Sorcerers & Saints

 I spend the rest of the day floating around with the family, taking tea, reading, resting, digesting everything that has happened the day before. Later in the day, despite my previous resolve, I start on the exercises given to me by Ali Moosa but only after first promising myself to do them just once a day, not five times and to conclude each meditation with my own informal one.

I notice that Karen has rubbed coconut oil into Nika's hair which has given it a bedraggled, greasy look and my mind leaps from this thought to the image of a young sadhu I noticed in the streets several times during the past few days. I had seen him again a few evenings ago having tea with a middle-aged Swedish lady in the coffee shop at the Janpath Hotel. For a sadhu he was extremely well-dressed, in a long Indian-style coat that somehow offset the oily look of his long, black, shoulder-length hair which might have seemed unkempt but for the look of his clothes.

Karen and I remarked that he was speaking English to the lady and that it would be interesting to talk to him. We felt the opportunity however, would not arise.

After a long afternoon nap, I wake and begin to read the paperback copy of the Sri Aurobindo biography that we'd picked up second hand and which had been silently beckoning to me.  After this, we go out for a ride on a bicycle rickshaw through the darkening streets up to Connaught Circle.

The streets are now empty-looking and most of the shops closed. We pay our fare and go for a slow walk around the circle when who should we meet but the aforementioned-mentioned sadhu to whom I nod amiably and who smiles back in recognition. I am sure he remembers us from the Janpath, where he had looked over at us while we were commenting about his conversation with the Swedish woman. 

We are about to pass each other without saying anything further,  when he says, "Which country are you from?"  A few pleasantries are exchanged and he suggests we go and sit somewhere where he can write down the address of his ashram where he has an office in Delhi.  He directs us into the United Coffee House, marching in confidently ahead of us to the obvious and surprising consternation of the waiters who apparently do not want him in there.

All eyes turn to look at us as we enter. It is hilarious but embarrassing. This is obviously a restaurant catering to the Western palate and old India is not welcome in here. There are frowns everywhere as we walk to our table. First comes the sallow-skinned, black-haired, bearded yogi with Shaivite-yellow ash smeared across his forehead, a huge red blotch of a bindi above the bridge of his long nose, the Indian jacket, dhoti, natty little neck scarf and the small ivory-tipped walking stick, brushing  rudely past a white-coated waiter who has stopped to conduct us to our table, as if to say "I know exactly where to sit and I don't need your help".

Following in his wake comes our family, the father dressed in a kurta, Indian-style, Karen in a voluminous, Nepalese dress with a Tibetan mala around her neck and our two little girls in their flowery designer dresses from Goa.  What a retinue!

The yogi seats himself at the table first.  His hands are long and thin and on each finger he wears rings of different metals, which he later informs us are for occult protection. He is quite confident and at ease, which puts us somewhat at ease too, but there is an intensity about him that borders on clumsiness and belies his easiness. I chalk it up to his young age. 

He sits bolt upright, not leaning back on his chair, slightly hunching forward to sip his tea. As he speaks to us, his eyes look slyly upward from a downward-tilted face, reminding me somehow of the look of a "carpet seller" attempting to hawk his wares.

We have learned his name is Arvind, which he tells me is a variant of the Sanskrit, Aurobindo. I muse on the coincidence of beginning the biography earlier and meeting him the same day.  He tells me his guru, who lives in a cave in the Utter Pradesh foothills, is Baba Hara Khan.  This surname immediately brings Inayat Khan to mind.

He calls his guru "babaji" and says he is over 300 years old.  He says that he looks only 25 and possesses the magical ability to fly between mountain peaks and appear anywhere at will. I mention the "babaji" referred to in Yoganada's book and Arvind claims to have met him and have spent some time with him but states that there are many such "babajis" who live in the Himalayas, who never make themselves known to the public at large and who conduct all their affairs from their mountain retreats.

He talks more about the powers of his guru, who apparently wields enough clout to keep the government from interfering in the environs of his retreat.  According to Arvind, this is not unusual, for "In India, religion is very strong.  Even the Prime Minister, and high government officials turn to their guru for advice.  And the religious community keeps watch over the politics to see that it does not get out of hand and start trying to control everything from its own level, as it does in the West."

He tells us that being the youngest son, he was raised from childhood as a yoga student. I ask Arvind how old he is and he replies, "Of course I am ageless because yogis are unattached but I have been here 25 years."  We discussed such things as levitation and siddhis, Muktananda, Rajneesh, politics of India and the Shiva Moon.

He tells us that yogis do "scientific" experiments during these phases of the moon such as trying to pass a very fine thread through the eye of a needle in the moonlight.

We agree to meet Arvind the next day.  He says he will bring some pictures to show us.

