Bodh Gaya

This morning we purchase train tickets for Gaya, the jumping off point for Bodh Gaya, our destination.  This is the site where, as legend has it, Lord Buddha attained the state of enlightenment while sitting under the "Bo" tree.  We  return to our hotel to pack and once again our makeshift altar is bedecked with flowers and incense, the room scrupulously cleansed.  I express regret that we have to leave so soon but our journey calls us.  Karen has the hotel staff pack us a lunch of rice and chapatis for the train and we depart in style, ready for all contingencies.

We arrive in Gaya at 10 p.m. an hour behind schedule and take a bicycle rickshaw to what has been described as a good hotel. Children and luggage piled on the seat we walk through the filthy squalor of the streets toward our destination. We are shocked that this city looks so slum-like, even after dark. 

To our dismay the hotel is full and so we continue on down the line visiting various smaller, seedier-looking hotels and getting into arguments and even a shouting match with a hotel owner and with our rickshaw driver, who seems to be in league with the hoteliers. Tempers worn thin, we finally resolve to return to the railway station where we fall in with a band of intrepid travelers like ourselves, also heading to the same destination, who have run into the same problems this evening. Together, we resolve to rent a taxi and travel to Bodh Gaya this very night.

By now it is after midnight and the locals' advice about the dangers of being accosted by armed bandits along the country roads adds a sense of adventure we had not anticipated.  The taxi driver has taken another man along , who is presumably armed, for our protection.

We speed full-tilt through the dark countryside, the rubber blade of the upraised dagger hood ornament cleaving the highway center line and I fully expect a group of gun-toting thieves to leap from the bushes in the headlights' glow and take us all hostage, such is the atmosphere in the taxi.

I experience a great sense of relief as we pull up outside the darkened structure of the Ashok Traveler's Lodge, certain that this hotel, being part of a major Indian chain, will provide us with a clean room and good hot meal before bed.  To our dismay, however, the electrical power is out and so, aided by flashlight and candle, we sign the guest register and stow our luggage before joining the rest of the group around the dining room table for a welcome cup of hot tea.  There is no food at this hour but the electricity comes back on and we able to fall asleep to the cooling, soothing hum of an overhead fan.

The next morning we are out in the intense sunlight and dry heat making our rounds of the Buddhist temples in the area. Many Asian countries are represented here and there is even a mosque nearby, the azan, or call to prayer having reached our ears in the early morning, hauntingly and melodiously.

The main temple is the Mahabodhi Temple, dating from the 3rd century and restored from a state of almost complete ruin by the British in 1858.  The spiring, intricately carved structure strikes me as an ancient blueprint for a modern power generating station, complete with stupa-insulators. 

When we arrive, the place is packed with mostly Asian tourists and Buddhist monks from different countries wearing their brightly colored robes.  We pay our .50 paise admission and begin circulating through the grounds.

At the back of the temple is the "Bo" tree, a Pipal tree, actually, which was grown from a sapling sent back here from the original which has been replanted in Sri Lanka.  The "offspring" itself is now old and venerable looking, draped in colorful prayer flags and surrounded by monks who are meditating or lighting incense sticks under its branches.  The monks smile at our children as we pass and hand them incense sticks.

The tisbeh or rosary given to me by Ali Moosa is in the pocket of my vest and as I circumambulate the temple in the company of the monks, the tourists and my family, I chant my silent zikr, bringing Islam and Buddhism together in the moment, unknown to any of my fellow pilgrims.

Finally, we enter the dim-lit, candle-flickering interior which is nearly empty and we meditate under the serene golden gazes of the huge bronze buddhas sitting silently within.

Karen is a good barometer of the energy around places we visit and here she is quite chipper, happily enjoying herself and browsing through the souvenir stands nearby.  This is an unusual temple as it is also sacred to Hindus and there is a section near the main entrance in which all the statuary is of Hindu origin. I had not realized until now that Lord Buddha is also sacred to the Hindus and they have there very own version of him represented here.

At lunch the same day, the hotel manager stops by our table to introduce himself and the subject of the nearby Barabar Caves comes up. He dissuades us from going on our own due to the presence of those ubiquitous local dacoits and insists on driving us himself the next morning.  His only condition is that we go in the company of a police escort and since the chief of police in Gaya is his personal friend, this should pose no problem. "Just tip the captain 100 rupees and buy them a bottle of whiskey and everything will be okay", he suggests.

Later on in the day the manager notices me reading a booklet on mediation published by the Ramakrishna Mission and informs me that he is associated with this Mission and would love my family to meet his wife and daughter over tea that evening. The walls of his small apartment are decorated with pictures of Sri Ramakrishna and his consort, Sara Devi, the Holy Mother, as she is called. He plays us a recording of some devotional music from the mission, some Ravi Shankar and also some music by a nephew of Shankar who has composed it for a travel seminar, commissioned by the hotel chain he works for, in 1978. Then he plays us some of Ghalib's ghazzals sung by a 65 year old woman with an incredibly powerful voice whose name I neglect to write down and thus can not  remember.

My oldest daughter Chaya who is four years old had a fever earlier on in the afternoon which has by bed time risen to 104 degrees and we are worried.  The local doctor is called and pronounces it a "light" stomach infection for which some medication is prescribed, dispensed and given on the spot.  We stay up late, talking with an English couple who had accompanied us from Gaya and then, just as we are preparing for bed Nika, who is two,  wakes up and has a crying bout that lasts an hour or so.

