Religion, like the circle of life and the Ganges itself, floods the very being of the Old City of Varanasi. Without it, it’d just be a dirty, decaying muddle of buildings. Religion and the practice of meditation brings a sense of calm to the hullabaloo of India, and makes it bearable to live with regular power cuts, few public services and a sewerage system that’s so bad, people are reduced to defecating on the streets and ghats. Another reason Indians stand it of course, is that most of them don’t know any other way of life. Yet nevertheless, being in the intense hustle and bustle of the Old City gives you an insight into how meditation has survived through the centuries. It could almost be seen as the opiate of the people, the only means by which the average Indian can escape.
So in Varanasi, if people aren’t praying, they’re meditating. And they believe in its benefits so much, that they want to share them with you. Introducing The Guru TM. He appeared out of the mass of people at the morning puja, dressed in a simple dhoti, smiling at me through his small round glasses. A cross between Gandhi and Bill Gates, as instead of holding his hands in prayer or a blessing, he was rubbing them together with rupees in his eyes, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He offered me a lesson in meditation at his house, exclaiming how perfect a time it was to do it. Although weary from my travels, I took him up on his offer, as I always had enough energy for the search for the authentic Indian experience.
The Guru lived just 5 minutes from the ghat where the main puja is performed. It was easy to find because the turning off the main street was signposted by a large Coca-Cola placard. Above his door was a little scarlet statue of Ganesh, the god of transitions, who keeps out the unworthy. Or, perhaps in this case, the ‘un-wealthy’. We bowed in front of Ganesh on entry, mainly because the doorway was low. When I got inside I was surprised to see that his house was a tip. I only hoped that it didn’t reflect the state of his mind. There was a young guy already there, sat down within the muddle of objects and I realised that this wasn’t going to be a private lesson.
I once read that in Indian culture, a person without a guru or a teacher was considered an orphan or an unfortunate one. These days in the culture of travelling, a western person without a guru is an unfortunate tourist, missing out on one of the ‘unmissable’ Indian experiences. Therefore, I politely sat on the floor and waited patiently for The Guru’s life-altering words. He rooted through a cluttered drawer for something and then pulled out a little black book. He beamed at me though those round, simple Gandhian spectacles, making up for the dim light in the room. “Have a look, have a look,” he goaded me, slightly impatiently.
Intrigued with what I’d find inside this precious tome, I carefully opened the well-worn cover, and found hundreds of yellowing pages, heavy with the ink of many pens. Every kind of handwriting you could imagine was in there, covering all the space available. I squinted to try and read the words in the half-light, my mind alight with fanciful thoughts of the ancient wisdom they might impart. I focused on the fancy writing, full of serifs and swirls, and managed to read: ‘He is a great teacher. His lessons have been invaluable, thoroughly enriching my stay here. I only wish I could take him home with me. Catherine Prentice, Sevenoaks, Kent, England.’ If feelings made a noise, you would’ve been able to hear the sound of a whoopee cushion being emptied. “Most of my students have written something in there”, said The Guru gleefully, his head a huge, great helium filled balloon with a grinning SpongeBob SquarePants printed on it, bobbing up and down beside my deflated whoopee cushion self.
Middle-class tourists from Germany, France, the USA and even Wales had taken lessons from The Guru, and the whole experience started to appear like an attraction at Disney World. A plastic, melted down version of the real thing, with a hollow centre. But what did we really expect? Varanasi was in the Lonely Planet’s top 10 places to go in India, not a little village in the middle of nowhere. I felt a little dirty when The Guru abruptly charged myself and the other disciple (who was interestingly an Israeli) the 200 rupee per hour fee for the session. Now The Guru was going to have to pull something really special out of his beard to win-over this cynical westerner.
And sceptical I was. But you had to give The Guru credit, he had done his research. His product was honed within an inch of Hinduism and Buddhism, so it appealed to the typical western traveller who’d visit Varanasi. That is, either a hippy student or someone who didn’t follow one single religion, but was interested in all of them in their personal quest for alternative ways of living. He had tapped into the middle-class, western market where the search for the meaning of life was now a hobby, and who answered the question, ‘Do you believe in God?’ with the glib, ‘Well I believe in spirituality, but not in any religion or one god.’ The Guru got straight down to business as soon as we were all cross-legged on the floor sat around the imaginary meeting table in his paperless and furniture-less office with that very question. ‘Do you believe in God?’ After we answered it predictably as above, he explained that none of that mattered anyway, as what he taught had nothing to do with religion. It didn’t even have anything to do with spirituality. Because his product came with a different teaching method to the traditional Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh or Jain ones. After all, why make your product too exclusive? Always aim to appeal to as many tourists as possible.
