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No Destination
Autobiography of a Pilgrim
By Satish Kumar UIT Cambridge Ltd
Copyright © 2014 Satish Kumar
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-85784-263-3
CHAPTER 1
Mother
Before I was born, while my mother was still pregnant with me, she often had a dream — always the same one. A wise old man with a long beard was riding with her on the back of an elephant into a forest. He promised to take her to a land of gold and jewels. 'Why are we on the back of an elephant?' mother asked. 'Let's go on horseback so we can arrive more quickly.' The wise man said, 'I don't know the way. Only the elephant knows the way.' Mother argued, 'This is stupid. A horse is much more intelligent than an elephant.' The wise man replied, 'It's not a question of intelligence but a question of going the right way.' Mother's dream always ended with her and the wise man riding on the elephant, never reaching their destination.
On the ninth of August 1936 I was born in the town of Sri Dungargarh, at four in the morning: the time of Brahma, the god of creation, a time of complete stillness, calm and peace. As the rays of the sun touch the earth, so the rays of knowledge come to the soul. When mother consulted the brahmin who was the village astrologer, about her dream, he said that I was the child of her unfulfilled wishes and that I would never have gold or jewels and that I would never reach my destination. Life for me would be an unending, continuous journey. Then, offering ghee (melted butter) to the fire, the brahmin named me Bhairav Dan, which means gift of Shiva.
I was four years old when my father died. My only memory of him, except for holding his index finger and walking, was of his body wrapped in a white cloth and heaped with marigolds and jasmine, only his face showing, his eyes closed as if in deep sleep. His body lay on a wooden stretcher in the courtyard of our home. Relatives and friends came from miles around, all the women wearing green saris as a sign of mourning. When they reached the beginning of our street they started wailing loudly.
Mother retreated into her room in tears. One by one she removed the precious pieces of jewellery which father had given her when they were married — golden chains, bracelets and rings, pearls, diamonds and silver bangles. She took off the pendant from her forehead, the diamond stud from her nose, her diamond earrings, her gold armlet, her belt of gold wire studded with pearls, her silver anklets and silver toe rings. She removed her yellow sari embroidered with gold and put on a plain green one. She sat on the floor in the corner of the room. For days she didn't move, she didn't speak to anybody, she didn't take food. She just stayed in the corner of the room weeping. I came to her asking, 'Why are you here, why don't you come out, why don't you come to the kitchen, why don't you ...'
Four men took father's body on to their shoulders and carried him in a funeral procession. Outside the town they laid him on the funeral pyre. Wood and coconuts were heaped over his body and the fire was lit. Melted butter and sandalwood incense was poured on to the fire while the village priest chanted mantras. We stood in a circle around the pyre until the fire died. Next day the ashes were collected and then taken by my brother to Benares to be offered to the holy river Ganges.
I followed mother like her own shadow. I went wherever she went. I was part of her body. She breast-fed me until I was two years old. She massaged my body daily with sesame oil. I slept in the same bed as mother and always ate off her plate. She rose at four in the morning and meditated for forty-eight minutes, the prescribed period in the Jain religion, the religion of our family. She sat alone on the verandah with the glass sand-timer, and meditated partly in silence and partly chanting the Jain mantra of Surrender:
I surrender to those who are Enlightened
and therefore have no enemies
I surrender to the Released Spirits
I surrender to the Wise Gurus
I surrender to the Spiritual Teachers
I surrender to the Seekers of Enlightenment
She chanted it one hundred and eight times, counting with her bead necklace. After her meditation she took a daily vow to limit her needs. For example on one day she might say, 'Today I will not eat anything other than the following twelve items: rice, lentils, wheat, mango, melon, cucumber, cumin, chilli, salt, water, milk and butter and today I will not travel more than ten miles, and only towards the East.'
At dawn she ground the flour by hand with a stone mill and churned butter from yoghurt. At sunrise she milked our cows and the water buffalo. Then she would turn the animals out for the cowherd to take them to graze for the day. We were a large family — my three brothers, my four sisters, my uncle and great uncle, their sons, wives and grandchildren all lived in the house. If we were all together, the number of us would be about forty. Breakfast was generally a glass of milk — tea and coffee were never allowed.
The family would eat the midday meal from eleven o'clock onwards. Mother would make sure that each member's taste was catered for. Eating in our family was never a social occasion, it was an act of personal satisfaction. No conversation was allowed while eating. Though she limited her own appetite, mother would prepare for each of us our favourite foods — but food was also her weapon to punish us for disobedience. For all of us mother was the only mother, the head of the household: my cousins would call their own mother 'sister'.
