He sat down on his swivel chair and brushed his beard. Sadhus are reluctant to talk about themselves, but I took the chance and boldly asked him: ‘Swamiji, why did you become a sadhu? You are obviously well-educated. You speak excellent English. You could have got a good job anywhere.’
Swamiji graciously accepted my compliments. He ran his slender fingers over his locks and replied, ‘English literature was my favourite subject at the university. I used to stand first in my class.’
You are from Bengal?’
He did not like the innuendo about his accent. ‘I am from India . . . from the world. Hinduism is not like Christianity or Islam, restricted to followers of Jesus Christ or Mohammed. Hinduism is a universal religion.’ He opened his arms wide as if he was taking the universe in his embrace. ‘It is the religion of love.’ He closed his arms and clasped the universe to his bosom. ‘Hinduism is love for everyone, everything.’ He closed his eyes and rocked in his chair.
‘Why did you become a sadhu?’
He opened his large eyes. ‘Why? That is an interesting question.’ After a short pause he continued. ‘Because I wanted to realize the truth about myself. All our holy books tell us that the aim of life should be self-realization.’
‘How did you get started?’
‘My English teacher, he was an American. I forget his name. Reverend Tucker or something like that. He was a Christian sannyasi. He taught me to adore Jesus Christ. I began to love Christ so much that whenever I thought of His crucifixion, I used to weep like anything. Well, it was this American missionary who said to me, ‘Go and serve the people.’
‘I first joined the Ramakrishna Mission. I was not very happy there because they worship Ramakrishna as god. Then I wandered about from one holy place to another: Jagannath Puri, Benares, Hardwar, Rishikesh. I bathed in all our holy rivers. I spent many years in the Himalayas fasting, praying, meditating. Then I felt I was ready to become a full-fledged sadhu I went to Hardwar for my initiation.’
‘How exactly is a sadhu initiated?’
Swamiji looked alarmed. ‘That is a secret. No sadhu will tell you of his initiation or the gut mantra (the mystic formula whispered by a guru in the ears of the disciple).’
I told him I had read an excellent account of it in Swami Agehananda Bharati’s classic, The Ochre Robe. (This book is proscribed by the Indian government. Bharati, an Austrian convert to Hinduism, is professor of sociology at Syracuse University.)
Swamiji, despite his religion of love, made uncharitable comments about Bharati. Then he proceeded to tell me of his own initiation. ‘I was initiated into the Dashnami order (the same as Bharati’s). I studied the philosophy of Shankara. I was filled with light and love.’
‘Swamiji, what are your views on cow-protection?’
‘The cow is sacred. Its milk is essential for anyone who wants to lead a spiritual life. Cow’s milk, curds, butter and buttermilk keep a man’s body healthy without exciting his sex.’
‘Sex?’
‘Yes, sex. A black cow’s milk is better than that of a white one,’ he assured me. He saw the bewilderment on my face and explained: ‘Self-preservation is as important as self-realization. In order to preserve oneself, one must preserve one’s semen—bindu. A real sadhu does not waste one drop of his bindu. He draws it up his spinal cord and lets the life force spread in his frame.’ Swamiji inhaled deeply, expanded his chest and slapped it to illustrate the tonic qualities of retained bindu.
I recalled reading about it in Arthur Koestler’s The Lotus and the Robot (also proscribed by the Indian government). Swamiji, too, had read the book. And once again he expressed himself strongly.
‘What about the economic aspects of cow-protection?’ I asked, trotting out the data: 235 million cows; cows dying of hunger; people dying of hunger.
Swamiji had heard all this before: ‘If the government can spend ten crore (100 million) rupees on an abattoir, it can spend ten lakhs (one million) on gau shalas (cattle-pens). If we feed them better, they will yield more milk. We need their dung to fertilize our land. Unless chemical fertilizers have a little natural manure mixed in them, they can turn fertile land into a desert. And cows’ urine is full of medicinal properties. It is used in many Ayurvedic medicines. My friend, economics are in favour of cow-protection.’
‘Only the Hindus want cow-protection. How can we call ourselves secular if we give in to the demands of one religious community?’
