“After all, deep down, we’re just rotting corpses awaiting a painful death”.
A stunned silence ensued after Swami D ended his lecture on that sombre note with a benevolent blink of the eye and a hint of a benign smile. In this edition he had spoken at length about celibacy and its many benefits, which included the ability to endure extreme weather events without any bodily protection, walking on water, turning invisible and staying free of hunger and thirst for years on end.
His audience apart from myself and another Indian guy were an all-white, ragtag bunch of backpackers staying at the ashram. For us, the price we paid for a cheap 100 Rs. room was this “free and compulsory” 7 a.m. lecture every morning. Swami D had a formidable mental register where he kept note of all the people who missed his lectures and promptly had them evicted from the premises. Some of them would wander aimlessly around Lakshman Jhula and Swarg Ashram in a futile attempt to find another deal as good and come back defeated to apologize profusely, sign up for yoga classes, show the Hindu philosophy books they’d bought to prove their seriousness in pursuing their eternal search of wisdom and be grudgingly accepted back into the fold.
“Any questions?”, said Swamiji with a look that suggested an intent to strike down on anyone who had the temerity to answer.
On the 7th row, between two white heads that were vigorously suppressing their yawns, a hand gingerly went up.
“Yes?”, said Swami D, “What do you want to know, my dear friend?”
“Well, it was a wonderful lecture. Thank you so much. I got to learn so much about the meaning behind…” Swami D put his hand up to interrupt the American and said sternly without losing the benevolent smile on his face,
“Do you practise celibacy?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So can you do all the things you said people could do if they were celibate?”
Swami D erupted with laughter.
“A true sadhu will never show you the miracles he could do. His goal is inner peace and if God wills, to attain the point of zero where he blends himself with the universe.”
“But that’s awfully convenient then, isn’t it?”
Swami D’s face wrinkled from a smile to a frown for a moment and then settled back into its default look of tranquillity. The few heads that had hitherto stumbled into deep sleep perked up at this unexpected challenge from one of their own to Swami D on his turf. This had the beginnings of an event worthy of getting them bragging rights on the road when they swap stories in other backpacker ghettoes.
“If you don’t do it,” continued the American stubbornly, “then there’s no way for us to know if it really works.”
Swami D laughed again and said, “Tell me, my friend, where are you from?”
“How old are you?”
“Okay, good. When did you first learn to walk?”
“Well, I don’t know. When I was a year old maybe? I honestly don’t remember.”
“When did you learn to cycle?”
“At 5 possibly.”
“About the same age.”
Swami D howled with laughter and applauded patronisingly.
“You are a quick learner, my friend. Let’s give a big applause to my friend here. You see these two boys?” While saying this, he pointed towards me and the other Indian guy in the group. “They don’t know how to swim even now and they’re older than you. Hahaha. Great job, my friend. So with these precious skills that you possess, how many triathlons have you won?
“What do you mean?”, said the American, visibly amused and somewhat puzzled.
“You know how to walk, you know how to cycle, you know how to swim. So shouldn’t you be winning triathlons?”
“I don’t see the connection, I’m sorry.”
“You see, celibacy is just the first step, it’s the first foot you put forward. You need to practise for years and years, meditate deeply and then by God’s grace you’ll get to stage 2. Our great sages get the ability to perform the feats I spoke of after meditating 100s of years. Some of them are over 600 years old. But you don’t see them because they don’t want to be seen and aren’t meant to be seen. Your puny minds won’t be able to understand the severe penance and isolation required to achieve such great feats.”
Another hand went up. It belonged to one of the few serious students of yoga at the ashram and, not surprisingly, also one of Swami D’s favourite people. He was from Chicago and over 50 years old and his duties apart from rigorous scriptural study involved eavesdropping on the people who stayed at the ashram and reporting any misbehaviour or faux pas to Swami D, a duty he performed gleefully. Every morning, he would come to the lectures decked in saffron robes presumably signifying his seriousness in his spiritual pursuits.
“Yes, Krishnadeva. Please go ahead”, said Swami D with infinite compassion.
“Guruji, I apologize on the behalf of my fellow devotees here for the impertinence in questioning your wisdom and knowledge. The reason the Western world has lost all moral value in this century is because its citizens have run away from pursuing higher knowledge. It’s a testament to the weakness of Christianity that people have lost faith in it and have turned to atheism. But in India, the ancient religion is not only embraced but is continually strengthened all the time. My friend here who questioned your words does not know what it is like to grow up spiritually. Please forgive him as he knows not what he speaks.”
Swami D nodded gravely and said, “Krishnadeva, I agree entirely with what you say about the world in which you had to grow up. Yet I admire that people like yourself have come all the way to this ancient land to seek higher truths. I’m not pained at the sarcastic questioning of our ancient world by people from your land. You see, at least that is honest. I’m more worried about people from my own land (and here, he pointed at the two of us brown folk seated in the audience), who would not tell me what they think but would gossip behind my back because they’re fickle. They’re not as evolved as you are to understand this religion thoroughly. So don’t be so hard on your people. They have been deceived for a long time but they are capable of seeing the light when it is shown to them.”
While I was too meek and timid by nature to respond to these continual slights at my upbringing, my fellow Indian “devotee” Jasbir was from Delhi. He didn’t take too kindly to Swami D’s heckling. He stood up and yelled, “Babaji, kya samajh rakhe ho apne aapko, hain? Char firangi dikh gaye toh udne lage ho kya? 10 lakh rupaiye diye hain mere papa ne is aashram ko. Bandh karva doon donation? Ki kya Mohanji (the owner of the ashram) ko bataoon aapki karvaton ke baare mein? Bahut zyaada bolne lage ho aajkal, hain? Mohanji bahut khush honge sunkar ki aap in firangiyon ke chakkar mein kya kya kar baithe ho ganga kinare.” (“Who do you think you are? You see four white faces and think you’re a big star? My father has donated a million rupees to this ashram. Should I discontinue the donation? Or should I tell the owner of this place what you’ve been up to? You’ve been acting too smart lately haven’t you? The owner’s going to be very happy knowing what you’ve been up to with these foreigners on the shores of the Ganga.”)
Swami D looked visibly perturbed at this unwelcome retort. He hurriedly muttered the closing mantras and brought the session to a close. Krishnadeva glared angrily at the two of us and escorted Swami D out of the hall consoling him along the way.
After his spectacular outburst, for two weeks in Rishikesh, Jasbir would become my best friend in the whole world.