THE WAY OF GHEE
By Stephen Brown
Copyright 2007 Stephen Brown
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https://www.thestephenbrown.co.uk
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For
Anybody who has ever been to India
For Sivaramakrishnan & the Premam Beach Resort
and
For Mike Bauer
The almonds are for you
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Way of Ghee
Author details
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THE WAY OF GHEE
Struggling up another narrow mountain path, the pilgrims were heartened to see a craggy rock sticking out across the track ahead of them. What lay beyond was hidden from view, but they all hoped that this time this was it - this was the landmark that signalled the end of their journey. Of course they all knew that reaching the end would only be the beginning of their real journey, but at least the gruelling trek would be over.
When they had left the white walls of the ashram five days ago they had been warned for a final time that it was a long and difficult walk - a climb in places - but their minds’ had been set. Eight of them had set out after the pre-dawn satsang and they were determined they would all make the journey together, drawing on each others’ strengths to help them through their weaknesses.
The group as a single entity, however, had failed on day one. After only six hours the Spaniard, Beltran, had turned back. The heavy rains of the previous week had made the going even more difficult than normal, and a solid forty minutes of heaving each other through calf-deep mud had been enough for him.
“Come onnnnnnn guys, this is cra-zy.” He had already threatened several times to turn back, hoping that at least one of the others would follow him, but in the end he left alone, and was back at the ashram for the evening meal.
It was generally agreed that the group was stronger without him and they ploughed ahead with greater fortitude after that. If the rains had made it harder down in the valley though, up in the wilds of the mountain passes it was even worse. Beyond the last of the grey-brick villages the path became treacherous and unpredictable. Three more of them had left the following morning.
Those that remained though, the final four, were adamant. They were going to make it, and over the next four days they experienced hardships none of them could ever have dreamed, but they suffered silently and slogged on no matter what, each of them lifting the others up whenever spirits flagged.
Those four days were tough, scrabbling along the precipitous, crumbling ledges that circled the mountainside and trudging through the mosquito-ridden valleys, cold and drenched in shadow all day long. Each of them was pushed to their very limits. No matter what they came up against though, the insects, swollen rivers, the cold, damp nights - each other - they did not let it beat them; they got through it. They carried on.
It was these four, two women and two men, who now picked their way carefully towards the craggy outcropping, hoping - praying - that this was the spot they had been told about, and the cave of the mystical Holy man they had come so far to see would be right there, just around the bend.
*
Rumours abounded in the ashram about the Yogi who lived up in the mountains, in a cave on the edge of a steep sided valley. There were tales told of amazing physical feats, his mastery of the elements, of his ability to sustain his body without food or water, heat or warm clothing. It was said that this was a man who had achieved the state of Nirvana, eternal bliss, and was willing to teach anyone who came to see him.
Many were the pilgrims who set out from the ashram to seek him out. There was only one path, and even though it became barely traversable in places, it was impossible at least to get lost. For those who were dissatisfied with the ashram life - and there were a fair few of them, old hands mostly, who had been coming to India for years, although there were some first timers too - this obscure track into the Himalayan wilderness shone out like Jacob’s Ladder.
No matter that the way was arduous, they thought. No matter that it was tough. This was the reason they had come up here, for this golden opportunity to meet such a man - if indeed man he was, for there was talk further down the valley, several miles before the ashram, that this Yogi was not a simple ‘man’ at all, but an Avatar, a God made flesh, and that merely being in his presence could elevate a seeker to a state of Absolute Bliss; to Samadhi; to Moksha…
Yes, that was the reason they had been drawn up here. Not for the stupid ashram with all its unnecessary rules and disciplines; its dogmas. There was in-fighting and unrest inside the ashram the same as there was in any town or city anywhere in the World! What good was that?
How could you meditate, how could you hope to achieve any sort of peace, or even a glimmer of Enlightenment amongst those conditions? No, better to set out into the mountains and experience the real thing.
The Swami at the ashram simply smiled when the complaints and dissatisfaction filtered through to him, or assailed him directly. He was one of the few who had actually visited the fabled Yogi, many years ago, and he was all too aware that the problems people experienced in the ashram were all brought in from the outside, carried in the pilgrims’ backpacks along with their cigarettes and iPods, or in their heads with their childhood prejudices.
He had become aware over the years, and especially after meeting the Yogi, that Mankind thrives on problems, so much so that if there were none immediately apparent we would quickly make some up.
He laughed at the memory of the Yogi asking him if people would be happy if we were all instantly transported to Paradise. Or would the sky be too blue, the birdsong too loud and early in the morning? Would it be too hot, too cold, too boring, and ‘if this really is Paradise, what’s he doing here?’