‘My friend,’ replied Swamiji in a very condescending voice, ‘it seems you have lived abroad too long. Does secularism mean we should deliberately hurt the religious feelings of the Hindus, who form 85 per cent of the population of the country? And you take it from me, hundreds of thousands of Muslims, Christians and Sikhs are with us on this issue. And don’t you realize how bad it is to consume the flesh of an animal whose milk you drink? It is like eating your mother. That’s what makes beef-eaters stupid.’ He quoted Shakespeare: ‘I am a great eater of beef and I believe that does harm to my wit. That’s from Twelfth Night.’
Swamiji then told me how, in 1956, Gulzari Lal Nanda, then minister of planning, had persuaded him to become secretary of the Sadhu Samaj. ‘We have 10,000 members drawn from all sects. One day, all sadhus will join this organization and help to raise the moral standards of the world.’
I asked his opinion of another well-known sadhu leader. Swamiji’s brow wrinkled. ‘He is no sadhu! He drinks wine, eats flesh, fornicates with virgins. He bloody bugger.’
I was alarmed at the language. Swamiji reassured-me: ‘Ours is a religion of purity and love. We can’t have frauds among us.’
I mentioned yet another name, a sadhu who had gone on a lecture tour of the United States. ‘Absolute fraud,’ Swamiji assured me. ‘He also bloody bugger.’
It became a game. The score for loving everyone was five; ‘bloody buggers’ won by a margin of seven.
I touched Swami Ananda’s sandals and took my leave.
Later in the day I went back to Nigambodh Ghat. Half-a-mile north of the cremation ground was a sadhus’ encampment organized by Hindu religious and political groups: Arya Samaj, Sanatan Dharma Sabha, Bharatiya Jan Sangh and the militant Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS). The encampment was on a stretch of sand between the river and a dual highway which encircles the city. The police were present in strength. There were nearly a hundred constables armed with metal-tipped bamboo staves and handcuffs. A fleet of paddy wagons lined the road.
I left the tarmac of the twentieth century and trod the ancient sands of time. First were the nangas squatting on the ground in rows listening to their guru. Not one of them wore a stitch of clothing. The next lot were an order from Central India, dressed in ochre robes. They sat around a pit in which burned a sacrificial fire, chanting hymns and throwing in palmfuls of rice and clarified butter.
Near the river were the tents of yet another order from somewhere in Bihar. They looked prosperous. They had brought their elephant with them (an elephant costs more than a Cadillac and consumes more rupees’ worth of fodder than two motor cars consume gas). The animal was spraying itself, and anyone who came within range, with sand.
I gave it a wide berth and came to the akhada (open air gymnasium). Here, under a banner with the legend ‘Young Men’s Hindu Athletic Club’ topped with the figure of a cow, were a band of youths wrestling. Then at last I came to the group which was due to march into the city to coerce tradesmen into shutting their shops as a protest against the government’s reluctance to ban cow-slaughter.
There were several hundred people there, sadhus and others, squatting on the sand. A sadhu in saffron robes sat on a dais addressing them through a loudspeaker. My arrival—I was wearing European clothes—attracted attention. The speaker quickly tailored his speech to suit the occasion. His barbed shafts were now aimed at Indians who aped the West.
‘Our ancients used to begin their day by taking the name of god. Indian gentlemen of today, educated in England and America, do not believe in god. Do you kn
ow how they begin their day? I will tell you. They start by eating a biscuit.’ He pronounced it as bis (poison) coot (powdered).
The audience burst into laughter. Many people turned around to look at me. The speaker warmed to his theme of how the West had corrupted Hinduism. He related a story of an Anglicized Indian sahib who wanted to cross a river and called out to the boatman in English: ‘Hey you, black man, come here!’
The boatman, who did not understand English, naturally took no notice.
The Indian sahib yelled in rage, ‘Come at once you biladee (bloody).’ No result. Then he spoke more politely in Hindi: ‘Brother, please take me to the other side.’
The boatman brought his vessel to the bank and began to row across. He asked the Indian sahib what he had learned in foreign lands. The Indian sahib told him of the sciences and philosophy he had learned at Oxford. When they were in midstream the boat sprang a leak and began to sink. The sahib screamed with terror. And as the boatman swam away to safety, he asked: ‘And didn’t they teach you how to swim across an Indian river when you went to this Oxford or phoxford or whatever you call it?’
