Ganeshpuri

We are seated at the back of a modern Indian bus, having elected to try a different route back to Bombay. We are being rocketed, buffeted, bounced, jostled and rattled as the bus careens over the rugged inland roads on the 18 hour journey. At the front of the bus is a video screen on which an East Indian film is playing. A friendly man is seated next to me, translating the dialogue of what seems to be a modern romance based on an old legend. The fact that the film takes my mind off the discomfort of the long journey is not the least of its appealing traits.

The children don't seem to mind the raucous ride but my back is killing me, my legs are cramped and the journey seems endless. At nightfall we spread a blanket on the floor between the seats, despite the press of the crowd and try for a few hours rest but because the floor takes the impacts of the road directly we only doze minutes at a stretch. The bus stops at regular intervals for the passengers to stretch their legs. Nearby bushes and walls are the only toilets to be found and blessedly, Nika has decided on this night to toilet train herself, waking me up so that she can pee in a plastic basin. I empty this at rest stops, throwing the contents off into the bushes.

Travel on an Indian bus or train is no solitary affair and we are thrown into the life of the other passengers, sometimes literally. Once again the children draw an excess of kindness from fellow travelers and there are always offers of food or shared information with the least of introductions.

At long last the bus reaches Bombay and we decide to move straight on to Ganeshpuri, where the ashram of Swami Muktananda is located, rather than search for a hotel in the city. So we transfer to the necessary train, girding our loins for the next couple of hours. This journey, however, proves to be much less hectic and almost serene in comparison to the night's ordeal.

We have followed the teachings of Swami Muktananda through his books and through the words of friends we know who have visited his ashram in Oakland, California. His picture has adorned the wall of our house for several years and when we met a woman from Vancouver Island one morning over breakfast in a Delhi cafe who told us that she'd just returned from Ganeshpuri, we decided that it would be one of our stops.

The village of Ganeshpuri does not compare to any place I've ever visited. The dusty, colorful landscape seems to exude a mysterious light and local legend says that it is populated by blue beings who can be seen in higher states of meditation. We walk a fair distance from the bus station to the ashram which is a large estate enclosed behind a wall and guarded by what appear to be khaki-clad soldiers or police.

There is an authoritarian aura surrounding the compound that seems worlds away from how we imagined the ashram might be. We have to produce our passports to the officer guarding the front gate and when we are let inside we are immediately conducted to an office upstairs where the business of our ability to pay for our accommodation is the first item at hand for discussion. Next in line is our willingness to perform seva, or manual work as part of the conditions of our stay. Since the price of accommodation is as high or higher than most hotels and food is extra, I do not feel entirely comfortable with the conditions but agree for the sake of the experience itself.

Normally rooms are shared but since we are a family of four and there is plenty of space available we are given one room together. The woman who interviews us, a young American in her mid-thirties dressed in an orange sari, informs us that we will be given a day to relax and familiarize ourselves with the ashram and its routines before being required to participate in seva.

The grounds are landscaped like a luxurious park. Pathways wend among flower beds and all is lush, tropical greenery. There are plaster statues of many of the famous saints strategically placed along the walkway so the passerby by will seem to stumble upon them in the act of meditation or bestowing blessing. Guru Nanak, Tansen, Ramakrishna, Buddha, Jesus and many others from different traditions are all to be found gazing from the shrubbery in almost Disney-like innocence.

We have paid for the main meal of the day in our housing cost but for breakfast and lunch we have to use the services of an on-grounds cafe that operates in true entrepreneurial fashion with complete daily menus and prices to compare with any similar institution in the West.

Perhaps the main wonder of the ashram is its stable wherein are housed the sleekest, most well cared for cattle in the entire world. The eyes of these animals fairly shine with tenderness and love and the stone floors of their stalls are cleaned hourly and are polished by natural scrubbings to a preternatural sheen. Any pile of dung one may see is new and steaming and will not be left long. Hindus of course do not eat meat and the cow is sacred, used only for milk and the byproducts of its waste. Otherwise it is revered as a symbol of deity and here in this ashram the example of animal kindness is archetypal. I have never before seen cows that glowed with well being.

The peacocks are the pride of the grounds and their throaty cries can be heard at all hours of the day or night. They are everywhere in their luminescent splendor, spreading their eyed-tails in glorious array, yet another symbol of deity. The peacock tail feathers were used by Swami Muktananda to bestow shaktipat, or divine blessings, on the visitors who came to study and learn with him and came to be called disciples.

