Here, We Go

The air in Varanasi is laden with chants washed in holy water from the Ganga. Every river-soaked breath carries the ashes of the dead and the prayers of the living. Here sacred songs flow ceaselessly, touching nearly every ambience I capture.

Here the pathways of the Krishnamurti Center wend their way elegantly between whitewashed buildings comfortably nestled amongst curated trees. Curved paths match contoured walls as they wrap around stairs and entryways, forming a coherent conversation of consistent forms and quiet motion. 

And here are the Ghats. Whatever part of me might have captured the Ghats in words was itself ensnared and absorbed. I have no worthy offering, and can think of no Western analog to which I may accurately compare them. They are simultaneously censer and baptismal font, fire and water, sacred and mundane. Cricket practice, laundry and bathing, all happen within a few meters of funeral pyres and daily ceremonies. The same water serves all.

Flowers, ash, and trash rise innocently from the wake of our little boat as we churn downriver past  ponderous and imposing forms of ghat after ghat, bound for rooftop yoga and shopping opportunities in the narrow streets district, just uphill from the Burning Ghat.

Somewhere between the running river and the merciless stairs, somewhere between breath and death, some part of me wandered off through the smoke and haze and twisting ways, following chants over ancient stones, never to return. The ghats have me, and I cannot give them to you my friend. You will simply have to go yourself.

The river, the paths, the prayers, chants and life, flow ever onward, as do we. And soon, all too soon, it is time to leave.

Here is another country, and the tinted windows of our air-conditioned tour bus provide a fitting frame for the austere and well maintained roads of Sri Lanka. Here we travel at high speed over smooth pavement for over 45 minutes without hearing a single horn blast. 

Here, the country we pass through is, by and large,  beautiful, and tranquil. I find myself thinking that Hayao Miyazaki might feel very much at home here. Eventually we are once again snarled in tuk-tuks and noise. But here the tuk-tuks are shiny, the traffic regulated Western-style, and the noise is muted through the thick walls of the bus. I can’t help thinking that this will make for a fitting transition to prepare us for re-entry into the default Western worldview.

Here there is Wasim. 

Here the staff call us the friendliest, most compassionate, and responsible group of westerners they have ever met, and we are pleased to help clear dishes and do what we may to help things run smoothly for the extraordinarily large influx of off-season guests that our group represents. 

Here is a much needed time of quietude, luxury, and warmth both literal and figurative.

It has been an ongoing source of curiosity for me to be the only Jnana Yogi in this group of Karmas and Bhaktas. Joining in the morning practices and evening Dharma sessions has been a little bit like visiting a foreign country. Though I recognize the concepts, the words and practices are very different, and I am definitely off of my home turf. Just like traveling abroad, this stretching of myself, both literally and figuratively, while sometimes uncomfortable, has also been fruitful.

And, while it would appeal to my narrative sensibilities to end this post with a nice neat summation of what I’ve learned, I struggle to find an easy ending. It’s all still too close, to intimate for me to step back and organize into a coherent storyline. So instead, I’m going to break from my tendencies, maybe borrow inspiration from Krishnamurti, and leave you, not with conclusions, but a liminal space to be plumbed as you see fit.

Much ado has been made of the “chaos of India”, implying that there are neither systems nor order. Such sentiments do a disservice to systems that may not register easily to a mind steeped in Western thought, and an order that may not admit its dominance. To cross a road in Mumbai is to enter into an agreement with systems that flow without asking for your consent, and an order largely unmanaged by traffic lights, painted lines, or litigious culture. And yet, they thrive with a brilliance that has the capacity to both transport and transform.

Is this not also true on the yogic path?

Certainly this has been the case for me. I am awash in experiencing, as I hope my writing has made clear in these blog posts. I have been exposed to some wonderful teachers, including India herself, and all have filled me and receded like waves on the beach, leaving behind something of themselves to be revealed by future tides.

I heard many times from our teachers that one is born into their path of yoga – either Jnana, Bhakti or Karma. But having spent this time in the company of strangers become friends become teachers, this lover of the path of knowledge has discovered myself to be a little more Bhakti, a little more Karma, and a lot more of whatever one can call India.

I don’t yet know what is emerging from the swirl, but I notice as I look in the mirror that I am interested in and happy about the image that stares back at me, and I have some exciting ideas about my possible path forward.

But that will be another story.

As a good friend of mine recently said, “the dance tends to balance itself.”

From Kiran:

Yeah, there was no one thing that was going to happen that was going to end my journey.

Of self discovery? I don’t know. I think it’s more than that.

We were in my grandfather’s home state. A place he has not been to since the 1940s. He came to America because of conflict. And I was there because of conflict. Internal conflict. Conflict that won’t end just because I’ve seen a place.

And there is real world conflict too. As I stand in the warm sun, knees deep in the Indian ocean, blood is spilled on the snow covered streets of my home country. Why should I be the one who gets to live, who gets the privilege of going on a journey of self discovery?

On the last leg of our journey, while we were in Sri Lanka, as I looked out over the jungle I couldn’t help but think about my place in the world. I cannot truly know myself until I know the world. I learned many things in India. But my home is, first of all, the United States of America. And people like me are being killed right now in the US. I learned many things in India, but the biggest one was that this was no journey of self discovery. This was motivation to make real change, to help real people back home.

Because this is only the beginning