We get about an hour's sleep and are up at 4:30 a.m. for the journey to the caves. To our surprise, the police "escort" is a military truck full of police, who in this part of the country look , dress and feel like the army. With us on the trip is a young English girl who we have come to know recently and we fill the manager's tiny car as we rocket and buffet over the bumpy country roads, through a landscape that is flat, arid and stony. I can't imagine where thieves would hide here.  However, as we approach the caves, the area becomes more hilly, with large outcroppings of huge rocks and finally we arrive, piling out of the car in the dusty heat.

At first glance it is obvious that this is not the site that was used in the filming of "Passage to India".  These hills and caves are much smaller, but far more mysterious looking once one gets up close. Dating from the 3rd century BC, the caves are formed into the solid rock by what looks to be a combination of natural and human forces. Perhaps the original caves had been formed by volcanic action, creating  huge "bubbles" in the rocks as they were cooling. 

The interior walls of the caves seem "finished" or polished to a high, reflective gloss and which, seen from the entrance, appear to be a mixture of marble and gold shining richly in the natural light.  The first cave we enter has an intricate lintel carved into the rock above the entrance containing a frieze of elephants and script in what we are told is Pali, the ancient language of Buddhism.  These caves were used, it is said, by highly evolved monks to meditate and work in.

The next thing we notice as we enter is that the caves are natural sound amplifiers, and our voices, even when we are speaking in low tones, resonate powerfully. Any chanting done in these caves would undoubtedly have a deep psychological and even physical effect on the person chanting.  I experiment by singing a few tones and the entire cave seems to ring like a gigantic bell in response to every note. Later I will write in my journal "Its like talking in a glass cathedral, so delicate is the balance of sound. And should a vigorously chanting person sit inside these caves for an hour or more doing japa, I should think that the sound would mystically transform and perfect their physical body."  Our police guards seem as excited as our children to hear the sounds of their voices in these caves!

I also note that "the caves were swept perfectly clean and we were informed that they are, even at night, totally devoid of damp or cold.  They were as comfortable inside as any thermostatically controlled Western living space, more so perhaps, as the heat is natural and not artificially produced.  It's as though the sun stores up energy in the rock all day to keep the caves warm at night."

After visiting four of these caves, our guide suggests we visit a Shiva Temple, perched atop a nearby hill, a small mountain really, in our children's' eyes.  So up we all hike, a 40 minutes climb to the whitewashed little temple at the top, which from the distance looks quite magical.  However, at the top, I feel that familiar old Shiva-energy dancing around and repulsing me and I will not go inside, despite being invited by the priests who are chanting in there. There is a lifeless, dark feel about the place and I don't want to drink that air inside. 

I walk around the hilltop admiring the wonderful view of the landscape all around when out from under a rock crawls a mangy, half-starved looking little puppy (typical bloody Shiva energy, I think) and I feed him a biscuit and silently pray to God to save his life.

On the way down, as in Forester's novel, our party and it's police escort become separated and there is a minor panic on their part, even though we are quite clearly wending our way down to the bottom.  There seems to be a pervasive fear that something can easily happen to us, even though they are nearby. 

An old woman, carrying a bundle on her back and another in her arms passes us on the path, heading up towards the temple.  She casts a glance at me that seems in the moment strangely dark and malevolent. Or is that my imagination too?  This place has got us all seeing things.

The journey back in this heat seems at least twice or even three times as long and as grueling.  However, back at the Lodge a hearty, spicy Indian rice, dal and subji await us and we are well content with the day's events.

The evening brings with it more magic.  We set out for the village, just before sundown, to buy fruit and come across a deer park, where the deer, called cheetel, male and female alike, approach us and lick our hands with tender gentleness, making us feel like living embodiments of Buddha himself.

We had planned to stop at the Tibetan Temple but the gates are locked and so we go instead to make a circuit of the Mahabodhi Temple, joining the monks and pilgrims in their walking meditations around it.

Even the children are having a delightful time of it, Chaya chanting on her miniature mala and Nika playing tag with young novice monks who can not be more that ten years old, if that.

Karen enters into a conversation with an Australian Buddhist nun.  She has been ordained since 1976.  She invites us to visit a second Tibetan Temple which we had at first thought was under construction but which, she informs us, houses monks and nuns of the Kagyupta order. She tells us there's a girl there who has spent a lot of time in Katmandu and who may be able to give us more information on traveling to Nepal.

I am intrigued because of the connection of this sect with Lama Govinda, whose books I have read and admired for many years now. The nun tells us that her teacher is a 39 year old real life tulku although why that should make a difference I don't know. I guess I am fascinated by the romance of being initiated into a religious sect as old as this one.  The question comes to my mind, "Could this be why I am here?", always that lingering question, fueled by the idea that this journey to India has somehow been preordained.

I recall years ago having a beer in a Vancouver pub and meeting a Rosicrucian couple there with whom I became friends. At one of their dinner parties, I was introduced to an elderly gentlemen, also a Rosicrucian, who looked at my friends conspiratorially and said "Do you think he is connected with India?  I do. I think there's a relationship there."  My youthful mind scoffed at the idea and at the old man for spouting such obvious bunk.  Years later, however, I look at his comment with a new respect, and cringe at my own "posings" in those days. What have I been dreaming about, studying and finally experiencing after all these years, if not traditions that spring from the soil of India?

My journal from this time continues, "And so, in the softly settling twilight, round and round we walked, chanting, talking, reflecting on the gilt Buddhas seated in meditation, row on row, the lotus framed elfin faces on the ancient stone rail fence, the flickering oil lamps lit under the Bo tree and the rapt group of seated pilgrims below it,  listening to the slow-spoken lecture of a yellow-robed monk, expounding on the life of the Buddha in way that has been done on this spot for centuries now."