So it had nothing to do with religion, or spirituality. It was a philosophy. Philosophy. One word that western people understood. It had the gravitas of a systematic approach and reasoned argument behind it. More about science than faith. Already it was turning into less of an authentic Indian experience than a visit to Delhi’s McDonald’s. From the 1960s onwards, it has become popular for westerners to seek those big ‘meaning of life’ questions from Indian gurus, rather than from western philosophy, as they’re after a more direct experience that’s free from intellectualism. The advertising for our Guru’s ‘new’ and ‘improved’ product would proudly boast about its RM ingredients – religiously modified.
The Israeli guy told me that this wasn’t his first time with The Guru. He then explained that he was a bit of a hippy kid, and had decided to see The Guru as he was looking outside his religion for the answers to his many questions. Due to all the troubles in Israel, he’d become disillusioned with Judaism and the other Abrahamic religions, and thought there must be another way. I then realised that The Guru had cleverly employed another tried and tested marketing technique, that of the testimonial. Like with his little black book of recommendations, the Israeli’s enthusiasm and belief in The Guru rubbed off quickly on me, like the red chalk of a Brahmin’s blessing. And the fact that he was an Israeli made it all the more impressive. A clever twist on the marketing strategy. You could just see the line on The Guru’s business card. ‘My teaching methods work for every tourist, no matter what your beliefs or religion. Atheist, agnostic or Jew.’
The Guru spoke about ‘the creator’, not putting any particular name to it, and told us that the creator was inside us. We are all the same, and everything we need is inside, not outside. We don’t need drugs or drink to transcend and become enlightened. It reminded me of that scene in the British film Human Traffic, where after a drug-fuelled clubbing night, two friends high on cannabis believe they’ve found the answer to the universe’s mysteries when they realise that in Star Wars, the main difference between Darth Vader and Yoda, or evil and good, is that Darth Vader wants to conquer outer space, whereas Yoda teaches how to have power over your inner space. And the more I looked at The Guru, the more I had flashbacks of the pointy-eared, grammatically creative, 1970s alien glove puppet, with someone’s hand up its backside. I wondered if ‘the creator’ had its hand up The Guru, up all of us.
A guru is a teacher, or Spiritual Master, and as an adjective, it means ‘weighty’ or ‘heavy’ with knowledge and wisdom. Yet our guru was more concerned with light entertainment. For one, he took great pleasure in laughing at people, especially when they slipped up. Like when I mistook a bull for a buffalo. It’s an easy mistake to make as they do look pretty similar, yet hearing The Guru’s incredulous laughter, you would have thought I’d called it a tiger instead. ‘A buffalo? A buffalo!! She thinks it’s a buffalo!’ he boomed loudly to everyone in the street before almost crying with laughter. I don’t remember Yoda laughing at Luke Skywalker.
Later, I learnt that to gain authority and to attract and maintain followers, gurus usually present themselves as purer than and superior to ordinary people and other gurus. So that partly explained his condescending manner. And if it was necessary for me to achieve enlightenment, then I guess I could forgive it. Yet he appeared to enjoy his superiority a little too much and as he asked us a series of deceptively difficult questions, he would wait for our useless replies grinning and foaming at the mouth like a bull on heat. ‘What is yoga?’ he asked first, letting the question hang in the air, like a noose ready and waiting. I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight all of a sudden. Yet bravely, or perhaps foolhardily, I stepped up to the gallows. ‘It’s a relaxation technique and also good exercise for flexibility.’ It had been the answer he’d been waiting for and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he launched into his old speech through yellowing teeth about yoga being a philosophy, not just a form of exercise.
He continued with his artful probing, ‘What is meditation?’ ‘What is war really about?’ and it was like each time he was putting his sandal-clad foot out, waiting for us to trip over it before roaring with laughter. You see, with all our answers we were letting our illusions and preconceptions get in the way, therefore we weren’t speaking the truth. And so everything we thought, according to The Guru, was wrong. Now appearing as an incarnation of the Cheshire Cat, he continued to amuse, vex and baffle us until we wondered if we actually knew anything at all. Then at the precise moment he asked, ‘Who are you?’ I really didn’t have a clue. In 20 short minutes I’d been cleansed of my illusions and preconceptions, which meant I now knew nothing. I suddenly felt hopelessly lost and was tripping up over every question, like a silly blonde, middle-class Alice who’d followed a guru and had fallen down his dark, dank warren by mistake. And now she didn’t know where she was.
But it was ok, as The Guru was there to find us again. And we weren’t too far away, because apparently we’re inside ourselves, and all we have to do is reach in and there we are. ‘Do you understand?’ he asked, his eyes staring into me, searching for my answer, giving me the feeling that he’d find it even if I resisted. All gurus ask for unquestioning obedience, and I realised that ridiculing us and holding our answers in contempt was The Guru’s way of getting through to cynical westerners. After all the interrogating questions and derided answers, you were lost, worn out and ready to listen. So when we got onto the meditation and yoga, he had our complete attention. In that way, at least, he was a good teacher. It was as if instead of ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me’ he had ‘Listen To Me’ engraved on his forehead. Right in front of his Chakra.
