She wonders why I persist.
Sometimes, I wonder too.
Love is the answer—unequivocal and unrequited.
To her I say:
People grow up. Priorities change. Perceptions change too.
The only remnants of this change are memories and hope.
You will remain the biggest regret I will live with.
Everybody has reasons. And yours would be stronger than the rest.
Perhaps I lack what you seek in your soulmate.
But I would’ve made up with love and effort.
I cannot promise to move heaven and earth—if I could not move you, the rest of the world would be an impossible task.
What you lost was not my love, for that will remain forever.
What I lost was my self-respect.
For the fact that I cannot get over you.
For the fact that my life will now be shared with someone whom I would never love as much as you.
For the fact that I was not good enough for you, even for you to tell me how or why.
Yes, just this one regret remains… that I love(d) you blindly.
And one little unanswered question.
What could have made this relationship “meant to be”?
Leave the past to its follies, the present to its curse, while the future goes to the dogs.
Amen.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Sikander—Peeping Tom, Class 1
Pretty sunshine, idle mind, and a bored writer—Ideal day to reminisce. So, we go back to another exciting day in Sikander’s life.
Raging hormones, a courageous and very adventurous heart, not to mention a supple adolescent body that could twist and turn to fit in the smallest of places. These are the ingredients of a story that changed Sikander’s life.
The location: an idyllic village in Kerala—Sikander’s “native place.” Summer holidays would mean a huge group of cousins getting together, enjoying through the day, playing over-arm cricket in the courtyard of this palatial house that defied description, and generally hanging out in the huge property that consisted our ancestral heritage.
This was a year when none of the boys had signed in…
A young boy [called Sikander hereafter] is the perfect receptacle for the devil’s knowledge. And a young maiden is the devil’s very own spawn. Here is where the story begins.
The huge ancestral property contains five wells with motors and pump-houses spread over an area of five acres. This property has the unique quality of never running out of water—the wells have not run dry even once in the last two centuries. The locals use the wells for washing their clothes and sometimes, bathing as well.
The young girl and her family have been working for the family for three generations. Most of them were educated in the school set up by one of the family patriarchs. Many are employed on the vast properties that the family owns. Every member of this village knows the family.
The young girl is a pretty and slim temptress, flaunting her coming of age with a sensuous walk and the right moves that would make any adolescent heart go thumping faster. Sikander, being of the impressionable age, quickly sets his sights on the young girl. The sultry temptress of a dusky complexion and flawless skin knows that—as every pretty and sultry maiden does. She does her best to walk slowly across the courtyard on her way to a well. She’s supposedly on her way to fill the pot that holds on impetuously on her waist, kissing the pale skin. The clothes that are perched on her shoulder seem to caress her ever so gently. Sikander prays fervently to God to allow him to switch places with the pot. The sun gleams on the brass pot; while the lust glints in Sikander’s eyes.
The temptress looks back and jauntily tosses her long flowing hair. Hair that flows across her buxom chest until it meets her slender waist. Sikander feels the lust building up into stressful knots in the pits of his stomach. The temptress tosses a final glance before gingerly stepping on the path stones, avoiding the sharp edges of the makeshift steps.
Sikander feels it in his gut-- his opportunity has arrived. He quickly runs up to the temptress and asks her name. She giggles nervously and moves very quickly away, apparently not noticing the clothes she dropped on to the ground. Sikander looks embarrassedly at what seems to be her underclothes. The temptress calls out and gestures towards the clothes. Sikander helpfully runs up and hands them over, trying very hard not to brush his hands over the silken lingerie. The devil begins his evil work--since when have these girls started wearing silk lingerie? And then a bolt of lightning strikes Sikander—she’s on her way to have a bath! Whoa!
She moves fast across the familiar terrain. Sikander wonders… while the temptress looks back over her shoulder and smiles. Her luscious lips glisten in the sunshine that percolates through the branches of the coconut trees. Her breasts stand out on a slim frame. The wind blowing through the hair tries hard to hide her native beauty. Her hips seem to swell out gently and accentuate her sensual nature.
She walks away from the path and quickly steps toward the foliage, almost avoiding the lustful eyes of the adolescent. A chastened Sikander trudges back, head hung in shame that seems to bubble up the scrawny frame.
