This deeper chamber has a much lower ceiling. There are about twelve people meditating here. There is a large black-and-white photo of a swami on a low table. Under his penetrating stare, this room feels even more suffocating. I don't even stop to sit down.
The photo seems dark and leering here. I long for the soothing grove of trees on the Ganges and its soft, bouncy dung floor. I miss the river's sparkle and fog, her continuous movement. I feel stuck. I leave the temple to wander, seeking my happy place elsewhere, though today it seems hard to find.
Back outside in the early morning light, I finally settle under an old banyan tree and meditate. I'm seated on a small stone wall that has been built up around the tree's broad trunk. This tree is enormous and has giant, fat clusters of glossy leaves that provide lovely shade from the sun that's now fully risen. It's as if I am sitting beneath hundreds of lovely green umbrellas. I begin to notice the immense personality coming through the tree in the knots and gnarls of its trunk. I see a laughing walrus and an elephant seal. When I ask the tree what it has to teach me, it just laughs back at me.
After breakfast, we have our first satsang, Sanskrit for a gathering of likeminded individuals to discover the truth. Nathan, the spiritual leader and guru of the group, is to guide our gathering.
Before Nathan arrives to give the lecture, his assistant scrupulously clears every leaf and speck of lint from his elevated throne and the surrounding ground. Every single one … even those I can't see. This is clearly a devotional act and is performed with great reverence. I struggle with the idea of giving such reverential treatment to an individual (and not to the rest of the group). But I definitely feel this way about my own healing space, wanting the flowers on the altar to be fresh and everything meticulously clean and in its place to honor the spirits and clients with whom I work. I try to relax.
When Nathan arrives, I see a tall and slender man with a shock of white hair and large, dark, round eyes whose demeanor brings to mind a version of Kwan Yin, neither all feminine nor all masculine, the deity of compassion. He moves with care, as if he understands the importance of his role. He seats himself slowly in his elevated place, with his arms folded firmly across his chest. He takes a few minutes to look out smiling into the audience—a group of about a hundred of us. Before speaking, he sings a beautiful Sanskrit prayer. His singing voice is warm and soothing, the same one I heard over the speaker in the sacred grove on the Ganges. It must have been a recording. Nathan has been with us all along. He welcomes us and tells several stories in a heavy accent. One in particular captivates me.
“There is a cave here beneath the new temple, where ascended masters and spirits dwell as ghosts or discarnate spirits. You will each have the opportunity to make a visit to this cave if you wish while you are staying with us here in Khahurajo. This cave will only be opened at certain times, as we must give these soul ghosts periods of peace as well. It is their home.”
Nathan goes on to talk about the new temple: “Some things take longer than others to mature or to accumulate wisdom. For example, elephants and stones have a much longer gestation period than humans. The new temple will take three years to mature spiritually, and only then will it begin to grow in its ability to light the flame of others.”
So many people seem to be under the spell of Nathan. Most here are devotees who've known him for five, ten, or even twenty years. He seems like a kind and perhaps brilliant scholar; however, when he sits at the front of the tent giving his lecture, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest. It strikes me as odd that a guru would use this protective body language, this stance of self-defense.
Sam, a darling thirty-something, flush-cheeked investment banker from North Carolina and I compare notes on Nathan. After sitting through two satsangs, we both feel a bit confused by his teachings. Also, many stories are directed at his long-time followers—the punchlines seemed to be inside jokes of sorts. It's nice to know that I'm not alone. Sam shares his misgivings with me and confesses that he did some digging about the background of this group and discovered a few unsavory allegations.
The yoga establishment, like the Roman Catholic Church or any other powerful spiritual organization, has had more than its share of scandal and abuse. Sam adds that there are court cases with convictions of gurus for sexual misconduct resulting in mulitimillion dollar damages in the US. “I've got my reservations about the whole guru thing,” he concludes. “Yikes,” I say, nodding my head in agreement.
