Mexico Rising

The Gods are Alive and Watching from the Hill

Elizabeth U. Harding

It is hard to remain silent when the news we get from Mexico is so consistently depressing. This beautiful country is divided by feuding drug cartels that spread fear and chaos. Our Mexican brothers are killing their Mexican brothers and sisters. In the city of Juarez alone 36,000 people have been killed since 2006. Who will stop this violence?

I have wanted to write an article on Our Lady of Guadalupe and Mexico City for many years but always pushed the project aside for one reason or another. I had been busy writing about Hindu gods and pilgrimages to India. During journeys that took me all over India, I realized that ancient India and ancient Mexico have a lot in common.

Both countries were home to sophisticated civilizations that used precise measurements for time and for physical space. They lived close to nature and made ritual offerings to propitiate and please their gods. The ancients in India and Mexico were superb mathematicians and astronomers who built temples according to sacred dimensions that, in some instances, are identical. Their giant temples and monuments still stand today bearing witness to a glorious past.

Both countries were conquered by invaders who plundered their natural resources and, as a result, both countries today are referred to as developing countries, poor nations.

There is a painful difference, though. In India, past traditions evolved with time yet remained current, and ancient Hindu gods are still being worshipped in an unbroken succession. The plant never lost its roots. Every time India was conquered by a new ruler, Hindus somehow managed to assimilate the god of their conqueror into their existing pantheon. In Mexico, on the other hand, ancient traditions largely stayed in the past and, today, the gods of their forefathers are relegated to museums.

On my first trip to Mexico City, I woke up early in the morning to a voice talking in my head. Though this is rather unusual, it didn’t seem so at the time. The voice spoke English like a newscaster and, lying on my queen-size bed under crisp, white sheets, I listened to a running commentary on historic and modern times in Mexico gone wrong. I could have switched off this voice, telling myself not to give in to crazy notions like listening to a voice in my head, but I didn’t, because the things the voice said made sense.

I had come to Mexico City primarily to visit Our Lady of Guadalupe and intended to go to the Basilica straight away. Perhaps the voice in my head was fate deciding otherwise. Circumstances first brought me to the National Museum of Anthropology that houses treasures recovered from the Olmec, Aztec and Mayan civilizations. Some of Mexico’s most powerful gods live there and, sadly, they are referred to as historic.

The first god I encountered was Tlaloc, the Aztec god of water and of rain, who stands as a gigantic statue over a fountain near the museum entrance. I had heard a story that, true to his name, Tlaloc produced an unseasonable heavy rainstorm that hit Mexico City when his statue was excavated and brought to its current location.

Looking up at the massive statue, I rubbed my head to get rid of a throbbing headache probably due to being unaccustomed to the city’s high altitude. Some birds nearby happily dipped their heads into the fountain’s green water and splashed around as if to invite me to do likewise. Just then I remembered a Christian priest in the U.S. telling me that Tlaloc is another form of the Indian god Indra and that his waters have healing powers. I splashed some fountain water on my head and neck and immediately felt refreshed. My headache left me after some time.

I had been under the impression that all of Mexico was poor and backward. Though poverty exists, Mexico City certainly is not backward. I saw a beautiful city with lush trees lining wide avenues and dignified people walking along sidewalks past chic stores and cafes.

The National Museum of Anthropology is one of the finest museums I have seen – better than the museums in Vienna, a city famous for preserving art and historic treasures. Upon entering, one walks out into a patio that is surrounded by exhibition halls featuring Mayan, Olmec and Aztec artifacts. I passed an interesting fountain shaped like a huge umbrella from which water is dripping and cascading to the ground.

Outside the spacious hall with the Aztec exhibit is a model of Teotihuacan, an ancient city that contains some of the largest pyramids built in the pre-Columbian Americas. The inhabitants must have kept God in the center of their lives and activities to build their city around pyramids and temples.

As I walked over the beautifully inlaid marble floor of the Aztec exhibit hall, I wondered what visitors would do if all these gods and goddesses would come alive. I passed a tour group huddled before the perhaps most famous artifact in the museum – the round Aztec Sun Stone, a calendar which consists of a 365-day solar agricultural calendar cycle and a 260-day sacred ritual cycle. Today, people wear this beautiful Aztec calendar on their T-shirts but hardly know its significance.

Coatlicue, Mother of Gods

Looking past historic artifacts, a giant monolithic statue on the other side of the hall caught my eye. I stood in awe when I reached the colossal figure of Coatlicue, the mother of Aztec gods and celestial bodies. She is a powerful representation of Mother Earth who gives life and, when the time comes, takes it back into herself. She is decorated with skulls, wears a garland of human hearts and a skirt of squirming serpents. In the native Nahuatl language “Coatlicue” means “the one with the skirt of serpents.”

