'MALA - A String of Unexpected Meetings'
An account of an inspirational visit to Rishikesh, India in 2000
by
Paul Mason
© Paul Mason 2004, 2006

shortcuts to all chapters > [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11]<

Chapter One

Gods, gurus and Bollywood film idols gaze down from paper posters hanging above the market-place. Decorated with brightly coloured bunting and shimmering tinsel, the streets, shops and stalls of Rishikesh throngs with shoppers. All over town the crack, report and tremor of fireworks sounds throughout day and night. With only a few days to go before the Hindu New Year, preparation for the celebration of Divali (festival of lights) is in full swing. Interested though I am in participating in the festival, the town is too noisy, dirty and busy for my taste. Lined with every conceivable trade and filled with honking trucks, buses, taxis and swarms of motor-cycle autorickshaws, all belching fumes, Rishikesh is no longer the quiet holy town of old.

With a view to checking out accommodation on the other side of the river, where it is likely to be much quieter, I walk along the long busy road that leads out of town. After about half an hour I take a right turning off the road.

Taking care to avoid eye contact with the beggars who line the route I make my way through the jostling crowds towards a gently swaying narrow pedestrian suspension bridge, spanning the clear rippling glacial waters of the River Ganges. The recently-built bridge provides a ready link to the riverside village of Swargashram, a picturesque community crammed with temples and ashrams, lying at the base of rolling tree-lined hills. Nowadays frequented by tourists and truth-seekers alike, the village of Swargashram has long been associated with the lives of saints and sages. Faithful pilgrims flock here on their way to the various temples and shrines in the Garhwal Hills - the 'Land of the gods'. Various religious institutions offer overnight lodging and it is easy enough to find cheap accommodation in an ashram, such as Ved Niketan, a pretty russet-pink, white and yellow building sited on the bank of the Ganga river. Over the years this facility has given shelter to many, but as the donations flow in, the buildings expand and visitors are forced to abide by a rigid code of conduct.

• Residents must take a decision to adopt virtue and give up vice.
• Here it is compulsory to get up at 4am and do some meditation and regular exercise after cleaning the body.
• It is a must for all inmates to attend the prayer meetings held from 6am in summer and from 7am in winter.
• Use of onions, garlic, meat, fish, eggs, liquor, hashish, bhang, biris & cigarettes etc. is strictly prohibited.
• Playing cards, chess, chowser, radio and unsocial activities, political discussions, cutting jokes, undesirable gestures, reading dirty novels - Strictly Prohibited.

Though I would probably receive welcome at the ashram, the wish to avoid potential conflicts is strong enough reason to consider finding somewhere less proscriptive. An unexpected cash gift given to me before I left for India, from a friend hoping to make sure I got 'comfortable' accommodation, clinches my decision to look elsewhere. Though there was once a time when rooms in the religious institutions were all that was available to visitors here, nowadays several enterprising businessmen have now moved into the area and set up guest houses and hotels for those wishing for something more than a simple monastic cell. Since I want to lie on something softer than a concrete shelf and have no desire at all to wake at four in the morning, I am ready to discover and sample the delights of easy living, Indian style.

Having located a suitable hotel, in the midst of Swargashram village - clean, attractively painted and modestly priced, a facility with good views of the Himalayan foothills - I chance on a group of guests seated at the rooftop restaurant, one of whom thinks to warn me of a potential downside to the place: -

'Although the rooms are nice enough I guess, it is most definitely not quiet here. There are children shouting all the time outside. Just thought you might like to know. Huh?'

'Mmmm. Thanks. Perhaps I'll look at some other places before deciding.'

One only has to follow the local signs throughout Swargashram village to locate some of the competing hotels, such as the Green, the Rama, Hotel Rajdeep and the Sudesh Guest House. Fortuitously, as I search the right one, an opportunity to glean more information on their relative merits is afforded by another chance encounter with a fellow traveller, a young Australian woman. Before we part I recount the warning I have so recently been given about the other hotel. Fixing me with a steady gaze she responds breezily: -

'Well, if the noise bothers you here, then come to my room and I'll teach you how to meditate!'

I smile. She makes a valid point. One should find peace within oneself.

*

The following day, with rucksack loosely hung over my shoulder I set about hailing an autorickshaw heading northwards, out of Rishikesh.

'Ram Jhula?' queries the driver of a black and yellow phat-phat.

'Yes, Han Ji, I go Ram Jhula then to Swargashram.'

Wedging myself into the cramped cabin of the three-wheeler, my bag between my knees, I nod a greeting to my fellow passengers.

'Namaste,' greets a man with red tilak on his forehead.

'Namaste Ji,' I respond.

'Where you are coming?' he asks.

'England.'

'Oh good, good. You are liking India?'

'Yes, it is friendly here. More friendly than England.'

'Good, good. You want sigrat? No?' he offers cupping his hand round a lighted match and blowing a plume of cigarette smoke from the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly the vehicle lurches forward, making me grab and grip tight the tubular steel roof support. We head off along the busy street, the driver feverishly sounding his horn as he overtakes rival motor-rickshaws, slowing only to take fresh passengers aboard. We speed along past the fuel pumps and old temples of Muni-ki-Reti, and past the various spiritual missions that abound here, such as Yoga Niketan and Omkarananda Ashram, we swiftly arrive at the riverside drop-off point near to Sivanand Ashram where the phat-phat brakes for me to clamber out. As the driver drops the rupee coins into the pocket of his torn grubby shirt he smiles a flash of his stained, yellow, gapped-teeth and begins wildly accelerating again.

On this occasion I do not cross by the footbridge but decide instead to take a journey across the river by ferryboat. Having purchased a ticket, I lower myself down to wait on the steps for the ferry where I sit alongside some Indian pilgrims and look across the gently flowing waters to the waterside ashrams and the gentle hills beyond. A few minutes of soaking up the gentle sights and sounds around me cures my impatience to be on the move.

Nestled close to the jungle behind Swargashram village I find a hotel that is very well positioned, with a flat roof commanding a wonderful view of the surrounding wooded Sivalik hills, providing me with a vantage point from which to observe the everyday domestic life of the local villagers. Atop of their simple dwellings can be seen haystacks, food for their animals, and here and there growing between the homesteads, fruit trees of mango, guava, fig and banana.

The hotel manager, a friendly well-mannered bespectacled old gentleman with the bearing of one whom has probably seen a certain amount of military service, greets me.

'Yes sir, you want luxury room?' he asks with an inquiring frown which causes his thick-rimmed spectacles to rise up on his nose.

'Please show me,' I suggest.

In addition to providing standard accommodation (with optional bucket of hot water), the hotel also offers luxury rooms with deep pile green carpets, comfy upholstered armchairs, balcony and ensuite toilet facilities complete with hot and cold running water and shower.

'How long you are staying sir?' he inquires.

'I will be in India for several weeks more.'

'You are using air-conditioning?'

'No, I don't need it.'

'Then I can give you very good rate.'

'But can I use the fan?'

'Of course!'

I take to this man easily, not least because he allows a substantial reduction on the room rate.

'You are paying for how many days sir?' he asks.

'Initially, I will pay you for ten days.

'This is good. You have passport? I see? If you will wait a few minutes everything will be completed.'

As I wait I cast my eyes about the hotel foyer scanning the advertisements stuck to the walls and windows which inform of a selection of classes and activities available locally.

With the visitors register duly completed and signed, my passport returned along with a receipt for prepaid rent, I am now free to take up residence. The manager, Chaturvedi Ji, accompanies me to my room. His name, he explains, indicates that he comes from a line of Vedic pandits, scholars who commit ancient religious texts to memory. Abashed he admits he does not carry on the tradition. But he is nonetheless a man of words with a great love of literature, a passion he wishes to share. Leaving me to empty the contents of my small rucksack, he scurries off and soon returns with a quantity of books clutched to his chest. Somewhat insistently he sets about persuading me to read a bulky fantasy novel which he eagerly thrusts at me.

'I would like to know what you think of this. Myself I found it very interesting,' he booms.

'Okay, but have you any books on Indian philosophy?' I ask, noticing that he has brought me no books relating to Hindu thought.

'Don't worry for those,' he responds gruffly, 'This book here is very good, very much imagination. You very much will like.'

'I can't promise to read it all, but I'll give it a go.' I assure him.

*

After finding suitable places for the few possessions I carry, I settle down on the bed, prop myself up on two cotton-filled pillows and take another look at the books. I begin to thumb through the novel. It tells a fantasy tale of an innocent in possession of a magical stone who becomes caught up in the machinations of a series of sorceress queens. Though it is well written and reasonably absorbing I lay down the book after only several chapters, a trifle perplexed that after coming all this way to India I have been persuaded to spend my time exploring a Western author's over-ripe imagination.

I decide to venture out, to take a walk in the shaded jungle reaches closeby. The day has become very hot and is somewhat humid too, so I make sure I take a supply of fruit juice, defence against dehydration. At first I am apprehensive about exploring the thickly wooded hills alone, most especially in light of the fact I carry all my travel documents and money around my neck. Clearly, the thin white cotton high collared shirt I wear does little to conceal the bulging pouch. I feel certain that the loss of this object would usher the most unsettling of consequences. But I continue my walk, drinking in the sights of dappled leaves and smelling the scents of late blossoms. Occasionally a hand-painted sign catches my attention and I stop to interpret its meaning. On and off, over the years since first visiting India, I have tried to tutor myself in the Hindi language which at least means I can read its' alphabet, affording me the chance to sound unfamiliar words in my head. I notice that many of the signs point to Neelkanth Mahadev Mandir, a temple many miles up high in the hills, a climb I plan to take soon. For now I content myself just strolling relaxedly. It is so good to be away from the incessant commotion that has surrounded me these last few days.

Though in my heart I never left, it has been some years since I visited India last. Notwithstanding, I have been totally unprepared for the intensity of India's continued power over me to shock and strip me of my self-assuredness. The bus ride from the airport into the centre of Delhi can best be described as an act of faith for there was simply far too much chaos going on, both inside the bus and outside. I discovered that chaos is what I most fear, and on my arrival in India, it seemed that everyone and everything turned this power to perplex me. Admittedly, I expected a bit of hassle on my arrival, but not the total all-pervasive pressure I had to endure. It made me seriously re-evaluate my decision to take a break in India. But now, away from the mayhem, I am feeling far more relaxed.

Wafting through the jungle, accompanied by the sounds of caw-cawing busy black crows and the twitter and trill of exotic birdlife, I catch occasional glimpses of gentle black-faced langur monkeys playing with their young in the branches that overhang the dusty track. At length a large archway comes into view and to the left of it a path leading to the temple of Bhutnath Mandir and the grounds of a grand bright pink and white multi-storied structure, Kailashanand Nature Cure Centre, someway high up the hill. I am tempted to take a closer look but since it means climbing a long steep path, I figure it can wait until another day.

I decide instead to take the easier route towards Dhyan Vidya Peeth (Academy of Meditation) occasionally passing horned cows and oxen that roaming freely throughout the jungle tracks. I recall it was here, back in the spring of 1968, that many of the world's media descended here in pursuit of The Beatles whose taxis had lumbered along this very track after bumping, grinding and honking their way from Delhi to visit the ashram of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

A journalist asked the 'giggling guru': -

'Some people think of you as a saint, what is it that you preach?'

'I teach a simple system of Transcendental Meditation which gives the people the insight into life and they begin to enjoy all peace and happiness. And because this has been the message of all the saints in the past they call me saint.'

'You seem to also have caught the imagination of the pop stars?'

'You mean The Beatles,' he giggled. 'I found them very intelligent, and young men of very great potential in life.'

The Beatles along with their entourage and a few other celebrities joined the dozens of long-term meditators wishing to become teachers of meditation. The course ran for many weeks with all participants attending lectures, putting in extended periods of meditation, eating in the communal canteen and enjoying impromptu concerts from the resident artistes and visiting Indian musicians. Also to the ashram came neighbours, amongst them Tat Wala Baba, a local dreadlocked holyman of some renown. Although appearing to be only in his forties it is alleged he was even then at least one hundred years old! 'Yoga Guru Sri Tat Wale Baba' website www.yogiphotos.com

I read the hand-painted metal sign nailed at the beginning of a tree-lined path, which informs that the building beyond is 'Maharshi Kutir'. But this is no mere hut or cottage, as the name suggests, but an impressive looking residence built for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi himself to live in. I knock at the door but unsurprisingly there is no reply. Finding that the basement meditation room is also locked I move across the pillared terrace to survey and walk out and on to the abandoned lawned garden passing the disused water features and studying the varieties of shrubs and mature trees there. At the brow of the hill, just beyond the bungalow, I sit and take some shade beneath the trees, enjoying the truly breathtaking view out across the river Ganga.

Of a sudden I realise I am not alone.

A tall well-built unshaven Indian, dressed in white high-collared kurta shirt and loose white pyjama trousers walks towards me. He stands peering at me quizzically. Self-consciously I volunteer a vague explanation: -

'Hi, I'm just taking a look about.'

'I am staying below, I come to walk also.' he pants breathlessly, beads of perspiration dripping from his forehead, 'What your country is?'

'England.'

'You are liking India?'

'Here I like, it is very peaceful.'

'Yes. I before here am coming.'

'I wanted to meditate downstairs, in the basement.'

'I think it is locked. I think there is swami staying here.'

'He is with the Maharishi's organisation?'

'No.'

I am intrigued as to who it is who has installed himself here, but beyond that which he has already told me, he can add nothing.

'So, for how long has the ashram been empty?' I ask.

'Two years? Maybe two years? Yes!'

'But why is it empty?'

'It is this... Mahesh Yogi here no longer is interested. He now big place in Europe has.'

'But why leave all the buildings to go to waste?'

'They rent not have paid. So... government is coming in... government everything is closing down. If rent they not pay, what to do?' he exclaims.

'But they must be doing something about it.'

'No, nobody here comes, just they are writing something, maybe.'

'But I'm sure they can afford the rent,' I puzzle.

'You before I am telling, Mahesh Yogi no interest has! No.'

'Oh well, at least we can enjoy the peace here.'

'In Hindi language the peace is shanti, very much shanti you take in India my friend,' he calls cheerily, disappearing down the path.

I linger after his departure in order to sift through a pile of mouldering papers I spot lying in the garden. On closer inspection I find them to be fairly neatly stacked sets of blank forms, printed in Hindi and in English, for use in checking the progress of novice meditators' experiences. Only recently could they have been placed there, else the wind would have blown them far and about, so I am therefore left to puzzle just how and why these documents relating to the teaching of this system of meditation have so unceremoniously been dumped amongst its founder's parched and wilted flowers.

*

Back at the hotel, I set to work attempting the removal of the jungle stains from my shirtfront, which in the event proves to be a greater task than I imagined. I persevere until interrupted by a tapping at the door. It is the henna-haired young woman who tauntingly offered me meditation tuition.

'I'm looking for a woman who left me a message...' she explains distractedly.

'Oh!' I respond, believing further comment unnecessary, as self-evidently I am alone. However, in order to offer excuse for my dishevelled appearance I point out to her that I have only recently returned from roaming in the jungle and that I am trying to remove the stubborn green stains from my clothes. She appears unmoved by my ramblings, though she remains framed by the doorway, her almond shaped eyes staring ahead with fixed expression. Her manner suggests that she is looking at something within my room, but since the broad room is L-shaped, it is impossible for her to see much from where she stands outside the door. I imagine that she is making an extra-sensory sweep to take inventory of my personal space.

'You can come inside if you like,' I offer rather belatedly.

My words signal an end to her contemplation and provide a spur to action.

'I should go and find this woman,' she states thoughtfully, but still she does not move. Then, of a sudden, she whisks away down the corridor leaving me standing momentarily bewildered.

*

On the same floor as my room, to the front of the hotel, lies an open-air terrace area dotted with tables and chairs, where guests can partake of snacks and meals as an alternative to eating at the restaurant below. One evening, after I have been staying at the hotel several days, I feel inspired to sit there awhile and very soon strike up a relationship with a hirsute ginger-haired Canadian chap who sits draped in a brightly coloured poncho, contentedly playing a semi-acoustic guitar. Occasionally he stops to mark down the notes he is strumming. He confides to me that he is pursuing an interest in music therapy.

'I have a very similar guitar back home, an Indian acoustic, cello-style,' I comment.

'Right.'

'But your guitar's got a much sweeter tone to it.'

'Oh! Right. Yeh.'

'I prefer to play electric though, I like to make a noise.'

'R-i-g-h-t!'

Happily absorbed in the flow of his thoughts and music, he appears to have but meagre appetite for conversation. Though he speaks very little he is nonetheless enjoyable company. Even so, when I notice at a table closeby, the still seated shape of the mystery lady gazing out into the evening sky, I sidle over to join her. We have encountered one another several times over the last few days as I've scuttled back and forth to the shops and taken walks in the warm sunlight. This seems a good opportunity to get better acquainted and I start to tell her of a recent trip I have taken to a temple in the hills, Neelkanth Mahadev Mandir, a temple dedicated to the god Shiva.

'On the way up there,' I tell her, 'I saw a group of about fifty langur monkeys lunching from one banana tree.'

