptism. I try to say my silent prayers reverently anyway, and I feel a tiny, resistant voice growing in me, saying: “This is not really what I came here for.”

  After sprinkling ourselves, a more relaxed mood arises. We turn back downstream, floating with the current, taking in the sight of the vast, dusty assemblage of millions onshore. As we drift closer, I see small groups of men, women, and children bathing at the water's edge, taking their holy dips. They repeatedly bob completely under the water and back up, hands clasped at their hearts, eyes closed in reverence. We float right by a stunning bare-chested elder—a holy man, a sadhu—with a flowing white beard. Wearing nothing but a clean, white loincloth and a symbol of the sangam painted in white on his forehead, he stares at us in utter disbelief as we float by in our colorful boats. He seems as stunned to see us as we are to see him.

  Another man sits in his riverboat parked on the shore in a meditative position—legs crossed, eyes closed. Out of habit, I lift my cell phone to capture the moment. Then, something inside me says: Stop. Put your camera down. I just observe him instead. I connect to myself and to this moment. This is the kind of beauty I'm seeking.

  Thousands of yellow and orange marigolds—singly and in chains—float on the water and along the shoreline. They're gifts given to Ganga to honor her. They're offerings, or puja. She appears to take them in joyfully, surging in gratitude.

  The next day, we begin the three-quarter-mile walk along the Ganges shore to the Mela entry gates, encountering other small bands of pilgrims as we go. The sadhus are dressed in marigold fabric, adorned with mala beads, and toting gleaming tin buckets to beg for their sustenance. When I catch their eyes, I see looks that are mostly serene. We nod at each other, smile, and say “Namaste,” saluting the Divine in one another. We pass beneath a pair of towering telephone poles encased in digitally printed signage with messages of welcome in English and Hindi.

  We enter at the fringe of the gathering. As we move inward, the crowds grow steadily. There's an enormous grid of temporary roads, complete with billboards plastered with faces of various enterprising gurus and “You are here” maps. There are waving neon flags, colorfully striped tents, and twinkling tinsel as far as the eye can see. Our large, unwieldy group of American pilgrims is a moving spectacle. The crowds here are mainly rural people who have never encountered Westerners before. Cell phones and satellite TV have not yet become ubiquitous here.

  Whenever we stop, people gather to stare or to take photos. The looks we get run the gamut from stunned surprise to innocent curiosity, and a few who look mildly unfriendly or perhaps angry. The unfriendly stares remind me that I'm a foreigner here. I put my hands together in front of my heart, bow slightly, smile, and said “Namaste,” which means “I bow to the divine in you” in Hindi. The unfriendly stares immediately melt into smiles and recognition. It's as if their wordless response is: “Ahhh, now I see you.” They return my blessing, and I feel myself relax.

  I see a sadhu with a noose around his neck. He appears to be hanging himself from a small post in an odd spiritual feat of self-strangulation. This is the circus aspect of mysticism—eccentric demonstrations by holy men of their superhuman capacity to endure diminished circulation or severe pain—walking on hot coals, being buried alive, or lying on a bed of nails. Vendors hawk mala beads, rice, Coca-Cola, and floral offerings. People move calmly along the dusty roads—women in saris, children, men on motorcycles, and camels carrying large loads.

  Periodically, we witness a guru arriving in style. Depending on the guru's status, he or she may arrive on a wagon covered in orange marigold garlands and satin banners, a low-budget version of a Rose Bowl parade float. Others favor the luxe approach. One guru arrived in his $80,000 BMW 7-Series, complete with motorcade and machine-gun-toting bodyguards. The ashrams also reflect the varying status of individual teachers. They range from tiny, makeshift tents to huge compounds complete with fountains, chandeliers, flat-screen monitors, and small shopping arcades.

  I feel as if I've traveled to another realm, one where I don't know the rules or how to read the signs. I try to look back to find the path we've traveled, to lock onto a landmark, in case I become lost. I spot a nice, big temple on a hillside that fits the bill.

  Our group pauses and breaks into smaller groups. I end up with a crew of about fifteen people, most of whom are new to me. We're all Americans—two couples and their tween- to teenaged children, a couple of fabulous single women in their late sixties, a few single men, and myself. I've met the older women before, and they're two of my favorites. They seem to carry a relaxed knowingness with them at all times. Their presence makes me feel safer and more solid.

  We head directly for the sangam, the hot zone, the spot considered most auspicious for bathing. We'd seen it yesterday from our splintery boats on the river, but I'm a bit nervous about going there now, as I expect the crowds will be heavy. En route, we cross a pontoon bridge built to help people walk across the river in this nonmonsoon period.

  Near the sangam, we see the acres of hay laid down to keep the river's edge intact for all of the bathers. There are crowds around fifty people deep calmly entering and exiting the river. The river's edge has been heavily sandbagged to preserve its integrity. The bathing area is punctuated by towering telephone poles with huge clusters of floodlights, which must illuminate the space at night. It has the feeling of a Super Bowl stadium—vast and designed for high-capacity crowds. Dust rises in a cloud that envelops everything. As we approach the riverbank, I see women carefully unwinding and rewinding wet saris, drying them on open sections of hay-covered ground. The colorful cloths stretch out like artful banners.

  Though we're a small group, as we approach the bathing area, our presence attracts attention. Something in me wants to keep moving. First, two people stop to stare at us, then four, then sixteen,
then forty—and now three army officials show up. I'm not sure if they're here to gawk as well, or if they're concerned that we're going to disturb the safe and pleasant flow of events.

  Our small group's audience continues to grow. My Namaste strategy is only helping minimally. The army officials come closer. They stare at us. A vendor trots over and offers us the flower boats with candles that he's selling so we can make puja, sacred offerings, in the river. A few of my companions decide to buy. This draws in more people. Now we're surrounded by an even larger crowd. Some look friendly and some more stern. My hands are sweating, and I notice that I'm holding my breath. Beyond is a much larger throng of people and more are approaching.

  I want to skip the puja boats and move on before this gets chaotic. My fellow pilgrims head down to the crowded water's edge to place their boats on the river. I gesture to a woman and her daughter who are already taking photos of us to indicate I'd like to take their photo, too. She nods and then proudly stands to pose with her daughter. We exchange Namastes and smile.

  As we leave the sangam area, I look back. So much dust has been kicked up that I've lost track of my temple landmark on the hillside. I can't even see the temporarily constructed footbridge we just crossed to get here. It's all disappeared in a haze.

  In the crowded lane leading to the Hanuman temple, dozens of vendors hawk rice, mala, fruit, colored powders, and other basic supplies. A cow, bedecked with an orange satin cape trimmed in fringe and gold befitting a bovine superhero lingers in the shade of a large tree with her handler, who's collecting alms.

  CHAPTER 31

  Troubled

  Peace. It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. It means to be in the midst of those things and still be calm in your heart.