Hearing this reminds me how uncomfortable I feel, thus far, with this whole guru scene I'm witnessing. I was speaking with a devotee in the dining tent the previous night, when he shared, with giddy enthusiasm, how, during a period of deep confusion in his life, one of the organization's previous gurus had commanded him to immediately quit his job, pack up, and move across the country. They happened to be setting up a new ashram in the city the guru told him to relocate to. A recent documentary I'd seen on a yoga cult immediately came to mind.
Watching it left me feeling unhinged—and his story sounded not unlike the devotees in the film. These people, many of whom were brilliant and succcessful with families and marriages at the beginning, were depicted as extremely trusting and began to put their “leader” at the top of their personal hierarchy. Over time, the followers seemed to become more and more childlike: willing to do anything … sell their house, jettison their morals, and turn large portions of their income over to their guru in exchange for the priviledge of belonging. To be Loved. Saved.
When the jig was up, the members who remained were left isolated, deeply scarred, estranged from their families, and without financial security. To me, if you're a true spiritual guide, you wouldn't dare to tell anybody what they should do. You help that person connect with their own inner wisdom and empower them to make their own choices. That's, it seems, is precisely what yoga and all of the other great wisdom traditions in the world are trying to do—in their purest forms.
Sam and I also concur in our frustration over Nathan's apparent unwillingness to talk about the erotic symbolism on the Tantric temples here in Khahurajo. My local hired guide tells us that the temple figures are metaphors for the ways power or sacred energies move through the human body and spirit. That makes sense to me and resonates with the way deep spiritual practice—union with the Divine—can lead to feelings of ecstasy that are similar or identical to ecstatic sexual bliss. But aren't they also more than metaphors? Aren't they instructions as well? Initiations?
I know that when I've done certain practices—one in particular that I learned during the dancing-with-stones workshop that's not unlike yoga's Breath of Fire (Agni-Prasana)—I've experienced a kind of ecstasy that is different from, but closely related to, erotic pleasure—my “getting laid by the Universe” experiences … a kind of Dr.-Bronner's-pepper-mint-soap-on-your-undercarriage-all-over-body euphoria. These experiences weren't an everyday occurrence for me, but they were certainly part of my spiritual path.
With all the potential ecstasy to be experienced in spiritual practice, it's not surprising that, in every tradition—from Catholicism to Buddhism—there seems to be some trouble with sexual misconduct and abuse. Perhaps it's tempting to experience ecstasy on demand, rather than waiting for the Divine to gift us with it. As a February 2012 New York Times article by William J. Broad suggests, there are practices in the tradition of Tantric yoga that involve intimate acts.
Hatha originated as a way to speed the Tantric agenda. It used poses, deep breathing, and stimulating acts—including intercourse—to hasten rapturous bliss. In time, Tantra and Hatha developed bad reputations. The main charge was that practitioners indulged in sexual debauchery under the pretext of spirituality.
Having a close friendship with a passionate owner of several yoga studios, I know how infuriating it is to her, and her community, when prominent figures blatantly and unscrupulously use their power and position to gain intimate access to vulnerable women. I wonder what Tantric practices we're not going to learn about dur
ing our brief pilgrimage. Sex for the purpose of enlightenment? With the spell that some devotees seem to be under, it seems there would be nothing they would not agree to do for their teacher. I know, too, that the path I have chosen isn't immune to abuse; just as there are unethical gurus, rabbis, clergy, there are also unethical shamans.
Sitting on folding chairs in the sun, I share with another fellow pilgrim, a long-time follower of Nathan, that I'm struggling to find meaning in his lectures and that I find much of what he's saying confusing. She smiles beatifically and says: “His kind of storytelling is different; he's able to ‘read’ the room. He's able to see right into all of our minds and souls and give whoever's there exactly what they need.”