'Huh.'

'Lord Shiva is something of a local lad,' I continue, 'Apparently it was at Neelkanth that he drank the poison that turned his neck blue, hence neel - blue, kanth - throat.'

'Oh I haven't heard of it before. Is it close?'

'No, it's quite a long climb, but you can get a shared jeep which is reasonably cheap. Neelkanth temple is very beautiful, though initially I passed by on a different path and found myself at a different temple further up the hill which is where I got this,' I explain, pointing to the red cotton bracelet on my right wrist, 'It's supposed to protect my health.'

As I talk I study the expression on her face; she appears to be totally self-absorbed. From her countenance an almost preternatural light radiates from her eyes and from her skin. I imagine I sense shifts of colour about her face and hair (a trick of the light perhaps). She tells that though she has been living for about twelve years in India, she has never before visited Rishikesh. Apparently, until recently she has been living in Manali whereupon she felt drawn to journey to nearby Dharmasala, the seat of the Dalai Lama, the exiled Tibetan Buddhist spiritual leader. However instead of going to Dharmasala, she travelled some several hundred miles in the opposite direction, finding herself in Rishikesh.

I listen to her in disbelief as her explanation makes it sound as though she took no active part in making the journey, but I make no comment. She then goes on to explain how since arriving two weeks before she has been teaching various spiritual practices.

'Nirmoha is my sannyasi name. nirmoha means, "free from illusion",' she informs me.

I convince myself she is probably connected to the community in Puna founded by the late Bhagwan Rajneesh.

The coloured light display about her brow continues to dance as she speaks of many things, in particular the importance of imagination. This prompts me to mention the magical fantasy book the hotel manager has lent me. I give her a rough outline of its content, highlighting its inclusion of a sorceress and a magic stone.

'Why waste time on someone else's imagination when you can have your own?' she asks contemptuously.

'Well, as it happens, I have a problem with imagination, personally I much prefer to deal with reality.'

'But imagination is everything,' she continues, 'Everything is in our imagination.'

I let the matter drop. I am curious that she has said nothing in response to the mention of magic, for I suspect this is where her real interest lies. I notice that she gently steers the conversation onto the subject of Reiki, a practice I am unfamiliar with and which I initially believe to be yet another revived martial art with a zippy name. I respond by asking her directly: -

'Why should I get interested in some Japanese sounding thing then?'

My display of crude ignorance and its attendant attitude apparently surprises her. In consequence she appears to buckle for a few moments but soon bounces back.

'Ian can tell you about it,' she says pointing across the terrace to my new-found guitar-playing friend, 'He has just completed a course with me. Let him explain Reiki to you.'

Nirmoha rises to leave.

I rejoin Ian where, interspersed with further bouts of his guitar playing, we discuss the various reasons we have both have come to Rishikesh. I confess that though I have no clear reason beyond wishing to relax, I entertain vague hopes that I might meet and network with inspiring people. I share my perception with him that I believe it possible that just a dozen or so individuals networking can trigger huge social changes. He listens patiently, interestedly.

When the subject changes to Reiki, Ian willingly offers to share with me something of that which he has learnt on the course. He describes a process involving the laying on of hands.

'But how can anybody possibly heal someone merely by touch?' I query.

'One can become a conduit or channel for the Universal Life Force,' he explains, but the words flow from him in such a way that I doubt that they are his words. Indeed, to my ear the ideas sound suspiciously pre-digested and despite Ian's best efforts he can offer no scientific explanation to support his claim. I am left with the impression I am being told of magical practices and when I put this to him he appears unsettled as he reflects on the implications of this assertion.

We talk long into the night and as the hours pass the warm air turns chill. Ian fights the symptoms of a head cold and wraps himself tightly in his poncho. I slip downstairs to order more tea. In the foyer I find Chaturvedi and Ashwin, the boss, watching cable colour television, but at my appearance the TV is turned off and they set themselves instead to draw me into philosophical discussion.

'Come, let us talk,' invites Chaturvedi Ji.

'This is my father,' Ashwin tells me, placing his arm affectionately around Chaturvedi's shoulders.

'You are very lucky,' I tell him.

'Yes, but why you say that?'

'He is good man.'

'But, how do you know this?'

'Sometimes just feeling is enough. I sense he is good.'

'But you don't know!'

'Yes, I do, I trust him, that I know.'

'Why do you come to Rishikesh? What is it that attracts?'

'It is spiritual place. It's good to be back.'

'Before you have come?' Ashwin enquires.

'Yes, years ago I hitchhiked to India through Europe, North Africa, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan. But coming to Swargashram, it was so peaceful.'

'Now it is very different?'

'It was less busy. But it is still good. I feel I have come home again,' I admit, sighing contentedly.

Ashwin eyes me in silence for several moments before announcing:

'I am business man, I have many problems.'

'Then you should listen to your father, he is in business but also he is interested in spiritual matters.'

'But I have too many problems, how can he help me?'

'Because he is not so caught in problems.'

When Ian makes a brief appearance to say 'good night' I am tempted to make my exit too. But it is much later, about two o'clock in the morning, before I prise myself away from a great debate and return to my room. I reflect a little on my chat with Ian, remembering how he had, by way of explanation of Reiki energy, taken hold of his thigh between thumb and first finger and then described the sensation of the flow within. I feel inspired to test his description and so begin emulating his actions. The experiment proves a resounding success, for I begin soon to detect the flow of energy, it is just as Ian describes it!

He then sings them to me with clear and sonorous voice: -

' gaaMgaa tara~Nga ramaNiiya jaTaakalaapaM,

gaurii nirantara vibhushhita vaamabhaagam .

naaraayaNapriyamana~NgamadaapahaaraM ,

vaaraaNasiipurapatiM bhajavishvanaatham .'

Translated, I believe this 'mantra' tells of: -

'The one whose matted hair resembles the beautiful waves of the river Ganga,

Is eternally adorned with Gauri (the goddess Parvati) on the left part of his body.

The one dear to Narayana (god Vishnu), the one who punished the ego of Madana (the god of love),

Lord of Varanasi, Lord of the Universe, I sing of you.'

We sit chatting a while longer, during which time I share with him some of the dried mango fruit I carry with me. We continue talking awhile longer, until I realise we have attracted a crowd of spectators. Shiva Balak loudly and very publicly announces to the onlookers his assertion that he and I are 'guru brothers'. It is time to move on and I start to inch my way up the steps. Ignoring Shiv Balak's protests I take my leave, delaying only to leave him a small cash gift, a contribution towards the cost of his beloved Sanskrit books.

Alone again, I pursue the sandy path that twists round and winds it's way to the next village, which lies a couple of miles upstream. First it hugs the banks of the holy river, then meanders past the dwellings of various local holymen. Here live monks, swamis belonging to religious orders such as Giri (mountain), Aranya (forest) and Saraswati (goddess of Wisdom) who have taken sannyas (vows of non-attachment to possessions, chastity and obedience to the head of a religious order). It is said that swamis generally avoid sensory indulgence, but this is not true of all holymen. For many sadhus the smoking of ganja (cannabis) is common practice. Confusingly, both swamis and sadhus both tend to wear the cloth of orange to mark them apart from the rest of the community. It is usually easy to spot the resting-place of a holyman for there is most often found to be hanging from a tree or fence, pieces of orange cloth hung to dry. The colour can range from washed-out faded pink through any shade of ochre to highly saturated near-red hues.

In one of the huts I pass lives the 'monkey man' who now, as luck would have it, walks directly towards me. His arms are stained with coloured dyes, his face is daubed with crimson face make-up, whilst following behind him swings the appendage of a fake tail. It is to be assumed that he seeks to evoke the memory of Hanuman, the devoted monkey helper of Lord Rama, who for many devout Hindus is seen to embody the twin virtues of humility and service. For me though, the theatrical monkey man blocking my path symbolises no such qualities. as he demands my attention by hissing menacingly at me and by waving his mace. Placing a fingertip of orange paste on my forehead he then greedily demands a large amount of money with hisses becoming steadily more intense until we strike a deal.

'Hari Ram,' he growls.

The path from Swargashram eventually joins the pilgrims' roadway to Lakshman Jhula. The jhula (bridge) is linked with the god-king Lord Rama of Ramayana fame who allegedly came to Rishikesh with his brother Lakshmana. Apparently, when Rama desired to cross the river, Lakshmana shot an arrow attached to a hank of rope on which the brothers are alleged to have crossed over the waters. Lakshmana's 'bridge' is therefore believed to be a very early predecessor of the modern steel construction that exists here now. This story of the god-man Rama is not the only local story of note, of it is also believed the area is connected with the Pandava brothers, heroes of the epic poem Mahabharata who are said to have stayed in a cave a little further upstream.

Lakshman Jhula village, like so many places these days, is expanding at an alarming rate, with hotels, ashrams and temples competing for any available building space. Every day crowds of pilgrims flock here enroute to the shrines of Badrinath, Kedarnath, Gangotri and Yamunotri high in the Himalayas. Their needs are anticipated by businesses selling cassettes of devotional music - pictures, statues and pendants of saints and gods - incense and coloured powders for making paste marks on the brow. Moneychangers, gem shops, grocery stores, cafes and restaurants position themselves adjacent to the most popular ashrams. Every few yards along the way are stalls selling chaay (tea which is boiled rather than brewed) and snacks. Other stalls offer cheap gifts of bangles, badges, necklaces and combs. On closer inspection, one of the well-crafted wooden souvenirs reveals a hidden surprise, a box with a concealed snake that bites my unsuspecting finger. The snake may not be real, but the pain is real enough!

Having no reason to delay longer than necessary at Lakshman Jhula, I do not even stop for chaay but decide instead to return and look for a remedy for the persistent cough I have brought with me from England. Once back in Swargashram I buy a return ticket for the ferryboat and cruise across the broad Ganga with the intention of visiting the Shivanand Ashram. Near the ashram the Ayurvedic Dispensary sells many preparations made from local herbs, products such as Brahmi-Amla oil which 'cools the brain and eyes', Netra Jyoti Surma which 'imparts brilliance to the eyes', whilst Chyavanaprash 'develops memory and strength'.

But as soon as I arrive I am accosted by a stranger who after but a few minutes of company announces: -

'I will come and visit you at your home in England. I know this. You may be surprised at my certainty, but that is how it is.'

He appears to be Indian but his accent is most definitely European, or at least it appears so when he speaks to me, but when he stops at a stall nearby, to buy a padlock, his fluent Hindi, spoken with North Indian dialect, tells a different story. He informs me his name is Giri Maharaj, that he has travelled with his wife from Finland (where he officiates at ceremonies) and that his brother is a famous local writer. Giri is currently occupied in researching the availability of holiday property around Rishikesh. I listen without making comment for something troubles me about him. His manner is just way too intense. However, after listening to him a while longer, I feel moved to share with him the news of my new name. I begin my story: -

'For years I have wanted an Indian name, why only last night I thought about it and lo and behold, this morning a swami gave me ....'

'You want Indian name,' he interrupts. 'I give you one. Mmmmm, yes, I've got it ... Atmaram. Your Indian name is Atmaram.'

'But, I was just trying to tell you. I now have an Indian name - Premanand.'

'Oh yes, Premanand, yes yes. Means the same. Premanand, Atmaram, means the same thing, same thing,' he states dismissively.

I try to extricate myself from his company on the pretext that I wish to return on the next ferry.

'You know something strange,' he confides, moving uncomfortably close to me. 'Even though I come from this very area and many times I have come and gone over this river, I have never once travelled by ferry.'

Since the bridge has been up for no more than twenty-four years and Giri is middle-aged, I am minded that this leaves a sizeable hole in his story. Aboard the ferry I opt to keep conversation to the minimum and once safely across to 'my' side of the river, I bid him goodbye. We are at this moment close to one of the village's two music shops whereat whereupon he excitedly points to a boxed set of tape recordings of Osho Rajneesh there displayed.

'Now there's a man worth listening to,' he asserts.

I eye Giri with renewed interest, sensing him now trying to draw me closer, possibly with the intent of drafting me into his belief system.

I know something of Osho and his teachings. It is said he even has a local connection, for it is rumoured he dropped in on one of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's teacher training courses. In 'Anything Can Be A Meditation', Osho offers his opinion that 'meditation is all about de-automization'.

'Walking, walk slowly, watchfully. Looking, look watchfully, and you will see trees are greener than they have ever been and roses are rosier than they have ever been. Listen! Somebody is talking, gossiping: listen, listen attentively. When you are talking, talk attentively. Let your whole waking activity become de-automatized.'

I leave Giri there still pointing, and, as I have by now decided to leave the purchase of cough mixture until another day, I walk on back to the hotel.

*

The winter climate in India during October and November generally outstrips even the best of English summers, which is reason enough to take every chance to get out and about in the hot sunshine during the day. Even in the evening it is still very warm and I find it is most pleasant to read, write and relax out on the hotel terrace. The cultural diversity amongst the guests makes stimulating conversation easy and often fruitful. Travellers tell tales, exchange news and express views. Why, even talking about the weather takes on surprising depth when seated with a French meteorologist. Several guests have lately joined a hatha yoga class; they practice on the flat roof of the building next door. In the evening they slump down exhausted from their efforts to perform their asanas correctly. Tonight it is Sadie's turn to collapse sweating and tired. She has clearly been overdoing it.

'In Hindi asan means easy,' I point out, 'If the asanas aren't easy, then perhaps they should be. Why not take it easy?'

I intend my remarks to be helpful, supportive. Fortunately she does not misinterpret them.

'That's just what I needed to hear!' she says brightening considerably. 'Thanks.'

She sits puffing and panting before speaking again.

'If you don't mind, I think I'll go and lie down for a while,' she says.

'Good idea. See you around.'

I continue to sit and write some notes. This evening I find myself again in the company of both Ian and Nirmoha. The news of my 'sannyas' name causes Nirmoha to chant: -

'Premanand, Premanand, Premanand. Now you must call yourself Premanand. Yes. Premanand, Premanand, Premanand,' she enthuses. 'Actually,' she adds quietly, 'Prem is my name too - Prem Nirmoha.'

As with our previous meeting we fall into easy conversation and as before the colours again dance around her hair and brow. Try as I might I cannot find an explanation for the colour shifts, but since she seems such a positive individual I do not feel threatened by her personal magic. However, when conversation returns to the subject of Reiki, which she is still is loathe to explain, she surprises me greatly as she announces in a self-assured almost prophetic way: -

'Maybe you stay here and teach Reiki?'

I am amazed at her presumptuousness, for not only have I no inkling of what the teaching of Reiki entails, but, more importantly I have no intention whatsoever of staying in India beyond the few weeks scheduled. Before I have time to summon an adequate response, she has risen from her seat and slipped away, leaving me alone to contemplate her words, the starry sky and the sound of night birds.

Once again I join Ian, who listens attentively as I tell him of my conversation with his Reiki teacher.

'She's a very powerful woman,' I announce. 'She worries me.'

Ian does not respond immediately.

'With that sort of power... well, I just hope she uses it wisely.'

'I don't know what you mean exactly, but I'm listening,' he says slowly.

I tell him of the colours. I also explain to him that I suspect she is trying to use the power of autosuggestion to influence me. He is astonished to hear that she has suggested I might become a teacher of Reiki, though less surprised that she believes I might stay in India, reminding me I have already indicated I am not entirely satisfied with life back in England.

'But, I never said anything about stopping in India!'

After sitting wrapped in thought for a time he eventually breaks his silence and offers to share a few insights into the course that he has recently taken with Nirmoha.

'Well I'll just tell you what comes to mind. I don't know if any of what I can say will be of any help though. Here goes anyway. First off, she played 'trance' techno-music at the sessions. Oh and in the corner of her room is a shrine with a photograph of Osho and some tarot cards on it.'

'Okay, that's useful.'

'Oh yeh and she's really into semantics.'

I had also noticed how for her certain words have very specific meaning, so much so that I felt discouraged from offering an alternate interpretation.

Ian continues: -

'I also found her 'teacher' manner surprising.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well I really didn't expect it.'

'Tell me more.'

'Well there was this one time when I guess my attention had wandered and she really startled me. I suddenly found her staring at me. It was then that she asked me; "Where are you? Where are you, right now where are you?"' he recounts, apparently still bristling with indignation at the recollection.

'Okay. Anything else?'

'Yes, we were doing this meditation exercise, and there was the sound of a child crying nearby.'

'And..?'

'Well, I figured there might be something wrong. Her indifference to the sound of the kid's suffering unsettled me.'

'But that's meditation, sounds come and go.'

'Yes, but you still care don't you?'

'I know what you're saying.'

'Anyway, that's it, I can't think of anything else.'

'So, what did she make of you Ian?'

'She congratulated me on being a 'good listener'.'

I recall that in the fantasy novel I have been reading, the central character 'Listener' becomes similarly worried about the issue of unemotionalism.

As Ian and I chat deep into the night we turn our attention to topics such as Ian's music therapy studies and his nostalgic affection for his drinking buddies in Canada. He also brings me up-to-speed with his travel plans, announcing that he has booked a ticket on tomorrow's train for Varanasi. All at once, impressions of my recent journey to Rishikesh spill into my mind.