He stops to think... Why did she move to the remotest well in the property? That is a part where no one has been for a long time. After all, in God’s own country, the foliage overruns the land very quickly.
He looks back, to see the sun shining on a very naked and wet back, through the shrubs.
Raging hormones, a courageous and very adventurous heart, not to mention a supple adolescent body that could twist and turn to fit in the smallest of places. These are the ingredients of a story that changed Sikander’s life.
The location: an idyllic village in Kerala—Sikander’s “native place.” Summer holidays would mean a huge group of cousins getting together, enjoying through the day, playing over-arm cricket in the courtyard of this palatial house that defied description, and generally hanging out in the huge property that consisted our ancestral heritage.
This was a year when none of the boys had signed in…
A young boy [called Sikander hereafter] is the perfect receptacle for the devil’s knowledge. And a young maiden is the devil’s very own spawn. Here is where the story begins.
The huge ancestral property contains five wells with motors and pump-houses spread over an area of five acres. This property has the unique quality of never running out of water—the wells have not run dry even once in the last two centuries. The locals use the wells for washing their clothes and sometimes, bathing as well.
The young girl and her family have been working for the family for three generations. Most of them were educated in the school set up by one of the family patriarchs. Many are employed on the vast properties that the family owns. Every member of this village knows the family.
The young girl is a pretty and slim temptress, flaunting her coming of age with a sensuous walk and the right moves that would make any adolescent heart go thumping faster. Sikander, being of the impressionable age, quickly sets his sights on the young girl. The sultry temptress of a dusky complexion and flawless skin knows that—as every pretty and sultry maiden does. She does her best to walk slowly across the courtyard on her way to a well. She’s supposedly on her way to fill the pot that holds on impetuously on her waist, kissing the pale skin. The clothes that are perched on her shoulder seem to caress her ever so gently. Sikander prays fervently to God to allow him to switch places with the pot. The sun gleams on the brass pot; while the lust glints in Sikander’s eyes.
The temptress looks back and jauntily tosses her long flowing hair. Hair that flows across her buxom chest until it meets her slender waist. Sikander feels the lust building up into stressful knots in the pits of his stomach. The temptress tosses a final glance before gingerly stepping on the path stones, avoiding the sharp edges of the makeshift steps.
Sikander feels it in his gut-- his opportunity has arrived. He quickly runs up to the temptress and asks her name. She giggles nervously and moves very quickly away, apparently not noticing the clothes she dropped on to the ground. Sikander looks embarrassedly at what seems to be her underclothes. The temptress calls out and gestures towards the clothes. Sikander helpfully runs up and hands them over, trying very hard not to brush his hands over the silken lingerie. The devil begins his evil work--since when have these girls started wearing silk lingerie? And then a bolt of lightning strikes Sikander—she’s on her way to have a bath! Whoa!
She moves fast across the familiar terrain. Sikander wonders… while the temptress looks back over her shoulder and smiles. Her luscious lips glisten in the sunshine that percolates through the branches of the coconut trees. Her breasts stand out on a slim frame. The wind blowing through the hair tries hard to hide her native beauty. Her hips seem to swell out gently and accentuate her sensual nature.
She walks away from the path and quickly steps toward the foliage, almost avoiding the lustful eyes of the adolescent. A chastened Sikander trudges back, head hung in shame that seems to bubble up the scrawny frame.
He stops to think... Why did she move to the remotest well in the property? That is a part where no one has been for a long time. After all, in God’s own country, the foliage overruns the land very quickly.
He looks back, to see the sun shining on a very naked and wet back, through the shrubs.
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
A life awaiting fulfilment...
Often, in fact, mostly, we think only of ourselves. We're caught up in our own threads of existence, too busy unraveling those threads to notice those who stand with their souls thread-bare.
The trip to Ganeshpuri has triggered a new thought process: One not of inner introspection, but of revelation.
The trip was great...
Left at midnight, on two bikes—eight of the group had dropped out by then. Their loss, entirely. Our normal departure timings are set: Leave home at 8 or half past; hang out at the Adda until 11 and then start gathering the troops. Thankfully, this time we avoided that routine. Koke was at his sublime best: Live and Let Die wala hamlet and balaclava. Gots was his usual uncaring self: Helmet bhool gaya. We had to wake up another friend to get a helmet. I had forgotten both the hamlet and the mask. Thankfully, the dhaba stop would help me get those colourful scarves that we usually pick up.
