If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir (4 page)

’Keep going, son,’ he said.

'Is there any truth to mantras?'

‘Spiritual practice and doubt are like light and darkness. They don't go together. Have faith.’

'I'm not getting any results.'

‘Continue with patience and discipline.’

'I've got no one to guide me.'

‘I'll visit you before midday today.’

'Please, I want to ask you some questions now.'

But the sadhu disappeared. I woke up, calm and restless all at once. I could not ignore this dream; it was so real and vivid. I ran to my mother who was already up and about although it was still dark outside. She had lit the morning lamp at the altar and was offering prayers to the deities.

'I don't think I should go to the school today,' I interrupted her.

'You’re up early. Oh, you've come here without taking a bath?'

Ignoring what she said, I sat down next to her.

'I had a dream, and I think I should stay at home today.'

'Why? Don't be scared.'

'I'm not scared. I saw a sadhu baba in a dream. He said he would visit me today.'

'You must go to school, Amit. Besides, dreams are not real.'

'What are you saying? When I had the dream of Lord Shiva, you said it was real. You said dreams were real. I'm sitting at the altar, Mummy, you know I won't lie to you. It
was
a real dream. I must stay at home because he said he would come today. I promise I’ll study during the day.'

'What will I tell your father?'

'Please, please. Tell him anything. He'll believe you.'

'See, you asked me the other day why I lie. This is why I have to lie sometimes!'

We negotiated with each other. Finally, she allowed me to take the day off. Somehow, she managed to convince my father.

Later that morning, I was alone at home. At around 10 a.m., someone knocked at the door. I rushed open it. Standing before me was a sadhu in black robes, matted locks tied at the back of his head and a beard that reached his chest. I offered him alms but he said he had only come to see me. He didn’t mention anything about my dream though. He put his hand into his jhola and pulled out something. Handing it to me, he told me it was a
siyar singhi
.

A
siyar singhi
is a little lump that grows on a jackal’s body. After it becomes the size of a betel nut, it sheds on its own. There are many tantric applications of a
singhi,
provided a good tantrik knows how to consecrate it well. It is used to fulfil material goals, cure diseases and hypnotize or mesmerize people. It can also be used in black magic to inflict harm or injury. If you put a genuine
singhi
in vermilion powder, the hair on it continues to grow steadily and you have to add to the vermilion powder every few weeks to keep it effective. Even though it is a dead lump, it consumes the powder.

'This object is amogha, foolproof. I’ve come to give it to you,' he said, and briefly explained how I was to use it.

Then, I asked, 'Why am I not getting any siddhi?'

‘Because you are not focusing on the ultimate goal but hankering after petty attainments. If you get hold of the sun, you'll get light automatically.’

He reiterated the instructions for the use of the singhi and prepared to leave. I wanted to ask him so many questions but his overwhelming and charismatic presence left me speechless. All I could do was prostrate in reverence. He blessed me and went his way.

There was a lady who used to come to our house daily to do the household chores. She was more like a family member and we called her ‘Masi’. My mother did treat her like a loved one. That was an incredible quality about my mother: she was always giving. I never saw her express any hatred, jealousy or anger. She never shouted at us or even raised her voice.

Masi had two sons; the elder one was seven years old and had been suffering from leprosy since birth. I decided to use the singhi on the child. Over the next week, I prepared the
singhi
for application by consecrating it with a mantra, vermilion powder and black mustard seeds in the manner I had been told. On a certain Sunday, I gave Masi the
sacred object, explaining that she should make an opening in her son’s pillow and then insert it.
After that, the opening had to be sewn up.

'Leave it in for forty days and make sure that no one else knows about it, not even your husband,' I said.

Her son began a miraculous recovery within the first week and was completely cured of his leprosy by the third week. The sadhu had told me I was allowed to use this singhi only once, and then it was to be immersed in a river or stream. At the end of the prescribed period, I asked Masi to return it to me. She went home and opened up the pillow but there was no
singhi to be found
.

There could be four explanations for this. One, she took it out but didn’t tell me. This was hard to believe as she would not put her son in danger by distorting a tantric talisman. Two, someone else had removed it. Three, it had fallen out. These two options were unlikely because no one else knew about the singhi and it had been carefully sewn into the stuffing of the pillow. Four, it disappeared on its own. I never figured out where it went but it doesn’t matter. The fact remains that the boy was cured in a matter of a few days when all other treatments had failed for years. His condition didn’t recur.