*

Delhi is no longer just a bit too busy and materialistic; it has developed an ominous energy. The numerous craters in the road, the many grimy neglected buildings and ruins seem to scream of impending doom and certain annihilation of living, breathing life - pollution is not a mere concept here, it assaults the senses so completely, swathing all in a blanket of noxious vileness. The vehicles seem unroadworthy. No driver seems in control, despite their determined expressions and the manic glints to their stares, they drive about in mad frenzied animation. The desire to curtail my visit abruptly asserts itself very forcefully, but common sense tells me the airline will not change my ticket at such short notice since they only undertake one flight a week. No, the second best idea I am able to extract from my embattled thinking process is to press on in the hope that things will be better beyond the city. The 'luxury non-video coach' (seemingly cobbled together from scrap parts and air-conditioned only by the open windows and passenger door), takes more than an hour to leave behind the sprawl of poverty that extends around the capital. Thereafter I glimpse trees, occasional fields and, intermittently, small rural villages with thatched huts, cattle, and cow-dung pancakes piled high in conical heaps ready for use as domestic fuel. There are many towns too, where, as the coach slows down, children desperately climb aboard to sell their wares of fruits, nuts and sweetmeats, some just pass goods through the windows to those that proffer the few rupees called for.

*

I envy Ian not the three-day journey ahead of him, even though his forthcoming trip, by train and buses will eventually take him to the famed hippy Mecca of Kathmandu. Before he leaves, Ian writes for me his e-mail address, and also his 'proper' address in Canada. We vow to stay in contact, as so many travellers, touching briefly on one another's lives, so often vow to do.

After a moments hesitation outside the window of one of the village bookshops stacked high displaying a vast wealth of spiritual literature, I step in and test my luck. Only recently have I come by a clue as to the possible title of a treatise I have been in search of, containing no less than 112 techniques for transcending thought, of turning off the thinking mind.

'Do you have a Tantric book called Shiva Sutra?' I ask hopefully.

'What you are wanting? Many sutras there are!'

'It is called something like Vaighan Bhyghan Tantra.'

'You want Tantra book?'

'Yes, the Vaighan Bhyghan Tantra of Lord Shiva.'

The assistant smiles deeply, strides over to a bookcase and plucks out a thin red paperback which he holds up for me to see. Its cover is illustrated back and front with beautiful coloured prints depicting Lord Shiva and his consort.

'Vijnanabhairava,' he announces.

With barely suppressed anticipation I open the volume and glance at the subtitle - 'Divine Consciousness - A Treasury of 112 Types of Yoga'.

'Yes! This is the book I want. Brilliant!'

I purchase it immediately and once outside the shop cannot restrain myself from sampling its contents. Soon my mind is swimming with the suggested practices considered as 'yoga' which can be illustrated by a quote from the book, Verse 72 reads: -

'When one experiences the expansion of joy to savour arising from the pleasure of eating and drinking, one should meditate on the perfect condition of this joy, then there will be supreme delight.'

I suppose wandering can be a yoga too, taking life as it comes, witnessing the day unfold. Here, in this environment charged with the aspirations of so many truth seekers, treading the paths trodden by saints, sitting on sand possibly touched by enlightened yogis, it is easy to allow time to float out of mind and just enjoy the now. I pass a statue depicting the Hindu story of creation, with gods and semi-divines. The god Vishnu's consort goddess Lakshmi attends him as he reclines on a huge multi-headed serpent Ananta Shesh. From Lord Vishnu's navel springs the lotus on which is seated the god Brahma, looking out to all four directions. Facing Lord Vishnu, with palms placed together, stands the eagle-like Garuda and also attending are those depicted with the heads of horses, the Gandharvas, divine musicians.

Turning from this splendid statue, I pass on by the local landmark clocktower, the face of which has the hours marked in Hindi numerals. Close to the tower, by a small temple, sit a couple of glazed-eyed young sadhus, ringletted long dark hair tumbling about their faces and over naked torso's. They puff eagerly at their tapered clay chillum pipe of sparking smouldering cannabis.

When, after walking onward for a few minutes, I find myself passing the ashram of Ved Niketan (Palace of Veda or Knowledge), I pause, wondering if I might spot the house-guru basking out front, as is his want. But today he is nowhere to be seen. I continue walking onto the soft sandy path beyond the ashram, past the thatched sunshades of the adjacent eatery and out along the broad beach sloping gently to the river, fairly soon to arrive at the base of the hill of Shankaracharya Nagar. Monkeys are sporting about on a nearby wall and watching them I am caught by the thought of taking another look at the deserted remains of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi ashram, it is such a peaceful spot. I decide this time to seek a more direct path than that taken on my previous visit, but no sooner than I start to walk towards the hill than a voice rings out, challenging me: -

'No, no. You cannot go there,' shouts the agitated voice.

I swing round to identify its owner. I am relieved to find no menacing representative of authority, just an unthreatening figure attired in long khadi (homespun cloth) shirt and lunghi (loose cotton cloth draped about the legs). He stands beside the entrance of a makeshift hut of sticks and tarpaulin. It occurs to me that he might be employed to guard the local vicinity, but I consider it unlikely.

I eye him steadily as I try to take control of my temper.

'I have already been up there to the ashram, now I am looking for a new path,' the steady tone of my voice betrays no indication of my annoyance, I hope.

As it happens, he shows no interest whatsoever in my response but instead invites me to sit down and drink coffee with him. Somewhat grudgingly I accept his offer. He draws out two moulded blue plastic chairs from within his hut.

'What do foreigners get from coming here?' he asks abruptly.

'I don't know,' I state honestly.

Preferring to turn the question around I ask: - 'What do they get?'

Apparently shaken by my response he rises and shuffles about uncomfortably before steadying himself sufficiently to offer his thoughts on the matter.

'I think this. I think that they feel better about themselves after seeing what state are the people here.'

Clearly he had already given the matter his deep consideration, which was much more than I have ever done.

'Maybe they do, I really don't know,' I answer simply.

In silence he disappears inside the hut presumably to prepare coffee. As I sit alone it occurs to me this man might hold a clue to a local mystery. I call out to him: -

'Can you tell me something? Why is the Maharishi's ashram now deserted?' I call.

He emerges ready to offer me his opinion.

'You have attachment there. I do not.'

The utter simplicity of his words surprises me, as does his command of English.

'Yes, I suppose I do have attachment,' I answer honestly, 'But have you ever been up there to the ashram?'

'I have no attachment. I do not go anywhere,' he states.

His manner is unsettling; to say the least, and as I discover that any new line of conversation is met with similarly dismissive responses I change tack and ask him about himself. I fare a lot better with this line of enquiry discovering that he comes from Bangalore and am surprised to learn has been employed as a computer programmer. He also tells me he has travelled to England to visit the birthplace of William Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon. Chatting with him and sipping scalding hot instant coffee from a stainless steel beaker, I begin to feel a little more comfortable in his presence, enough to share with him a few details of my own life. I ask concerning his family whereupon he stiffens very noticeably but does not hesitate in giving an answer: -

'Yes I was married with family. I was sole survivor of crash,' he announces with no evident self-pity.

Not for the first time since arriving in India I am taken completely off my guard. I am stunned by what he has just told me and it is a long while before conversation resumes between us. Rameshwar Das explains how, for the past three years, he has dwelt beneath the spreading Banyan tree, existing solely on unasked gifts given by anyone who might come to see him. He tells me that he walks no further than the waterfront of the Ganga, only in order to wash and obtain water. He tells me also of the conditions inside his living quarters, informing me how snakes sometimes come to share his hut.

'If they bite me I die,' he announces resignedly, shrugging his shoulders.

I wince in discomfort.

'I do not fear them. I think more that they fear me,' he tells me without a trace of emotion in his voice.

Now, if a holyman had spoken these words one would be reasonably impressed, at such apparent non-attachment to the body. Rameshwar's unworldly attitude inspires me to try and discover what teaching, if any, he follows. But the mere mention of swamis and sadhus elicits nothing more than a disdainful look. He goes and rummages amongst his belongings within the hut. Eventually he produces a dusty old book of yoga exercises.

'I think this book is very hard to find now,' he says proudly.

'Thank you for showing it to me,' I say politely

My coffee is finished and I think that we have talked for quite long enough. I ask Rameshwar what he would like me to bring for him if I were to return this way again. He answers evasively: -

'If someone brings me food, I eat. If drink comes, okay. If no food comes then I don't eat.'

'But what do you need?' I persist.

'If there is food I eat. If there is nothing, it is all the same.'

I reflect that during our conversation he made mention of a cassette radio he once owned - it had needed mending and he had given it to someone to take to Rishikesh. When the machine was not returned, even after many weeks, Rameshwar took his few cassette tapes and laid them at the waters edge.

'I offered them to Mother Ganga.'

'Would you like a radio?' I ask him.

'If you bring, fine. If you don't bring, fine too.'

'You're impossible, you really are impossible' I say repeatedly. I am irritated at his apparent pretence at equanimity. I have convinced myself that his philosophy is a sham, perhaps designed to mask his pain. That beyond his words of the philosophy of unattachment lurks plenty of unfulfilled desires. I try further to wheedle out of him some idea of what he might need from me; my questions are well intended. But he maintains a stoic silence, that is until I get up to leave. Hesitantly he confides: -

'Well, it would be nice to have radio here, for company.'

I retrace my steps along the path back to the village and reflect on enigmatic Rameshwar's outlook on life. I ask myself why he has abandoned responsibility for himself by settling himself in such a lonely spot with little chance of anyone knowing of his plight? I wonder what has made him so determined to do nothing to better his lot? The maxim 'God helps those that help themselves,'' seems equally applicable to all. Now, if he were a monk of some kind it might be different, such eccentric behaviour is somehow easier to understand in someone of a reclusive nature.

When later I tell others of Rameshwar's predicament they appear sympathetic, but it is Nirmoha who surprises me in that she apparently finds his story inspiring: -

'He sounds really interesting. When are you going to see him again?'

'I don't know if I will.'

'Oh but you must. It's not far is it? Go on.'

'Maybe. Maybe I'll get the radio for him. Maybe not.'

*

Though I visit Rishikesh market the following day it is not to look for a radio but to change money at the State Bank of India, a process that involves no less than three clerks and a protracted wait. Whilst in town I search for a detailed map of the area. I try a bookshop where I find myself browsing local guidebooks and self-help tutors of every description. One particular teach-yourself book catches my eye. It claims to offer the complete knowledge of Reiki healing including how to become a Reiki Master. Impulsively I purchase it, though I still have no clear idea of what Reiki is about.

On my return from town I chance to meet with Nirmoha outside the Choti Wala restaurant. When I tell her of my purchase she eagerly seizes the volume and begins scanning its pages.

'Oh no, no, no. They have included the symbols,' she exclaims frowning, then stands absorbed in thought before adding, 'They have the symbols wrong, they should not have included them at all. These things should not be placed in books. The teaching of Reiki should only be learned from a qualified Reiki Master not from books.' Then, abruptly she hands me back the offending article. I gather from this that I am being discouraged from reading the book. In order to find out more about Reiki I am being guided to enrol in a class, but, as yet, I still feel unwilling to commit.

*

Interest in people, interest in things, interest in ideas, although absorbing and fascinating, are all, at times, sources of distraction and unrest. In order to feel more fully refreshed it is often necessary to be totally alone.

The countryside remains a place where alone we can confront our hopes and fears. The sights, sounds and smells of nature have the power to restore flagging energy and refresh ones senses. The local jungle around Rishikesh is no longer quite the wilderness it once was, the flow of buses, trucks and jeeps on the newly cut asphalt road is definitely not conducive to the well-being of the animals, but still it contains much wildlife. Though wildcats are rare, deer, monkeys and peacocks are reasonably common and elephants are still sometimes to be found here.

'Sir, I am asking you not to walk on jungle side after eight o'clock,' requests Chaturvedi Ji.

'Why is that?'

'Elephants sometimes coming in darkness. Elephant most dangerous animal,' he warns darkly.

In point of fact, there was a time only a few decades ago when the only serious recorded crime in the area was that by an elephant.

Despite the real and imagined dangers I am determined to turn my back on people, for at least a few hours and so I set off on another trek. However, it is soon very evident that I am not to be completely alone, for along my way, stationed at close intervals are soldiers, set to protect teams competing in a fitness training programme! The unlikely coincidence of the army turning up on the same day as my big walk makes me question my programme. Perhaps I too am in need of protection. Bearing this in mind I do not venture far from the sight of the posted sentries.

An additional lure drawing me towards the leafy jungle groves is the chance that one might meet with a yogi and other hermit who might be dwelling here. For time out of mind truth-seekers have resorted to jungle hermitages to find their answers. Amongst the Indian Scriptures, it is the Upanishads that contain the wisdom of such jungle dwellers. (Upanishad means 'to sit near'). Within these texts are many accounts of those who came in search of enlightenment. The desire to become happier is natural, as is the wish to obtain greater clarity about the purpose of one's life. However, it seems only few find lasting happiness and enlightenment without help.

When I am offered the chance to listen to a recording of satsang (spiritual meeting) with an American woman, said to be enlightened, I gratefully accept the opportunity. I soon find that Ganga Ji, as she is now known, speaks her truth softly, patiently, almost mesmerically, but seemingly with utter conviction.

'The greatest challenge is to let go of all understanding. I'm not suggesting you cling to misunderstanding or not understanding. Let go of that as well,' Ganga Ji advises.

She quotes her guru (whom she calls Papa Ji) as saying: -

'If you touch it, it will bite you.'

As I listen to the tape, I wonder how to interpret these words beyond their most obvious meaning. They appear to be a warning not to underestimate the power of the exterior world to unsettle inner stability.

She states that 'It' is ever-present, 'It' is the reality we all seek to find, and as such ,such, 'It' never was, 'It' never ceases to be, 'It' always 'Is'. By constantly reminding her audience of this, and other truths, she seemingly hopes to affect a material change in their capacity to enjoy their lives. Intent on instilling a mind-set of increased awareness through self-enquiry, she encourages everyone to live in the present and not to become distracted by self-created stories and excuses concerning imagined limitations, brought on by events of the past.

'Honestly, let's say the event happened. It did not happen the way you remember it happening. That's the truth. Actually the event didn't even happen, but I'm not asking you to go that far! And I'm not asking you to deny your memories. I'm asking you to see what's deeper.'

Ganga Ji inspires adulation. A young man reports to her: -

'I woke up one night and I had this hit me, that I was just like you.'

'That's right. That's right,' she reassures.

'And I thought it was so arrogant, at first.'

'It's arrogant to think you aren't!' she counters.

'Yeah!'

'That's right. That's right.'

'So my time's coming?' he asks.

'You're turn is here!'

She adds: -

'You're time is not separate from my time, and it's not separate from Ramana's time, or Buddha's time, or Christ's time, Mohammed's time, or all the unknown awakened beings in all realms, in all degrees of form and formlessness. Same, same. It is arrogant to think otherwise and this arrogance is the cause of much unnecessary suffering.'

To another man, George, who has written to her asking for a private meeting, she summoned him to sit on 'the private cushion' and talk with her before the entire assembly.

She advocates complete surrender to 'Grace'.

'The truth is continual surrender. This is the challenge of this experience of incarnation; this is the joy, the victory. Victory is surrender.'

Her speech is extremely direct: -

'Maybe you have been very foolish in the past, or maybe you have been very wise. So what? Right now, how are you spending your time? Where is attention? Where is surrender? Where are you?'

When I next open my eyes I discover that although I have only recently been listening to Ganga Ji's encouraging words, the tape is no longer running as many hours have passed and the light of dawn has arrived, its glow is now filling my room.

*

It has been several days since my meeting with Rameshwar and today I find myself drawn to paying him another visit. As I near the imposing and aged Banyan tree, with its dangling tendril branches, I look about for Rameshwar. He is nowhere to be seen so I call out to him. I think I detect the sound of a muffled voice coming from within the hut so I shout out a greeting and pull aside the curtain door.

'Any chance of another coffee?' I ask, flinging down the plastic carrier bag of gifts onto his mattress, relieved to be rid of the burden. I have walked far collecting the contents - a 10-wave band radio and the several pounds weight of fresh fruit. I don't expect gratitude from him, I don't even wish for it...

Rameshwar stirs uneasily.

'Night has been bad. Epileptic. Now you are here I am feeling much better. But, cooker is now not working.'

'Can I help?' I offer concernedly leaning over the bed to get a closer look at his cooking area.

It is clear he wants no help, preferring to sort things out for himself. But he fumbles about without result and seems to be in extreme discomfort.

'Don't worry about the coffee,' I assure him, 'I have some juice, it will be fine.'

So Rameshwar sits silently staring into space as I drain the contents of a small carton of mango juice. The continued silence makes me uneasy so I wrack my brain as to how I might offer some light conversation in order to regain his attention. But what can I say that won't sound hollow and superficial, he has after obviously suffered greatly? I determine to break the silence anyway.