The bikes were a worry. From our original plan of moving on RDs and Bullets, we had gradually moved back to our reserves—Fiero and Caliber it was. My Caliber was in bad shape—no brakes, brake lights, and bald tyres to boot! So, the bloody thing would skid each time the brakes were put into action. I’m a blind driver and was thankfully relieved of my driving duties. I prefer riding pillion since one can observe the places and actually enjoy the trip better. Also, being the navigator and online map helped my cause. Rarely do I miss turns or landmarks. That is another story…
Made a few calls before leaving to confirm none of the other guys were left stranded. Everybody gave us a lame ass excuse. Strange, but we’ve been going there for ages now, and never before did anyone make such pitiable excuses. I hadn’t slept for the last two nights. Koke too. Gots was an owl anyways. So, off we went—three sleep-deprived musketeers!
Route: Thane Belapur road—Ghodbunder road—NH8—Shirshad Phata—Vajreshwari road.
Equipment: Bikes, first aid kit, torchlights, spare tubes, and lotsa smokes.
Rules: No alcohol or meat allowed. Three days before we go there.
Apparel: Jackets, gloves, sports shoes, two changes of clothes, scarves, and balaclavas.
The ride:
The traffic at Thane is a bitch—always was. I stayed there for three years and used to enjoy the place, but always hated the traffic. It’s gotten better now due to Chandrasekhar, but the roads can be painful at places. Ghodbunder Road was bad too. But the final stretch is the best part of the trip.
First stop: Pit-stop at the Punjab Preet dhaba; extremely refreshing. Sitting on those charpais has always been a great experience. Authentic Punjabi food and great service: Ranjit Singhji loves it whenever we land there. Dal makhani and a special sabji (RS ka farmaish) with hot rotis and lotsa onions, tomatoes, and three types of achaar. Sahi hai bhidu, life ban gayi kya?
Phir, baba ka bulawa yaad aaya. So,
Hit the road Jock….
The next patch was simply beautiful. Almost a dream.
The Fog had set in. Clouds were playing at our ankles.
The moon was on holiday. The stars were filling in.
The night was agog with the sounds of silence.
The wind was playing its part too. Fugue minor, if you please.
The mist had taken over the darkness.
The headlights were of no use anymore.
Driving was partly by judgement and partly on hope.
Second stop: Eeriest of places.
The banyan tree stands there spreading its wide arms protectively over the road.
It keeps the light away from our eyes.
It stands there, leering at us.
Waiting for us to break sweat.
We kill the engines and switch off the lights.
The silence is overpowering.
No lights for miles on end.
Prayers muttered in short breaths.
The only light is from lighted cigarettes.
The red glow only serves to pump the adrenaline.
Gots tries to start the bike. And is quickly overpowered.
This stop is scarier than any of our wild and crazy adventure night-trips in Karnala, Satara, Khed, or Matheran. Even the sanctuaries we’ve visited have not held such morbid fear. Somehow, the place rings of long past death and melancholy.
The tree stands as a symbol to all our fears. Standing under it without registering the fear is important. It serves to conquer our inner fears and bond together.
Then, an owl flies low overhead. White shapes in pitch dark silence are not a comfortable experience. Somebody calls out to us, and we realize it can only be the wind. We quickly decide to break camp.
30 kms of sheer riding pleasure.
Now, we’ve done much much longer trips, but the pleasure of going to G’puri remains unique.
Next stop: Baba ka samadhi
The Kund is almost empty when we got there, as usual. An elderly babaji who’s always there at dot half past three awaits us. He seems to know whenever we go there. We nod at each other and strip quickly in the race to get to the hot springs.
The water is hot; at that godly hour, it actually feels boiling hot.
I shiver. Koke smiles and only puts his feet in the water. Gots howls in agony as the water scalds his Kashmiri skin. I smile too. The water runs thru each pore and cleans the negativity accumulated over the past month. Three dips later, I emerge a better person, light and refreshed. These waters certainly have magical powers. Baba would never allow one to enter his ashram without a dip in the kund!
The bell rings, we have three minutes to get to the abhishek.