I had chanted ‘Aum’ many a time at the end of a Yoga session back in London, but had never known what it meant, and had always felt a little stupid doing it. The Guru would have choked on all 7 Chakras if he’d have known. Because Aum is actually pretty important. Something to be revered, not sniggered at in the back row of a community centre in Brixton. Aum is the 3 letters that the universe is made from, The Guru continued with wide eyes, his arms making a big circular motion to indicate ‘everything’. When his arms moved, a trail of light and glittering dust followed, as if he was making Aum appear visually right before our eyes. But I could have been seeing things in my state of delirium, brought about thanks to my rude awakening at 4 am by the chanting Hare Krishnas next door to my guesthouse.
The universe (Brahman) can be divided into these 3 letters, or sounds, and they form the basis of all languages. The Guru explained that Sanskrit, Hebrew and English alphabets all begin with the letter A, the sound of nature. Apparently you can hear it in a waterfall. I was thinking this over when suddenly a cow next door gave a loud ‘mooooo’, which now when I really listened actually sounded more like an ‘Aaaaaauuuuuummm’. But then again, it was a holy cow, so it was obviously more enlightened than most. And that turned out to be our cue to chant ‘Aum’ ourselves. Perhaps the cow was the MD of the guru’s entrepreneurial enterprise, concerned about the finances, prompting The Guru to move on with his lesson so it didn’t run over the allocated time. Well time costs money, even for The Guru. In my mind’s eye I could see the cow raising its eyebrows in exasperation.
The Guru then told us to follow him before closing his eyes and launching straight into an Aum.
Aaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….
Now as I wasn’t sure of ‘Aum politics’, the Brahmin version of ‘spliff politics’ (which is explained very clearly by Mr Nice in the film Human Traffic), I stopped my aum here. I could have gone for longer, I had enough breath left in me, yet then it’d look like I was trying to outdo the guru, and I didn’t fancy the consequences of that little charade. We all appeared to have the same idea, as the Israeli stopped just after, while The Guru carried on.
…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
Then the cow mooed again and The Guru’s voice immediately faded out until it became part of the humming of the distant noises. A smirk of superiority danced across The Guru’s lips before he launched into another Aum. Now being a westerner, competitiveness has been bred into me, and so The Guru’s smirk had an effect on me. It riled me, and so this time, in spite of myself, I decided to give The Guru a run for his money. Through the wall I could sense the cow’s nervousness.
….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm………..
I was still with him here. Just me and The Guru, neck and neck. Breath against breath.
…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…
I could feel my voice begin to weaken, and my lungs seriously wanted me to take another breath, but I carried on, willing The Guru to stop before me. Then something made me break out of this competitive trance, and I opened my eyes and saw The Guru eyeballing me, his face holding an expression that said, “I’ll go on forever you know. Easily for the whole lesson if that’s what you want.” The intensity I’d created in the room suddenly seeped into me, and I felt the awkwardness of the waiting Israeli. I quickly saw the error of my ways and stopped abruptly, leaving The Guru to finish last. In meditation and yoga the ‘winner’, or Zen Master, is always the last to finish.
He then moved on to the Sanskrit prayers. With his eyes gently closed, his whole being was absorbed in the incantation. His voice quivered up and down, as though he was channelling the vibrations of Brahman through his throat. The sounds and alien language seemed to just come to him, flow. As instinctive as breathing.
The cow then signalled that it was time for the meditation. The Guru explained that the reason for meditation was to reach enlightenment. The physical exercise, the yoga that followed, was used to gain an awareness of nature. So the practice of both was about the body and mind working as one. To him it didn’t make sense to have one without the other. Like curry without the spices.
So gaining enlightenment meant switching off everything we’d learnt to switch on. And meditation was the only way to get there, as it stopped you thinking and let you hear yourself for a change. The Guru could sense that we were a little apprehensive about the not-thinking thing, but he told us not to worry. We were in his company, and had his energy and powers around us, so we’d actually find it much easier than usual. And, of course, we had his copyrighted technique to help us.* He gave us two chakra options of where to focus our minds. The spot in the centre of the forehead, above the eyebrows, or the bellybutton. So if one wasn’t working, we could move to the other, and then back again. Jump between the two, until we were settled.