'When I first met you,' I start, but as I speak my chest heaves, 'I felt that you... that you ... that ....'. Tears well in my eyes, I battle to keep my composure, 'But now ... now I... now I understand,' the sobbing words come without conscious thought. In spite of this emotional upheaval I am experiencing I query my words. What is it I now understand? Brushing aside the tears I seek an answer in the face of Rameshwar. As I look across the dimly illuminated hut I see not the face of a suffering man, but the glowing blissful countenance of the famous Baba Muktanand seated crossed-legged before me. I recognise Baba from a television programme shown some years before, on Siddha Yoga in which, at the touch of his yak-whisk his devotees would go into spontaneous movements such as shaking, sobbing and sudden deep breathing.

I find myself backing out into the bright sunlight where I attempt to pull myself together. The chest spasms and sobbing continue unabated. Drying my eyes I am surprised to find myself to be in the company of a lone cow who has parked itself close. When Rameshwar emerges I exchange but few words with him before tearfully bidding my leave. He gently offers reassurance: -

'Now I feel much better since you and the cow have come to visit.'

*

The visit to Rameshwar, at his simple hut between the jungle and the riverbank, leaves me very fragile. It is as if an aspect of my body has been torn open. Those with belief in the existence of chakras, seven spiritual centres aligned down the head and body, might be tempted to suggest a chakra had been opened. Whatever it is that has happened to me, I sense it to be a positive spiritual experience, for most of the time since I have felt elated. But whatever has happened to me affects me deeply. My emotions frequently churn and often, whether on my own or in company, I find myself sobbing for no accountable reason.

By evening time I become uncertain what to do with myself. I even contemplate leaving Rishikesh. I phone a friend in Britain.

'You have dialled incorrectly. There is no such number,' a pre-recorded female Indian voice states repeatedly. I check the digital display panel on the telephone cubicle wall - I have dialled correctly.

I have no choice but to give up trying to use the telephone, and instead return to my hotel room to settle down and meditate. This smoothes me out considerably, enough to go and take some food on the terrace. I am reminded of the 'Gods Dancing Party', an event Chaturvedi Ji has organised. I trace the sound of pounding dance music upstairs, but before taking the last few steps to the roof I pause to enjoy the sight of petals strewn about the top of the staircase. There is a blissfulness in the moment that is so totally reassuring, that all these troubled feelings of emotional upheaval seem to shift and subside.

'Aha, here I am finding you!' Chaturvedi Ji exclaims, apparently relieved at finding me on the hotel terrace. Accompanying him comes a smiling young western woman I have not seen around before.

'This is lady coming from Britain.'

'I suppose you want me to tell her what a good hotel this is?' I ask grinning, then after a moments reflection declare resolutely, 'Well, I like it here.'

Susan shakes my hand with a firmness and strength unusual in a woman.

Chaturvedi Ji continues: -

'When Susan is asking to me concerning local trekking, I am thinking she must meet with you. So I am coming to look for you.'

'Maybe I can help,' I say, addressing myself to the young woman, 'with this gentleman's assistance I recently got hold of a detailed map of the area. I haven't done any proper trekking around here yet, but I'm sure I can point out a few good paths to take.'

'If you can spare the time, maybe we could chat,' Susan suggests.

'Sure, that would be nice. Right now I'm going out but we could meet up some time later? Then perhaps I could show you around.'

'That's fine with me. I've got to get settled into my room, it's downstairs, the room at the end,' she says pointing to a row of rooms to the front of the hotel. 'See you later then?'

'I look forward to it,' I assure her.

As I sit back down to leisurely finish my glass of tea, it occurs to me that since arriving in India I have grown accustomed to leaving my days open and free. This arrangement to meet up with Susan, loose and casual though it is, reminds me of just how easy it is to get caught up in other people's plans and expectations. I am going for another walk and once downstairs and out of the hotel I find myself being drawn again towards Lakshman Jhula. I saunter slowly and thoughtfully, desirous only to keep my own company. I ponder my mental checklist of items that friends have requested I find for them: -

1. A mala, a rosary-style necklace consisting of 27, 54 or 108 Rudraksha beads.

2. Two books in Hindi on the life and teaching of Shri Shankaracharya Swami Brahmanand Saraswati.

3. A herbal preparation thought to be called 'Zandopi'.

4. Seeds of the karree plant.

Of these items only the mala is readily available in Rishikesh, with a wide range of choice regarding size and quality. The Zandopi powder I am dismayed that nobody has heard of the Zandopi powder, for my friend has been diagnosed as suffering from Parkinson's Disease and he believes this Ayurvedic herbal medicine to be particularly effective at relieving the symptoms of this condition. I suspect I will also have problems locating the Hindi books, which are needed in order to make good translations. One of the books tells the life-story of Shri Shankaracharya Brahmanand Saraswati who at the age of nine left his comfortably well-off family to pursue a spiritual life. It is recorded that after study in his guru's ashram in Uttar Kashi he was instructed to dwell alone in a nearby cave, only periodically visiting his teacher for fresh instruction. It is said he soon found Sat Chit Anandam (Truth-Consciousness-Bliss or Cosmic Consciousness). He then spent much of his time roaming from jungle to jungle, but he was not always alone for many sought him out to take his 'darshan', to obtain his blessing. In the latter years of his life his devotees eventually persuaded him to accept the exhalted position of Shankaracharya (pontiff) of Jyotir Math, an ancient monastery near the shrine of the famous temple of Badrinath, high in the hills close to the border with Tibet and China.

Scouring the Ganga Emporium bookshop in Lakshman Jhula brings me no closer to the treasured volumes, though Ananda, the store assistant, promises to research their availability. Whilst visiting the store I notice amongst the many shelves displaying spiritual literature a stack of colouring books on mainly Indian themes. I remember Nirmoha had told me about doing the artwork for these books. A few days back I had been chatting with her and asked what she had studied at university. She had not answered me, but gave me a look as if to say 'No, maybe YOU can tell ME', so I attempted to rise to the occasion and almost without hesitation it came to me, that she is an artist. I now browse the books and note that the volumes are credited under her former name - Tania Sironic. As I read the introductory notes of several of the works I am impressed at the clarity of the explanations about various aspects of Hindu beliefs.

The bookstore is also a cafe, the 'Devraj Coffee Corner', with a thatched eating area overlooking the suspension bridge. Here I now settle down to sip tea, finding entertainment in the antics of a troupe of 'red-arsed' bandit monkeys clambering about on the steel ropes of the bridge, looking about for a chance to ambush the unwary.

A couple, a longhaired young man and a young woman with very short green hair, join me and introduce themselves and sit at my table. I just have to pose the obvious question: -

'Do you mind if I ask why you have green hair?'

'Oh, we just got married!' Marianne replies eagerly (as if in explanation).

'Oh! Really? Congratulations!'

We chat awhile during which time I am surprised to find I am still prone to outbursts of tearfulness. Consequently, I find myself sharing with them the tale of my meetings with Rameshwar. Both Chris and Marianne appear very keen to meet with him too.

'Could you tell me exactly where we might find him?' Chris asks.

'You're thinking of paying him a visit? I don't know what you can expect...'

'Sure, these things are very personal, but, where did you say he is...? When we get through Swargashram village where the shops are, we keep on walking, right?' he asks me.

'If at first you miss him you won't be able to walk on very much further, the shore of the Ganga finishes just a little way beyond his hut. Anyway, don't worry, you'll find him. After all, he tells me he never ever goes anywhere.'

Chris and Marianne look at each other as if confirming their united agreement to go and see Rameshwar at the earliest.

'Talking to the both of you makes me think I might one day write about the meetings.'

'If you do write about your experiences, then write them as an innocent,' Chris suggests, apparently attempting to be helpful.

I try to fathom the meaning of his remark. He appears to be suggesting that I write as though I have never before travelled to India and never before heard of personalities such as Baba Muktanand and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.

Talking of Rameshwar has made me very emotional and again I feel it is better to be alone. So, wishing Chris and Marianne a good stay, I set off on my return walk. About half way back to Swargashram I observe an Indian woman with large round earrings, clad in a richly patterned orange dress, wrists dripping with gold coloured bangles. She sits cross-legged upon a rug spread out by the path, a snake lies coiled beside her. I stop for no more than a few moments, as any sign of interest in a peddler or entertainer is usually met with immediate demands to come, look and part with some rupees. I walk on, reflecting on the cruelty of exploiting fellow creatures for purely financial gain. But the woman's voice rents the air and I find myself involuntarily turning back and walking over to where she sits. With her encouragement I cautiously stroke the snake which, although appearing slimy, feels, feels surprisingly soft, almost furry to the touch. Furthermore the snake makes no rapid movement, as I fear it might. Instead it lies still, apparently thoroughly enjoying the attention. The woman then picks up the serpent's looped shimmering coils and leans forward to set it about my shoulders. To my surprise I do not resist, I merely witness my fear then gradually let the fear fall away. The long snake is heavy about my shoulders; I enjoy bearing its weight. Although I do not know whether the serpent is venomous, I convince myself it will not harm me. Many times I have seen pictures of the yogi-god Lord Shiva, bedecked with snakes, sitting peacefully upon a tiger skin. Easily I now identify myself with the image.

'I am Shiva,' I tell the woman.

'Shiva Shankar, Shiva Shankar,' she affirms nodding gently. The snake's head turns to face me, a very long tongue darting out of its long narrow jaws. Still I do not flinch; neither do I fear that it might poison me. When the snake is lifted off me, I part happily with the few rupees expected of me realising this experience has addressed a deep-seated fear.

'Python,' the woman states smiling at me. I nod and draw myself to my feet. A group of onlookers stand about and I hear one of them say to another as he takes a sidelong glance at me: -

'Pagal,' he mutters. (pagal means mad!)

With very great difficulty I resist the temptation to respond to his comment and instead keep my peace.

I do not walk far up the track before I find a young American sitting, apparently resting.

'Hi, how's it going?' he calls.

'I just had a python around my neck, it's skin was so soft.'

'Snakes are beautiful, where I come from in Colorado we have loads of them, rattlers, rattlesnakes.'

'You don't fear them?'

'No.'

'I think animals respond to fear. If you don't fear them...'

'For sure.'

The American tells me his name, Karim. I immediately recognise the sound as being remarkably similar to one of the bij mantras intoned silently, sometimes used for meditation practice.

'Sounds like your mantra,' I declare impulsively.

'Thank you,' he says seriously.

As I walk on, slowly an idea comes to mind. Though I have long since come to a decision to avoid smoking cannabis, I scan the hedges to see if I can spot any marijuana plants. No sooner do I start to look for them than I am overtaken by a young Indian who turns to me and asks: -

'You want to smoke? Here, I have charas,' he says holding out a lump of hashish.

'No, thank you,' I hear myself reply.

'You want? You want?' he asks again.

I shake my head; the desire has come and gone almost in an instant.

'My name Sagori is.'

'Dhanyavad' I say thanking him.

*

Later in the day Susan and I meet and join up for a walk. I soon discover her to be not only a seasoned hiker but also profoundly interested in nature.

'Do you know the name of that flower there,' I ask referring to a flowering shrub that grows locally in great abundance.

'In South Africa they call it Lanten. It's a real nuisance.'

'Are you sure it's the same? It has such beautifully scented delicate blossoms, sometimes pink, sometimes orange.'

'I'm sure of it! It's a pest, in much the same way as Japanese Knotweed is in England. As it happens it was an English woman who introduced Lanten into India, way back in the days of Colonial rule. Just one cutting, now it's everywhere.'

We walk along in silence before I ask Susan of her immediate plans. Finding that she intends staying in the area a few days, and realising she is so obviously the outdoor type, I mention the white-water rafting activities upstream on the Ganga. She seems interested, very interested. I also suggest she might take a trip higher into the hills, to gain a sight of the snow-clad mountains on the Tibetan border. The idea appeals to her greatly and as we discuss her options a thought occurs to me - the Hindi books I am looking for are probably still available from the monastery at Joshimath.

'I've been thinking of taking a break from here and perhaps travelling into the hills,' I announce.

'So we could travel together?'

'Sure. I'm trying to find some books. Some years ago they were on sale at the monastery in Joshimath. They were there when I visited before.'

'But, only if you want to go. I don't want you to come on my account.'

'I'll give it some thought.'

As we continue strolling I detail for her the byways and paths through the dense forest of Sal trees through which we are walking. Here grow many unusual shrubs and trees such as Euphorbia and the ash-like Ailanthus 'tree of heaven'. Eventually our walk brings us to the base of a hill.

'I would take you up to the ashram there but I no longer have any attachment to it,' I comment.

Almost as soon as the words leave my lips a group of people suddenly become visible ahead, having turned a bend in the path. Behind them walks an ochre-robed swami, lean and tall, his hair tied atop his head in a topknot. In his arms he carries a long object within an orange cloth bag clutched against his chest, which I assume is a wooden staff. I pay him attention purely on the basis of his being a dandi or stick-carrying swami, since they are rare even amongst holy men. One brief look at his radiant face is enough to convince that this dandi swami is definitely a high soul, his eyes reveals deep jewelled pools of light that twinkle and dance. His face immediately reminds me of another's, now seen only in the photographs and paintings, the face of a former Shankaracharya of Jyotir Math who passed away almost fifty years before, whose books I am searching...

I fairly fly into the dandi swami's face, gaining his attention.

He appears very pleased as I invoke the name of the departed Shankaracharya and he rolls his head gently, his eyes sparkling even more than before. With a graceful gesture of the wrist he gently communicates his desire for me to follow him. I am surprised that only with great effort is it possible to keep pace with him. The path we take leads us up the side of the hill, up past many uninhabited beehive-like stone buildings. The swami turns to the right and stops at one of the dwellings where he slips off his sandals, unlocks the door and ushers me to go within. Inside he points to a framed photograph placed centrally on a table. It is a rare and beautifully presented photograph of Shankaracharya Swami Brahmanand Saraswati. Reverently, with hands placed together, and I gaze at the portrait. In truth I am stunned that fate should deliver me this opportunity of meeting one of few living disciples of the holyman in the photograph's few living disciples. I study the other two pictures contained in frames upon the table; one is of the Shankaracharya's successor, Swami Shantanand Saraswati whereas the other is of an old man I cannot identify. As I stand musing I am suddenly aware of that the old swami is again standing beside me. He chuckles merrily as he points first at himself and then at the photo. But I am thrown into confusion for the picture appears to be of a much older man and I puzzle as to how the swami could look so much fresher and younger now than when the photograph was taken.

It occurs to me that I should and find out whether or not Susan has followed us. I turn to go outside. Coincidentally Susan is just now arriving. I sense she is unsure how to conduct herself in the company of this aged monk.

'It is the custom to take off one's shoes, as a sign of respect,' I offer. Obligingly she begins to unlace her boots, but the swami attracts Susan's attention and beckons for her to go and look at the photographs. She has had insufficient time to unlace her boots and I fret that the swami will take offence at her oversight. I wait for the roar! But I worry needlessly, for he appears blissfully unconcerned. I relax and look about me, observing that nailed above the doorway hangs a strip of metal on which is hand-painted the name in Devanagri script 'Dandi Swami Narayanand Saraswati'.

When Susan rejoins me outside I whisper to her: -

'I believe he has achieved the goal of his sadhana, his path of spiritual practice. He seems totally at peace, in want of nothing.'

She confides that she has no previous experience whatever of meetings with Indian holymen.

'It is customary to leave a gift,' I whisper to her. 'Have you any fruit or biscuits perhaps?'

'No, sorry.'

'Some small offering, we could leave those blossoms you're holding.'

'Yes, fine.'

Swami Ji settles down on a wooden table outside his dwelling and makes himself comfortable and by gestures, facial expressions and endearing chuckles the swami puts us at ease. He takes a piece of white chalk. He writes a word in Hindi on a chalkboard - 'maun' (a vow of silence). Thus is explained his lack of conversation, however, he appears happy enough to write simple answers to my few questions.

I mention Jyotir Math (the monastery of the Northern Shankaracharya) and can't help remarking: -

'It seems as though this meeting is a message for us to travel to the mountains and go to Joshimath,' I laugh. Susan grins her agreement.

Again I find myself again sobbing gently and I am again incapable of speaking much before tears well up. I feel compelled to explain to the swami that since visiting a poor man locally I have been taken with this condition for some days. Swami Ji begins to write on the chalkboard again and I puzzle the meaning of the seemingly unfamiliar words. Spelled out they form two words 'W-E-R-E-E' and 'G-U-U-D'.

At first I don't get the meaning.

'VERY GOOD?' I then ask shaking with mirth as I interpret their meaning. 'Really? Good, good. Thank you Swami Ji.'

For several minutes I bask in the lightness and good humour of this saintly man. Then, when I sense I should take my leave, I feel a strong compulsion to signal my very great respect for the swami. I find myself not only lowering my head as I intend, but suddenly and quite involuntarily throwing myself upon the dusty ground, my arms outstretched to touch his feet. I feel his hands hover behind my head as if in blessing.

Positively glowing, I accompany Susan away from the swami's presence.

'I've never thrown myself at the feet of anyone in my life!' I confide to her, 'But then I've never met such a man before. We have been blessed indeed. Did you notice how when he moves it is so graceful, as if there were not a bone in his body?'