The lesson went home. The crowd raised peals of laughter. They turned back to look at me and renew their mirth. The speaker was happy. His tone became soothing: ‘And so, my dear friends, my beloved Indian brothers, do not forget your great past, your religion and your gods. Veneration of the cow mother is an essential part of the Hindu dharma. We will shed the last drop of our blood to protect our gau mata (mother cow).’
Someone in the audience shouted. ‘Dharma desh ka nata hai. (Religion and nation are related, one to the other.)
The crowd yelled back: ‘Gau hamari mata hai.’ (The cow is our mother.)
The meeting ended. The crowd formed itself into a procession with the nanga sadhus in the van. They trudged across the sand towards the highway proclaiming their bovine birth at the top of their voices.
A phalanx of khaki-and-red-uniformed policemen barred their way. The inspector stepped in front, dropped the swagger stick he had under his arm on the sand and touched the feet of one of the nangas in the middle of the front row. With the palms of his hands joined as in prayer, he pleaded: ‘Maharaj (your holiness), this far but no farther.’
He bent down and touched the nanga’s feet a second time. ‘Maharaj, we are your children, forgive us. But no farther.’
It was obvious that neither the inspector nor any of his constables would lay hands on any of the sadhus.
‘Why don’t you put an end to this wickedness?’ demanded the nanga.
‘Maharaj,’ whined the inspector, ‘we revere the gau mata. But we are servants of the government. Once you persuade the government to forbid cow-killing, we will flay alive anyone who touches a cow. Maharaj, our bread and our honour are in your hands.’ The inspector touched the feet of the nanga for the third time.
The sadhus’ feelings were assuaged. The memory of the bloody Monday of 7 November was still fresh. The procession turned back to the encampment triumphantly shouting its slogans.
I left the sands of the Jamuna and drove to the home of my friend Cyrus Jhabvala, a Parsee architect, and his novelist wife Ruth, who is Jewish. There were other friends present. I was among my own type—Anglicized Indian sahibs.
I narrated my experiences of the day. It was our turn to laugh. We defied our traditions. We drank Scotch. We ate beef sandwiches. (‘Not-so-holy cow—imported beef,’ explained my host. Someone stretched his hand across the table: ‘Ruth, can I have one of your kosher pork sausages, please?’)
And so it went on until we felt we had liquidated all the sadhus and freed our countrymen of the Hindus’ silly food fads. Then our host spoiled it all with a short speech: ‘Listen, chaps! When the chips are down, you know very well that however Westernized the Indian and whatever religion he may have or not have, whenever he eats beef he has a sense of guilt—a teeny-weeny bit of a bad conscience. And not one Indian will bandy words with a sadhu for fear of arousing his wrath. It is like our attitude towards sati (immolation of a widow on the pyre of her dead husband). We condemn it but we cannot help admiring a woman who becomes a sati. These things have been with us for over 4,000 years. They are in our blood and in our bones. We cannot fight them with reason. They are stronger than reason.’
Going Gaga over Yoga
The name of Swami Dhirendra Brahmachari rouses different kinds of reactions in different people. Although everyone respects his knowledge of the ancient science of yoga, not everyone approves of the way he uses that knowledge. A yogi should not have any worldly interests, Dhirendra Brahmachari is very much a man of the world. He is a kind of court yogi having taught yoga to the late Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, his daughter Indira Gandhi, the present Prime Minister, her two sons, many ministers of the Cabinet and hosts of senior government officials. Although everyone will admit that he looks every inch the picture of a sage of ancient times, many disapprove of his frequent appearances on television. He is most photogenic. He is over six feet tall and beautifully proportioned. He wears his jet black hair down to his shoulders and sports a Christ-like beard. His skin is clear, his eyes sparkle, his features are like those of Grecian gods. He is always draped in very fine muslin and wears nothing except sandals on his feet. Although he is, as his name signifies, a brahmachari (celibate), he has a bevy of young, attractive lady secretaries and instructors on his staff. Other yogis, envious of his success, call him the Rasputin of New Delhi.
Dhirendra Brahmachari has published two books on yoga and is currently director of Vishvayatan Yoga Ashram occupying about 12,000 square metres of land in the heart of the capital. The ashram has a thirty-bed hospital, a laboratory, reception rooms, offices and the director’s residence. He was once chairman and is today a very influential member of the Central Council of Indian Medicines set up by the government to sponsor research in Ayurveda, homoeopathy and yoga. In the current Fifth Five Year Plan a grant of forty-six lakh rupees has been earmarked for promotion and research on the medical benefits of yoga.