“The attainment of any higher state of consciousness takes time and it takes work. It shouldn’t,” the Yogi had told him, “but invariably it does. The time is perhaps different for each person, but the amount of work one has to do tends to be the same. It is, in fact, never ending. In the same way that it is easier to fall out of a tree than it is to climb up it, so it is the same with states of Enlightenment. Even the very greatest of holy men and women have to strive day after day to maintain what they have achieved.”
He could tell this to the pilgrims - he did from time to time, if he thought they would listen - but he knew most of them wouldn’t. Despite their earnestness, their seriousness, and sometimes their desperation to learn, none of them ever really listened; none of them took it in.
Ok, that wasn’t true. There was the odd one, one amongst the countless others who was a genuine seeker. He could always spot them, as easily as if they had been painted bright red, and he treasured his time with them when they came. They were few and far between, but they had always come in dribs and drabs, as far back as the Swami could remember. In fact, back then in the early days they had been the only ones who had come. The only foreigners who had come.
Now you got all sorts. They came in from all over and would return to Europe, Australia, Korea, Israel or wherever, three-quarters full of clichés and one quarter full of a short-term sense of peace which would most often disappear within a few weeks of being back home.
But that was fine. The Swami knew that preceding any flood there is usually a gentle trickle where before there
had been none. The cracks begin to open only very slowly before the dam finally bursts. So he watched them trickle. Trickle in, trickle out, and he was content in making what slight differences he could wherever he was able.
Whenever a new group or perhaps a single seeker went heading off in search of the Yogi though, he always made sure he talked with them before they left. He made a point of explaining the hardships they should be prepared to face, coming as most of them did from their cosy, cosseted lives in the ‘West.’ He would explain these things matter-of-factly, calmly, dispassionately, assuring the pilgrims that he had no problems with them wanting to leave, of wanting something more, and he certainly had no desire to stop them - he only wanted to prepare them, that’s all. To ready them for the reality, which was always, always, a long way from their expectations.
He also went to wave each party off at the gates, hoping that whatever they found, however far they got, that they would come back. On a handful of occasions over the years search parties had had to be sent out from the villages around the head of the valley. On two occasions those who had set out had never returned…
In all the years he had been at the ashram only five Westerners had actually found the Yogi, had actually made it all the way to his caves. One of them, a young Belgian woman, had been his own travelling companion when he had gone in search of the fabled Holy man. They had set out together, had found him together, and were still in touch after all this time.
“All this time,” the Swami laughed at himself. “And what is time in the existence of a soul…?”
So after satsang - they invariably left after morning prayers - he would stand and watch them go, wishing them speed and good fortune and hoping they would be back. Hoping he would never have to write another of those letters again; two was already two too many.
*
Once they had negotiated the outcropping the four gazed dumb-struck at the panorama before them. Stretching out into the distance was a valley exactly the same as the one they had just left. And the one before that, and the one before that... It was just another stupid valley, with no cave, no crackling fire to warm their aching bones, and definitely no bloody Yogi.
Sarah, the English girl, sat down and wept. The Dutchman, Michael, screamed and swore at the top of his voice, furious at the whole World and everything in it while the other woman - Maya, an Israeli - muttered darkly under her breath. The other man, the Canadian Joshua, let his pack drop to the ground and then followed it, heavily. It was not until several minutes had passed that he spoke, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen.
“Ok, you know what? It’s still early. How about we give ourselves an easy day? A couple more hours, three tops, and then we stop. We could all do with a rest. What do you reckon?”
“I reckon you can fuck off,” Maya answered him.
“Come on Mai, we’ve made it this far! It must be just this one last valley. Just one more.”
The dark haired Israeli scowled at him and turned her back. Sarah drew herself up and spoke. “No, she’s right Josh - enough’s enough; I’m going back.”
“What?” Joshua cried out. “Sarah, no! Come on, you can’t turn back, not now! Not when we’re so close! It’s going to be just in the next valley, I know it! Besides, it’s not safe to go back on your own…”
“She won’t be on her own Joshua,” Maya snapped acerbically. “I’m going too.” There was further silence. Joshua seemed crestfallen. He looked up at the big Dutchman.
“Mike?”
Mike sighed deeply. “Ja, sorry Joshua, ik also.” He looked despondently down at his watch. “If we start back now we should reach last night’s camp by one thirty, two. Maximum by two.”
“But come on guys,” Joshua pleaded, “we’re almost there! We must be!”
“It’s over Joshua,” Sarah wailed him, tears still running down her face. “Can’t you see that? It’s over! This isn’t a game Josh, we could die out here! We can’t just keep on going, ‘one more valley, one more valley,’” she got out between sobs. “I’m cold, I’m tired and I’m going home.”
The three gathered up their packs and moved back towards the outcropping. Joshua remained sitting, gazing off into the valley below. Sarah only noticed him as she stepped up to the overhanging rock.
“Josh? Oh come on, you’re not serious. Joshua, come on! We can’t leave you here on your own! We can’t!” She broke down once again.