Susan smiles.

'As we are up here, would you like to take a walk about the ashram?' I suggest pointing to a grove of palm trees.

A man's voice comes as if from nowhere: -

'No, no, you should not go.'

We walk on but only to find our way obstructed.

'It soon dark is,' he informs us. 'Tomorrow you are coming. Yes tomorrow come again.'

So Susan and I retrace our steps downhill and after but just a few minutes we notice the sun already disappearing from view, leaving washes of red streaks in the bright blue evening sky. In the short time it takes to re-join the main concrete path into the village darkness descends very rapidly.

'He was right you know, we would have been wandering in the dark,' I admit.

Entering the village, the glittering bright lights of the shops offer a dazzling spectacle. The pretty lights reflect and sparkle on the many colourful goods displayed there.

Susan marvels at the sight, as I do I, for it is as if everything has been brushed by a magic. The sounds enchant too and the air hangs with sweet pungent aromas, incense mixed with the smell of fresh citrus fruits. I am minded that the name Swargashram means 'ashram of Heaven' or 'ashram of Paradise'. I imagine that a marketplace in paradise could hold no greater feast for the senses. All-at-once both Susan and myself hear the sound of beautiful music floating up from the riverside. As we go to investigate we find a swathe of pilgrims celebrating evening prayers accompanied by some very fine musicians, the sounds of voices and instruments being routed through a powerful public address system. Amongst the amassed crowds I see a concentration of dozens of spluttering orange flames emanating from a brass holder, it is carried and passed over the swaying singing congregation gathered, packed tightly together on the steps leading down to the Ganga. And there, amidst the rushing waters, a massive statue of Lord Shiva sits facing them. From all directions come flashes of light, as cameras capture these magic moments.

*

'There is a huge event next to Parmarth Niketan Ashram - quite unbelievable,' I later rave to a neighbour.

'Oh yes. They do it every night, it's Aarti,' she explains somewhat flatly.

'Are you sure? I think it must have been particularly special tonight. There were people videoing it. And the sound system, it was just amazing, like some free concert. The musicians must have been professionals, they were brilliant.'

She looks at me doubtfully as if I am exaggerating. I change the subject.

'How was the Halloween party then?' I ask.

'Oh, you should have come, you would have enjoyed it.'

I recall I chanced on a group of them going to the party, a fancy dress affair. This particular young lady had woven the stalks and fruits of limes into her hair, presenting herself as an advanced yoga asana in which 'ones sexual energy is sublimated to become spiritual energy'. Accompanying her that night was the bearded French meteorologist decked out as an Indian woman in a sari. Actually, in an odd sort of way, it suited him.

'It looks like I'm off to the mountains!' I announce. 'I've been thinking of going up there for a while now, and today I met with a sannyasi associated with the monastery in Joshimath. It seems like a message. I think I've got to go.'

She looks at me thoughtfully.

'But perhaps Joshimath has come to you?' she suggests.

'Namaste Chaturvedi Ji,' I greet him with my hands placed together. 'Namaste to you sir, and how you are sleeping?' 'Actually, I awoke to find the balcony door open.'

'That is okay. It is safe; no one will come in room. You are worried?'

I have no wish to conceal my concern over the lapse of attentiveness which left me vulnerable to theft, I merely smile weakly, still puzzled how I came to fall asleep on the bed and spend the coldest hours of the night uncovered. The truth is that since my arrival in Rishikesh I have felt no great urge to sleep, so I tend to read, listen to tapes, or just lie thinking until the early hours. Sleeping for no more than three hours I most often arise about five in the morning, a novelty in itself, and have more than enough time to meditate, tidy and clean before starting the day.

'Can I order breakfast? Oh and can I pay yesterday's bills too?' I ask.

'Conflax, milk, jamtost and big tea?'

'Plain toast today please.'

'No conflax you want?' he queries, wrinkling his brow.

'Yes, cornflakes I want and toast and tea,' I answer in Pidgin English. In fact, what with trying to speak the local tongue, grasp of my own language seems to be slipping fast.

'Hot milk or cold milk sir?'

'Very hot please,' I reply emphatically, believing boiled milk more likely to be free from harmful bacteria.

Mercifully, eating out in these parts is fairly trouble free and there are many restaurants and cafes to choose from, all of them vegetarian. Most serve excellent North Indian dishes including thali (an all-in-one meal). Some restaurants also include a fair selection of western foods on their menus, with Choti Wala being a firm favourite with most visitors. Advertised as 'India Fame Restaurant - Homely Delicious Meals & Snacks' it boasts a roof-top dining area overlooking the bustling main walkway where hawkers tote such wares as toys and slide whistles, whilst others offer to print one's hands and arms with designs applied by hennaed wooden blocks. Soliciting for business outside the restaurant sits a bizarre looking man coloured with pink body paint. He is the 'Choti Wala' whose hair is shaven save for a lone tuft of long hair (choti) which is waxed to a point atop of his bald head.

There are also some particularly good places to eat across the river, near to the ferry crossing point, notably the East-West with it's excellent Italian dishes and the Shanti Cafe which, on occasion, even offers home-made apple pie and yoghurt ice cream! Here it is that I meet with a shaven headed yoga exponent, wearing a bright orange Omkarananda Ashram T-shirt. Confidently he is giving out details of his weekly agenda to two Japanese students who are seemingly attentive to his every word. The cafe is small and his voice is very audible.

'So this is what I will be doing with my week, that is, unless anything unexpected occurs!' he announces self-importantly.

I reflect that virtually all my meetings of late have been unforeseen. This meeting too, our eyes meet and I hear my voice call across to him, clearly and firmly: -

'Everything is unexpected my friend...! Everything!'

He gapes at me, surprised.

'Yes, yes of course,' he answers uncertainly. Uncharacteristically for me, I make no attempt to explain myself, but instead get up to leave.

I make my way back across the bridge, pausing only to buy a few rupees worth of doughballs to feed the fishes after which I set off on a long circular walk, via Lakshman Jhula and the hill road back. The desire to get back to nature reasserts itself again, so I take a solitary wander in the leafy wilds and pursue the course of a rushing stream. Soon I start to hear the faint sound of tumbling gushing water and am thrilled to realise I am near to a waterfall. As the sound becomes louder I notice my surroundings becoming particularly scenic. I marvel at the flowering boughs that overhang the path, the blooms and blossoms of the pink and purple flowers that have fallen form a carpet over the smooth mossy rocks on which I walk. It is as if I have found the resting-place of a local god. I proceed cautiously but find myself to be totally alone. Sitting myself down, close to the waterfall, I feel again the deep, deep peace I recently felt in the presence of the dandi swami. I breathe deeply hoping to fill myself full with the peace and freshness of this sacred spot.

Leaving the waterfall, I descend again and find somewhat lower downstream some villagers washing their clothes in the swirling waters, beating the garments against one of the many large rocks that are strewn about the stream. The path I take from here brings me to a pleasant shaded glade where I pause to rest. All at once the sounds of leaves rustling and twigs moving alert me to the presence of company, whereupon I see a full size langur moving urgently towards me. Standing to his full height he comes close, to within a couple of feet from me. Barring his crooked teeth, he begins to gibber, to grind his teeth and hiss loudly. I stare with interest at his almost human hands with fingers and nails; I study too his long powerful feet which resemble those of a wolf, which resemble those of a wolf, and marvel at his astonishingly long tale tail which sweeps the ground. The langur monkey continues to chatter and gesture excitedly at me and at length, in order to avoid further unnecessary exposure to danger, I feel moved to wander slowly away.

Later, telling my story to a local, he smiles as he explains: -

'Langur want for food!'

'Really?'

'Yes, possible to bring fruit for langur. You can feed. Just hold out hand and him will take.'

Though most langur seem gentle enough, I have yet to see anyone go very close to them, let alone feed them. It must be said, that wild animal can do a lot of damage to exposed human flesh and since I am stripped to the waist I am in no mind to place myself in a position where I might get mauled.

*

Rather than use a laundry service, many travellers prefer to clean their own clothes as evidenced by the improvised washing lines strung across most of the hotel balconies. For a while I watch as my clothes drip, drip-drying in the hot breeze, satisfied they will be ready before the afternoon is done. I then begin sorting some photographs, recently collected from the mini-lab in Rishikesh market, carefully sequencing the snaps before slipping them into the complimentary albums provided. But as I busy myself, I am all too aware of the fact that I have several unresolved issues on my mind. Amongst my concerns is the ongoing question of whether or not to embark on the course in Reiki. I reason that since I have never envisaged myself as a healer it is fairly pointless to embark on a training course in the art of healing. Having swiftly dealt with this problem I feel more than confident to deal with the easier task of deciding whether or not to travel to the mountains. But I find it difficult to come to a decision even after concentratedly and repeatedly assessing the pros and cons.

Unexpectedly Susan pops by my room to announce she is planning to move on to Mussoorie, hills station some fifty miles north-west of Rishikesh. Though she makes it clear she is still open to the idea of taking a bus into the hills, we agree to postpone further discussion until we have better information on how long the return journey might take.

Nirmoha drops in later too. Usually I welcome the chance to get better acquainted, to trade philosophies, discuss points of view and enjoy a glass of strong chaay with her. But I am mindful of my resolve to turn down the offer of the Reiki instruction, though something stops me announcing my decision. My mind is not as firmly made up as I thought. I reason from the little that I know that, Reiki sounds harmless enough and might even prove to have something to offer. However, I have to deal with the possibility that Nirmoha might wish me to become her pupil rather than simply share her knowledge with me. I take the opportunity of her visit to voice this concern, to which she offers no reassurance whatsoever, quite the opposite in fact.

'I only take beginners,' she says seriously, 'You will be learning Level One Reiki. It takes the completion of Levels One, Two and Three to become a qualified Reiki Master.'

My real underlying concern is that this Reiki teaching might be a back-door entry into the world of the 'Orange People', the followers of Rajneesh Osho notorious for their permissive attitude towards sex. I am open to other paths but I don't want to be drawn unwittingly into a cult.

'What sort of meditation do you teach, if any, on the Reiki course?' I ask, 'I mean... well... well you do have a photo of Osho in your room and er.. Well I wondered..?'

She laughs as she divines the meaning behind my question.

'Oh I don't teach Dynamic Meditation,' she answers brightly, referring to the five-stage practice of: -

1. Rapid deep breathing.

2. Catharthis e.g. laughing, shouting, screaming jumping and shaking.

3. Jumping on the balls of the feet whilst repeating the sound 'Hoo-Hoo-Hoo'.

4. Remaining motionless.

5. Dancing.

Nirmoha offers no further clarification on what techniques she imparts and as I have been advised by her not to read any books on Reiki prior to instruction, it seems I am expected to make a total leap of faith.

*

After my recent chance meetings with Rameshwar Das and the blissful swami in the jungle I find I have a need to clarify what I have learned, if anything, from them. I ponder but without attaining any conclusions. Sometimes it is good to set one's thoughts down since it often helps make better sense of them (my pocketbook used for jotting down reminders, shopping lists, addresses and phone numbers contains many notes addressed to myself). Putting pen to paper I begin to weigh my thoughts about the dandi swami: -

'He doesn't have anything I do not,

but he has far far more of it,

and more importantly, he can cope with that moreness,

more simple now.'

Clearly, the state of blissful grace he enjoys must be as the result of patient work, but has he gained something he once lacked or has he rediscovered something that was formerly hidden? More than likely, in his devotions, he has discovered ways to slough off those impediments that block the smooth operation of his sensory functions. I wonder if we were to perceive fear, ignorance and unwelcome stress as our enemies and then take every available means to rid our minds and bodies of their influence, perhaps we too could witness the truth of his master's teaching: -

'The dawn comes to dispel the darkness of night, allowing us to enjoy the light of the sun (which is self-illuminating). Spiritual teachings destroy ignorance and therefore remove darkness, but they cannot throw light on the inner Self, for the Self is Light.'

'Wait a moment,' comes Susan's somewhat flustered response to the rapping at her door.

'It's only me,' I assure her, 'If it's not convenient, I can come back later.'

'Just hang on a minute... Is that okay?'

'Fine, no problem, take your time.'

It is not long before the sound of a bolt being released followed by the creak of the opening door signals that I am free to enter, so, cautiously I poke my head through the gap.

'Yes, do come on in,' she invites me moving briskly back into the room, winding a towel around her dripping hair. Barelegged and draped only in a loose blouse of turquoise satin tastefully printed with dragon designs, she hovers about self-consciously until deciding to shuffle and slide into her four-season sleeping bag. Then, leaning over to one side she draws closer a pile of papers, uncompleted art works.

'You don't mind if I carry on with these do you? We can still talk.'

She sets to work on one of an assortment of designs and with deft confident strokes she begins pulling the pastels this way and that, sideways over the paper, producing sensuous shifts of abstract shapes. As she works Susan speaks of her travel plans in India and how she intends to fly on to Bangkok before eventually returning to England. When eventually conversation lapses I wonder whether to broach a subject I have been giving a good deal of consideration.

'I've been thinking about maybe teaching meditation,' I remark.

'Good idea,' Susan responds enthusiastically.

'It's just.. It's just that there is nobody that teaches meditation where I live, so I figure that maybe I should start.'

'You should!'

'Well, the idea came to me during evening meditation. You're the first person I have told.'

'Thank you.'

'But does it make any sense to you that I feel I need to give myself permission?'

'Completely. But you're so obviously sincere about your beliefs and you've spent so much time finding out about all these things. So tell me, how will you advertise?'

'Advertise? Well I certainly wouldn't charge anything.'

'Great. But you've got to let people know. Perhaps you could put up cards.'

'Something like "Blessings from the Himalayas, at no cost"?'

'Great,' she enthuses.

'Well, thanks for the encouragement,' I say rising to leave, 'Oh, by the way, have you had any more thoughts about our trip into the hills?'

She furrows her brow.

'From what I can gather it is rather a long way, someone said it would take two days to get to Joshimath. Is that right?' she quizzes intently.

'Mmmm. I think maybe that it is, possibly stop a night in Srinagar and make it there the next day,' I suggest sheepishly. 'Then a couple of nights at least in Joshimath else it's not really worth while going.'

'A week! What's it like up there, is it very beautiful?'

'Well it's very high up, you're really close to the high mountains and it's a good spot for hiking but I'm not going to try and sell the idea to you. It is a long way and basically I'm really going there for two books!

'Well I'm planning to go to Mussoorie in a few days.'

'So perhaps we should forget about the trip, it was a good idea but..'

'But.. it's going to take too long... ' She admits.

'So, it looks like we're not going to go after all. I think we would have been good company, but the more I think about the long bus trip..'

'Yes, I agree, but thanks for the offer anyway. It was a really nice idea.'

'I'll leave you to get on now, thanks for the chat, I really appreciate it,' I thank her warmly.

Talking with Susan has brought me reassurance and considerable support for my intention to share the knowledge of simple meditation. However, what I haven't mentioned to her is that, at the moment I came to this decision during meditation, an image of Shankaracharya Swami Brahmanand flashed into my mind. He appeared facing me and seemed to bow his head slightly as if in approval. Though I wonder whether my imagination could have generated this 'vision', I feel blessed anyway. I recall that as I enjoyed the image of this venerable teacher coming to my mind, two Sanskrit words sprang to my awareness. I wonder, could my mind have created these too? And more importantly, what exactly do these words mean?

On my way back to my room I cross the hotel lobby to stop and talk with Chaturvedi Ji.

'I have been thinking of going to Joshimath but it is too much far. I am needing to get some books there for a friend. By phone it is possible to contact the monastery?'

'Joshimath. I will see if someone is going that way. But why you not get in marketplace?' he suggests innocently.

'These are rare books, they are very much difficult to find, but maybe.. With your help?'

'You have titles?

'Oh yes.'

'You write them down and I am asking for you from friend in Swargashram bookshop.'

'That's a brilliant idea. Thanks a lot.'

'It is pleasure. We do what we can for to making you enjoy your stay. You are leaving it with me and I do my best for you,' he says pocketing the book list and crossing his arms. 'Leave it to me, I make necessary inquiries.'

*

It is not only westerners that adopt new names and identities. A fellow guest, Alok, a longhaired Indian lad from Kashmir has kitted himself out with the unlikely name of 'Mr Ali'.

'Where I live there are many Muslims. I don't like problems,' he explains, adjusting his sunglasses and lighting a cigarette.

'But you still follow Hindu beliefs,' I ask.

'Of course! I see you have sacred thread bracelet,' he observes, seemingly favourably impressed.

'It was on a visit to Neelkanth Mahadev, there is a white temple up above Neelkanth where I received prasad, a flower and the thread.

'Neelkanth Mahadev is Lord Shiva,' Alok states. From within his wallet he plucks something out and passes it to me. It is a silvery holographic picture of the god Shiva seated in meditation wearing snakes about his neck and arms. The image of a trident flashes before him, glowing in spectral colours.

'This is for you Paul.'

'Oh, it is very very beautiful. I will treasure it.'

Mr. Ali smiles.