The mostly hidden guardians of the precincts are said to be the cobras. There are little plaster replicas of them in the greenery and it is rumored among the disciples that anyone who has gone deep enough into mediation will not be afraid of a cobra and not be bitten. It is also said that to be bitten is supreme good fortune and that many who have been bitten while here have not suffered ill-effects. We never encounter a cobra on our wanderings, perhaps because this is a blessing we are not over eager to receive.

Another area of fascination for me in the ashram is The Cave. This is reportedly the place where Muktananda himself used to meditate and when I am told of it I picture a small cell with a cot and a pair of sandals on a nearby mat in Ghandi-esque fashion. Another misconception! The Cave is actually a darkened room interspersed by pillars which uphold the main structure of the upper stories. When one enters for the first time it is difficult to see in order to find a spot to meditate but as ones eyes become accustomed to the gloom the shapes of meditators stand out and one can find a vacant cushion on which to sit. However, in impossible Indian fashion, on the wall are two huge back-lit Technicolor slides of Swami Muktananda and his teacher Swami Nityananda seated in meditation. The first time I go in here to meditate I am disturbed by this technological intrusion which seems to me rather silly in concept. If meditation is all about going within to find the Self, what is this theatrical presentation on the wall facing one?

I go deeply into meditation in the cool, dark room, glad to be away from the bustle of the compound. Muktanada's energy still lingers in the room it is said and will reportedly empower one's efforts to go within. I don't feel any special presence at all. Perhaps it's just my unenlightened state or maybe that I am destined to follow another path. Every time I open my eyes they are drawn to the hawk-like, almost predatory features of Swami Nityananda, whose glowering features remind me of the heavy military presence outside. Perhaps his idea of discipline has been taken too far by his followers. An hour or so goes by. I peek once again at the great Swami and his face has become even more ferocious than before. Where is the beatific, jazzman-like expression of his chief disciple? This is the real mystery to me.

We do not become fully involved in the life of the ashram but stay on the periphery of things. This is intentional for there is something militant about the life and rhythm of this compound that is far from appealing. The new teacher who has taken over from Muktananda is a woman who has been his close disciple. Her brother has challenged her leadership and there has been some kind of a feud. She is now in Mexico and our impression is that it is a self-imposed exile to avoid violence in the community. This explains the heavy armed presence around the compound.

We are invited to attend an evening satsang which is basically a video-taped lecture by the new teacher and a kind of documentary on her whereabouts and activities. This is followed by a singing meditation accompanied by slides of the teacher. I am invited to join the musicians with my guitar, which I do.

There is an unreal, uncomfortable feeling about this session which feels more like indoctrination than meditation. More enjoyable by far are the predawn meditations in which disciples gather to sit on the cold, marble floor of the temple on little wool mats sold specifically for the purpose and to chant OM NAMAH SHIVAYYAH in a very melodic and beautiful way. These meditation sessions feel very old, authentic and wonderful. They inspire and awaken me.

The morning we leave the ashram I feel a tremendous sense of release. There is something here that feels unhealthy, life-inhibiting which I cannot put my finger on. Undoubtedly the ancient protectors of the land, the invisible blue beings who inhabit the countryside, will outlast any political intrigue and reign supreme again once the temporal drama of events have passed.

We take a taxi back to the train station and it seems that the landscape is glowing with an inner light even more mysteriously than before. Along the way we pass an elderly sanyasin, dressed in a loincloth and carrying a staff. His shining head is embossed with white stubble where the hair has been shaved and in one ear is a gold ear-ring in the shape of a cobra. In him, the spirit of Muktananda still walks free and uninhibited.

I wonder how it is that so often when a teacher dies, especially one with many followers that there is a struggle for leadership and that the institution founded by the teacher seems to take on a form and life of its own that is often at odds with the spirit of its founder? Jesus, Ramakrishna, Ramana Maharshi and the great, simple teachers never intended a structure to follow them or so it seems to me. What they had to teach was in essence free from dogma or ritual or any kind of ritualized form. There is an organic freedom about these beings, a fresh air about their presence that belies any attempt to formalize it. The old sanyasin hiking down the dusty road reminds me of this natural, spiritual presence that is still very much alive in the world if only we can take our eyes off the forms that keep us from finding it.