Raga

Saturday, October 30^th

Prema and I leave the ashram almost immediately after the morning meditation, to have breakfast at the German Cafe. We are greeted like long standing friends and seated at our usual table. The lemon ginger honey tea served in a small glass, burns the tips of my fingers as I gingerly hold the rim of the glass and sip at the contents. The meal is a simple one of peanut butter and toast, but it gives me the feeling of home and I savor each morsel. We talk about horoscopes and love and of what the future may hold for each of us. Prema, a hopeless romantic with a tremendous capacity to love, is seeking a new soul mate. There is a wild, untamed, Bohemian quality to her that is a magnet for men young and old. With no inhibitions and completely at home with her sexuality; hers is a freedom that I envy. She looks into my palm and predicts that I will meet the love of my life sometime in the coming few months. Somewhere deep inside I imagine that this is true.

After breakfast Prema and I walk over the bridge into Taxman Julha to purchase a gift got the sadhu Chidananda. Along the way we bump into Sachin the musician I met yesterday. It seems that chance has thrown us together. We arrange to meet at the Ganga View restaurant at 2:00pm, and from there we will head to his mothers meditation retreat center several kilometers away. He has promised to give me at least one vocal lesson, but cannot promise more as he will be traveling to Delhi for a class reunion. I am happy with this, as it gives me an opportunity to explore my passion for singing.

We purchase fruits and sweets for Chidananda, and make our way to his tiny hut on the bank of the river. He is waiting for us when we arrive. Black tea and biscuits are in the offing, and thought I have just consumed breakfast, I cannot decline, as to do so would be to offend. Chidananda is in relatively good spirits, but he is not well. This time his anguish is based upon real physical pain. He suffers from rheumatoid arthritis and epilepsy, both of which go untreated. And so as winter sets in, his joints have become stiff and inflamed and he now has difficulty walking. To our expressions of concern he replies “the Mother always provides, and if I am to suffer, then she is with me in this also.” I want to scream, to shake some sense into him; show him how foolish it is to live in this way. Even as my mind rebels against his reasoning, I know that mere words or sentiment cannot alter the course of his unshakable conviction.

Conviction, naturally demands of us a certain brand of madness, and we must off necessity throw ourselves into the fire of passion and devotion that is all consuming. I have not in my life known this kind of madness outside of the strictures of love.  It is incomprehensible to me. Yet, I have a growing respect for this complex and simple man. Penance, karma and the role of intercessor on behalf of the community are so tightly woven into his life, as to be indistinguishable. I am reminded of the sin eater of the Native American Sun Dance. In this dramatic enactment, an individual elects to have the heads of a dozen buffalo harnessed to his back with ropes that pierce through his flesh. He then runs the gauntlet of the circle, as those on the outer rim direct all their unwanted karma to him. It is his burden to carry the sins of the community. And like the austerities of the renounciate, it is brutal and eviscerating. Deep are the tears into the flesh from the weight of this burden, yet the spirit remains indomitable.

We make our departure, and I am aware of a certain heaviness in my heart. Life is sometimes far too complicated. Prema and I part ways, and I make my way to the restaurant where I will meet Sachin. He arrives shortly after me, and we have hot lemon ginger tea before setting off. He haggles with several drivers, before finding one willing to take us the 8 kilometer distance, without ripping us off. Even though he speaks Hindi and is clearly from the region, he is viewed as a foreigner, and he must haggle for a fair deal. We clamber into the back of the jeep, sandwiched between eight other passengers. 

 We are fortunate to have seats, as other vehicles are carrying even more passengers than this. The ride is bumpy as we navigate the narrow mountain road that leads to his mothers house. We are unceremoniously deposited on a strip of road that has no distinguishing landmarks, and I am grateful to have Sachin as my guide. We walk down a steep incline towards the river and then make our way across to the other side, via a make shift bridge of zinc and sacks of rocks bolted onto heavy logs of wood. After a short distance we arrive at his mother's home and I realize that I would never have found it on my own.

His mother comes out to greet us, and welcomes me to her home. After a brief introduction, Sachin, leads me to the music room where his guitars and a couple of drums are housed. SA, RE, GA, MA, PA, DAH, NI SA. This is the scale that I must learn.   We repeat this scale  a thousand times, and each time he reminds me to listen for where the voice is coming from. It needs to emerge from deep in the belly.  Eventually, he hands hands me the guitar and shows me how to find the third fret and second string, to play the “C” note that is my range. He thinks that it would be good for me to explore playing a musical instrument, if I am really serious about singing.

“ In singing there is no destination, simply learn to enjoy each note and express it fully. In this way you will allow your natural voice to come through.” This was Sachin's advice to me, as we had practiced and after an initial shyness, I found myself really letting go. That is when I demonstrated real potential. After two hours our lesson came to a natural close. The sun was setting, and we headed to the roof to enjoy the warmth of the receding sun. Sachin smoked hand rolled cigarettes, as we chatted about our lives and our aspirations for the future. As evening drew a curtain of darkness across the sky, we were called to eat dinner. The meal was laid out in the music room where the three of us ate in relative silence. 

It was time to make our way back to town as I had to return to the ashram and Sachin was leaving for Delhi early the next morning. His mother, graciously invited me to return any time and to stay as long as I desired. She is a very beautiful woman, with penetrating light brown eyes that look compassionately out at the world. Her invitation is genuine, and I am touched by her sincerity. We head back along the path leading to the main road and arrive at the unofficial pick-up location, at a chai cafe just as the last threads of day light are swallowed up.  With no vehicle in sight, we decide to walk. Sachin is carrying a travel bag and his guitar.  Heavy burdens for what could prove to be a very long walk to town. We flag down a couple of passing jeeps, but they are full to capacity and fly past us. The next set off lights are from a private vehicle. It is an old ” Ambassador “ car which used to be the official car of India. We flag it down, and after a few brief words with the driver the front passenger climbs into the back to make room for us. The gods of fortune have smiled upon us and we both gesture effusively, nodding our thanks to the three passengers in the back seat.

We alight from the vehicle outside the Ganga View restaurant and hand the driver 50 rupees each for his trouble. Sachin has booked a room for the night at an ashram immediately next to the German cafe, so we head over there to sit and chat before the deadline of our respective curfews of 9:30pm and 10:00pm. We talk animatedly and illicit a few admonishing stares from other patrons. All too soon, it is time to go. I promise to contact Sachin when he gets back from Delhi to arrange a second meeting. It will be my final lesson before he heads home to Denmark.  I make my way back to the ashram, and arrive at the gate with just minutes to spare.