“Who can’t?” growled Maya, pushing Sarah out of the way. “Leave him here if that’s what he wants,” and she disappeared around the rock.
“Joshua?” Sarah pleaded one more time. When he did not respond she turned forlornly and then she too skirted the overhang. Half a minute later, with both hands grasping the outcropping ready to swing himself round, Michael turned to Joshua one last time.
“You are sure?”
“Yup.”
The Dutchman shook his head and sighed. “Ok then brother, it’s your funeral.”
“It sure is,” the Canadian muttered to himself after they had all gone. “It sure is.”
*
Joshua descended alone into that next valley and spent a cold night by himself on the lower slopes of the other side. He knew that the cold settles like water, always in the lowest dips in the ground, so he pushed himself all day to make it at least two hundred metres up away from the valley floor. Fear, anger, frustration, determination; all these things drove him on and more.
He reckoned his food could be made to stretch three more days at the very most, plus his journey back, but only if he ate sparingly and skipped a few meals along the way. This he was prepared to do. This fact became a niggling doubt though as the day wore on, which his subconscious mind returned to again and again every half hour or so, whenever he found his strength beginning to wane. He ignored it and pushed on.
After a quick breakfast of hot chocolate and raisin pancakes cooked on a light fire of a couple of patties of dried cow manure he’d stowed in his pack, he started off again early. Before the sun had risen too high in the sky he spied another outcropping of rock way above him in the distance, at the very end of the trail; he could see no further. And if he had thought that all the others had been ‘the one,’ this time he was sure.
“Look for a rock formation which looks like the head of an elephant coming out across the path.” That is what the Swami had told them. All the other times, he realised now, it had just been wishful thinking. I guess your mind sees what you want it to see, he thought to himself. It twists things around in your perception until you can convince yourself.
This time there were no tricks of the light though, no mind games. Even from this distance and still a good four or five hundred metres below, there was the elephant’s head, clear as day. This time there was no mistake. This time it was really real. At last - he had made it, for sure!
*
Getting around the elephant rock with some difficulty, Joshua scanned the vista that presented itself. A small path wound gently down a shallow slope for around three hundred metres before rising again ever so slowly for a hundred and fifty more. It levelled off by a tumble of massive boulders where the pale grey soil was packed hard by constant footsteps.
A very small fire sent a narrow plume of almost translucent smoke straight up into the still mountain air. This fire was being tended by a figure of indeterminate age or sex - from this distance at least. His pulse quickening with excitement, Joshua nevertheless tried to remain calm as he stepped out onto the path and walked down to meet his destiny.
It turned out to be a man squatting by the fire, but his age was difficult to pin down, even from close up. Somewhere between fifty five and seventy was Joshua’s best guess, and he was wholly unremarkable to look at. Perhaps he is a helper of the Yogi’s, Joshua thought, a devotee or something. He certainly did not look anything like the sort of sadhu that he had seen before. Joshua had seen any number of them, lingering around places like Varanasi and Rishikesh with their hair and beards matted and
tangled in untidy clumps of dreadlocks. Most of them promised Enlightenment for a price and most of them, of course, were fakes.
This man was as far away from any of them as you could imagine. If he noticed Joshua was there at all he didn’t show it, just remained where he was, rather vacantly stirring the bubbling contents of his pot with a long-handled wooden spoon. In fact, as Joshua lowered his bag to the floor and stretched and flexed his body finally free from its burden, he thought that he looked a bit of a simpleton.
“Excuse me,” he said, standing over the man. “You speak English? You understand English?” The man slowly wobbled his head in the typically Indian, unreadable way. “Is the Swami in the cave?” Joshua asked, pointing to the dark hollow formed by the rough stack of boulders to emphasise his question.
His voice sounded as loud as an aircraft in the thin mountain air and reverberated and echoed on and on down in the valley below. The man looked around and peered at the cave mouth where a few ragged triangles of cloth hung limp on their lines. Then he returned to his pot.
“No.”
Joshua sighed and dropped to his haunches, tried to catch the old man’s eye by leaning his head further down.
“When will your Master be back?” The stirring stopped momentarily as a puzzled look appeared on the man’s face.
“Hmm?”
“Your Master; when will he be back?”
The spoon started up again. “Oh I don’t know that he’s coming back.”
“What?”
“I don’t know that he’s coming back,” the man repeated, slightly louder. “Or she. I don’t know for sure if he - or she - was ever here.”
“What?”
“Then again, I’m not sure she ever went away. There are those who say he’s everywhere at once, so maybe he is in the cave after all. Maybe she is the cave itself… and this pot, and this spoon… I’m sorry, but I am afraid I don’t fully understand your question.”
Josh looked just as confused as the old man. “Look, it’s really not that difficult. I just want to speak with the Yogi who lives in the cave.” Joshua was already exasperated at the old man’s incoherent ramblings. “Where is the man who lives in the cave?”