The Experienced Fool

 

Starting from Ram Jhoola, the main street moves south with bathing steps on one side and ashrams like Geeta, Parmarth Niketan and Swargashram on the other. The narrow bazaar street has snack and tea hawkers, mendicant friars, beggars, cows, stray dogs, two wheelers, native pilgrims, and tourists both foreign and local.

It pulsates with energy. There is a very nice coffee point upstairs a row of ground-level shops overlooking Ma Ganga. The broad marble-paved bathing pavilion of the Vanprastha ashram is at the end of the boulevard. Two little marble-paved sections face mother Ganges for meditation. After that there is a drop of 8-9 feet to the first step on the Ganges.

The mother river makes a musical chiming. It has been drizzling off and on for the past one week, letting loose cool gusts of breeze down the valley. The holy river’s current is very fast and one has to hold a chain in the hand to steady your feet while standing in the knee-deep water.

The mendicant friars live like any other part of nature. It isn’t a fight for more possessions, gathering and collection. In the morning they sit on both sides of the busy path, cashing on the early-morning spirit and verve of the visitors. What do they possess? Not much save a piece of saffron loin cloth, a cloak of renunciation, a stick, a cloth bundle having a kind of sleeping rag and something to cover them with, and one cheep steel bucket. That’s it. Everything else is irrelevant. You see them sitting on their haunches, sipping tea, eating the prashad, the ceremonial offering.

If you pursue the path in its further pull to the south, beyond the mild rush of humanity, you will come across an establishment named LAST CHANCE. Here you can grab a soiled bedding on the floor in a narrow dormitory. It’s an unpretentious set-up, fronted by a manipulatedly wild little lawn and the dormitory in the back. Here you can have your tiny mattress on the ground. In the tiny waiting-cum-entrance hall, you have a tall, narrow bookrack displaying some run down titles. You have the option of a tinier side cubicle with a sliding plywood door for 500 rupees if you are a fan of privacy. The bathroom and toilets are to be shared by all though.

There is an endless stream of pilgrims, just like you have the endless stream of the holy river going on and on. The poor people pawn their happiness in the shop of future births in lieu of all the drudgery for little survival crumbs in the present birth. To beat the nagging tidings of the pathetic present times, they have to absolve themselves of all the past and current sins. So they throng the mother’s welcoming waters. Very poor people, consumed by chronic worries over the most basic things of life, like stunted, weather-beaten vegetation of the arid climes.

They have greenery in their dreams that lies either in the next birth or their progenies down the line, at least a couple of generations into the future. They move as a group, like a flock of sheep, bunched together, trying to muster up collective courage, assert its dusty identity. It’s a rare outing for most of them because they are so comprehensively yoked in the fight to survive, beginning each day as a new chapter of challenges.

They have been robbed of their independent spirit, their free-will gone into the deep caves of hibernation. They have been chained too hard and have forgotten the swag of life. Their smiles are restrained. However, all of them know that mother Ganga doesn’t discriminate between the rich and the poor. The mother river’s waters are a great leveller. Here the King and the pauper immerse their head under the same category of ‘the sinners washing away their sins’. 

Sitting among the sadhus makes me feel better somehow. It reaffirms faith, values and beliefs that have lost their sheen over the years. You very well know that they have renounced more than they have taken. In totality, they are the givers. They are the flag bearers of faith. They make you realise that it’s possible to be happy without sitting on the mound of possessions with a snug expression of worldly competence.

Beyond the realm of possessions, probably they have a little permanent reservoir from where they take tiny sips of solace and meaning in life. They are the ones who have at least realised the futility of chase because the chase never ends. It persists forever. It goes on and on. Hence they have kicked the bullshit idea of being in the hot pursuit of success, name, fame and material possessions.

Sitting with them, you feel absorbing the fragrance of their rest, repose and peace. It has a healing touch. It puts balm on your bruises. This I think is a real blessing, nothing short of a miracle. Miracles lie buried in the small, small commonalities of life scattered around you. You just need to get a bit restful, watch over, read between the lines, do your small bit of duty, and allow the blessing to reshape your life for the better.

Given the possibility of innumerable mishaps that may strike us, the mere fact that one returns safe after going out is in itself nothing short of a miracle. But it gets embedded in the routine that we take for granted, and expect more and more. If you aren’t satisfied with the little, little miracles of life, believe me you are just cutting your chances to face the bigger ones.  

Inspired by the free spirits of the mendicant friars, I take up the tiny challenge of trekking up to Lord Shiva’s Neelkanth temple among the higher hills, the path cutting across the Rajaji National Park. I started very early in the morning. The day was just breaking around 6 o’ clock. Not able to find the alley leading to the hills farther from the Ganges, I ask a babaji about the way.

‘Are you going alone?’ he asked before pointing out the route. ‘It’s better to have someone with you if you walk through a forest,’ he put up a bit of advice born of his own experience on the lonely path of mendicancy.