This encounter with the holy man created more questions than answers. Who was the sadhu? How did he manifest in my dream? Why did he choose me for the singhi? How had he attained knowledge of the occult? Despite the questions, I was awestruck at the experience I had had. And the sadhu had appeared at a time when I really needed divine intervention to give me hope and show me the way forward. This incident served to renew my faith in God.

I began to diligently practise the tantric method in my sadhana. Whenever I heard there was a saint or tantrik in town, I made it a point to visit him or her. At first, they wouldn't take me seriously because I was just a ‘child’. But, as I sat there and spoke about my own sadhana, my understanding of astrology, the Vedas and other literature, the look in their eyes would change. They would then give me a proper audience, sharing their own experiences and giving me tips on what I could do differently. However, most of them had no clue about the actual practice or challenges of sadhana. Their knowledge was purely bookish. The genuine sadhaks were in a minority, one in a hundred, but they gave me enough fuel to keep my fire going.

I slipped away at every opportunity to meditate in isolated places, did many yajnas, fire offerings, chanted various mantras and performed sadhanas of yakshinis, yoginis, apsaras and devis, who were all different forms of the tantric feminine energy. But there were virtually no results. No god or celestial being appeared. I began creating my own spiritual practice, borrowing rituals from various sadhanas and using different ingredients and mantras in a way I thought would work for me.

During the month of Kartik (from mid-October to mid-November), I visited a deserted area where a flower called the mandara pushpa grew. I would pluck 108 flowers, come home, make a garland of the flowers and chant over it. Then I’d put it in the fridge. The following morning, I would a yajna and then go to the Shiva temple to offer the garland to the Shivalingam. This tantric sadhana was supposed to bestow the practitioner with a vision of Shiva. I followed this practice annually for three years from the age of twelve but there were no tangible results.

The frustrating part was that I didn't know where I was going wrong, and there was no one to show me the path. My family members certainly couldn't help me. In fact, they didn't even know what I was up to. They had no idea of the parallel existence of my mystical world or of my deep interest in the occult. They often thought I was in the library when I was actually busy conducting a shastrartha, scriptural colloquy, with some saint or discussing my sadhana with a tantrik. My mother knew of my inclinations but was unaware of the details. Her unconditional support of my quest was a great blessing for me though.

My frustration began to give way to despair. If God existed, why didn’t he appear before me? If the scriptures were right, if tantra had any substance, why wasn’t I getting the desired outcome? Where was I failing? Though powerful dreams and visions continued and even guided me along my path, I wasn't convinced. I wanted a physical manifestation, real proof that could stand my test of truth.

Gradually, it dawned upon me that I had embarked on a lonely and difficult journey towards self-realization. It would require great tenacity, discipline and time if I wanted to succeed. No matter what spiritual practice I followed, how I did it or how long I did it, there were no guarantees for me. Moving from ephemeral pleasures to a state of constant joy, rising from worldly emotions and being able to live in a state of eternal bliss was going to be a very personal affair. I was my best friend and worst enemy on this journey. I had to create my own way, for the weeds of time had long covered the divine path trod by the ancient sages.

The more time I spent in sadhana, the more critical I became of astrology. While astrology merely focused on the twelve signs of the zodiac and the nine planets, my sadhana exposed me to the existence of a vast and infinite inner world. I was beginning to see how I—and everyone around me—was an exact replica of the universe. If there were numerous stars in the universe, the macrocosm, there were countless cells in my body, the microcosm. If there were a sun and moon beyond, there was a solar and lunar channel of breathing within. If there was 70 per cent water on the earth, there was also 70 per cent water in my body.

When innumerable planets, which twinkled like the mysterious stars, were visible even to the naked eye, how was I to believe that only nine planets were affecting everyone's lives? And even with these nine planets that astrology considered, I found it odd that Earth was not included. Two planets, Rahu and Ketu, didn't even exist in the solar system, and the moon had the status of a planet when it was really just a satellite. I couldn’t come to terms with the notion that Mars, which was millions of miles away, had the ability to influence my life while the very planet that sustained me, where I lived, had no place in the astrological chart.

I felt it was silly to spend time figuring out what the planets had in store for me rather than focusing on my own actions and their consequences. Instead of creating my own destiny, I was looking up to inanimate revolving balls in the universe to steer me. Nevertheless, I continued to practise astrology because my income from the readings paid for my books and other expenses.

However, I stopped recommending stones and amulets for people to wear for I no longer believed in these remedies. I tried to tell people that they ought to take control of their lives and it was fine to be guided by astrological charts but it was not prudent to live by its predictions. Yet, they wanted to hear that the planets were the cause of their problems, not their own choices. My view was simple: if you keep doing what you've been doing, you'll keep getting what you've been getting.

