In the murky early light, we walked past people wrapped in big shawls or blankets and squatting in circles around small bonfires to keep warm. The air was so cold that I could see my breath, at least in the vicinity of the mountain. Although it is January, I found this surprising, since we’re in India. We walked through the gateway and on our right stood the sprawling bathhouse, an elaborate pink and grey building with tall slender domes, where people go to bathe in water from the hot springs. In response to a question, Shantum explained that the bathers wear some clothing, at least a cloth, and men bathe on one end and women on the other. Since it was dawn, few people were out and about at the bathhouse.
The mountain has steep steps made of stone, and periodically we came to a sort of landing. I took advantage of these stops by whipping out my camera and taking pictures of the amazing mountainous view. The sun was rising, and mountains and views of mountaintop temples and shrines surrounded us. While we climbed the mountain, the sky transformed to blue, orange, and red.
Some of the steps slanted downward, and I had to mindfully take the steps and keep my fear of heights under control. It actually made me all the more eager to step up, up, because I anticipated I would soon reach a step that did not slant downward. The stairs had no railing or wall, and some sections had quite a steep drop. I practiced mindful walking simply because I had to do it under the circumstances. Sometimes walking meditation is a survival skill.
On a small plateau, we stopped, caught our breath, and wandered around by an ancient brick structure clinging to the cliff. Shantum said this building was an old monastery, or at least a part of one. It would have been an awfully small monastery, at most the size of four dorm rooms, unless it was originally more capacious. The flat roof extended out from the mountainside, so that we could walk out on top of it. I didn’t see an entrance and wondered about it. Standing on the brick structure and looking toward the mountain, we could see across the plateau a small cave entrance in which, Shantum explained, the Buddha meditated, but we can’t go in there because the roof has collapsed, as if to demonstrate impermanence to adventurous pilgrims. I visualized the Buddha sitting cross-legged in that cave, with the roof intact, and facing out over the cliff.
We climbed higher and got to a point in which the path, although slanted upward, was a ramp rather than steps. Surprisingly, my leg didn’t hurt, despite the fall in the Bamboo Grove; it hurts when I’m walking on flat ground, but not when I’m making steps up. I mean that literally, but it can be taken metaphorically. There is no turning back; it’s strictly uphill from here.
To the left of the ramp-like path stood a white temple, and Shantum said, “It’s probably a Jain temple.” It was small and probably had one room, and a narrow pointy dome topped it off, a common trait in Indian temple architecture. I took a picture of the pretty facade and also stood in front of the central entrance and took a picture of the inside, where the shrine held a black and white photo of presumably a Mahavira statue rather than an actual sculpture. Otherwise the interior looked quite plain. I suspect the original statue has been stolen.
A few feet further up, we came to a bright yellow and red gate to the left, and perched on either side on top of the gate stood whimsical handmade yellow tiger statues, though for a couple of seconds I thought they were lizards. They were simple and cartoonish and looked like they could be monsters out of a Tim Burton film.
“It’s the gateway to a Shiva temple,” Shantum explained. I may have uttered a small exclamation before he said that. I couldn’t see the Shiva temple, however; beyond the gateway was a winding white path and many small trees. Up our path beyond that, on the right, stood another whitewashed temple, probably Hindu, and this one had a sparkly beige mosaic tile roof, curved into an onion-shaped dome. The mosaic design consisted of dark auspicious symbols such as swastikas and pitchforks. Before heading further up, I turned and looked behind me and caught sight of one of our armed guards; he gave me a disconcerting deadpan and unblinking stare with big round eyes.
Before long, we reached the top of the mountain, where we saw two little caves. Not counting the Buddha’s lecture for the five disciples when he met up with them again at Sarnath, he gave his first teaching to five hundred people, in the Saptaparni cave. Since then a lot of the cave collapsed so that it is now two small caves, between which is a long section of rocky mountainside with a deep groove showing the original location of the wide cave opening. We headed for the second little cave entrance.
Jagdish and one other person had flashlights, or torches in British English, which proved very useful inside the cave. Still, as I cautiously took one step at a time in the narrow, rocky, confining space of the cave passage, sometimes pitch darkness engulfed me, and sometimes the light wasn’t strong enough or pointed in the right direcdtion for me, though it was probably fine for someone deeper in the cave. I felt nervous and shaky as the bumpy walls on either side were too close together, and I had to breathe deeply and remind myself not to panic.