*

'How would you like a Reiki session this morning?' Nirmoha asks me.

Her offer comes as a complete surprise, for as I understand it, this is the first day for a long time that she has been free from teaching.

'Are you sure?' I puzzle, 'But yesterday, you said you were taking the day off. You wanted to go to Hardwar.'

'I thought it would be better to give you Reiki, that is, if you're interested?'

How can I think of refusing? This is the perfect opportunity to discover the mysteries of Reiki, as a recipient, and I am not about to pass it up.

'Where? When?'

We arrange a time to meet, before which I shower and change into looser clothing. As I make my way to the end of the corridor I find the door to the last room is open, the smell of incense hangs in the air. I slip off my flip-flops and enter. I note that a mattress, wrapped in a white sheet, has been placed in the middle of the floor. The room is noticeably uncluttered, tidy and very clean.

Nirmoha instructs me to lie down on the mattress; arms by my sides, legs placed together, eyes closed. In soothing tones she gives further instruction, first for me to relax, then to let the mattress take my weight and finally to let go - which I do. I am guided to place my attention on the music playing softly in the background. It becomes a pleasant form of meditation and I soon find myself completely released from all concerns. Only very, very gradually do I sense the presence of hands hovering near my head. Slowly head and hands merge. Within myself I am suddenly aware of an increase in light, my senses have become heightened, the notes of music sound somehow more natural, as though they were not produced on instruments but by nature itself. Witnessing the sounds, the scents in the air and my own thoughts, I gradually become removed from identification with either my body or my mind.

I sense what feels like droplets of liquid being placed around my eyes. Similar sensations repeat themselves elsewhere across my body. Very slowly the realisation that precious stones are being placed upon me crystallises. As I lie absorbing these new sensations and enjoying them, I sense a warmth increasing about my eyes, the precious stones seem to be springing into life, as though a dormant energy in them has become awakened. I witness as tears begin to flow from my eyes, trickling down my cheeks. Spasms of energy ripple through me becoming manifest in sudden jerks of my neck. I hear myself let out gentle sighs. As the warm hands touch or hover elsewhere, similar twitches, sighs and jerkings ensue. Also I witness my breathing which I notice is sometimes only barely perceptible and then suddenly the breathing becomes rapid, then just as quickly it subsides. All the time I am a witness, as if the events are not really connected to the watching me. A sudden brief sadness visits me as the gemstones are removed; I hear the sounds of sighs coming from my mouth. Only very gradually does the body stop twitching. I lie and listen to sounds surfacing through the quiet. I notice that the music is no longer playing.

At length I hear a faint voice. But it is some time before the message connects with my thinking mind and finds a response. The voice requests me to slowly open my eyes and sit up. I find my eyes opening and am surprised at the sight of Nirmoha sitting nearby.

'Perhaps you should go back to your room now and lie down quietly for some few minutes,' she advises.

Obediently I arise. In a state of wonder I make the distance back to my room and lay lie down on my bed to become again fascinated by the involuntary twists and turns my body takes as it attempts to rest. Eventually the movements subside as I very gradually resume increasing identification with my body. Having no desire to move, I remain for far longer than the few minutes recommended.

A sound in the room alerts me to open my eyes.

'Are you okay?' Nirmoha asks, concerned.

'Fine, fine, fine,' I say sitting up gradually, looking about me in wonder and bewilderment.

'How do you fancy taking lunch at Shanti?'

A stream of sunshine floods the room. I am suddenly aware that again I have full use of my body and mind and I have a sudden wish to make the very most of the day.

'That was really amazing what happened there, but I'm fine, in fact I'm really, really hungry.'

Nirmoha's concerned expression melts into a grin of satisfaction. I surmise that she is relieved I have emerged fresh and rejuvenated. I suspect that she too has been taken by surprise over the apparent intensity of my experiences at her hands.

'Love all. Share what you have with all. Give, give, give. Become rich at heart by giving all

that you have. Expand your heart. This is the key to Cosmic Consciousness.' - Swami Shivanand

Becoming a sannyasi in his late thirties, Swami Shivanand Saraswati settled in Rishikesh, founded Shivanand Ashram and formed the Divine Life Society. Before leaving his body in 1963 at the age of 75 years old, he had completed the writing of no less than 300 volumes of spiritual literature.

Whilst walking in both the village and the jungle, I sometimes meet with a monk called Swami Radhakrishnanand, a committed Indian devotee of Shivanand, and on each occasion he presents me with a copy of the ashram magazine 'The Divine Life'. A voracious reader himself, this swami encourages me to study the teachings of his master, and to this end he selectively underlines a selection of publications from the ashram booklist for my attention, such titles such as 'All about Hinduism', 'Bliss Divine', 'Hindu Fasts and Festivals', 'Inspiring Songs and Kirtans', 'Inspiring Stories', 'Lives of Saints', 'Lord Shiva and His Worship' and 'What Becomes of the Soul After Death'. It is the monk's way of trying to involve me in his beliefs. However, I am already acquainted with Swami Shivanand's teachings.

'I have visited the room in the ashram where Swami Shivanand did his writing,' I tell him, 'It still has all his belongings in it, like his nail clippers, his pen and blanket...'

'Yes.'

'There is a good feel about the place.'

'You should come to lecture at ashram. You wish?'

'Thank you, maybe I will.'

'You come!'

'Do you know Dandi Swami Narayanand?' I enquire.

'Yes I know him. He lives without clothes.'

'Mmm. I think you mean a different swami.'

'No, Dandi Swami, he speaks at ashram.'

'Really. When I met with him he was in maun, he was not speaking.'

'You want, you can get recordings of him? Yes, you can get at 'Swar Sangam' music shop; they sell cassettes of Swami Ji. Or you can get at Parmarth Niketan.'

I am intrigued at the prospect of hearing words of the silent dandi swami. In point of fact I become instantly attached to the task of tracking down the recordings and start to nurture a desire to be present at one of the talks.

'Thanks a lot,' I say springing to my feet, 'I think I will go to find cassettes right now. Namaste Ji'

'Namaste Ji, you come to ashram for lecture?'

'We shall see. We don't plan,' I answer evasively.

*

'Dandi Swami, yes I am knowing him,' informs the local record shop owner, 'Dandi Swami he is speaking at Parmarth Niketan Ashram every time evening. It is possible I can get tape recordings of him.'

'This swami, his name is Narayanand, he is staying at Shankaracharya Nagar?'

'Yes, yes I know him. I get you recording? Yes? Or you go Parmarth Niketan? These recordings also they are having there.'

'Sure?'

'Yes, I am sure you can get, no problem.'

I walk along the riverfront to pay a visit to the glorious buildings of Parmarth Niketan the lady secretary initially meets my questions guardedly, with blank looks.

'But I am told Swami Ji speaks here!' I continue.

'Yes,' she admits frostily.

'So. Can I get recording of him?'

'He Sanskrit is speaking.'

'But, I can obtain recording?'

'Yes.'

'You have cassettes then?'

'No.'

'Where can I get them?'

'You must bring machine. Seven in evening come,' she says, warming only very slightly.

I find the woman's manner off-putting, but the opportunity to see and hear the dandi swami speak is altogether too important to pass up on account of her. Early in the evening I return and this time with my tape recorder in hand. I arrive early with enough time to catch a few minutes of Aarti on the waterfront. Leaving my socks and shoes at the gate, I find a good spot to watch and record the ceremony, which even now is already in full swing. The swaying crowds fervently singing the evening prayers alongwith yellow-clad choristers seated in a group before the musicians. The clusters of flickering flames are again being passed aloft over the heads of the congregation.

At seven o'clock I return to Parmarth Niketan but there I find no dandi swami, instead I am directed in a vague way to try a site upstream past Ram Jhula Bridge. But my hopes are raised only to be dashed again as, after scouring the shore and wayside buildings; I still gain no sight of him. However, in a last ditch bid of finding him I enter a simple ashram where an old monk is addressing a congregation of Indians, women on the left, men on the right. I wonder if I have actually found the dandi swami, but the evidence is at hand - I catch sight of his staff and pennant closeby to him. So I sit down as unobtrusively as possible and listen as he leads the congregation into prayers and then lectures them. He appears subdued and serious but, nonetheless, he delivers his message with the unwavering conviction expected of a qualified guru. I gaze at the face of the speaker, but I stare at him without recognition, noting his cropped grey hair, his stubble beard and his very serious expression. I study the painting behind him, a sideview portrait of an elderly naked man, presumably of his teacher.

I leave the gathering after battling with the disappointment that the monk's presence has provoked no wave of joy or inspiration in me. Pausing only briefly to read a notice fixed outside the ashram, I make my way back to the village where I am instantly spotted by friend Sanjay, the record store owner.

'You are finding Dandi Swami?'

'I no longer require the tape.'

'You don't like recording?' he asks frowning.

'I have made recording, but I have discovered that your dandi swami's name is Hansanand, a very different swami from the one I met with the other day.'

What I do not mention is that after making two fruitless trips to Parmarth Niketan and one to Hansanand's ashram, I am becoming increasingly frustrated with the inaccuracy of information on offer to me. However, I suspect these experiences will strengthen my resolve to forthwith focus less attention on tape recordings and more on maintaining my composure of mind.

*

When I next speak with Susan she tells me she will soon be leaving Rishikesh and I make a mental note to try to meet up with her to say a proper goodbye before she leaves. It occurs to me to ask whether or not she can remember what the swami we met looks like.

'I can remember him very well,' she says very self-assuredly.

'Brilliant. I can't explain why, but I cannot visualise him at all.'

In the belief that it will quench my interest in wanting to see him if Susan is able to create a reasonable likeness of the dandi swami, I ask: -

'I wonder if you could do a sketch of him for me?'

'Sure,' she answers immediately. But suddenly frowning, adds slowly, 'I would need him to be there for me to be able to do the drawing.' It seems that she has suddenly become aware that her own memory might fail her also.

'Ha,' I exclaim, 'that rather defeats the purpose doesn't it? Well no matter. It rather looks as though I must pay him another visit then!'

*

The following day, when I sit to meditate I am surprised to find myself unusually relaxed and calm and as I begin my practice I discover I am unable to do other than witness the most glorious feeling of happiness - my senses fill with fresh bright light. I cannot detect any rise and fall of breath, it is clear I am not breathing at all though my senses are fully sharpened and alert. My mind is almost inactive, seldom does a thought arise, it is only with effort that I manage to sustain a thought for more than a few moments before it dissolves back into formlessness and a super intense light. There is still no breath, then there stirs a faint sigh of air and then again there is no breath. Smiling deeply I try again to compose my thinking, only to find I can sustain a flow of thought for only a few seconds before again and again I merge back into a steady knowing loving light, plunging into a vast full pool of euphoria. At length the impulse to open my eyes arises. I sit glowing with happiness whilst chuckling softly. My reverie is overtaken by a thought - the thought to get up and take this wonderfully clear energy out into the world beyond my room.

I feel so very deeply relaxed and spectacularly energised, accordingly, having no wish to delay in getting out and about, I get myself ready, lock my room and bounce downstairs and through to the lobby where I happen upon Susan who is just now checking out of the hotel. We hug and well-wish whilst the amiable hotel manager watches us with apparent curiosity (for Indians generally do not seem to indulge in such public displays of affection). After Susan's departure Chaturvedi Ji calls me over.

'You now are going for more walking?'

'Yes, I am off to visit the swami I met with the other day.'

Chaturvedi Ji looks at me intently.

'If you have some minutes before you go out... I should like to tell you some things of this my life. It could take some long time, but if you have patience for me...?'

I nod.

'You know I have not always worked at this hotel?'

'Sure.'

'You see, my wife is dying seventeen years before. Until then I am working Reliance Petro-Chemical and Cloth. I left employ at fifty-two years of age and I am giving most money to daughter to look after remaining son at home. Everywhere I am travelling in India before I am meeting with my sadhu in the forest. No speech he made, only he gave me food, and in the night, which was very cold, he came with blanket to keep me warm. Eventually, it was time to move on and then he spoke only to tell me 'You will come again'.

'I continue travelling about India for quite some time and then arrived in Prayag where I met with very rich lady who took me home. Her husband is millionaire. Anyway this lady and myself we have argument, for I think she is too much identified with wealth and beauty and she feels superior to me. So I leave that place, but before I go she is telling to me that a feeling of love has been growing in her for me. But still I went anyway.

'Then, after some time, I must return to Prayag, I did not want to go but I am to attend a wedding there. I am very uneasy in my mind, so again I leave Prayag. But I did again return and then I visit her. She showed me letter she has just this day written to me - there was no trace of anger or problem coming from her side. It was as nothing was not good between us.

'Soon after again meeting with this lady I am hearing that my son has been injured in United States in hang gliding accident. She immediately went to US for fifteen months and paid all money for him. Everything for hospital, for food, for everything. But this I must tell you, she is also travelling with my daughter but never did she ever pay anything for daughter. Together they all three of them formed gemstone company. Then it was she planned to return to India. But only few days before coming back she had heart attack and died. Only but few days she is so soon coming back to see me and at that time she is now gone.

'Myself and my son we set up small mission hospital in the name of this dear lady, I am telling you she was much devotee of Lord Krishna. So after this I think I must return to place where I am meeting with sadhu. You remember he said I would come back to him again. Now, sadhu is talking and he is asking me that I am sad for someone. He tells me that lesson to learn is more important to learn than sadness. He is giving me this 'asheerwadi' or blessing, he is telling me "Be Happy".'

Chaturvedi becomes quiet; he has come to an end. I am grateful for him sharing his story.

*

Making my way through Swargashram village, I do not stop until I reach a stall laden with mounds of beautiful ripe fruits. I watch as the fruit vendor sprinkles the fruits with water from a brass pot - he has decorated his stall with freshly picked flowers. Hanging over a wall beyond his stall trail branches of flowering Bourganvillia and Himalayan Red Rhododendron.

This morning I walk slowly, not just because it is hot but also because I am not in a hurry. I am enjoying everything I see. Today I am happy just to let the day unfold, naturally. Without effort I climb the steep path leading to the dandi swami's kutir.

'Hello, hello, how are you?' a cheeky faced pretty little child calls from behind the wire fence. She smiles and giggles as I reply to her in tourist Hindi. From some way off comes a man, dressed neatly in white shirt and pressed brown trousers, whom I take to be her father.

Though his face is altogether unfamiliar, his questions are not.

'Where you are coming from?' he asks, his dark eyes scrutinising me. He appears suspicious, ill at ease.

'You mean my country? England,' I answer briefly. I suspect he is hoping for far more detailed information. Perhaps he thinks I am a journalist, come to spy on him.

'You are doctor? Or businessman? Or yoga teacher?'

The two of us chat awhile, and as we talk he takes me for a walk about the grounds of the former Academy of Meditation. He obviously does not wish to be seen by me as a common squatter for he takes time to impress upon me that he works here, taking care of 'initiation work' (initiation being a term used by the TM organisation to mean instruction in meditation). In addition to teaching TM he also claims to deal with 'management' (which evidently includes the dual tasks of watchdog and reception committee).

'At this time all activities are closed here,' he informs me. 'New buildings is here after one year.'

But it is all too evident that no construction work has yet been started. Perhaps he senses my doubts.

'Permit extension after some time,' he assures himself.

It is difficult to comprehend why anyone would have the authority to demolish any of these buildings, for none of them are particularly old.

'But if the buildings really are to be pulled down what will take their place?'

'Good Vedic gardens and guest house for foreigns.'

'No longer an ashram then?'

'No,' he states, evidently uncomfortable at the thought.

I change the subject

'I have come to see Dandi Swami Narayanand. He was not in his kutir. Do you think he is coming back soon?'

'Yes, you will be seeing him. Dandi Swami is very good man. He is enlightened. He is guru,' he comments rather matter-of-factly, as if he were reading the contents of a can of food. Enlightenment must be commonplace in these parts or for what other reason would he make such light work of the subject?

Suddenly a commotion erupts. An adult langur attempts to tear the paper bag I'm carrying from my grasp, and spills several fruits to the ground. The cunning creature has sidled up completely unnoticed.

'Wow, that was clever, he came out of nowhere!' I exclaim with amazement as the langur scampers away to the trees.

'Eighty, - ninety monkeys here all the time. They are very criminal,' he replies informs me in a concerned voice.

We have arrived at a red and white pinnacled structure, which contains a Shivalinga, a shrine to Shivashakti. My companion shyly asks me to take a photograph of himself and his daughter. As they stand posing, a young Indian woman emerges from a nearby building stepping into the bright sunlight. She is the girl's mother and she quickly declines her husband's request for her to join them in the photograph, excusing herself saying she instead wishes to perform puja, a religious ceremony, and so slips away. Father and daughter pose beside the sacred lingam. The camera clicks and whirrs successfully, though with concern I observe that the batteries are running extremely low.

'Perhaps the swami has by now returned,' I suggest. 'I think I will check one time more before I go.'

'Yes we go to him now. I think he is returned. Maybe.'