It is human nature to think that we are merely the subjects and that someone else, perhaps God, is calling the shots. It is convenient to believe that we are being punished or rewarded by divine forces. The truth is that our future is determined by the choices we make today, and today is resting on the choices we made yesterday.

Most of my clients thought astrological remedies would give them respite from their struggles. They believed that a talisman would manage, somehow, to change negative circumstances into positive ones even if they continued to make poor or harmful choices. People wanted to believe that planetary remedies would sort out their issues and a change in their mindset was not required. I saw that people were not ready to hear my truth. I felt exactly like Nietzsche, who once said, 'They don't understand me: I’m not the mouth for these ears.'

I didn’t want lifeless charts and distant planets to dictate the course of
my
life, intrude into my plans and karma. I was determined to script my own future. With my horoscope in one hand and a matchbox in the other, I went to the terrace one day. My brother followed me. Sensing what I was up to, he rushed downstairs to tell our mother that I was turning my horoscope into ashes. Meanwhile, I set the paper on fire. She came up running and rescued the half-burnt horoscope from my hands.

'You shouldn't burn a horoscope, Amit. It must be protected. It is an object of reverence.'

'Ma, there's nothing sacred about a horoscope. I can't revere a piece of paper.'

'A very learned Brahmin had written it when you were born.'

'That doesn't mean anything. Do you really think a horoscope has my destiny already written? Even Rama's horoscope was matched with Sita’s. In fact, it was matched by the great sage Vashistha himself, but what happened? He was sent to exile and, later, he even abandoned Sita. Why?'
'I don't have answers to your questions, Amit. What I do know is that just because we don't have the answer to something, it doesn't mean it’s false or meaningless. I'm not stopping you from believing what you want but I can't let you burn this horoscope.'

‘Ah, don't be upset.' I threw my arms around her and kissed her cheeks several times in quick succession. 'I can write my own horoscope whenever I want.'

'You are very naughty and strong-willed,' she said. 'It doesn't hurt to listen to your elders sometimes, you know. I must go now, I was in the middle of boiling milk. I'll get a new horoscope made and won't give it to you,' she added on her way down.

'Don't waste your money, Ma,' I said, laughing.

Nevertheless, I was confused again. What if my mother was right, what if there was truth to all this and I was the one who couldn't see it? It was true that not everything my horoscope said materialized, but what about the parts where it was completely accurate, where it unerringly predicted many events of my life? I thought hard for a while, weighing the entire matter carefully, examining all aspects of astrology. Finally, I made a clear and firm decision: astrology wasn't going to be a consideration in my life choices.

I had to go beyond astrology because it mostly dealt with the outcome, not the journey. It could predict from a chart whether a person would be a saint or a sinner but it was quiet on how one could go about it. It could show a moment but not the movement leading up to it. My horoscope said that I would achieve self-realization, but it couldn't tell me how.

As I began to move away from astrology, I started focusing more and more on my meditation. At every opportunity, even while riding my bike or bathing, I would build my concentration on the sonic energy in the mantras. But I didn't see God, go into a trance or attain any special powers like the books were saying. Somewhere, I knew I was missing a key element. According to the sacred books, only a guru can guide the disciple and expound on the esoteric aspects of sadhana. While I understood that my journey of self-realization was my responsibility, I realized I needed a guru to help me unravel the mysteries of sadhana; it wasn't going to be easy to find success on my own.

But where to go looking for a guru? I could not think of anyone better than my mother's eldest brother, R.K. Modgil. He was her idol and her ideal. Although he worked as a superintendent in the Indian Railways, this was not his speciality. He was actually an ardent Shiva devotee, and from the age of thirteen till his last breath, he visited the cremation ground twice a day and lit a butter lamp. No one knew what sadhana he did there because he never disclosed it. Like everyone else, all I knew was that he lit a butter lamp. Dogs, birds, cows and other animals followed him there on a daily basis.

My uncle led a simple and truthful life and that is what always inspired me. It was so easy to talk to him; there was no pretence or hyperbole, just plain truth that would pierce my heart. I hoped that if he initiated me, I might start to get some results from my mantra sadhana. But, whenever I asked him, he gently dodged my request. I was not surprised. After all, there was no comparison between the two of us: he, in his fifties, had put in more hours of sadhana than I, at fifteen, had lived altogether.