We rub ourselves dry and get into clean fresh clothes. Even as the pounding heartbeats of the Nagara sound. That is the most exhilarating sound ever heard! The Tutari breaks in too. We’ve missed out the pre-abhishek meditation session. No one complains.
Baba’s face gleams in the light. Even as we take our places in the hall, I hear the questions ring in my head. Baba advices us. Koke moves in to a trance. I’m already in a state of stupor. Gots is amused. He’s never seen out spiritual selves. His hair is standing on ends.
A gora bhakt meditates loudly: “Om Bhagawate Nityanandaya.” His piety is incredible. Peace oozes from his radiant face. Jealousy… not really… a faint twang of it maybe, strikes. And then the realization that this man has done more than we’d even contemplated. Jai ho. Another lesson. Humility and respect for one’s culture. Toinks ki baat yaad aagayi. I ask baba my usual questions, and he seemingly smiles.
Electric atmosphere. The padukas radiate energy. We hit a high. Hearts content, we move on to a hotel. Nothing can compare favourably with this place.
Next stop: Noon Aarti.
As usual, the crowd joins in singing the arati. We’ce come back to our earthly senses. Scanning the crowd, exchanging glances with pretty things in the other side of the hall. Sudden realization that someone was calling out! Couldn’t figure who… Maybe Baba.
Next Stop: Gurudev Siddha Peeth
The Library is closed. Prayers offered, we move on.
Next Stop: Kriya Yog “Aatma Anshodhan Kendra”
Amit and his fiancé, who’ve joined us early in the morning spend time with the friendly sadhaks there. Babaji is not there—he’s gone to Bangalore! We’re told he’ll call us on coming back. Now, this is a man who changed Amit’s life. Not a godman, but a true yogi. The sadhaks extend their offer of overnight stay and a wonderful lunch. We decline, since that would mean some of them would go hungry. They cook only once a day, and will feed all visitors before eating themselves. Then again, they eat only from their daily daan.
Next Stop: Bal Yogi’s Ashram
This is a true blue adventure bike trip. The next few hours make us life-worthy. Sheer climb on roads that don’t exist—the Paivaat has evolved into a road. Only for Extreme bikers. Actually, it is totally unsafe carrying a bike there—diesel vehicles are the only reliable mode of mechanized transport. But, the musketeers are charged, and the lack of a road does not deter them.
A few slushpools later, we realize we’re stuck! Thankfully, the calibre has not yet let us down—meri rampyari is well and truly shakeable, but extremely reliable. We make our way up slowly. A couple of narrow misses generate nervous laughter. The air is pregnant with potential for a disaster. The bikers’ skill is challenged, and their guts match up well. A couple of small mishaps and stops later, we arrive at Parshuram Kund—a few hundred meters from the top of the highest mountain in the Tungareshwar hills. I decide to dare the mountain. Gota, Amit and his fiancé decide to wait back. Koke and me gingerly make our way up and encounter a couple of huge pythons. They go back to their slumber as our senses are overpowered by the ferocity of the wind. The rock ledge is about 2 feet broad. The moss helps to keep us on our toes. Our Rapelling gear is not around! We decide to give it a honest shot to the top. The cave at the top has been a mystery for a long time. The saints would meditate there, just the same as on the Mandakini—the beautiful mountain that graces the backdrop to Ganeshpuri.
The view from the top is great. I lay down on the corner precipice so that my vertigo doesn’t act up. Koke wisely decides to keep away from the Eagles ledge. The Wind almost carries my specs away. It invites me to join the joyride. It plays with our hair and tugs violently at our jackets. A couple of notes flutter away. Being at the highest point in any mountain range is a great rush. Kalsubai was similar, but extremely cold. Harishchandragad was a different experience too. No words can be extravagant for this view. The familiar urge to plan for the Everest Base Camp trip rises. Some other day!
The reverie breaks when an eagle lands on the ledge. We decide to move on.
Bal Yogi is an enigma. Swami Sadanand Maharaj ran away at the age of eight to be blessed by Bhagwan Nityananda. He moved to the top of this mountain and decided to meditate here. Doesn’t talk except at Pravachans. We’re cautioned against speaking during darshan. Even as we tell the manager we’ve been here so often, a man who’s been here for 13 years asks us not to worry or crib about it. The temple awaits completion. A couple of years or so.