I just smile away his word of caution. Little did I realize the dangerous proportions the man-animal conflict had acquired since the decade and a half when I last walked on foot to the holy place near Rishikesh. On top of it, that walking pilgrimage was during the month of shravan when thousands walk to the holy temple. So walking among a group of pilgrims is safe even though the trek crosses the tiger reserve, where at least the elephants put up a resistance sometimes—if not the tiger—as their natural habitat further diminishes with the passage of each day. Now it was off season. You couldn’t expect any fellow walker to the holy place. The absence of mankind simply means that Mother Nature takes over to heal its bruises. I but had the same old safe image of the walk roughly 15 years back.

I crossed the taxi stand and many drivers looked expectantly. They were sure that I will hire a cab, but I disappointed all of them and moved towards the eerie darkness and silence of the forest just beginning to stamp the signature wilderness right ahead of the taxi stand. The narrow asphalt road wound up gently along the wooded undulations of the Rajaji National Park. The rain-washed forest appeared to re-impose its authority after being severely bent down by the summer’s assault resulting in pale leaves and broken tree spirits.

The morning twilight had a mysterious shade, a cocktail of puzzled emotions. Silence buzzed through the wooded pores. A vague sense of insecurity crept in as I moved into the twilight darkness of the solitary woods. It turned into fear as I read the warning boards of elephants and tigers put up by the wildlife department. With my enforced attempt at bravery I kept on walking.

When you are scared, the forest loses its charm. The heartbeat accelerated its tempo as a sign of the ruffled feathers of my courage. Sometimes we just keep moving knowing fully well that the best way is to turn back. A strange force pulls you against your will. There was absolutely nobody to be seen. My ears ached to hear the friendly purr of some vehicle on the road. There was no engine to be heard forget about seeing one.

I heard the tinkle of a cattle bell. A cow was walking down the road, coming out from the darker recesses of the forest. I could feel the cattle’s fear as it walked almost taut on the tightrope of fear. I felt a kind of courage and company after looking at the animal. To my surprise, the holy animal looked even more relieved after smelling my humanity. It turned back and started walking almost at a canter as if followed by something of which it was really scared, most probably some predator stalking the cattle in the pre-dawn eerie silence.

The cow literally threw itself at my behest and started walking behind me even though I was walking into the forest from where it had escaped. I could feel its fear and the sense of protection that my presence provided it. It kept on walking for a good few hundred yards. But I was walking into the forest from where it had come out in panic. The intelligent cattle realized that there was no point in following me. It slowed down its pace and was left behind. I looked back and saw it almost running from the forest to reach the crowded vicinity of the religious structures, hotels, restaurants and thousands of beggars and mendicants along the holy river. 

Your fears make you more imaginative even than your freedom. I started looking around apprehensively. The broad-leaved deciduous forest clamped with thick undergrowth had all the vibes of hiding entire hordes of predatory animals. I could see heaps of elephant dung melted by the overnight rain.

‘Elephants,’ I found myself telling to God knows whom.

After walking in this scary agitation for almost two kilometres on the main tar road, I reached the point where the foot track left the road to sneak into the wooded slopes of the Shivalik range. The shrine lay 8 km through a steep climb across the elephant dominated sanctuary. The warning boards increased in frequency and with each new board about the elephant danger, the clumsy grip of my courage on my mind gave in.

I found it impossible to continue ahead. I hadn’t seen anyone since I had crossed the taxi stand. The wilderness had been reclaimed by the groups of elephants. I could see the temporary sway of humanity in ruins that had been built during the pilgrimage season when thousands walk daily on foot on the track. At that festival time, the temporary tea stalls and refreshment counters dot the pathway, putting the wildlife on the back-foot. But now with the disappearance of the makeshift thoroughfare, the forest had reclaimed its solitude. The makeshift tea stalls broken by the elephants broke my spirit. And the heaps of their dung kept on increasing in girth and frequency. My courage finally gave in. I just wasn’t prepared to beat my fears. The risk to life beats the adventurous spirit very soundly.

With a severe pang of judgement at my lack of guts, I turned back and almost ran to the point where the foot-trail had branched off from the motorway. An abandoned tin roof shelter, miraculously spared of ravages by the elephants, appeared a paper castle if some elephant decided to come charging in. There I stood waiting for some human being to arrive on the scene. I am yet to recall, in a long time, when I felt such camaraderie for a fellow being of my own species.

God certainly listens to our prayers. There it came. The sound of an engine killing the forest silence felt like a symbol of our triumph over all and sundry on the earth. I ran to the turn in the road and waved them to stop. The driver didn’t even look in my direction.

‘These are booked vehicles by one group of people. Nobody will give you a lift,’ he yelled his help to my frantic wave of hands.

He tickled some raw nerve of my courage and I resolved to go up again into the sinewy foot-trail across the wooded slopes, half of my heart telling me that I will be surely trampled by some irksome elephant. Well, all it needs to change your fate and make you lucky is a positive shift in someone’s heart. 

I heard them calling from behind. The jeep had stopped. Probably they had taken the option of peeing and coincide it with doing the holy deed of helping someone in need. But if not for the primary urge to urinate, they won’t have stopped I’m sure.

I ran towards the vehicle that had stopped at a distance near the next bend of the hill, as if some angry tusker was already after my life. I had to hurry lest they change their mind to help me after relieving themselves of the extra water in their bodies.