Coatlicue’s appearance could be described as terrifying but, to me, it was familiar because for so many years I have been worshipping the Hindu goddess Kali. My Divine Mother Kali is the power of time that devours everything. She creates and she destroys. Awed to find my Divine Mother in Mexico City, I knelt on the museum marble floor and bowed before Coatlicue.

Just then I heard a booming voice behind me calling out, “Thank you, thank you!” Suddenly, a man in uniform pulled up in a wheelchair next to me. “I am glad that you pay respect to our goddess,” said Angel Rodriguez, a guide from the tourist office.

He went on to explain that Coatlicue represents the creative power of Mother Earth as well as the three planes of the universe: heaven, earth and the underworld. From her neck upward, she represents heaven. Instead of a head, Coatlicue has two emerging serpents that symbolize the dual nature of life and her role as creator/destroyer.

According to Angel, Aztecs believe that all things originated from duality, from the feminine and masculine. The Aztecs also had a god of duality whose name is Ometecutli that means in the Nahuatl language “two in one and one in two.”

To Hindus, the Shiva/Shakti (male/female) principle is of utmost importance. The goddess Kali symbolizes duality through her four arms. Her right hands promise fearlessness and give boons while her left hands hold a bloody sword and a severed demon head. One could call her right arms good and the left ones bad but, in reality, she is beyond good and bad just like the sun can’t be called good or bad. Sunshine gives us life but can also scorch us.

Kali’s color is a deep bluish-black, and she stands on the prostrate body of her consort Shiva whose complexion is pure white. She is the visible manifestation of his power. Without her, Shiva cannot manifest, and without him, Kali cannot exist. Shiva and Shakti are eternally united.

Angel quite actively moved around considering that he was in a wheelchair. I could get a glimpse of his passionate devotion to this ancient mother goddess watching him and listening to him as he pointed to different parts of this majestic Aztec goddess.

“From the neck to her skirt of snakes, Coatlicue manifests Earth,” said Angel. “We see her arms turn into serpents. The serpent in old Mexico represents the reproductive power of Mother Earth. On the neck, she has a necklace of hands and human hearts.

The heart, according to Aztecs, is the center of Man, religion and love. It is the beating pulse of life. Sacrificing the heart meant liberation of life blood, leaving the seed of life to germinate. Coatlicue’s hands are representative of giving life.

Her stomach is a symbol of death, hence the representation of a large skull. “When we die, we all go back to the womb of Mother Earth,” said Angel.

In Hindu iconography, skulls are also present in the more fierce gods and goddesses. Ma Kali wears a garland of 50 skulls representing the fifty letters of the alphabet which are the written form of sound from which, Hindus believe, all creation evolved. One friend once pointed out that the skulls around Ma Kali’s neck seem to be smiling. The skulls also symbolize our egos. When Ma cuts our ego, all tension is gone. Ma Kali wears a skirt of severed arms that represent our actions. While we are entitled to work, the result of our work belongs to her.

The middle portion of Coatlicue’s body from her skirt down to her feet represents the underworld. Her feet are eagle claws that can dig into the earth and aid in agriculture. Underneath her serpent skirt, out of the maternal uterus, comes a serpent giving birth to the sun god named Huitzilopochtli.

According to the legend, Coatlicue was sweeping on top of Coatepec, a mountain of serpents, when she found a package of feathers. She hid the feathers under her skirt and shortly after found that she was pregnant with Huitzilopochtli. Her daughter, the moon, and her sons, the 400 stars of the south, became jealous and decapitated her. But she did not die because Huitzilopochtli protected her. Born a fully-grown man in a magical birth, Huitzilopochtli in warrior mode decapitated Coyolxauhqui, the moon, and cut off her arms and legs – hence the moon is round.

“The sun takes over the moon in order to give life to Mother Earth,” said Angel. “Light overcomes darkness.”

Angel took me behind the statue of Coatlicue and pointed to a stone leaning against the pedestal the goddess stands on. This stone, which encompasses the soles of Coatlicue’s feet, depicts a fourth universal plane – heaven, earth and the underworld being the other three. It depicts the union of Tlaloc, the god of water and rain, and Tlaltecutli, a sea serpent that is an embodiment of raging chaos before creation. Between them, a round shield and a square within portrays the Earth with its four cardinal points of north, south, east and west. The Earth, also represented by Tlali, Chimalma and Tonantzin, is shown within as a circle.