Leaving the ashram compound, we walk together to the gate adjacent to the holyman's rooms. I do not see anyone there, but I notice that the door to the kutir is ajar and a pair of sandals lie beside it, which would seem to suggest he is back. There is a flicker of light amongst illuminating the shadowed entrance and all-at-once the orange robed dandi swami is standing directly before us. He beckons us, his bright eyes flashing a greeting of welcome. And again I am awed to be in his presence for he radiates such a concentrated atmosphere of inner strength and well-being. My companion speaks up, telling that of the photography session. I wonder at him, that he bothers to share such information with the holyman. When the swami hears tell of the photo-shoot he communicates to me by gestures that I ought to note my companions contact details. A very practical suggestion if I am to send a copy of the printed photograph when the film has been developed. With his permission I use the swami's pen to take down the man's address. Swami Ji is also quick to note that the address I am given by the man, Mr. Thakur, lacks a 'pin number', or postal code. He writes this for me on his chalkboard and holds it aloft, chuckling to himself as he does so. He appears to takes an almost childlike delight in involving himself in the world of administration; Mr. Thakur's designated work.

Still holding the pen, I think decide to take the opportunity to commit the holyman's likeness to paper. I attempt to sketch him and as I do so I listen to Mr Thakur as he translates the Hindi words on the swami's chalkboard.

'Swami Ji, silence he makes for four months. At this time he will speak after two days.'

Mr. Thakur sounds puzzled as he tells me: -,'Swami is also saying he knows you before,' he says sounding very surprised. I assume the swami is referring to our prior meeting, though I am not certain, for in India it is not uncommon for people to casually refer to former lifetimes! I contemplate this truth as I continue to draw.

But soon I abandon my crude sketch and surprise myself as I summon up the courage to ask if I might use my camera instead. Narayanand Ji chuckles and casually unties his topknot, letting fall a shower of long silvering hair to tumble over his shoulders. Taking up the long cloth-covered 'dandi' staff he then seats himself cross-legged on the wooden bench and motions for Mr. Thakur to pull up a chair and join him for the photograph. The camera whirrs, the job is done. Mr Thakur does not stay.

Left alone with the swami I am tempted to stretch my luck a little and ask if I can take one more shot. Again he chuckles, twinkles his eyes and waggles his heavily bearded head in assent. As he sits he presents the definitive image of the cheery self-realised guru. In an instant I imagine his taking to the stage at a Rock music venue - imagining the crowds taking to him very easily. I feel inspired to move my position, to crouch down in front of him. I compose the picture; taking care to include his wooden sandals. The shaded scene, dappled with morning sunlight, perhaps only needs but a bounce of flash and I am concerned that in waiting for the weak battery to power-up the flash attachment, I might be testing the swami's patience in keeping him waiting. I hold fire for just a while longer. I raise my eyes from the camera; Swami Ji flickers his eyebrows, apparently in approval signalling that the time is right. Pressing the button my instincts tell me the photograph is perfect.

I put away the camera and return to the swami's side to place beside him my offering of fruits and the few flowering purple blooms that formerly adorned the street vendor's barrow. The swami's hands hover over the fruits a moment, as if in blessing. He gestures for me to sit on the blanket that he spreads by his side. As I sit quietly with him my mind flickers and splutters into liveliness, I become awake to the very great opportunity this meeting affords me, for it is not everyday one has the chance to sit in the presence of such a man. I suspect that whatever people mean by the words enlightened and guru, he personifies them. I begin asking him a few questions: -

'Swami Ji, should I continue my meditations?'

He answers with an affirmative roll of his head. This surprises me for I half expect him to advise me to perform some different practice instead. On a previous visit to India I met with another monk of Jyotir Math monastery who appeared quite offish about the need for inner meditation, saying 'Here it not necessary to meditate.' Also when I sat for meditation in Trottacacharya Gupha, a cave near to the monastery, a monk there also voiced certain discouragement.

'I also wish to teach meditation, is this alright?'

Again the swami offers a very positive reaction.

In his graceful responses to my earnest enquiries I derive incredible strength and support for my spiritual aspirations. My self-assurance grows by the moment. As I sit glowing with the satisfaction at having gained the dandi swami's permission and approval, the memory of my recent hands-on healing treatment springs to mind. Without hesitation I decide to ask his opinion about such practices.

'Recently I have been given Reiki,' I explain. 'I would like to show you what happened.' I lay myself down prone on the trodden earth before him and proceed to re-enact some of the more sensational aspects of the session, the twists, turns, jerks and sudden bursts of rapid deep breathing. As I replay the dramatic highlights of the session he responds with nods, smiles and rolls his head from side to side. When I have finished my re-enactment he demonstrates for me a breathing exercise, indicating that it will be useful for me to practice. Drawing myself up, I practice by his example and then remain sitting cross-legged before him, assuming the role of pupil. I have observed that gurus seem always seem to seat themselves higher than their visitors do, I had thought it customary for them to do so.

By gestures the swami makes it obvious that he does not wish for me to remain seated at his feet, but that I should return to my place beside him on the rug he has laid for me there. I return without delay. I feel no desire to speak further, since, as he has answered my questions, there is nothing better to do other than sit in the quietness and enjoy the gift of his graceful smiling companionship. After some long time spent enjoying blissful moments with the Swami Ji I notice his manner subtly alters and he now raises his strong eyebrows and for a moment the bright red tilak and horizontal lines of sandalwood that grace his brow almost resemble a frown. Springing to his feet he takes up a piece of cloth and, with skilful slight of hand worthy of a seasoned conjurer, he deftly uses it to cover and gather up my offerings. Whereupon, a thwarted bandit monkey scampers away to regain the cover of the jungle, it's schemes foiled again.

'What should I do next?' I ask the swami, hoping for some last spiritual guidance before leaving him. Without a moment's hesitation he takes up his chalkboard and writes in clear sweeping motions. My eyes light on three words in particular: -

'Snan lata kumbh' - snan lata I take to refer to bathing, kumbh, I vaguely recall as meaning a pot. He therefore appears to be advising me to undertake some sort of ritual bath. Perhaps he is advising me to become an ascetic?

'Where must I go?' I ask of him.

'Prayag,' he writes. Prayag I know is the term for the meeting of two rivers as found in local placenames such as Devaprayag and Rudraprayag, which I have visited. It is also the ancient name for the city of Allahabad.

'Allahabad?' I query.

He grins almost conspiratorially, as if divulging a great secret.

'Brahma Nivas, Alopi Bhag,' he writes. It is clear now, for the name of the monastery and its address are contained in an area of my memory, which has suddenly, became activated. Swami Narayanand is inviting me to go to the monastery in Allahabad

'Shankaracharya Ashram!' I marvel.

He smiles, waggles his head and nods again, crinkling his eyes, squeezing rays of his inner light to scatter about him.

I ask him when I should travel to Allahabad.

This time he uses no chalkboard, only he uses his eyes and simple hand gestures. Circling with his finger he points first to his own head and then to mine. I understand, at least I think I understand. I believe he means me to think about it. It is for me to decide.

As I stand ready to leave, he bids me wait a moment and goes to select a piece of fruit, which he presents to me. As on my previous visit, as I depart I reach to touch his feet and as I do so I feel his hands linger behind my head. As he blesses me, I hear a sound issue from him, similar to the sound of the hissing of a snake, then again all is silent again. Respectfully I bow my head and place my hands together.

'Jay Shri Gurudev,' I say, meaning 'Glory be to blessed Gurudev', a customary greeting in praise of his guru.

I back away from his presence and as I do so I notice his eyes appear to narrow slightly. But as I fervently desire one last look into the infinite depths his wide-open eyes, I pause longer, expectantly. Although I believe he understands my unspoken wish, he remains steadfast without movement, offering to me a last silent instruction - that, for whatever reason or however well intentioned, it is futile to attempt exertion of one's own willpower over that of an enlightened master.

Chapter Nine

'Thoughts are no more than gentle vibrations moving in the ether.'- Swami Paramahansa Yogananda

With a lightness of step, I take the descent down the steep path from Shankaracharya Nagar hill quickly. Realising that I have no further plans for the day, I make a snap decision to again walk in the jungle. The certain knowledge that I have, in my camera, a perfect image of an enlightened man excites me immensely. I resolve to walk to Rishikesh town and have the film developed this very day, but as there are more than two dozen unexposed frames left in the camera I begin wildly pressing the button and recording wayside views.

Although it is but mid-morning the day has become hot and with the brisk pace of my walk I become very thirsty. Having no handy carton of juice, I elect instead to enjoy the apple the swami has given me as prasad, a perfectly tasty fruit literally dripping with refreshing juice. But I eat no more than a third of the delicious gift before I realise I now have a companion walking by my side, eager for a share of the apple. Then comes another and another and soon there are several langur gathered around me. Using my thumbs to break the apple apart, I offer the eager creatures pieces from my outstretched hands, taking care not to let any of them take more than his fair share. I watch them as they bite and chew the succulent fruit.

Wiping my hands, wet with the apple juice, my attention falls on somebody seated a little way off, garbed in the orange cloth of renunciation. He beckons me over to a clearing under some trees where he has made a simple camp. All the while he fixes me with a smiling but extraordinarily powerful gaze and announces in a strong voice.

'I have been with you since you arrived.'

In 'Autobiography of a Yogi', author Paramahansa Yogananda tells of many meetings where he met with extraordinary souls. Instinctively, I know this man has a depth of perception far exceeding the norm. I eye his strangely intense face framed with wild shock of white hair and charcoal grey beard.

'You are feeding Hanuman monkey. This is good,' he declares happily.

He bids me to join him, to sit with him upon a blanket on the dry earth. As I make myself comfortable the old man stares deeply into my eyes and, as he holds up a wagging finger in front of my face, he tells me in very solemn tones: -

'You - do - not - need - to - take - permission!'

'No?' I ask, shocked that he appears to know the gist of my meeting with the dandi swami.

'No. You are not needing to take permission from anyone!' he repeats, almost as he is admonishing me.

I have walked briskly without delay from Swami Narayanand's kutir, so there can be no question of trickery or collusion. Actually though, I entertain no doubt concerning these swamis' gifts of skills which appear to me to surpass any offered by modern telecommunications. Stunned, I wait to find out whether he has any further revelations to make. But it appears that, having passed on these messages, the old man now feels free to relax his stance. Grinning at me he now asks the normal questions so frequently demanded of tourists concerning country and name. I am happy to tell him anything he wishes.

I am still buzzing with exuberance from my meeting with the dandi swami and am very eager to interpret the meaning of his advice concerning a ritual bath.

'I have just been with Dandi Swami Narayanand, he wrote these words for me, "snan lata kumbh",' I reveal.

The old man shows no sign of surprise.

Raising his long index finger, he waves it before my face. He rocks from side to side, leans forward and begins to explain to me, very slowly and forcefully: -

'You take bath at Kumbh Mela, this is to wash away karma of past lives. This special Kumbh Mela, at Prayag, only every one and half thousand years is.'

'When is Kumbh Mela?

He does not answer me immediately but continues to stare deeply into my eyes. I feel an intense bond of friendship and love for the old man. He smiles indulgently, opens his mouth and laughs the laugh of one without any real cares. Again he rocks to and fro and raises his finger again, as if to announce his intention to speak.

'Jan-ua-ry second to twentieth, Jan-ua-ry second to twentieth,' he announces. It is as if he is listening to the message and repeating it out loud for my benefit.

As I weigh up his words I sense that an important piece of a personal spiritual jigsaw is slotting into place. But I am alarmed, for this invitation to attend this very special Kumbh Mela, a religious festival to be held in Allahabad, entails not only travelling the distance of some several hundred miles, but much more.

'Oh, but I should be back in England in January.'

The old man now becomes very, very serious. He rocks back and forth and points up above him.

'Doing the guru's work is not easy. It is most difficult work,' he states, very emphatically, tilting his head.

Guru's work? Am I being tested? But who have I ever taken to be my guru? Only have I sometimes asked advice and information from those I have believed to be wiser than myself.

In this moment I entertain the real possibility that Swami Brahmanand (also known as 'Gurudev'), a man some fifty years departed from this earth is orchestrating events on this bright sunny day in Northern India. Did he have some hand in my getting my sannyasi name from Shiv Balak? Could these apparently enlightened old holy men in point of fact really be agents of Gurudev? Is it really possible, I wonder?

'What is your name?' I ask (the detective in me coming to the fore).

'Roopanand.'

'Swaroopanand?' I check, for Swami Swaroopanand is another of the few remaining disciples of Gurudev.

'Roopanand, Roopanand' he corrects me.

I sit, attentive but silent.

'So! What is my name?' he asks. He asks in such a way as to suggest I might have to dig deep deep inside my being for the correct answer.

'Swami Roopanand Saraswati Maharaj Ji,' I reply without really thinking.

'Good. This is good,' he responds with a hearty laugh.

It is difficult not to like him, to love this old man. He appears to me both rogue and saint. In his manner he is so very different to the dandi swami, yet he too exudes a lightness, a profound inner serenity.

'What do you want from me?' he now asks. I am surprised by his question, but, strangely, I feel I might ask him for anything and he would be able to give it.

In a flash I realise that I am, at least for this moment, entirely without desires.

'I want for nothing,' I answer truthfully.

His smile wanes, he becomes particularly intense.

'So now what do you say then?' he says staring deeply into my eyes without blinking. I stay silent.

'What - you - say - now?' he repeats slowly, dramatically.

My head becomes a whirr of activity but without any resultant thought. Spontaneously I feel a sentence forming.

'Is there anything I can do for you?' I offer.

'Ah good. This is good. But I do not want money,' he says very earnestly, wagging his finger again. Suppressing my relief, I watch and wait patiently for him to continue. He speaks slowly 'I would like to come back with you, to your country, to England.'

'Oh!' I exclaim dumbfounded. I shrink back in embarrassment, for this is worse than being asked for money, much worse. He raises his eyebrows as he awaits my reply. Confused and cornered by him I offer a weak response, saying: - 'Oh this is difficult. I must think about it.' I pray he will not raise the topic again. Leaning down over the smouldering wood fire he takes some ash on his fingers and applies it to my forehead, deliberately creating the marks of his faith.

'This vibhuti - in Hindi,' he tells me, pointing to the ash.

The smears of vibhuti on my brow seem to cool my head, it seems to refresh my mind, helping me relax and settle down.

'Shiva eyes - Vishnu body - Brahma mind,' he explains, clarifying that the three principle Hindu deities are all located within the human body.

It is apparent that I have, without asking, become his student. He fixes me directly with his eyes, and sings: - 'Gurur Brahma, Gurur Vishnuah, Guru Devo Maheshvara.' I am struck how very coincidental it is that he is reciting these very words of puja, I have lately been fretting to remember. He recites them slowly to my face, clearly wishing me to memorise each and every word perfectly. I repeat the puja to his satisfaction, whereupon he shakes his head this way and that and nods approvingly.

'Rama is embodiment of God! - Hanuman is service!' he is moved to observe, throwing some food to a visiting langur monkey. I am aware that in the mind of the ascetic, all thoughts and actions are offered up in service of God. The monkey Hanuman's devotion to his god-king Rama is seen as example for those on the bhakti or devotional path, those in service of God.

Roopanand now moves very very close to me and again he raises his finger. It is as though he is running though a list of topics he must sort out with me.

'Only one meal eat in day. Only three hours sleep enough,' he announces.

'Yes, that's right!' I answer in astonishment. Without apparent effort he makes this accurate inventory of new habits I have acquired since arriving in India. How does he do it, I wonder?

'You smoke?' he asks suddenly, his hand dropping and lowering to his side. Perhaps his question is just to test me. He has done it again for I am on the verge of quitting my habit of smoking cigarettes. But, something tells me he is about to offer me a chillum pipe.

'Chillum nahin,' I murmur.

I wonder if he smokes hashish himself. What need would he have for drugs? Staring inquisitively into my eyes he smiles benevolently. He emanates an air of self-sufficiency and good humour.

'Where are you getting this?' he asks pointing at the cotton bracelet on my wrist.

'At the temple above Neelkanth Mahadev.'

'Good, good. Neelkanth is temple of god Shiva.'

He starts singing again, this time it is a song of devotion in praise of the god.

On the ground beside him I notice a prayer book of hymns to Lord Shiva, I ask him to translate some verses for me.

Turning over the pages he selects a passage, perhaps it is one of his personal favourites: -

'Be father, mother, brother. No problems will be. Do service.'

He then encourages me to read it for myself and I try, stumbling through a few lines of Sanskrit.

'You, every day, study Hindi! You do?' he encourages.

'Yes, I will make sure I do that.'

'Yes, yes. Every day you are Hindi language work doing. Myself I am knowing three language,' he says holding three fingers together. 'Hindi, Sanskrit and the secret language.'

The secret language? I reflect on this disclosure. I wonder if it might hold a clue to his apparent psychic abilities. But, I realise I have misheard him, for he must surely be referring not to the 'secret' but to the 'Sikh' language of the Punjab.

'Now,' he says stretching and straightening his back.

By this one word he makes me understand that the lessons are finished for the day.

He asks me: - 'You have hobby?'

'I play music, guitar.'

'Banjo you play! This will be hobby for you.'

'Mmm. Maybe.'

'Yes, banjo you get!'

