‘The whole ritual took nearly four hours, and was very painful. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help crying. I didn’t tell my parents about my decision, as I knew they would try and stop me, but somehow they heard, and came rushing. By the time they arrived, the ceremony was almost over. When they saw me with a bald head, and scars and blood all over my scalp where my hair had once been, my mother screamed, and my father burst into tears. They knew then that I would never turn back from this path. After that, whenever the Sangha would arrive at a village, the Maharaj would show me off: look, he would say, this one is so young, yet so determined, doing what even the old would hesitate to do.
‘It was about this time that I met my friend, Prayogamati. One day, our Sangha happened to walk into her village, and as her father was a rich merchant, who lived in a large house, they invited us to stay with them. Prayogamati was the same age as me, fifteen, a beautiful, fragile girl, and she came down every day to our room to talk to us. We quickly became very close, talking late into the night. She was fascinated by my life in the Sangha, and I had never met anyone who seemed to understand me the way she did, someone who shared all my beliefs and ideals. She was about to be engaged to the son of a rich diamond merchant, and the match had been arranged for her, but she was more interested in taking diksha. She also knew that her family would not allow her to do this.
‘After a week, we left that village, setting off before dawn. That evening, Prayogamati borrowed some money from her mother, saying she wanted to go to a circus. Instead, she took two outfits from her room, and jumped on a bus. Late that night she found us, and asked the Maharaj to accept her. Her family realised what had happened, and begged her to return, but she refused, and our guru-ji said it was up to her to decide. From that point we were together for twenty years. We took diksha together, and travelled together, and ate together, and spent our monsoon chaturmasa together. Soon we became very close.
‘Except for the chaturmasa, it is forbidden for us to stay long in one place, in case we become attached to it. Some nights we would stay in the house of a rich man, sometimes in a cave, sometimes the jungle. People think of our life as harsh, and of course it is. But going into the unknown without a rupee in our pockets means that differences between rich and poor, educated and illiterate, all vanish, and a common humanity emerges. This wandering life, with no material possessions, unlocks our souls. There is a wonderful sense of lightness, living each day as it comes. No weight, no burden. Journey and destination became one, thought and action become one, until we are moving like a river into detachment.’
‘WE LIVED IN THIS MANNER for four years before the time came for Prayogamati and I to take diksha. The other matajis dressed up my friend and me as brides. We wore identical clothes and jewellery. We even looked alike, so often people confused us. We were taken together in a chariot around thirteen villages near our family haveli in Udaipur district. Before us went drummers and trumpeters and men clashing cymbals, and as we passed, we would throw rice and money to the crowds.
‘The final day of diksha twenty thousand people gathered. We rose very early and walked to the stage where the ceremony was to be held. We said prayers in praise of the Tirthankaras, and then we formally asked permission from the Maharaj to take diksha. He gave his assent.
‘Then came the time for saying farewell to our families. We both tied rakis [threads] for the last time on the wrists of our brothers, saying goodbye to them. Then we said goodbye to our parents – we embraced, and wished each other farewell. After this, they were no longer our relatives – to us they were to be just like any other member of society.
‘After the farewell, we were led off for the hair plucking ceremony. This time we had to do it ourselves, which was much harder. After it was finished we were given a holy bath in a shamiana tent. When we both came out, we were given robes of white cloth. Then we were led back onto the stage, and told our new names. I was no longer Rekha but Prasannamati Mataji. My friend became Prayogamati. Then we were both lectured by our guru-ji. He told us clearly what was expected of us: never again to use a vehicle, to take food only once a day, to abstain from emotion, never to hurt any living creature. He told us we must not react to attacks, must not beg, must not cry, must not complain, must not demand, must not feel superiority. And he told us all the different kinds of difficulties we should be prepared to bare: hunger, thirst, cold, heat, mosquitoes. He warned us that none of this was easy.
‘Then he gave us our water pot and peacock fan, and we were led off the stage for the last time. That night, we spent on the roof of the house where we were staying. The following morning, we got up before dawn and slipped away. We looked for the signs that led towards Gujarat, and began to walk.’
‘EVERYONE HAD WARNED us about the difficulty of this life,’ continued Mataji. ‘But in reality, we had left everything willingly, so did not miss the world we had left behind. It is the same as when a girl gets married and she has to give up her parents’ home: if she does it in exchange for something she really wants, it is not a sad time. Certainly, for both Prayogamati and me it was a very happy period in our lives – perhaps the most happy. Every day we would walk, and discover somewhere new.
‘Walking is very important to us Jains. The Buddha was enlightened while sitting under a tree, but our great Tirthankara, Mahavira, was enlightened while walking. Living from day to day, much of what I have learnt as a Jain has come from wandering. Sometimes, even my dreams are of wandering.
‘It was while walking that Prayogamati began to realise that her health was beginning to fail. It was because of her difficulty in keeping up with me that we first noticed that there was something wrong with her joints. She began to have difficulty in walking, and even more so in sitting or squatting.