Whenever the pitch-blackness descended, I stopped moving and mindfully breathed, waiting for more light. I pressed my hands against the rock on each side. As soon as I got some light, I continued moving forward slowly, afraid of making a bad step on the uneven surface, and kept my hands against the rock walls. I had no idea how much longer this would take. I kept moving and finally saw much more light, thanks to the candles on an altar at the end of the tiny cave. I let out a big sigh.
We moved slowly and in single file into the confined space at the end of the cave, sitting on rock ledges around the edge, very close together and cozy.
Shantum chanted in both Sanskrit and English, two different chants, giving us the chance to join in; even I did, since it was a repeat-after-me sort of exercise. He also said the mountain was important to Shiva, and he smilingly said, “Buddha, Shiva, it doesn’t matter.” He chanted to Shiva in Sanskrit or another Indian language. We had other chants, and Shantum wasn’t always the one to start the singing. Then he invited one of the soldiers, seated by the altar and across from me, to chant a Muslim prayer, since he was a Muslim. I looked at the soldier while he conversed in Hindi with Shantum, and I noticed his gun barrel pointed at the ceiling. I had this rather jarring thought: what if that gun accidentally went off inside this cave?
Shantum explained to us that the soldier didn’t know any Muslim chants, but he would demonstrate a Shiva chant instead. When the soldier started chanting, I instantly forgot about the gun. He transformed from a soldier into a human being and into a Hindu holy man at that, singing with feeling and obviously knowing the chant very well. Then Natalie said she could sing a Muslim, specifically Sufi, poem, and she did, in a beautiful soprano voice. And she sang one more chant, with her voice reverberating against the cave walls.
We had a short happy silence, and then Shantum announced that today is Dean’s birthday, and we would be having cookies outside the cave, but someone suggested that we first use the cookies as an offering. For the offering, Rikki placed all three packages on the shrine, but left one behind. We all moved out of the cave, and as I slowly walked on the rough surface lit by the daylight streaming finally in, I was surprised to see how short the passageway was: the path had seemed so much longer on the way in, when claustrophobia gripped me. We stood looking out on the mountainous scenery and the sky that was at last very blue, and above the world we munched on cookies, crackers, apple slices, and those sweet three-inch-long bananas that I never tasted before I came to India, and which we have for breakfast every morning.
Natalie talked during “Strucks” about the symbol of caves representing the Mother Goddess’s womb; given how many books I’ve read on Goddess spirituality, I should have remembered that myself. If you think of the cave as the womb of the Mother Goddess, then you can think of going through the passage and emerging from the cave as comparable to being reborn. I have noticed that since the visit to the Saptaparni Cave I’ve felt somewhat more outgoing and freer. I certainly felt relaxed and happy in a blissful sort of way as I climbed down from the cave.
I walked with Ann back down the Saptaparni Mountain. We talked about when we got into Buddhism, which she started ten years ago, though she added that she’s an eclectic and enjoys comparative religions. I said that I’m like that with mythology, particularly goddess mythology, and this got us on the topic of goddesses. I mentioned the book Hindu Goddesses by David R. Kinsley and what a fun mythology book it is, and how I read about Sita’s relationship with her husband Rama; she’s considered an ideal Hindu wife and is very subservient and obedient to Rama, and so I mentioned that I wrote in the margin of this book, “Maybe Rama should get a dog.”
Ann got a good laugh out of that, and she said, “It’s time for such attitudes to change, it’s gone on long enough, and the change is beginning to happen.” She suggested I rewrite some of these goddess myths, and I explained that as a fantasy writer, it is a direction which I want my writing to take, and that fantasy and mythology are closely related. I did mention that some goddesses are excellent role models, though I don’t remember if I described Sarasvati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge and wisdom. I’ve also taken a liking to Durga, the one who rides a kitty, I mean a tiger, although Durga has unfortunately been used as a military symbol.
As we moved down the steep path with many trees on our left, I told Ann that the Bush Administration was an influence in my becoming interested in Buddhism. After 9/11, I looked up “nonviolence” on the public library’s database, and many of the titles that came up were Buddhist books. I said, “When the bombs dropped on Iraq, contractors were working on my house, so I was staying at the house of one of my Bush-worshipping military fundamentalist aunts.”