'I will try to find one,' I answer evasively.

I am beginning to think this might be a good time to leave. It has been an intense exchange and I now wish to be on my own. As I start to get up he takes hold my knee in a powerful grip and again stares very deeply into my eyes.

'So, what you do for me?' he asks, narrowing his eyes.

I panic, realising he is again raising the subject of coming with me to England.

'Very, very difficult,' I tell him, and in Hindi repeat myself, 'Bahut bahut muskil hai...' Then, all-at-once, a thought tumbles out in words.

'I will take you back in my heart,' I offer him.

'This is good! Very good! Yes!'. He sounds moved and impressed, as though this is the correct answer to his question, the only correct answer. It is as though I have passed a test.

He brings his face close to mine

'I know who you are!' he states with forceful conviction. Throwing the situation around, he then asks me, 'Who you are?'

Puzzled, I tell him my given name. He just stares.

'Also I have Indian name, Premanand,' I add.

'WHO ARE YOU?' he persists.

'Mmmmm....' I mumble uncertainly.

'Narayana you are. You - are - Narayana.'

I am aware that Narayana is a name of God and therefore assume he is trying to raise in my awareness the realisation that we are all potentially divine.

'I go now Swami Ji,' I tell him.

'Yes, it is time,' he announces drawing himself up. He stands tall. A mysterious and powerful figure.

I falter, wondering with what words I should take my leave, not knowing how to thank him for the blessing of our meeting or his words of wisdom and encouragement.

'You are coming here again! I will be here!' he assures me.

I do not reply but instead bow forward to touch his feet.

He blesses me.

'You sound very happy.'

'Well I AM.'

'Have you joined a cult or something?'

'Oh, because I sound happy and mention that I have spoken to a couple of swami's, then I must have joined a cult?'

'But you do sound VERY happy...! I'm glad for you though.'

Admittedly, phone calls are not the best way to relate, but from an old friend I feel I should be able to expect a more positive response. If she could see the vibhuti marks on my forehead, her attitude would probably be no less suspicious. Happily, the reverse appears to be true amongst the locals for whom it is as though the ash marks singles me out for preferential treatment., for not only are shopkeepers more attentive and helpful, but even whilst out amongst crowds people seem to pay me special attention, some even touching my feet! Even after I wash the ash away, the spiritual magic of the two holy men seems to cling for I continue, for a while yet, to attract an extraordinarily friendly attitude towards me.

'How much you are paying for your room?' asks the manager of a restaurant I visit. After I tell him, he offers me a luxury room in his hotel at a fraction of the normal cost, well below the rate of even the most basic room locally. But, he could not know that even if he were to offer the room free of charge, I would not be tempted out of my hillside retreat, surrounded as it is by natural beauty and with such ready access to enlightened masters.

I notice a curious phenomenon develop, that whenever the desire to visit either of my swami friends arises, I find them apparently waiting and when my commitments prevent me from visiting them, they appear on my path. I note also that neither of them asks any material thing of me, though both demand my full attention.

*

The first morning of the Reiki course I enjoy immensely and at midday we break for lunch after which I find enough time to take a short stroll in the forest to meet with Swami Roopanand who greets me with great gusto, his eyes twinkling brightly. The swami renews his efforts to educate me. I find his manner becoming ever more familiar and friendly; I become more relaxed in his company. Lazily I contemplate the smoke rising from the smouldering wood fire when suddenly he brings his face close to mine. He opens his eyes wide, wide open, and tells me slowly and forcibly, his manner becoming ever more grave: -
'One day you will feed ten thousand sadhus, cripples and... ' Swami Roopanand pauses and points to a stump of flesh where his right arm had once been, 'And ... handicapped people.'

I have not noticed his disability before, though evidently he had lost his arm long ago.

'Yes,' I assure him, 'I would like to help.'

'You give roti, rice and vegetable. And also langur you are feeding too!' he says emphatically. It is as if he were making preparations for an imminent event, a grand feast. This suggestion, that I help towards the welfare of local people, it strikes a chord.

'For a long time now I have wanted to have enough money to make a contribution to the Baba Kamla Kamli Mission. I hope I can do it.'

He listens attentively. Rising from his rug he again marks my forehead with ash, this time telling me which fingers are used for which marks, and explaining their symbolism. Apparently, he means for me to learn to apply these marks for myself.

I would have lingered much longer, looking, listening and learning, but just in time I remember that I must hasten back to the hotel. With the old man's blessing I leave.

*

Before attempting an understanding of the principles or practices of Reiki, I am shown, by example, how important it is to be able to create a calm environment. It also becomes clear how important it is for one to attain an uncluttered mind before becoming engaged as a conductor of healing energy. I soon realise how the 'practitioner' will be vastly more effective if he or she is both centred and calm. This information seems in total accordance with the instructions given by Lord Krishna to his friend Arjuna, as recounted in the Bhagavad Gita, "Yogastah kuru karmani - Established in yoga, perform action".

Over the two days of the Reiki course we explore many techniques aimed at focusing and stilling the mind. During this time I imagine my mind and body are, quite naturally, becoming less clogged with stresses and strains. The process of throwing-off impurities sometimes becomes evident during periods of meditation, when the knees, elbows, neck and other joints give sudden twists or jerks. Unstressing can take many forms and can occur in unforeseen and quite dramatic ways.

'Aaagh,' I gasp involuntarily as a sudden pain seers through my right wrist. The overwhelming sensation of continued unremitting pain causes me to tear off the heavy copper bangle I wear, recommended to 'draw out impurities'. But still the pain persists, worse even than before. I begin to feel panic rising within me and in desperation signal my concern to Nirmoha who promptly picks up a sharp pair of scissors and shears through the cotton strands. Though I go on massaging my wrist, the lesson continues without mention of the incident.

It is said that the technique of hands-on healing is very ancient, indeed it is believed to be many thousands of years old. The system of Reiki is thought to originate in Tibet, though its rediscovery at the end of the 19th century is credited to Dr Mikao Usui. According to Nirmoha: -
'It is known that 2000 years ago, Jesus Christ healed many people by the laying on of hands, and that it was with his clear intention and pure mind, that he was able to perform miracle healings. His healings, however, were not miracles in the sense of magic powers that lie beyond the potential of the average man; they were healings that can come through anyone who makes himself available as a channel for Reiki energy.

Nirmoha also explains the scientific basis of Reiki healing: -
'Healing means to realign ourselves with the universe, which is made out of the universal life force, and the more attuned and refined the body / mind becomes the less possible it is for one to attract the lower vibrating frequencies. Most diseases and misalignments of the body / mind are self created through unintentional misdirection of energy. Whatever we invest our energy (attention) into, we create our reality out of. If we think negative thoughts, we attract the vibrations towards us and before we know it we will be inflicted with a body ache, or a sickness, or some sort of undesired circumstance.'

'Quantum physicists have demonstrated that the atom breaks down into pure energy. This proves that everything that exists in the universe, material and non-material, is made out of rapidly moving, particles of energy. Through inner hearing we can hear energy as sound, through inner sight we can see it as light, and through inner touch we can feel it as vibrations. These inner senses are known respectively as clairaudiency, clairvoyancy and clairsentiency. Through the imagination we uncover the reality that we are able to uncover this truth in the most tangible way possible. It is not a reality that can be grasped physically because as the quantum physicists discovered, the essence of matter is not solid.'

*

Perhaps the explanations offered in connection with the healing power of Reiki also provide some explanation for the extraordinary siddha powers often claimed for yogis and swamis. This topic is all the more relevant when one meets with a man who can apparently tap into the thought flow of another, who must clearly have access to a deeper reservoir of energy than is commonly available. Roopanand Ji would unfailingly pluck out a topic currently prevailing in my mind or in the mind of anyone I might introduce to him.

I had thought to tell no one about the two Sanskrit words that sprang to mind when I first decided to share the secrets of deep meditation. Nevertheless, this does not stop 'Baba' firing these exact words at me, the meaning of which come to my mind in an instant.

Curiously, after initially speaking to me in English, Baba now seldom talks with me in Hindi. Even when I clearly have difficulty understand him sometimes, he seems happier that I resort to attempts at telepathy than when I seek verbal answers. Occasionally, there are others gathered about. When Anand, his blissful chela (disciple) is present I ask him to translate the swami's words.

'Baba is telling me he knows you will come to see him today. He is looking forward to your visit. He is saying that one day you will feed many sadhus here, he asks that you will come and cook for them? Yes? You understand me?'

'Yes. You speak excellent English! But tell me, why doesn't he speak to me in English anymore?'

'Baba says that you understand Hindi.'

Though I fail most of the telepathic tests and fare little better with understanding his Hindi, Roopanand is not deterred. He hugs me and laughs, rattles off more sentences in Hindi and hugs me again. I cannot but love the old man very dearly; a bond has grown between us. I will surely take him home in my heart, as I will all the other special friends I have been making.

*

As luck has it, an opportunity comes for me to make suitable offerings to my spiritual benefactors, Dandi Swami Narayanand and dear old Baba Roopanand. One morning as I am talking with a local jeweller, our conversation is interrupted by a man coming by bicycle from Rishikesh. The jeweller takes delivery of two beautiful garlands of bright orange blooms similar in size, shape and perfume to French marigolds, the 'genda' flowers are threaded together with string.

'Can I buy garlands?' I ask.

'Mala! You want mala?'

'Yes! I have two swami friends. I would like to buy malas for them.'

'These are very special mala, but if you want you can have. Here, take them as gift.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I can get other mala, though they are less good quality.'

I thank him and immediately set off towards the kutir of Narayanand, stopping first to wash in the Ganga. As I clean and refresh myself, I notice the dandi swami walking the path towards Swargashram. Realising that any delay might make me lose this opportunity to present him with the mala, I quickly dry myself, gather up the garlands and run towards him. He walks faster, much faster, than I believe is possible for a man so advanced in years, for he must be well into his eighties. But he sees me and pauses, fixing me with a questioning glance as I make my offering. I go to place the garland around his neck but he indicates that he would prefer I place it over his outstretched forearm. I infer from this that he does not intend to wear the mala himself but to later offer it elsewhere, perhaps at a temple. Without further delay the swami is away again and it seems only moments later that he can be seen only as an orange blur in the distance.

I now seek out Roopanand Ji and find him easily at his usual camping spot and leans forward that I might place the floral offering over his head. I leave with his blessing. However, some time later in the day I sense I should go to see him again and on this occasion I notice there is no sign of the mala. I ask him where it has gone. With flamboyant gestures he tells the story of how he placed it on a tree trunk and how it soon became lunch to a visiting cow. He laughs to recall the incident. I suspect he is probably more interested in the animal's welfare. He appears to be able to make himself understood to all manner of creatures. In a mix of language, non-language sound and gesture he calls and talks with all the animals. The monkeys, the cows and the visiting dog all seem totally at home in his company. I am awed by this gift and Baba, sensing my deep curiosity and wonder, attempts to explain his secret: -
'If for forty days you feed the animals, the langur, the cows, the insects and also the life in the water, you will know their language.'

It appears that for whatever reason someone arrives within the shores of Bharat (the Indian name for India), it is difficult to withstand personal change. Although not all who come to Rishikesh would claim to be in pursuit of spiritual knowledge, most would admit to hearing the 'wake-up call' that India gives its visitors. This call is described in a variety of ways, usually in the form of anecdotal stories, in which travellers tell of how prejudices and preconceptions have been swept aside by some specific incident with a positive outcome. Such experiences range from the trivial to the extremely serious and often concern honesty, trust or compassion.

Onney a disc jockey from Whitby in Northern England eagerly shares some recent brushes with fate: -
'You wouldn't believe it, when I got the rickshaw, I went off to the other side of Delhi leaving my rucksack sat on the street. I didn't realise what I'd done until we had got right across the city. I can tell you.. I was worried! I mean, I've got all my stuff in there, my camera, sound stuff, passport, my money, everything! So I got back there to Old Delhi, but of course, as you can guess, I couldn't see it anywhere. What was I to do? I mean it was gone and that was that. What could I could, it looked like a trip to the embassy was in order, but I mean this was definitely the end of my holiday. But just then this man ran up to me and began tugging at my sleeve. I told him I was looking all about for my bag and it was as though he understood. Like I found he had the bag in his shop, he'd been waiting in the street all that time for me to come back.'

'Another thing happened when I was in Delhi. My mate, he went into a toilet in our hotel and left his money belt wrapped around a pipe. He only remembered it about half an hour later. At least five or six people must have been in there before he went back, so he was really panicked. He had to wait for someone to come out. But there it was anyway, still wrapped around the pipe, nobody had so much as touched it.

'Me, I thought everybody was only after money, they have some really clever ways of getting to you. Good deals, hard luck stories, they really get onto you, they really work on the psychology. Well I was just thinking about this when I tripped over and smashed my head open, blood all over the place. Well, this woman came over and fixed it up really nicely and you know? She wouldn't take any money! So instead I tried to buy some stuff off her stall, but she wouldn't sell me anything. Only when I told her that I really liked the stuff and I really wanted to buy some gifts for friends did she let me buy anything at all. She didn't want me to buy her stuff just for helping me out. She amazed me. It really changes your mind, I can tell you. Anything you think about them, well it turns around the other way. They're much nicer than you'd think. People back home just fill your head with fears like "You'll get sick"; "You'll get ripped off". Actually they're some of the nicest people you could ever meet!'

Scots Andy seems to get his 'wake-up' call from nature: -
'I mean we saw this snow leopard up near Ladakh, people come especially to try and find them. We were just passing though and ... there it is! That is one of the rarest sights you could ever see.'

Andy, unlike Jane, his girlfriend, has yet to be won over to the spiritual dimension of yoga teachings. Whilst she has been studying with Swami Vivekananda, a Rumanian, Andy has been off on his own, unsuccessfully looking for under-the-counter eggs and black market liquor. Perhaps it is not just the claim that the Rumanian has attained enlightenment that bothers him, it could also be that the Tantra Yoga taught by Vivekananda is rumoured to encompass practices more in keeping with the Kama Sutra than with yoga classes at local educational institutes back home.

Corby, one of a group freshly arrived in India from life on a Kibbutz in Israel, although open to the possibility that spiritual practices can work for individuals, worried that liberation or 'moksha' might lead to a lack of concern about the welfare of others. From a local holy man he learns that moksha actually means death and he is astonished when the swami, unprovoked, lectures him upon the need for social responsibility.

Attoro, an engaging Austrian Reiki Master, long ago heard the wake-up call and now spends his time flitting from ashram to ashram, learning new techniques, enjoying chance meetings and discovering the secret powers of the mind. By some uncanny stroke of good fortune, he claims that events frequently turn to his advantage. If he has to visit Delhi, he is given five-star accommodation without charge. If he has to make an air trip it is by VIP class on a ticket a fraction of the normal cost. Attoro has been offered an intriguing clue to his good fortune: -
'My guru explained to me why things go like this, it is because I am a king in my last life.'

Kalidas, another Reiki Master and long-time inmate of a local ashram heard his wake-up call earlier than most: -
'We lived in London. I had learnt everything I know about Shamanism from my Russian mother by the time I was eight.'

After first visiting Rishikesh in the late sixties he has come to regard India as his home. To the suggestion that he might one day return to the West he retorts: -
'But I won't come back. This is where I live. I never ever leave this place, there is nowhere else I want to be.'

*

In the queue at the departure lounge at Delhi airport I shuffle along with my rucksack and shoulder bag taking great care to protect my most fragile belongings such as the unusual little Indian Banjo I have acquired. I must also take care of the more sophisticated technical devices I have brought from the music store in Dehra Dun near Rishikesh. Whilst I wait to check in my baggage a middle-aged Indian woman questions me on how I have spent my time in India.

'You have been to Goa? To Rajastan? You are liking India?'

'I stayed only up in Rishikesh.'

'Oh good, Rishikesh is a holy place. Our party travelled as far Hardwar; Hardwar is also Holy City. There we went for Divali. We are saying many prayers there. Myself I would have liked to go further on. Tell me, are you staying in ashram at Rishikesh? You are practicing yoga? You are doing some kind of meditation?'

I smile, wondering how best I should answer her, I do my best.

We move on further towards the baggage desk.

'Would you like to see a couple of photographs I have taken?' I ask.

'Thank you, yes!' she responds eagerly.

As I show her portraits of Dandi Swami Narayanand and Baba Roopanand I notice she visibly glows as she studies the photographs. As I watch her I tell her more about the holymen, and at the same time I fumble about in my pockets, searching for the block of treacly sweet gur that Roopanand pressed into my hands only hours before.

'Prasad from the Baba,' I say holding out the tiny cake wrapped in a scrap of newspaper. 'Take it, you can share with your friends.'

'Dhanyavad. Thank you,' she thrills, pressing the gur to her forehead, then carefully stowing it in her hand luggage.

'Where is this Baba staying?' she asks, 'Where is he?'

As I think about how best to describe where in the jungle I first met with Roopanand Ji, I stop myself and instead simply touch myself lightly on the chest.

Contact details: - premanandpaul@yahoo.co.uk

[Return to main page of www.paulmason.info]