We meditate in the hall. The ambience is overawing. Peace.
An hour passes in total silence and bliss.
Only to be broken by the constant giggles of Gots, who seems to have hit a high.
Koke is deep in meditation—lucky man has that look of inner stability. At peace with himself. His questions have found their answers. I, on the other hand, strive to still those thoughts. Stillness of the mind is the perfect state of mediation. Thoughtlessness is a common habit—but in its truest state, a total lack of thought brings us closer to the meaning of life. A life awaiting fulfilment.
An attendant breaks the idyllic air. Bal Yogi is on his way. Darshan finally!
Baba doesn’t speak at all—only at Pravachans, following his guru’s instructions. Blessed are our souls to peek into the ocean of kindness that are his eyes. They glow, bold embers that burn the negative threads. Our souls stand bare naked. He looks into my eyes; his gaze is overpowering. As I take off my specs, a faint smile creases his face. He nods knowingly. I feel the warmth of his love. Diksha will come… I know now.
As Koke approaches him for darshan, I fall prostate at his feet. He nods again and gestures for me to move to the corridor. My head is spinning; the mind numbed; bereft of any emotion. No thoughts at all. I barely notice as my head bangs the door. A thought strikes—a knock to the top of the head (at the precise point at which the sahasrara exists) is what the gurus give their most ardent disciples. Shakti path of the most unusual variety!
Relieved souls, burdens lightened. We head back for home. Back to “civilization.” To the morass that is society--pseudo ideals, morals, false emotions, and meaningless ties. My duty remains to live like any other person. Sin beckons until then. My tryst with saffron will begin when this body tires of lust, sin, jealousy, envy, adultery, gluttony, and avarice.
This trip was not the same as the others. Something changed back there. I know now there lies a bigger destiny. A life awaits fulfilment.
The trip to Ganeshpuri has triggered a new thought process: One not of inner introspection, but of revelation.
The trip was great...
Left at midnight, on two bikes—eight of the group had dropped out by then. Their loss, entirely. Our normal departure timings are set: Leave home at 8 or half past; hang out at the Adda until 11 and then start gathering the troops. Thankfully, this time we avoided that routine. Koke was at his sublime best: Live and Let Die wala hamlet and balaclava. Gots was his usual uncaring self: Helmet bhool gaya. We had to wake up another friend to get a helmet. I had forgotten both the hamlet and the mask. Thankfully, the dhaba stop would help me get those colourful scarves that we usually pick up.
The bikes were a worry. From our original plan of moving on RDs and Bullets, we had gradually moved back to our reserves—Fiero and Caliber it was. My Caliber was in bad shape—no brakes, brake lights, and bald tyres to boot! So, the bloody thing would skid each time the brakes were put into action. I’m a blind driver and was thankfully relieved of my driving duties. I prefer riding pillion since one can observe the places and actually enjoy the trip better. Also, being the navigator and online map helped my cause. Rarely do I miss turns or landmarks. That is another story…
Made a few calls before leaving to confirm none of the other guys were left stranded. Everybody gave us a lame ass excuse. Strange, but we’ve been going there for ages now, and never before did anyone make such pitiable excuses. I hadn’t slept for the last two nights. Koke too. Gots was an owl anyways. So, off we went—three sleep-deprived musketeers!
Route: Thane Belapur road—Ghodbunder road—NH8—Shirshad Phata—Vajreshwari road.
Equipment: Bikes, first aid kit, torchlights, spare tubes, and lotsa smokes.
Rules: No alcohol or meat allowed. Three days before we go there.
Apparel: Jackets, gloves, sports shoes, two changes of clothes, scarves, and balaclavas.
The ride:
The traffic at Thane is a bitch—always was. I stayed there for three years and used to enjoy the place, but always hated the traffic. It’s gotten better now due to Chandrasekhar, but the roads can be painful at places. Ghodbunder Road was bad too. But the final stretch is the best part of the trip.
First stop: Pit-stop at the Punjab Preet dhaba; extremely refreshing. Sitting on those charpais has always been a great experience. Authentic Punjabi food and great service: Ranjit Singhji loves it whenever we land there. Dal makhani and a special sabji (RS ka farmaish) with hot rotis and lotsa onions, tomatoes, and three types of achaar. Sahi hai bhidu, life ban gayi kya?