It was a group of shastris from Allahabad who had been engaged by some believer to recite Bhagwad Gita on the holy banks of the river at Haridwar. Clad in spotless white kurtas, yellow bordered dhotis, prominent vermilion and sandalwood paste markings on their forehead, they were suffused with colours of devotion. They welcomed me into their Avadhi courtesy.

I blurted out my elephant fear once I was sure that I really occupied the back seat of the traveller jeep. The driver being a local guy agreed with my getting scared.

‘They would have surely trampled you to death,’ he seemed sure of it.

The group of Pandits wondered why the hell I was wandering alone in the forest. I guessed that any kind of explanation ranging from nature walks to spirituality to pilgrimage would fail in its attempt.

‘I’m a researcher,’ I plainly lied. ‘And I walk alone to do research for my project.’

The eldest of the group whom they addressed, half in jest and half in seriousness, as ‘Pandeji’ turned out to be an Avadhi poet. A poet cannot afford to lose an opportunity to get an audience, so as a follow up to their introduction of him, he peacefully recited an Avadhi couplet. It sounded spicy and full of literary wisdom. As a former romantic who once tried to pass off as a poet, I could feel his rhyme’s charm. It was a subtle bond, poet to poet. I informed him that I write also. He conveyed that he was very happy to share my company on the back seat where the shocks of travelling are catapulted in their best capacity in any vehicle. Well, in any case, the poets must always be in a position to occupy back seats and absorb the shocks of life without complaining much. If you love the front seat then poetry is not the thing for you. 

To substantiate my fears and to stamp the significance of their help, the driver put on sudden brakes. The jeep suddenly screeched to a halt. The sweet reverie bred by casual talk spiced by a forest drive met a sudden death. Two elephants stared at the vehicle right in front. The tusker male appeared fully in charge to turn the ride a gliding one down the slope to a different destination, hospital, instead of the holy temple. Sensing threat, the tusker took a few menacing steps towards the vehicle. The panicked driver immediately put the reverse gear and took the vehicle back into the leeway of a bend downhill.

Getting this initial victory over the humans, the pachyderms leisurely moved on their morning walk on the smooth forest road. We saw them crossing the next turn. The driver thought of moving a bit further as we crossed the next bend. The tusker again turned back and charged, forcing the vehicle to again sneak downhill in the safety of the turn. The elephant couple again moved on. We also crept once again to the next bend where we could see them moving ahead. That’s how it went for some time. We would stealthily creep out of the bend, the elephants would threaten to charge and move onto the next turn followed by us. In this way, at every turn our ritual of peeping out, turning back and again moving slowly kept on.

With their heavy bulk they were not in a position to ascend the steep wooded slope upwards. The problem here was that even the valley side was too steep and densely wooded for such a bulky animal to sneak out of the human range. The elephant couple was struggling to find an escape route. We advanced at the gentlest pace, ready to hit the reverse, should they charge at us. I was even ready to take to my heels in case they approached too near. I was sure to beat the reverse march of a jeep on circuitous hill road with my forward march. So I had my option at the tip of my fingers to execute the emergency mode any time.

The way mankind has revolted against nature, we have turned obnoxious to the rest of the species. More than us wanting to be away from the pachyderms, they were far more eager to escape the ignominy of having to look at we humans. Given a choice, all animals would walk to the farthest corner of the planet where there hasn’t been any human footprint.

At last they managed to lumber along the steep slope into the valley. It was surprising how could they manage to get down. But in the limited and ever decreasing options they are fighting to survive. Alas, these may be but the last scion of their lineage. The mankind has sprawled parasitically. This is cancerous growth, destined to result in lots of destruction in future. The world will change more rapidly than we ever imagined. It may be scarier than we ever guessed.

Anyway, we reached the holy temple and had a very fulfilling darshan of Lord Neelkanth. The group of pundits knew an elaborate set of rituals to make me feel like a novice. They looked very happy in saving me from the elephants and in guiding my pagan self through a proper set of rituals. The driver but appeared a bit sullen.

Finding a moment suitable to have a little whispering talk with me when the rest were away, he said softly in a grave tone, ‘See, I saved you. The elephants would have surely trampled you to death!’

‘I know. I’m really thankful to you for that! Can I do something for you?’ I asked.

In reply he just bored his eyes into my pocket, giving me the clue that I could convey my thanks in a more practical way. I offered him 150 rupees. He took it and pocketed it stealthily lest any of the pundits saw him.

‘Please don’t tell them! They will cut this money from what they owe me. You have still saved money because had you hired a taxi it would have cost you at least 800 rupees.’

Back at my home, I told the elephant episode to my mother.

‘Good that you got scared and got into that jeep,’ she said matter of factly.

Mother used to read a Hindi daily and scanned the news thoroughly during her spare time. After a week she called me and showed a one-column news item. A group of 5-6 people from Haryana were trekking up in the same area and were attacked by elephants. One had been trampled to death.

‘Say thanks to Bhole Baba that you escaped from being a subject of this kind of news!’ she said very softly.