Karen remains abstracted for the rest of the evening. Something is bothering her but she won't talk about it. It is clear though that Arvind has not made a good impression on her, although she is fascinated by the stories and by his strange appearance.

I write in my journal,  "There is an easy grace an dignity in his bearing that is very pleasant to see - it is much more than a pose, though I suppose there is the young man's delight at having such good karma.  But there is something of "value" in his bearing. Respect or confidence or any term used to describe "success" in Western terms doesn't say it.  It's more of an inner realization that one is in a high state and seeing this must value and respect it because, despite appearances, it is a position of great responsibility and power.  And in the person of one so young it is all the more amazing to me.

There's a matter-of-factness about it too that seems out-of-ego and into deeper reality...For all I know, he himself is a "babaji" although I feel he speaks the truth when he talks about the much greater powers of his guru". 

I am clearly fascinated too and much more favorably impressed than Karen. It is as though I want, or need, to believe in the intervention of something truly fantastic in our lives and on this journey right now.

I rise the next morning before dawn and begin my meditation, including the exercises given by Ali Moosa.  I feel so good afterwards that I go out for an early morning stroll while the family still sleeps. 

That day in the bazaar, while asking for books on sufi literature, I am handed a second hand copy of Gurbachan Singh Talib's "Baba Sheikh Farid" the same biography of the sufi saint that was loaned to me years ago by my friend Jeevan Mangat, while I was working under his direction for the Karmsar Project on Vancouver Island.   Glancing at the preface while we are scootering home I see that Sheikh Farid was the spiritual teacher of Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia. 

I purchase the book. For the rest of the day I immerse myself deeply in it. Years ago, none of this had made any impression and now every page is a revelation and a surprise. However, I can't get my mind off the evening meeting with Arvind and when the time comes to leave, I convince a largely unwilling Karen to join me. She agrees on the condition that she can return early if she doesn't feel like staying.

Arvind bounces into the Cellar, our rendezvous, only a few minutes late and eagerly, too eagerly for my taste, launches into a monologue on the life of Hanuman, most of which sails high over my head.  I listen out of politeness. The children, however, begin to kick up an enormous fuss.  They are punching each other and pulling hair at the table, threatening to topple their chairs.   This doesn't deter Arvind in the least. From the Ramayana he moves on to the explanation of the occult use of the different metals in his rings and bangles.

The children are screeching by now and Arvind suggests that we go to the nearby Hanuman Temple to which I gladly agree.  On the way, Arvind continues his monologue as we walk and somewhat humorously trips over a curb in the middle of it, nearly losing his balance.

Once again, the clumsy young man emerges and this Chaplinesque quality, after such a dogmatic and prosaic talk is almost a welcome relief. 

The courtyard is being set up for the next day's bazaar and the scene is a beehive of activity. A man at the temple entrance asks us to remove our shoes but Arvind, ignoring him, leads us briskly past and in, through a side door, up a steep, narrow flight of stairs, motioning over his shoulder for the children to be quiet. 

It is outside a doorway at the top that we remove our shoes.  He explains in a hushed voice that the priest who lives here has just got out of the hospital after a serious operation and so we will not be staying long.

Inside the darkened room, whose walls are covered in photographs, a middle-aged man lies quiescent in a canopied bed. We tiptoe to the bedside and my initial impression is that we are in a teenage girl's bedroom, festooned with pictures of movie idols and pop stars. However, the photos jump into stark and surprising relief and I am rather shocked by what I see. These are obviously doctored photos of an "hermaphrodite master" which Arvind later explains are real photos of his guru, Baba Hara Khan. 

There is something angry, even aggressive in the face of the person in these photos, something which is not entirely palatable.  He seems more of a magician than a holy man, more a sorcerer than a saint. Karen is clearly unhappy and upset.

After a brief introduction to the barely vocal invalid in the bed, Arvind, with conspiratorial voice of an art gallery tour guide, begins explaining the genealogy of the photos, how his guru, a Tantric master, first appeared in 1972 "out of nowhere" and proceeded to prove to doubting officials that he had materialized out of the ether and had neither a father nor a mother. 

I try to take his explanations at face value but I am now beginning to choke on them. The atmosphere in this room is quickly becoming stifling and by the time we leave, Karen has become nauseous.  I understand why and am feeling guilty for persuading her to come here with the children.

As we exit the temple, it barely surprises us that the sky is now flashing with sheet lightning.  Karen is now angry and subdued and when Arvind suggests we meet again tomorrow Karen and I both know we won't be going. 

That night I dream of Arvind's "babaji".  Arvind has told us he appears in dreams via telepathy. The eyes of babaji shine preternaturally, like the eyes of a deadly snake and his name is written above his face on a poster, Baba Hara Khan, the vowels flaming.