I feel as if she's being a bit condescending, as if I'm too dense to get what's going on, even though Nathan may be giving me what he “knows” I need. Then again, I wonder if this is a case of me needing to become more humble so I can learn something new. This is either a whole new way to see Nathan's lectures, or it's the most brainwashed perspective I've ever considered buying into. Sometimes the measure of a good teaching is how much it irritates you or helps you discover your own truth. I'm definitely irritated, but I have yet to discover the pearl of wisdom being cultivated.
The next day, I try to listen with new ears and apply the idea that a deeper teaching may be happening here, one that's aimed right at me. But I find I'm even more challenged. Nathan is, inexplicably, all smiles as he talks about the recent tragic incidents at the Mela, the deaths and reported drownings. Just before we left Allahabad, we learned that my fear of a stampede was not so farfetched. Tragically, thirty-six people were killed on an overcrowded train platform, and there were rumors of a pontoon bridge collapsing and some of those on it drowning. Nathan's smiling seems incongruous. He makes a joke about the dead bodies floating down the river and laughs about how their families will probably say that it's auspicious or fortunate that they died in such a holy place during the Kumbh Mela.
Perhaps I am confused, but Nathan seems to be mocking the pure, childlike devotion that some pilgrims bring to the Mela—their belief that bathing in the river can solve all their troubles, the idea that God is a benevolent, paternalistic force. His attitude seems to imply that the pilgrims’ extraordinary faith in God is somehow laughable. What's wrong with trying to reframe a loved one's death as a gift? Or trying to understand the terrible things that happen as part of a divine order? Or going bathing in a river with hopes that it can change everything? Or praying for a miracle? Maybe Nathan's laughter stings because I bathed in the sacred river just days ago, asking for my own miracle.
I understand that we must take responsibility for our own actions and lives, but I find the kind of reverence the pilgrims have so touching. Several of us nondevotees discuss afterward how strange and even disturbing what he is saying seems to us.
One day, Nathan spends a lot of time in a lecture pointing out that everything is not as it seems. He says research has shown that many “holy” sadhus are illiterate, not the learned men many perceive them to be. He says a large number of them have criminal records. He says: “The nearer to the lamp, the darker it is.” He seems to be calling out the truth about holy men everywhere. I think about the allegations Sam mentioned and I wonder, is there something I'm supposed to be worried about here?
This is not to say that Nathan doesn't teach anything that resonates with me. He does. For example, he says: “If you want to know if your spiritual practice is effective, ask yourself how comfortable you are in your own skin. Ask how joyful you are inside. Ask how much space you create in your own heart.” I wholeheartedly agree with this. And for rituals to be meaningful, Nathan says, we must put our whole selves into them. Paying a priest to do a ceremony for you is easy, but if you transform your kitchen, your living room, and your bedroom into a temple, that's much more powerful. Everything can become puja, an offering to the Divine. Your home. Your actions. Your relationships. Your whole life. Amen.
CHAPTER 35
Temples in the Rain
Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.
Albert Camus, The Rebel
It begins to rain. It rains hard, on and off, for days. This isn't supposed to be the rainy season, and we're wholly unprepared. Several of the huts flood; nearly every roof leaks; duffle-bag contents and spirits are dampened. I'm so frustrated today about the lack of silence in the main tent before sunrise that I'm a complete crankypants. It's as if everyone has forgotten why we're here—to engage in spiritual practice. Damn it. I hide at a table at the back of the dining room, drinking chai and silently simmering into my journal.
To make matters even worse, a well-intended fellow pilgrim pulls me aside to tell me that I'm “too pretty to walk hunched over” and then tries to correct my posture on the spot! Yikes! I know she means well, but it feels like a critique of my very being. Don't tell me I have pesto in my teeth. Not today. And please allow me to be Quasimodo for just this one week, especially since it's raining in the jungle and everything's become a muddy quagmire.