Phir, baba ka bulawa yaad aaya. So,
Hit the road Jock….
The next patch was simply beautiful. Almost a dream.
The Fog had set in. Clouds were playing at our ankles.
The moon was on holiday. The stars were filling in.
The night was agog with the sounds of silence.
The wind was playing its part too. Fugue minor, if you please.
The mist had taken over the darkness.
The headlights were of no use anymore.
Driving was partly by judgement and partly on hope.
Second stop: Eeriest of places.
The banyan tree stands there spreading its wide arms protectively over the road.
It keeps the light away from our eyes.
It stands there, leering at us.
Waiting for us to break sweat.
We kill the engines and switch off the lights.
The silence is overpowering.
No lights for miles on end.
Prayers muttered in short breaths.
The only light is from lighted cigarettes.
The red glow only serves to pump the adrenaline.
Gots tries to start the bike. And is quickly overpowered.
This stop is scarier than any of our wild and crazy adventure night-trips in Karnala, Satara, Khed, or Matheran. Even the sanctuaries we’ve visited have not held such morbid fear. Somehow, the place rings of long past death and melancholy.
The tree stands as a symbol to all our fears. Standing under it without registering the fear is important. It serves to conquer our inner fears and bond together.
Then, an owl flies low overhead. White shapes in pitch dark silence are not a comfortable experience. Somebody calls out to us, and we realize it can only be the wind. We quickly decide to break camp.
30 kms of sheer riding pleasure.
Now, we’ve done much much longer trips, but the pleasure of going to G’puri remains unique.
Next stop: Baba ka samadhi
The Kund is almost empty when we got there, as usual. An elderly babaji who’s always there at dot half past three awaits us. He seems to know whenever we go there. We nod at each other and strip quickly in the race to get to the hot springs.
The water is hot; at that godly hour, it actually feels boiling hot.
I shiver. Koke smiles and only puts his feet in the water. Gots howls in agony as the water scalds his Kashmiri skin. I smile too. The water runs thru each pore and cleans the negativity accumulated over the past month. Three dips later, I emerge a better person, light and refreshed. These waters certainly have magical powers. Baba would never allow one to enter his ashram without a dip in the kund!
The bell rings, we have three minutes to get to the abhishek.
We rub ourselves dry and get into clean fresh clothes. Even as the pounding heartbeats of the Nagara sound. That is the most exhilarating sound ever heard! The Tutari breaks in too. We’ve missed out the pre-abhishek meditation session. No one complains.
Baba’s face gleams in the light. Even as we take our places in the hall, I hear the questions ring in my head. Baba advices us. Koke moves in to a trance. I’m already in a state of stupor. Gots is amused. He’s never seen out spiritual selves. His hair is standing on ends.
A gora bhakt meditates loudly: “Om Bhagawate Nityanandaya.” His piety is incredible. Peace oozes from his radiant face. Jealousy… not really… a faint twang of it maybe, strikes. And then the realization that this man has done more than we’d even contemplated. Jai ho. Another lesson. Humility and respect for one’s culture. Toinks ki baat yaad aagayi. I ask baba my usual questions, and he seemingly smiles.
Electric atmosphere. The padukas radiate energy. We hit a high. Hearts content, we move on to a hotel. Nothing can compare favourably with this place.
Next stop: Noon Aarti.
As usual, the crowd joins in singing the arati. We’ce come back to our earthly senses. Scanning the crowd, exchanging glances with pretty things in the other side of the hall. Sudden realization that someone was calling out! Couldn’t figure who… Maybe Baba.
Next Stop: Gurudev Siddha Peeth
The Library is closed. Prayers offered, we move on.
Next Stop: Kriya Yog “Aatma Anshodhan Kendra”
Amit and his fiancé, who’ve joined us early in the morning spend time with the friendly sadhaks there. Babaji is not there—he’s gone to Bangalore! We’re told he’ll call us on coming back. Now, this is a man who changed Amit’s life. Not a godman, but a true yogi. The sadhaks extend their offer of overnight stay and a wonderful lunch. We decline, since that would mean some of them would go hungry. They cook only once a day, and will feed all visitors before eating themselves. Then again, they eat only from their daily daan.