It was a very cold New Year’s morning that I called on Swami Dhirendra Brahmachari. A young lady ushered me into his office. He was seated in a swivel chair behind a large glass-topped desk with the usual paraphernalia of pens and writing pads. There were three telephones on a side-table. From underneath the table emerged three white Pomeranians to scrutinize me. Swamiji ordered them back to their place, waved me to a chair and continued to exchange New Year’s greetings over the phone. It was some time before he buzzed the operator and told her not to put in any more calls till he had finished with me.
I re-introduced myself and asked him how he could sit in the cold room draped only in thin muslin. ‘What cold? I do not feel any cold,’ he replied with a smile. He fished out a pack of photographs from his drawer. “This is a new laboratory I am setting up in the mountains to study the effects of yoga at high altitudes in sub-zero temperatures.’ The photographs were of a kind of watchtower standing on a hilltop with snow on the ground. In the forefront was Swami Dhirendra Brahmachari in his scanty drapery with one arm resting on a young girl in a fur coat and snow shoes. ‘She is one of my German disciples,’ he explained.
I had met him twenty years ago. It was at the height of summer with the temperature well over thirty-eight degrees celsius. I was hot and perspiring. He did not have a bead of sweat on his body and looked as fresh as after a bath. Except for a very slight recession of the hairline on his forehead, he did not look any older. I had heard his admirers say that although he was born over seventy years ago, yoga had made him ageless. He looks a very well-preserved man of fifty.
‘Swamiji, how old are you?’ I asked him. ‘Two questions I will not answer,’ he replied quite firmly. ‘One is about my age, the other is about my family background. I am a yogi—the past is dead.’
Swami Dhirendra Brahmachari is a Brahmin from Bihar. He founded his first yoga centre at Lucknow thirty-five years ago, the second a few years later near Jammu and, with a grant from
the government, the third one in Delhi in 1969. ‘Suddenly everyone is interested in yoga,’ he said. ‘Indians, Americans, Europeans, Australians, everyone. It is like a flood.’
Swamiji is right. In recent years there has been a veritable explosion of yoga institutes all over the world. In India it is a part of the renaissance of everything indigenous and Hindu. Enthusiasm for yoga is more noticeable amongst the Hindus who form 85 per cent of the population of the country than amongst Muslims, Christians, Sikhs or other smaller communities. Its acceptance in the West, chiefly in the United States, has added to its prestige in India. It has also become a valuable earner of foreign exchange. Yogis fly round the world setting up institutes wherever they go. The stream of foreign enthusiasts coming to India for at-source inspiration has increased steadily and, as the Swamiji says, the stream of yoga has come into spate.
Research on the medical benefits of yoga is a phenomenon of recent years—once again stimulated by pronouncements of foreign, mainly American, doctors. One that attracted worldwide publicity was an experiment on rats carried out by the Institute of Medicine of the Benaras Hindu University (BHU),
I asked Swami Dhirendra about the rat experiments. He exploded in a guffaw of angry laughter, ‘You mean that Udupa fellow making rats do shirshasana (headstand)! Absolute nonsense! I am going to put an end to that kind of humbug by stopping the grant to his institution.’
Swami Dhirendra Brahmachari has no doubt that yoga cures all kinds of diseases. His method of diagnosis is however somewhat unorthodox and the subject of lively comment among his critics. He makes his patient lie on his or her back, takes a string, places one end on the navel and measures the distance between the navel and the right and left nipple. ‘Since ladies’ breasts vary in shape and size and some are firm and others drooping, I measure the distance between the navel and the left toe and the navel and the right toe,’ he explained. And continued, ‘The navel is the centre of the 72,000 nerves in the human body. Every malaise manifests itself by shifting the navel upwards, downwards or sideways. If it goes upwards, you can be sure the person suffers from flatulence or some other stomach ailment. If it is lower than its seat, the person has loose motions. If it is either to the left or the right, he or she suffers from belly-ache. The navel is like the pulse. When I feel the navel, I can tell blindfolded what is wrong with the person.’
Not a Nice Man to Know Page 15