Life at the ashram, from hindsight

Today is Saturday, and school's out!! So here I am, at the altitude of 2000 meters, watching the mist billow up and down the mountains. The few hours per week that we have sunshine, you can see that the view from here is spectacular, but most of the time we can't see beyond the trees that grow on the mountainside - which still has it's interesting points, considering the monkeys that (literally) bounce around on the branches. Remember the trees, with their 15 or more different varieties of fungus and ferns? There's a huge one just outside the veranda where we have our breakfast, and sometimes a langour tribe comes to have their breakfast with us.

Langours are medium-sized monkeys (the big one that crossed the road in front of me yesterday was about the size of a ten-year-old), with (misleadingly) sweet, round black faces framed by the silver-grey fur that covers the rest of their bodies. They sit around on this huge tree, picking ferns off it's hairy trunk and munching them. Whenever they are around, the three dogs that belong to Andy (a British kid that decided to stay in India a couple of years ago) - cluster around the tree, looking up with the intent, hungry gaze of true predators, breaking off only to gallop around the house, if they see one of the monkeys heading in that direction. It would strike fear in the heart of any monkey-lover, if it weren't so hilarious - considering the fact that the langours are more dangerous to the dogs than vice-versa. These monkeys are evidently quite vicious, they particularly like to swipe at the eyes of the dogs, and they have the fingernails to take an eye out if they hit their target. The chances of one of these experts, who go hopping from branch to branch like a school-girl playing hopscotch - just toppling off the tree into the waiting mouths of these mongrels - is ridiculous enough to make the whole scene a comedy.

Anyway, I promised to write a bit about how things go at the Sivananda Kutir ashram in Uttar Kashi, remember? I started writing this when I was still there, and now I have the time to finish and send it, so - like it or not - here it is.

I think I've already waxed long and enthusiastic, about the beautiful natural surroundings, so I won't go into the gushing river rushing, the trees, mountains, birds, butterflies and other assorted flora and fauna, even though they are still there, and they are still beautiful. (All except the big hairy caterpillar that was on the wall of my dorm a few days ago - maybe not so big - but still very hairy, and very much a caterpillar. Interesting how some caterpillars look hairy and others look furry.) (Then there was that huge bug trying to climb out of the drainage pipe last week, which really gave me the heebie-jeebie creeps. It looked like a sophisticated cockroach, but it was about as big as two of my fingers put together. Later, watching a butterfly flutter by, I had the opportunity to contemplate the thought that they - the bug and the buttterfly - were both about the same size, probably from related families, and my reaction to each was exactly opposite, just because I liked the coloring and the shape on one of them better than the other. Like they keep telling us - it's all in the mind.)

On the other hand, I haven't told you much about the devotees, or the ashram itself. To begin with, most of the ashram life is outdoors. We do have a main hall, where the morning and evening chants go on (but the windows leak when it rains), and we do actually get to sleep indoors, which is nice.

But morning and evening, we sit on the floor in The Great Outdoors (there is a roof, but no walls), and - yes - eat with our hands. When it rains, we move closer to the (single) wall, but there isn't any space indoors for eating purposes. There are three dormitory buildings, each with three or four rooms, and two of them even have bathrooms and SHOWERS that have WATER HEATERS (isn't that a luxury?) All of the doors, to the rooms or office, and some of the toilets, open straight out to the Great Outdoors, so you want to be careful when it rains.