‘For ten years her condition got worse: by the end, it pained her to move at all. Then one afternoon she was studying in a monastery in Karnataka when she began coughing, and begun to make this retching noise. When she took her hand away from her mouth she found it was covered in blood. After that, there was nothing more for a week, but then she began coughing up blood regularly. Sometimes, it was a small amount – just enough to make her mouth red – at other times she would cough up enough to fill a small teacup.
‘I guessed immediately that it was TB, and I took special permission from our guru-ji to let her see a doctor. Western medicine is forbidden to us, as so much of it is made using dead animals. But given the seriousness of the situation, our guru-ji agreed to let a Western doctor look at her, though he insisted that only herbal medicine could be given to her.
‘Prayogamati remained very calm, and for a long time she hoped that she might still recover her health. Even when it became clear that this was something quite serious, she remained composed. It was always me that was worried. She kept assuring me that she was feeling better and that it was nothing serious; but in reality you didn’t have to be a doctor to see that her health was rapidly deteriorating.
‘Her digestive system became affected, the bloody coughing continued, and after a while, she started showing blood when she went for her ablutions too. Eventually I got permission to take her to a hospital where she had a full blood test. They diagnosed her problem as advanced TB of the digestive system. They said that her chances were not good.
‘That same day Prayogamati decided to embrace sallekhana. She said she would prefer to give up her body rather than have it taken from her. She wanted to die voluntarily, facing it squarely, rather than have death ambush her and take her away by force. She was determined to be the victor, not the victim. I tried to argue with her, but like me, once she took a decision it was impossible to get her to change.
‘Despite her pain and her illness, she set out that day to walk a hundred kilometres to see our guru, who was then in Indore. We got there after a terrible week in which Prayogamati suffered very badly: it was winter – late December – and bitterly cold. But she refused to give up, and when she got to Indore she asked permission to be
gin embracing sallekhana. He asked Prayogamati if she was sure, and she said yes. When he learned that she would anyway probably not have very long to live, he gave his assent.
‘Throughout 2004, Prayogamati began gradually reducing her food. One by one, she gave up all the vegetables she used to eat. She began eating nothing at all on several days of the week. For eighteen months she ate less and less. Normally sallekhana is very peaceful but for Prayogamati, because of her illness, her end was full of pain.
‘My job was to feed her, and look after her, and read the prescribed texts. I was also there to talk to her and give her courage and companionship. I stayed with her twenty-four hours a day. Throughout she tolerated everything, and stayed completely calm – such calmness you can hardly imagine! – I always learned from her, but never more than towards the end. Such a person will not be born again.
‘By September 2005 she was bedridden, and I remained continually by her side until the beginning of December. By this stage she was taking only pomegranate juice, milk, rice, dal and sugar. Every day she would eat a little less. She had to summon all her strength to perform the observations that have to be followed. At the end, she was running a fever of 105 degrees, and was covered in sweat. In the afternoon she would feel cold; in the evening she would burn. I asked the doctors, what is the reason for this? They did some tests and said – now she has caught malaria as well.
‘The next day the fever was still there. Just after one-thirty I went to take my food, when Prayogamati cried loudly. I rushed to look after her – it was clear her condition was not good at all. There was no one around except a boy at the gate, so I sent him off for the doctor. When I came back, I held her hand and she whispered that she wanted to stop all remaining food. Her suffering was too much for her now. She said that for her death was as welcome as life, that there was a time to live and a time to die. Now, she said, the time has come for me to be liberated from this body.
‘Our guru-ji gathered the community. By early afternoon all the gurus and matajis were there guiding her and sitting together around the bed. Others came to touch her feet. Everyone was there to support Prayogamati, to give her courage. Around 4 p.m., the doctor said he thought she was about to die, but she held on until 9 p.m. It was dark by then, and the lamps were all lit around the room. Her breathing had been very difficult that day, but towards the end it became easier. I held her hand, the monks chanted, and her eyes closed. For a while, even I didn’t know she had gone. She just slipped away.
‘When I realised she had left, I wept bitterly. We are not supposed to do this, and our guru-ji frowned at me. But I couldn’t help myself. I had followed all the steps correctly until she passed away, but then everything I had bottled up came pouring out. Her body was still there, but she wasn’t in it. It was no longer her.
‘The next day, the 15th of December, she was cremated. They burned her at 4 p.m. All the devotees in Indore came: over two thousand people. The following morning, at dawn, I got up and headed off. There was no reason to stay.
‘It was the first time as a nun that I had ever walked anywhere alone.’
THE FOLLOWING DAY, as I went to say goodbye to Mataji, she told me: ‘Prayogamati’s time was fixed. She passed on. She’s no longer here. All things decay and disappear in time.’ Then she fell silent. ‘Now my friend has gone,’ she said eventually, ‘it is easier for me to go too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have seen over forty sallekhanas,’ she said. ‘After Prayogamati’s, I realised it was time I should set out to that end.’
‘You mean you are thinking of following…?’
