Thirteen Months in the Himalayas

I still remember vividly how it was when I first sat in my cave. It felt like a world that was whole, as if I needed nothing else. And it was like that. I had a roof over my head which was literally rock-solid, for my cave was under a giant rock. It had a small door, which was three feet high and two feet wide, and a little mesh window. A small gas stove with a cylinder and provisions to last a couple of months were piled in a corner. A tarpaulin covered the floor, parts of the roof and the three walls.

One of the amazing things about living frugally is that it makes you realize how little you need to be happy in life.

Granted, the cave was so small that you couldn’t even stand straight inside. But I didn’t need to stand anyway, instead, I needed to sit straight as much as I could. With the majestic Narayana Parvata in front, the Neelkanth on the right and the sacred valley of Badrinath on the left, you were practically living in the sky as the clouds moved about nonchalantly. The pristine river below was a constant reminder that you were in the Himalayas.

The mountains always fascinated me, I don’t quite know why. In the Himalayas, I felt at home.

What made my heart brim with happiness was not just the unearthly serenity. It was freedom. I was no longer chained by those around me, nor shackled by the world that requires you fit in. It was not my guru’s ashram where the demands on my time left me with little to no time to do my sadhana. Though my guru, Naga Baba, and those around me believed that I didn’t need to do any sadhana, that my service was my sadhana, I’d felt differently. I wanted to verify the truth of the Vedas firsthand. I needed to know whether my beliefs were founded on truth.

You need to walk the path to see what lies ahead. In the cave, I felt I could meditate to my heart’s content and live the life that I was promised as a sadhu, or more importantly, live how I’d come to believe a renunciant could live—freely. Just utter freedom. No worldly ties, no keeping up appearances, no deadlines, targets, or meetings, just you in your own world.

But it wasn’t just the freedom that metamorphosed my persistent sense of happiness into inner ecstasy. I think it was hope. I not only believed that Mother Divine was real but also hoped that She would come. That I would meditate on Her form all day and all night and, one day, She would show up. That’s what the scriptures proclaimed.

It was cold outside. Nevertheless, I took off my clothes, folded them neatly, and sat there in my loincloth. Naga Baba had told me that a good monk should not wear stitched clothes, not until he reached a certain stage, not till he was ripe. He called it paripakvata, an irreversible state of attainment.

My relationship with my guru was a far cry from what I’d read in many popular books. And by no means was I an ideal disciple. If I had been one, why would I leave him? But one thing I have not done in these fourteen years is to ever violate any instruction of his. ‘No stitched clothes during your sadhana,’ he had commanded. And so, I had no sewn clothes on my person. Besides, I wanted to test the limits of my body.

Next to my wooden plank was another smaller one where I had spread a red cloth placed on it a small idol of Lord Narayana, in his four-armed form, and a lamp. It was a statuette, about twelve inches high, and I saw this as the Divine Mother. Indeed, I saw this idol as every possible form mentioned in the Vedic texts. I believed, and hoped, wholeheartedly that there was a good chance that Mother Goddess would one day emerge from this idol and grant me Her vision. I did not want symbols and signs, I wanted an unambiguous vision. It is the height of craziness, maybe ignorance, I know, but then again, I have never claimed to be sane or wise. You need an element of insanity to pull through this world. The bigger your vision, the more insane you need to be.

Before moving into my cave, I had been very clear about what sadhana I was going to do. I knew where I had to start. But a chance meeting with Bhairavi Ma a week earlier had changed my plan. She insisted that I do the sadhana she gave me, alongside my own. I shared most of the details of that meeting in my memoir, If Truth Be Told, but what I didn’t share was the sadhana she had imparted.

Although I would have liked to stay in my cave for longer, for years if needed, but Badrinath being at an altitude of 10,800 feet is closed to the outside world for nearly six months. At 12,000 feet, my cave was even higher up. I had approximately two months before the onset of winter and hence the need to look for a more suitable location. I was craving complete, total and utter solitude. Complete so that I could remain established in my state of mind, total as in entirely cut off from the rest of the world, and utter, so I had nothing but thoughts of the Divine all the time. I had not yet reached a state of thoughtlessness, and the bliss I experienced in keeping the lamp of Mother Divine lit in my heart was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Thoughts of the goddess would immediately melt my heart.