Next Stop: Bal Yogi’s Ashram
This is a true blue adventure bike trip. The next few hours make us life-worthy. Sheer climb on roads that don’t exist—the Paivaat has evolved into a road. Only for Extreme bikers. Actually, it is totally unsafe carrying a bike there—diesel vehicles are the only reliable mode of mechanized transport. But, the musketeers are charged, and the lack of a road does not deter them.
A few slushpools later, we realize we’re stuck! Thankfully, the calibre has not yet let us down—meri rampyari is well and truly shakeable, but extremely reliable. We make our way up slowly. A couple of narrow misses generate nervous laughter. The air is pregnant with potential for a disaster. The bikers’ skill is challenged, and their guts match up well. A couple of small mishaps and stops later, we arrive at Parshuram Kund—a few hundred meters from the top of the highest mountain in the Tungareshwar hills. I decide to dare the mountain. Gota, Amit and his fiancé decide to wait back. Koke and me gingerly make our way up and encounter a couple of huge pythons. They go back to their slumber as our senses are overpowered by the ferocity of the wind. The rock ledge is about 2 feet broad. The moss helps to keep us on our toes. Our Rapelling gear is not around! We decide to give it a honest shot to the top. The cave at the top has been a mystery for a long time. The saints would meditate there, just the same as on the Mandakini—the beautiful mountain that graces the backdrop to Ganeshpuri.
The view from the top is great. I lay down on the corner precipice so that my vertigo doesn’t act up. Koke wisely decides to keep away from the Eagles ledge. The Wind almost carries my specs away. It invites me to join the joyride. It plays with our hair and tugs violently at our jackets. A couple of notes flutter away. Being at the highest point in any mountain range is a great rush. Kalsubai was similar, but extremely cold. Harishchandragad was a different experience too. No words can be extravagant for this view. The familiar urge to plan for the Everest Base Camp trip rises. Some other day!
The reverie breaks when an eagle lands on the ledge. We decide to move on.
Bal Yogi is an enigma. Swami Sadanand Maharaj ran away at the age of eight to be blessed by Bhagwan Nityananda. He moved to the top of this mountain and decided to meditate here. Doesn’t talk except at Pravachans. We’re cautioned against speaking during darshan. Even as we tell the manager we’ve been here so often, a man who’s been here for 13 years asks us not to worry or crib about it. The temple awaits completion. A couple of years or so.
We meditate in the hall. The ambience is overawing. Peace.
An hour passes in total silence and bliss.
Only to be broken by the constant giggles of Gots, who seems to have hit a high.
Koke is deep in meditation—lucky man has that look of inner stability. At peace with himself. His questions have found their answers. I, on the other hand, strive to still those thoughts. Stillness of the mind is the perfect state of mediation. Thoughtlessness is a common habit—but in its truest state, a total lack of thought brings us closer to the meaning of life. A life awaiting fulfilment.
An attendant breaks the idyllic air. Bal Yogi is on his way. Darshan finally!
Baba doesn’t speak at all—only at Pravachans, following his guru’s instructions. Blessed are our souls to peek into the ocean of kindness that are his eyes. They glow, bold embers that burn the negative threads. Our souls stand bare naked. He looks into my eyes; his gaze is overpowering. As I take off my specs, a faint smile creases his face. He nods knowingly. I feel the warmth of his love. Diksha will come… I know now.
As Koke approaches him for darshan, I fall prostate at his feet. He nods again and gestures for me to move to the corridor. My head is spinning; the mind numbed; bereft of any emotion. No thoughts at all. I barely notice as my head bangs the door. A thought strikes—a knock to the top of the head (at the precise point at which the sahasrara exists) is what the gurus give their most ardent disciples. Shakti path of the most unusual variety!
Relieved souls, burdens lightened. We head back for home. Back to “civilization.” To the morass that is society--pseudo ideals, morals, false emotions, and meaningless ties. My duty remains to live like any other person. Sin beckons until then. My tryst with saffron will begin when this body tires of lust, sin, jealousy, envy, adultery, gluttony, and avarice.
This trip was not the same as the others. Something changed back there. I know now there lies a bigger destiny. A life awaits fulfilment.
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