The family was strictly vegetarian — no meat, no fish, no eggs. About fifteen hundred years ago some wandering monks of the Jain religion had come to my ancestral village of Os. They taught complete adherence to the principle of ahimsa (not harming any living creature). My ancestors were Rajputs, belonging to the caste of Kshatriya (the warriors). They ate meat, they collected the taxes and they were soldiers of the King. The monks awakened in them the desire to renounce all killing, and converted the whole village into pacifists and vegetarians. The King granted the Oswals (the people of Os) leave from the army on the grounds of conscience, but they had to change from the warrior caste to the trader caste. He appointed my ancestor as Treasurer to the King, and since then we have born the name Sethias (the treasurers).
Just before sunset, in common with Jain practice, we would eat the evening meal. Whilst we were eating I would hear cowbells ringing, as our cows found their way home at 'cow-dust time'. Our two cows, a brown and a white one, would come into the courtyard and I would run to prevent the cow going to her calf while mother prepared the milk bucket. Mother would allow the calves to suckle a little before she milked the cow and she would leave milk in the udder for the calves to finish. Then she would milk the water-buffalo; they were harder to milk, but mother always kept at least one because buffalo milk makes richer butter. While she was milking she would let me feed the camel. The milk was always boiled, as she never allowed us to drink unboiled milk. She would give us some cow's milk to drink and also to anyone else who wanted it. The boiled buffalo milk would be set for yoghurt.
After father's death, mother spent more and more time with the wandering Jain monks. She would leave the animals with a neighbour, and she and I would go off in our camel cart with pots, pans, food and bedding. For several weeks we would accompany the monks, listening to their story-telling and readings from the scriptures, following them from one village to another. The monk's life is a life of continuous movement, a flow like a river. These monks have no permanent place: they walk from village to village, starting after sunrise and walking a few miles. Their rules permit them to spend only a few days in a village, begging their food, and sleeping in houses which disciples vacate for them. It is only during the monsoon months that they may stay long in one place.
When I was seven, a group of monks came to spend the chaturmas (the four monsoon months) in our town. The news of their arrival travelled by word of mouth and a group of people, including mother and myself, went along the desert path to greet them, singing songs of welcome: 'Today the sun is golden because our gurus are coming to our village with a message of peace ...'
Suddenly out of the sand bushes, I saw three monks in their white robes, walking barefoot and carrying a few belongings on their backs. They were walking fast, their faces impassive to the crowds around them. I had to run to keep up. People had gathered in the courtyard of the house where the monks were to stay, to hear their first sermon. One of the monks, monk Kundan, who was sitting on a table, gave the sermon. He spoke for a long time. One of the points he made was this: 'Seekers, we have come to show you the path to liberate your soul. The soul is wrapped up in good and bad karma which imprison it. [Karma is the inexorable law of retribution for evil deeds and reward for unselfish behaviour.] You have to break out of the bonds of karma. In order to break free from karma you have to leave everything you know and love; mother, father, wife, children. These relationships are the expression of possessive love rather than the expression of divine love that sustains the universe ...'
At the end, men of the town went up to the monks, put their heads on their feet and asked for blessings. I went up to monk Kundan. He looked deep into my eyes and talked with me. I asked him if he would come to my home to receive food. He enquired the way. When I got home Mother said, 'But don't expect him today because it is the first day and he will have been invited to many homes.' I insisted we wait to eat and keep the doors open, since monks will only come into a house with an open door. I kept running out into the street to look for him. Nobody else thought he would come. After some time I saw him coming. He said to me, 'We're going to spend four months here. Will you come every day to receive knowledge from us?'
At that time I was learning to read and write from our brahmin teacher during the day, so I could only go to the monks in the morning and in the evening. The early morning encounter with the monks is called darshan — a glimpse of a holy face which is to purify and inspire. The monks would be in meditation, sitting on the verandah wrapped in their cotton shawls. In the evenings I went to hear them telling the story of Rama, which was told little by little over a period of about ten weeks. Fifty or sixty people from our town gathered to hear it every night. The narration of Ramayana was a combination of entertainment and religion. We sat listening in darkness — the monks did not use any kind of light, 'Dark is beautiful, not to be burnt,' they said.
One evening, cool after the monsoon rain, before the storytelling began, monk Kundan talked to mother. He said, 'There is a line on your son's foot, the lotus line, we think he is the reincarnation of a spiritual soul. He looks and behaves like a spiritual person. For many generations no one from your family has offered themselves as a monk. Out of eight children, surely you could contribute one?' It was dark. I couldn't see mother's face.
Next day Kundan said to me, 'If you become a monk, the people will come to listen to your preaching, they will bow their heads at your feet. You will go to heaven and after heaven to nirvana.' 'What is nirvana?' I asked. He said, 'No birth and no death.' That impressed me — no death. Father's death had created a deep question in my mind. I couldn't understand where he had gone and what had happened to him. Whenever I asked mother about him, she said I asked too many questions and didn't answer me, so I used to ask the monks about what happened after death. Monk Kundan described human life as samsara (the everlasting round of birth and death), and the role of the monks who alone can free the individual from it. He showed me a picture.