‘I am on the path already,’ said Mataji. ‘I have given up milk and curds, salt and sugar, guava and papaya, leafy vegetables and lady’s finger. Each month I give up something new. All I want to do now is to visit a few more holy places before I go. ‘
‘But why?’ I asked. ‘You are not ill like she was. Isn’t it a waste? You’re only thirty-eight.’
‘I told you before,’ she said. ‘Sallekhana is the aim of all Jains. It is the last renouncement. First you give up your home, then your possessions. Finally you give up your body.’
‘Do you think you will meet her in another life,’ I said. ‘Is that it?’
‘It is uncertain,’ said Mataji. ‘Our scriptures are full of people who meet old friends and husbands and wives and teachers from previous lives. But no one can control these things.’ Again Mataji paused, and looked out of the window. ‘Though we both may have many lives ahead of us, in many worlds,’ she said, ‘who knows whether we will meet again? And if we do meet, in our new bodies, who is to say that we will recognise each other?’
She looked at me sadly as I got up to go, and said simply: ‘These things are not in our hands.’
The Last Man Alive
OLIVER BULLOUGH (born Hereford, 1977) grew up in Wales, and moved to Russia in 1999. After spells in St Petersburg and Bishkek, he became Reuters correspondent for Chechnya and the Caucasus Mountains. Let Our Fame Be Great (Penguin 2010), his first book, was based on his experiences as well as travels in a dozen countries to find communities of highlanders. He is currently researching a book on Russia’s demographic collapse, and working as Caucasus Editor for the Institute for War and Peace Reporting.
The Last Man Alive
OLIVER BULLOUGH
I was collecting stories of Stalin’s atrocities when I met Mukharbek Zabakov, and I had high hopes of him. Most of the Balkars, Chechens and Karachai I had interviewed had been children when their nations were deported. They could remember details – their dogs, their friends, their cousins dying – but these were just flashes of horror, not the whole grinding truth of it. Zabakov, born 1922 in the mountains of Upper Balkaria, was different. He had been twenty-one on 8 March 1944, when Stalin’s security troops swept the mountains clean of his people, and he would remember everything. I was looking forward to it, and had a new notebook all ready.
He wore a grey suit and a trilby. Straight-backed, tall but stocky, he showed no effects from the vodka the four of us drank with lunch. I was the youngest by fifty years and Zabakov was almost a decade older again than the two other men who would tell their tales once he was done. That is the rule in Balkar etiquette. The oldest man says his piece without interruption, even if like Zabakov he looks younger and fitter than the men flanking him. The women stayed silent and brought us salad, kebabbed meat and vodka without us having to ask.
When the food was finished, I moved my plate, put the new notebook on the table, took the cap off a blue ballpoint pen, opened the notebook, wrote his name at the top of the page next to his date of birth, and looked up at him. So, I asked, what did he remember of the deportation?
I always began like that, and it was the only prepared question I ever had. I never knew what these old survivors would tell me until they told it to me, so I didn’t know where to focus until I knew what they’d say.
He was not, he said, present during the deportation.
What, I asked, forgetting my etiquette.
He was a prisoner of the Germans, he said.
Oh, I replied, in that case.
I turned to one of the other two men. I was there to hear about the deportation, and had no interest in anything else. Their stories would not be so good as his might have been, but would still include new details I had not heard before. I was about to cross out Zabakov’s name and write one of theirs at the top of the page, when I realised he was still speaking. It appeared that he had no intention of stopping just because I was not interested in what he had to say.
He had, you see, been conscripted on 5 May 1942; taught how to stand, march, fire and salute and been sent to the Front. In August, he was already on the Don where the Germans were approaching. The Don was wide, and no one had known where the Germans would cross the river and his unit was waiting in the wrong place.
In one night, the Germans built a bridge, and all the tanks crossed, and his unit was pulled back. They marc
hed on foot, and his commander told him to get food for the unit, so he put his gun down. It was 11 August, and he went to the place where food was supposed to arrive, and waited there, but there was no food. He found a place to lie down, and waited, and then he understood that there would be no food. So he was with a different unit that was nearby and they marched away, and the machine gunner refused to go, so the commander shot him and he had to carry the discs for the gun now, and there were gullies in the steppe, deep gullies, and they arrived at a place where in summer livestock are kept, but no one was there and they only had bread to eat.
Planes were flying and they were hiding and they walked and walked. It was hot, August heat, and the unit’s commander remembered he was from a different unit so the commander sent some soldiers to take him back to his own unit, but when he got there, there was no one there. Everyone had retreated. So he walked further, and saw some wounded people walking, then he saw a column of tanks. And he went to ask the tanks where he was, but there was an explosion and he was injured, and the tanks were German, and he was captured, and he was asked if it was far to Stalingrad, then he was sent to the rear. That, he said, is how he became a prisoner of the Germans.
I have spoken to many men who have fought in wars, and have learned that a single experience can be so traumatic that it overshadows everything else in their lives. It can be annoying if you are trying to find out about something else, since the men will only answer your questions once they have described their particular event. I recognised that this was such an experience, and so I decided to just sit it out and wait for him to stop talking. He surely couldn’t last too long and once he was finished I could turn to the other two men.
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