We were sat on the hard floor facing The Guru with our eyes closed. For the first few minutes it seemed easy, just peacefully sitting there, focusing on the chakra in the centre of my forehead. It was a relief to be left alone and escape from the intensity of the conversation. All the tension was lifted from my neck and shoulders in what I imagined to be huge helium balloons adorned with SpongeBob SquarePant’s inanely grinning face. The image instantly calmed me more as I pictured them floating above us, beckoning us to join them up there. In fact, I was so relaxed that it felt like a good time to snatch a quick nap. Or at least to be brain dead for a while, and have a break from all the observing the general traveller will make every second of the day in a country like India. It was a first hand experience of how Indians manage to escape from the overcrowding, the defecation on the street and general suppression of the hardness of everyday existence, in order to still survive like human beings.
Yet then, after I got accustomed to the relief, I started thinking. Not deep thoughts, just things like, how long is this going to go on for? How long has it been already? As soon as I thought this, the room started to seem really close and it felt like the walls were bending inwards towards us. Like tripping with your eyes closed. The air became thick, as if suddenly because I knew about it, the energy from the chakras was so tangible to me, I could now feel it. I found it harder to breathe, which made the atmosphere intimidating, along with the overwhelming sensation that someone was watching over us. Not just watching, but observing.
I discovered that when your eyes are closed, your ears take over, and everything sounds ten times louder then it normally does. So the next thing to take over my thoughts were images my mind painted to the sounds I was hearing. The tinny sound of a bucket being put on the floor. Flip flops scraping the dirty ground. Women chatting, cows mooing. As I focused on these, I began to relax again and let them wash over me. This was at last, possibly the right state to begin meditation, one that The Guru’s had probably been in all the time. And that’s when The Guru asked us to open our eyes. It had taken me 10 minutes to get there. I felt like I hadn’t even tried to meditate, but I suppose that was the first step towards it at least. It proved just how hard it is for a westerner to not look at, say or think anything for even only 10 minutes.
Aaaaaauuuuuuummmm. It was time for the yoga. I have been used to slow movements in yoga, but the Guru’s product incorporated energetic ones. It was more of a high-energy workout. Running on the spot, raising your hands above your head, waggling your arms by your side, star jumps and general moves to loosen up the body. After the calm of the meditation, it felt good to be energised. I realised how well the two went together. The Guru set a frantic pace, and challenged us to keep up with him, reminding us of how much older he was. He was only in his late fifties though. It’s not like he was 86. Or 900, like Yoda. This provoking spurred us on, and I star-jumped until I was so exhausted that I was about to give up when I was encouraged to keep going by the beads of perspiration that I saw forming all around The Guru’s fading hairline. Like glistening sequins on the headdress of a white sari. I realised that we weren’t going to have to keep it up for much longer. We didn’t even have to wait for the holy cow MD to moo before we got on to the stretching.
And it was while we were stretching that I discovered that there is actually a similarity between The Guru’s yoga product and the more basic versions you find across the UK in community centres and gyms. Farting. In most of the yoga sessions I’ve been to, at least one person has ‘let one off’ during the more rigorous stretching moves. Yet it was a surprise that in this one it was to be The Guru himself. Although he didn’t bat an eyelid as the air was released from his backside, producing the satisfying noise of a whoopee cushion that’s just been sat on hard by an inanely grinning SpongeBob SquarePants. It was hardly the much talked about ‘body and mind working together’ technique. But instead of going as red as a talik mark, the superior Guru simply ignored his body protesting about too much dhal for breakfast, and boldly carried on with more stretching, boasting about how much more flexible his body was then ours.
At the end of The Guru’s ride, I did feel energised and generally more positive, so when he asked, ‘Do you feel good?’ as he grinned from ear to ear, I honestly answered yes. It might not have been the authentic Indian experience I’d been looking for but I had been given more of an insight into the Indian’s mindset. For a change, I wasn’t just a tourist observing, I was participating, and that’s how you can start to understand a culture.
And I had to admire The Guru. He’s an entrepreneur, adapting to the change that’s happening in India as it embraces capitalism. Although unlike Bangalore, Varanasi hasn’t reincarnated. It’s crumbling, dying a slow death like Calcutta, being kept alive by travellers and tourists’ cash. So India (and Varanasi especially), is full of con artists trying to get as much of this money as possible. But even though he kept grinning from ear to ear like the tricky Cheshire Cat, I don’t believe The Guru was one of these tricksters. He was simply trying to earn a living with the knowledge and the skills he had. It’s not like he had a huge Rolex dangling from his wrist and his home was very humble.
Gurus are self-realised masters, and my one had taken this further and had become a ‘self-made man’, breaking out of Indian poverty, a rags to rich-ish story. He’s honed his ‘product’, has a ‘unique selling point’ and has turned himself into an accessible and marketable character to westerners. Part vexing Cheshire Cat, loony SpongeBob SquarePants and Alan Sugar perhaps, but also Yoda. And in a world that’s so mixed up that no one knows where to turn anymore, he provides the Dummy’s Guide to Enlightenment, the first step towards reaching the way out of all the madness and hullabaloo of modern society.
*Proven to be successful for over 30 years.