The ashram comes complete with its own live-in devotee, a woman who looks like she's about two hundred years old, who was here (devoted to some other swami) when the Sivananda organization bought the place. And speaking of devotees and other assorted folk of spirit, this would be a good time to mention the saddhus along the road. Every time you go out to the main road (which leads all the way up to the glacier that is the source of the Ganges) - you see them, men wearing an orange rag wrapped around their hips, maybe another one draped over their shoulders, their beards and hair usually grown very long - but you can't see that because it's all tangled up in dread-locks around their heads, which they have wrapped in another orange rag. (Orange is the color of fire, which symbolizes burning all desire, which goes along with renunciation.) They go trudging along the road, either in sandals or barefoot, carrying everything they own, which is usually a little bundle consisting of a thin blanket and a few other rags, the occasional walking stick, and a small aluminum pail with a lid, which they use to beg for food. They walk for miles and miles, eat what they can where-ever they can find it, and plop down where-ever they happen to be, come night-fall. Our ashram gives them a meal when they show up here, and lets them sleep on the veranda where we eat. In the morning, they roll up their blankets, wash their face in the holy Ganga, and leave, trudging on to their next stop. Some of them are young, but most of them are old men, very likely men who once had a family and/or a job and a home, and renounced it all for the spiritual life, which is a very honored custom in India. The word "saddhu" comes from "sadhana", which means spiritual practice, and these guys (some of them, at least) are not just bumming around, they are devoting the remainder of their lives to spiritual practice (however they understand that to be), hoping to achieve god-realization in this life-time, or at least come closer to it.

As for us less devoted, more grounded folk (by comparison, of course) - we confine our spiritual practice to staying in one place and getting up at the crack of dawn to meditate, chant, and practice hatha yoga before even sniffing breakfast. After breakfast (which is also lunch, so there's a good chance I will have lost a few kilos next time anybody sees me) - the guests get to clean up the ashram while I get to sit in the office answering telephone calls or going into town to get the ashram e-mail (a Herculean effort in it's own).

It's eight long, hot (or wet, depending on the monsoon) kilometers to the nearest internet cafe (which explains why you haven't been hearing from me). The town of Uttar Kashi is just a little larger, but not quite as geared to western tourists as Bodhgaya was.

So there are only two (that's right - 2, one plus one) internet cafes here. And one of them has such a slow connection, that it takes half an hour for it to tell you that it cannot access the "Yahoo!" mail site. The other one is just a little better, but both have the same number of power cuts, in which everything and anything you wrote just goes down the tubes.

All this is assuming you get to Uttar Kashi at all, which isn't guaranteed, considering the traffic around here. The jeeps and busses (one per hour) that fly by don't usually stop, because they are full by the time they reach our part of the road. The jeeps, which are built for ten passengers, don't even start their engines before there are fourteen or fifteen people inside, sitting on each other's laps. And then you're crammed between somebody's 30-liter milk can and somebody else's goat (I counted no less than six goats coming off of the bus one day, and you couldn't see more than two or three when we were moving, because they were crammed under the seats - no room in the aisles, because of all the people).

Speaking of the monsoon, we've had a few such experiences since I've been here, and I now understand what the difference is between monsoon and just plain rain. Monsoon is simply a shortened version of Noah's flood. It takes about 30 seconds for the lawn outside my room to become totally flooded (and believe me - there is no drainage problem there, it all goes straight into the Ganga), and people cannot go out into it, unless they can swim standing up. On the other hand, it is perfect for cooling the air down to a temperature that I like, so who's complaining?

In the afternoon, we get another round of hatha yoga (which yours truly usually leads, practicing my teaching skills), then dinner, then more meditation and chanting. Besides answering phone calls, teaching and practicing yoga, and fiddling around in the meditation hall (set the cushions out for sitting on, and then gather them back up after we're done), I do whatever is necessary whenever it is necessary – checking guests in and out, handing out and taking back mattresses and bedsheets, and general all-around stuff. It's basically a very simple life, and very much based on routine. The only problem I have with it is the chanting, which is supposed to develop the devotional side of the spirit, and only succeeds in developing tiredness in me. I seem to be devoid in devotion, and I don't think that chanting is going to change that. But for a limited period of time, it's fine, considering the benefits I'm getting from living here.

So now, you know how things are here, in spiritual India (as opposed to hot India, where people are dying from the heat, or various other sides of this huge country, where the only guarantee you have is that – no matter what you think is going to happen, you will probably be surprised).

As you can see, I wrote this when I was still there, but it's still the same, and it was still great, even though I escaped from the chanting.