“Ew! Is she like that even now?” Ann asked.
“I think so,” I said. “I try to avoid the topic of politics around conservative relatives. Although I normally don’t watch network TV, my aunt watches television a lot and I saw the horrifying image of the bombs falling on Baghdad, and the first thought that came to my mind was, ‘I am not the citizen of a country that would do something so evil.’”
Ann reminded me, “You know, in spite of all that, the U. S. is, overall, a good country.”
“Yeah, I think that in spite of people like George W. Bush, the United States is the most likely place for a large-scale nonviolent revolution to get going and to really take hold,” I said. I mentioned that the U. S. has a pretty big counterculture, and a great many of us believe in peace and in social transformation, and so more will in the future. However, this perspective should be the norm, not that of the small minority, and we need to get the revolution going so that the lunatics who run the asylum don’t drop nuclear bombs. I said that right after the bombings in Iraq, I came across a wonderful Virginia Woolf quote: “As I am a woman, I have no country. As I am a woman, I want no country. As I am a woman, my country is the world.”
Ann said, “That’s a beautiful quote!”
We returned to the plateau with the ancient ruin, and I finally noticed an aperture on the side of it, facing us, that would easily have served as an entrance. By now the sun was completely up and lots of people from various nationalities were climbing up, including the Dutch monk from Thailand, who stopped to converse with members of our sangha and get his picture taken. He stood smiling for a picture while he was at the edge of the path, not far from a severe drop. Dean jokingly said, “Take one more step back!”
Climbing down, I had a striking view of the big pink bathhouse. It looks like an ancient building, and I have no idea how old it is or how bright a pink it used to be. I don’t suppose it really matters, and that’s not something that would concern Indians. Now it’s a fairly light pink streaked with grey, in what Valerie described as “a distinctly Indian pink.” It is at least a couple stories tall, with elaborate domes stretching up for the sky.
We left the mountain behind us and followed Shantum around the pink building, where we climbed a few steps here and there. The bathhouse was now bustling with activity and wet people of all ages. The stone floor was slippery, and I had to watch my step but somehow managed to simultaneously gawk around, take photos, and take in the strange setting. To my left I saw a wide and steep staircase leading up to a higher, domed level, and kids moved down the steps. I followed our sangha to our left, along a path that led to a different section of the bathhouse.
We stood on a balcony and looked down at a stream of water, where people who were partially dressed were soaking wet and scrubbing themselves. A group of little boys stood by a pipe that came out of a brick wall and issued water. A couple of local guys approached our crowd and held out metal bowls. They asked a couple members of our sangha to put their fingers in the bowls to test how hot the water is, and while they did this they addressed the pilgrims as “Sister,” which I found charming. They perhaps knew that we’re all part of the human family and not so different really. It often seems to me that few people in the United States are aware that we are all connected and a part of the planet. If more people realized this, we would have significantly fewer sociological and environmental problems and so much less hate and bigotry.
We briefly stopped on a path and looked down a flight of steps to a pool crowded with what looked like naked men, since they were naked from the waist up and under water from the waist down. It was a funny sight, I thought, and I noticed a camera flash, but I wasn’t about to get out my camera and take a picture, even if the people in the picture didn’t mind. Sure, it’s India, so it’s not like the locals are accustomed to privacy.
I walked away from the bathhouse with Dean, and I thought we were at the tail end of the group. I crossed a bridge and heard loud traditional music, which turned out to be emitting from a Kali shrine at the end of the bridge. This was the first Goddess shrine I’d seen so far, and I was so joyful at the sight of the big colorful statue, that I lit up with a Big Smile. A guy attending the shrine noticed, smiled back at me happily and gestured for me to come over, but I was too shy and didn’t want to lag further behind, so I shook my head, still smiling widely, and scurried forward. As it was, Dean had gotten a few feet ahead of me, and I caught up with him and gushed, “I just saw a Kali shrine!”
Soon we stood still amid little outdoor shops and merchants seated on the ground with merchandise spread out on a white cloth. We looked around, wondering where the rest of our sangha was, before we noticed Shantum and others coming from behind us. I don’t know how I could have gotten ahead of the group, given how I normally tag behind to take pictures and gawk. Some of the merchants sold piles of red or orange powdered paint, and Shantum had a red circle centered on his forehead.
No comments:
Post a Comment