After several days of relentless rain, even the main dining hut roof begins to leak. There's not a dry table or chair left. With nowhere to escape the damp and cold, our spirits are diminished. Today, we're scheduled to visit a temple several dozen miles from here, Jata Shankar, but it's not clear whether the roads are even passable.
At breakfast, Nathan announces that we have two options for the day. We can either take our previously planned day trip (his face glum and serious) or we can stay put and visit the cave (Laughing Buddha smile and eyes twinkling). He then explains that a stone down in the sacred cave beneath the new temple is suddenly giving darshan, meaning that the Divine is manifesting somehow in the stone. By simply viewing it, we may possibly become enlightened or receive a teaching. Just how long this underground darshan has been happening is unclear.
At this moment, I have little interest in darshan. If it's happening here, can't I see it later? I'm dying for an adventure, even in the pouring rain. I need to get out of here. Everyone else seems to be shimmying with excitement at the idea of a basement darshan. Then Nathan says: “After hearing your options, does anybody still want an adventure? Please raise your hand.” No one else seems to give a downward dog about going on a fresh adventure.
Half-crazed by rain and a feeling of suffocation, I boldly raise my hand, flinching reflexively from the glares I expect to receive. A few other hands shoot up. Not many, but I'm glad that I'm not alone. As I glance around, I note that the hand-raisers are fun people—Sam, Jo Anne and her son Jon, and a few others I've yet to meet who appear smiley and lively. Lord have mercy.
It's decided that, instead of sending the originally scheduled three buses on the temple adventure, they'll send only one for those of us in need of excitement. Or is it escape? I'm thrilled. I feel as if I can't stay here for one more yogic minute. Our group of roughly twenty adventurers gets completely drenched running down the flooded driveway out to the bus.
On the bus, we discover that it's still raining—inside. The roof of the bus leaks steadily. But the leaking roof scarcely dims our joy. We're free! We come up with an inspired and somewhat uncouth way of staying dry. It involves ferociously chewing lots of gum and then using it to tack torn garbage bags to the bus ceiling to create a makeshift tarp. It works for a while, but then water collects in pools on top of the garbage bags and periodically baptizes us. We finally give up and just get wet.
While riding, we sing a hodgepodge of tunes: kirtans, ancient call-and-response Hindu chants embedded with healing mantras that have now been made popular in the US by Deva Premal and others; the Flintstones theme song; Bob Marley and John Denver favorites. Our spirits are most definitely Rocky Mountain high, despite the dampness. When we arrive at the Jata Shankar temple grounds, the rain suddenly stops. Surely, this is an auspicious day.
We stop at the foot of the hill in the touristy market to purchase offerings of suga
r, coconut, and grains. Just as shamans make offerings to their beloved spirits in thanks, or when they ask for help, Hindus offer gifts in a sacred exchange with their deities.
The Jata Shankar temple is perched at the top of a long, winding staircase on which we encounter wandering cows, scampering monkeys, and a few other pilgrims. This is one of the most charming and beautiful temples I've seen. It's covered in mythical murals painted in a vivid, childlike palette that are reminiscent of Sunday paintings—the primitive and winsome amateur artwork you can find at estate sales.
The inner temple contains a complex riot of wacky and wonderful devotional offerings that pilgrims have placed on the altar, including flowers, foil balloons, children's toys, and other gifts. Sam and I take turns offering the sweets we purchased and saying prayers on our knees in the temple doorway, which is being attended by a young priest clothed in effortless sacred chic—a simple shirt and a cloth wrapped around his lower half, a fantastic headscarf, and minimal, yet effective, jewelry.
After we leave the temple, Sam whispers conspiratorially in my ear that he finds the priest incredibly sexy. I inspect the long-haired young priest with new eyes and understand. There's often something alluring and powerful about people we see as having access to the spirits. I smile back at Sam.
We board the bus again, where we wash down our lunch of naan stuffed with dal with mango juice from little boxes. We return to campus damp but happy.
Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer Page 20