One day, we happened to be at his place. He had just returned from his morning visit to the cremation ground. 'Come with me,' he said. I followed him, and he took me up to the terrace. I noticed he was holding a tiny, round box in his hands. When he opened it, it turned out to be empty but for a little ash. He pressed his thumb into the ash and then rubbed it against my forehead. 'This is forty years of my
tapas
,' he said.

I looked at him in wide-eyed surprise.

'I've been consecrating this ash with the same mantra every day for forty years,' he added, 'and you are the first and the last to have it.'

I knelt down in the greatest reverence, for he just initiated me.

'What mantra should I chant?'

'You will be travelling all over the world and I don’t want to tie you down by giving you a mantra that you must chant every day. Be free. Go live your dream. No power in the three worlds can stop you.'
              He gave me three instructions, principles of life, if you will. Any instruction from a guru to a disciple must remain between them. Only when the disciple becomes someone’s guru and wishes to pass on that message are the words uttered again.

That day, he brought his horoscope to me. 'I have just one question,' he said.

I knew his question wasn’t going to be an easy one.

'What is the date of my death?'

I was a little shaken. 'Mamaji, 'I can calculate it but my astrologer's code of conduct prohibits me from disclosing such information.'

'I already know my date. I just want to confirm it.'

I couldn't refuse him. His word was my command. We agreed that he would write down the date he knew, and I would do the same on another piece of paper. Then he would give me his slip and I would give him mine. I was curious to find out if he truly knew the date. Mine was a matter of calculation, although deep and intense, but his would be a matter of intuition. Could intuition match the precision of calculation? I took out my notepad and started my calculations based on his horoscope. After an hour, we exchanged slips.

When I read the date he had written, I knew right away that hiding behind his ordinary appearance was an extraordinary consciousness. He had completely mastered his intuitive faculties. Obviously, I never forgot the date and neither did he. Several years later, I would call him from Australia one day before his date of departure from this world. He was in hospital to undergo a minor surgery. Fit and healthy, he had even played basketball before going into the hospital. We were both sentimental over the phone.

'Do you think I will come out of the operation theatre?' he asked.

'Yes, why not? Not only that, you will play basketball again.'

I was happy to lie and I was happy to believe in that lie. At that moment, how dearly I wished for my own prediction and his intuition to go wrong. Mamaji’s doctor declared the operation a success, and admitted him into the ICU so he could recover. He did not come out of it alive.

I was nearly fourteen when a scholarly figure, Prof. A.P. Sharma, entered my life. A PhD in English Literature, he had known my father from his college days and had recently moved back to our town after his retirement. An excellent palmist, he read my palm and I his horoscope the very first day we met. We both made predictions about each other and laughed. When two tradesmen of the same trade meet, there is little they can do to impress each other but, in my case, I loved Prof. Sharma from the outset. Cultured and soft-spoken, he was full of warmth.

He lived alone in his old paternal house. Other than the hundreds of books that took up most of the space in the house, his only other possessions were some bookcases, a bed, a sofa, an almirah and a study table. He had piles and piles of notebooks too, full of literary criticism and his musings on life. He adored his books and never left home without locking the bookcases.

I would visit him several times a week and thoroughly enjoyed his company. He would work with me to improve my English-language skills. English literature was his passion, and he would quote Austen, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Keats, Frost, Whitman, Dickens, Hemingway, Wordsworth, Wilde and others without ever opening a book.

He often highlighted passages in his books and scribbled his thoughts along the margins of the pages. Writing in books was something I never appreciated. My philosophy was simple: books were for reading and notebooks were for writing. To me, books were an immaculate work of art and marking in books was like drawing graffiti on a Picasso. You don’t spoil what you love.

That said, his love for English literature and language and was infinitely more than I could ever imagine. For me, language was a functional tool, a craft even, to convey what I had in my mind. For him, it was not just a medium of communication but an art through which he created a whole new world. 'When you write, I want the writing to be so taut that if anyone is to remove even a comma from your sentence, the entire paragraph will have to be rewritten. When you speak, I want you to struggle, not because you cannot think of words with which to express yourself but because so many rush to your mind that you have to really choose to pick the word that is most apt, that is perfect,' he said more than once.

One of our favorite pastimes was to sit in the soft winter sun and read classics. I would read and he would peel oranges, carefully removing the pith, putting the pips into a bowl and giving me the juicy segments to eat. During those hours spent in the sunshine, he often read my palm and made remarkably accurate predictions. We also talked a great deal about other things. There were no restraints or rules in our conversations, and my age was not a bar.