A man lost in the forest was being chased by a wild elephant. The man climbed a tree and grabbed hold of a branch, but the elephant started to shake the tree with his trunk, trying to pull it out of the ground. Under the tree was a water hole in which there were poisonous snakes with their heads in the air, hissing. Sitting on the branch to which the man was clinging were two rats, a white and a black rat, symbolizing day and night. Just above the man was a wild bees' nest. When the elephant shook the tree, the bees flew out and started stinging the man all over, but from the beehive drops of honey trickled down into the man's mouth; the honey was deliciously sweet. Flying angels asked the man if he wanted to be rescued. He said, 'Yes, yes but could you wait for this drop of honey which is just coming, see it is coming, just wait ...' The angels flew away. The man shouted after them. 'It's coming, wait. I will come with you after this drop.'
Kundan also showed me pictures of heaven and hell. Heaven was full of exotic flowers, beautiful men and women wearing rich clothes and fabulous jewellery, palaces, thrones, aeroplanes in which angels flew. He told me that those who didn't become monks went to hell for thousands and thousands of years. The pictures of hell terrified me — tortured bodies being cut up and boiled in cauldrons of hot oil ... Because he had been a business man, I could see my father in hell being tortured, cut up and fried. I could not eat or play — the pictures of hell made me shiver. If I went into business I would go to hell too, I thought. It was October, cool and dry, and the monsoon was over. The night before the monks left I couldn't sleep. After sunrise mother was busy looking after the animals, but I went to see the monks. A crowd had gathered to see them off. Some people walked with them and I also followed. At the next village they stopped. Monks went to beg food for themselves — it was considered wrong to give it to a non-monk and the other followers didn't know I had come alone, so nobody worried about me. I was very hungry. It was the first time I had been out of my town without mother. At home mother was worried. She searched everywhere. Eventually someone told her that they had seen me following the monks. She walked the ten miles to the village in the evening and found me. 'Did you eat?' she asked. I said, 'I haven't eaten, I'm hungry, give me some food.' She said, 'You're stupid. Why didn't you ask someone to give you some food?' I didn't tell mother that I wanted to be like the monks.
Mother came from a peasant family and wasn't happy unless she did some farming. Every year when the monsoon came, she would hire about four acres of land, always on the west side of town so that when we walked to it in the morning the hot sun would be on our backs, and in the evening when we returned, the sun would again be on our backs. Just after the first rain of the monsoon, she employed a neighbour to plough with our camel, but all the other work she did herself. We planted maize, green beans, sesame, water melons, sugar melons, marrows, horseradish, carrots and gram peas. Mother prepared almond sweets for me and took them with us for our lunch. When the water melons started to ripen, mother and I would dig holes in the sand for them and cover them with sand, so that birds and animals didn't eat them and they could ripen on the plant. They would grow big and sweet and red inside, weighing up to thirty pounds. We would take them home on the camel cart and store them for the winter. Mother would dry most of the vegetables so that we had vegetables all the year round.
One morning mother and I rode out on our camel to the land. The maize crop was ripe. We built a small hut with wood and rushes. There we could sleep and protect the crop while we were harvesting. Mother asked me why I looked so sad? I couldn't answer. She said: 'You don't listen properly, you're not interested in playing any more. Look at the other children, see how gay and cheerful they are, while you mope around, you miserable little soul!'
When i was eight, the head of our branch of the Jain order, the 'guru' Acharya Tulsi, with his entourage of monks and nuns, spent the monsoon months in our town. Two rich families gave their homes to the guru for this period. Canvas tents were put up in the courtyards where people could go to hear him and receive his blessings. Mother took me to welcome the guru. I saw Tulsi walking towards us across the desert. He was plump and short but his eyes were shining like big lights. His face was fair, calm and peaceful. Three deep lines cut across his forehead. His brows were bushy and black. His ears were long, as I had seen on the statues of gods, and hair grew on the outer edge denoting wisdom. His arms were long too, which meant a man of many resources. His step was firm. He alone among the monks wore snow-white clothes. All other monks carried bags on their backs; he alone was burden-free. He walked like a lion. He raised his hands to bless us. After the guru walked forty monks, then sixty nuns, then the male disciples, then the women. Men and women sang welcoming songs:
The sun is golden today
The guru comes to our town
O men and women gather together
And sing the songs of happiness
Now we can swim the ocean of samsara
(Continues...)
Excerpted from No Destination by Satish Kumar. Copyright © 2014 Satish Kumar. Excerpted by permission of UIT Cambridge Ltd.
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