One thing that certainly worked in my favour was the fact that neither this level of solitude nor the concept of sadhana was new to me. I had slipped into solitude on numerous occasions in the past. I had been doing sadhana for more than twenty years. In fact, the very reason I gave everything up and found abode in this cave was so I could devote myself full-time to this path.

Inside, when I sat down, it was dark, cold and damp inside, but it had a special kind of warmth—the warmth of divinity. While the world runs hot and cold, the lap of the Divine Mother is always warm, always the safest place. My plan was to do two forty-day sadhanas in this cave. My own and the one given by Bhairavi Ma, which as per the lunar calendar wasn’t due to start for another fifteen days. I wrote down my schedule. Today was 9 August 2010. After the preliminary japa on the 10th and my own sadhana would start on the 11th.

On the path of mantra yoga, it is imperative, unless specified otherwise by one’s guru, that before undertaking any sadhana, the aspirant must sit and chant the Savitur Gayatri Mantra ten thousand times and only then go to sleep. In an evolved state of consciousness, you may get a vision or a dream in which She grants you permission, or you may experience an unmistakable waft of lingering fragrance. Many believe that She may also indicate Her consent by giving you some sign, but as far as I was concerned, I was done with signs. From the outset, I was very clear that I did not want to get into interpreting signs. Either She was there, or She was not. Either I experienced something, or I did not. I didn’t want to take the sudden appearance of a butterfly or a honeybee as a sign. I would rather leave that to the botanists.

I stepped out in my loincloth at night. It was pitch-dark and incredibly chilly. The cold winds were piercing my spine.

My self-training came in handy as I had been taking cold showers for the last three years. And though the present cold rattled every bone in my skeleton, it did not make me sick. There was an initial bout of shivering, but it soon went away.

To be candid, while outside, I did feel a bit scared. It felt like any wild animal, a Himalayan bear, boar or snow leopard, might eat me alive. But this fear also gave birth to extraordinary awareness and peace. I was okay to die in meditation. My last thoughts should be of the Divine Mother, gazing at Her gentle form and hopefully not staring at the smelly fangs of a big cat. Momentarily, I felt this fear crawl under my skin, that I could be killed right now and not a soul in the world would know. While that’s exactly the kind of departure I prefer—unsung, unwept, unknown, it would be an unacceptable, if not downright ridiculous, ending to my journey: to die without discovering my truth.

Who is afraid? The ego? What could the wild animal take? My body? If this was the end my body was destined to have, then so be it. You have to step out every single night. You can either be scared or accept your choice and live with the consequences. Choose. Whatever self-argument it was, it worked, and the fear of dying left me alone.

I had a bucket full of water outside and a towel that was sort of wet already. A wet towel is like cold food: it can fulfil its purpose, but it’s not the same. I put my hand into the water to test the temperature and a moment later it felt as if I had no hand. This water was more freezing than any freezing water I had ever put my hand into. Mind you, I had been taking cold showers even in snowy Canada during the winter months, so I do know exactly what I’m talking about.

In the wee hours of the morning, outside my cave, I tried to go slow but couldn’t. It was less of a bath and more of an ordeal and therefore I went through it as fast as I could. In other words, I poured a few mugs of water on my body, wiped with that tiny towel, squeezed it and darted into my cave with the precision of a bullet escaping a sniper’s gun.

My body got rashes from the cold water, and it felt a tad itchy, too. But I covered myself with a blanket and sat down for my morning pooja. 

What you have just read is the first chapter from my new book, Thirteen Months In The Himalayas. Back in July when we met online for the Guru Poornima event, I'd read out the prologue. Today, I was in two minds whether to write an entirely new post on a different topic or simply share a chapter from the book. As you can see, I chose the latter. I thought it would also help me with my workload which is excessive at the moment (and it's going to be like this for the rest of this month and next). Hope you enjoyed the post and I'll see you again next month.

Peace.
Swami

Important announcements:

1. Please note that Thirteen Months In The Himalayas is available on both Kindle and hardcover in India. Everywhere else in the world, it's currently in hardcover only. Paperback and Kindle will be available in Q1 next year. Go here to get your copy.

2. The Legend of the Goddess is now available on Audible!