“Long before Europeans, the ancient people of Mexico had the knowledge that the earth was round,” said Angel.

I asked, “What happened? Why do people in Mexico no longer worship Coatlicue?”

“We’ve passed through a transition from a pre-Hispanic to the modern era,” said Angel. “After Coatlicue, the mother of Aztec gods, came Chimalma, the circular Earth, then Tonantzin, mother of gods and humans and then the Virgin of Guadalupe.”

I was busy taking photographs of Coatlicue. The museum kindly allows photography provided one does not use flash. When I turned around, Angel was gone. He was gone so abruptly that I questioned in my mind whether he was real or not. Was he a physical form of the voice in my head I heard in the morning? He came quickly, gave me wise explanations, and then, he was gone.

I would have liked to ask him more about the goddess Tonantzin who used to be worshipped on the hill of Tepeyac where Our Lady of Guadalupe first appeared.

Teotihuacan, Birthplace of Gods

Although I had the best intentions to go straight to the Basilica of Our Lady, fate had other plans. I was taken outside Mexico City to Teotihuacan, a vast archeological site with a soaring sun pyramid and a huge moon pyramid linked by the wide Avenue of the Dead.

Some scholars estimate that this city may have been established around 100 BC and that by the fourth century some 200,000 people lived there. The city covers nearly eight square miles and was larger and more advanced than any European city of the time.

Still, to this day, Teotihuacan is shrouded in mystery, and nobody truly knows who founded this city – be they the Totonacs, Otomi, Zapotec, Mixtec, Maya or Nahua peoples. Archeologists also found influences from the Olmecs and Toltecs. During the time of the Aztecs, Teotihuacan was a place of pilgrimage, the place where the sun was born.

The Pyramid of the Sun is gigantic – 738 feet at the base on each side and 207 feet high. When one looks up, one sees people on top appearing small like ants. I decided to climb up the steep ancient steps to the top of the pyramid. It was strenuous, and I sometimes had to pull myself up on a rope strung perpendicular to the steps, but it was definitely worth it. The view from the top is awesome, and I felt that I was sitting on a spiritual vortex that could blast me into the vast universe at any time.

Unfortunately, the uppermost portion of the pyramid had been destroyed. Today, one can only imagine what a temple at the top of the sun pyramid must have looked like – columns with colorful paintings on the walls; priests in ornate head dresses running up and down the steps with offerings to the gods.

When one hears about Aztec rituals, one is told about human blood sacrifice. Not only Aztecs performed blood sacrifice in the ancient world. The Bible refers to blood sacrifices, and there are reports of isolated cases of human sacrifice in ancient India. Today, some Indian temples still perform animal sacrifice, offering goats or sheep to the goddess, but that is not common. Most people in modern India prefer to worship the goddess with red hibiscus flowers or red roses in lieu of blood.

History calls the Aztecs barbaric and bloodthirsty because they performed human sacrifice in order to worship their gods. There is little else known about their rituals besides ripping out human hearts and filling stone tubs full of blood. Surely, there must have been many other aspects to Aztec rituals.

If I could go back in time and look at things through Aztec eyes, I would probably call Europeans of that age bloodthirsty and barbaric. Aztecs killed people to offer the most precious gift, namely human life, to propitiate and please their gods. Europeans, on the other hand, killed Aztecs for power and material gain.

When the ancient Divine Mother goddess could no longer bear to see her indigenous children killed, she stepped in.

Our Lady of Guadalupe, Savior of Indigenous People

I left the holy grounds of Teotihuacan and was finally en route to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Queen of Mexico and the Empress of the Americas. I came on pilgrimage to pay my obeisance to her likeness on a miraculous cloth that hangs in her temple. Truly, the appearance of Our Lady of Guadalupe ten years after the fall of Mexico City was miraculous.

The legend tells of Saint Juan Diego, a poor Indian native of Cuautitlan, who walked on a cold December morning past the Tepeyac Hill. He saw a beautiful lady standing on top of the hill. Speaking to him in Nahuatl, the holy Lady revealed to Juan Diego that she was the Divine Mother of God. She asked him to go to the bishop in the city and tell him to build a temple for her on this hill. Juan Diego followed her command and, although he managed to gain an audience with the Spanish Archbishop, the bishop did not believe his story.

On his way back, Juan Diego passed the Tepeyac Hill and again saw the holy Lady standing there. She told him to go back the following day and tell the bishop to build a temple for her on this hill. The second time Juan Diego came before the bishop, he was again met with disbelief. He dreaded to walk home past the Hill of Tepeyac.

When the Divine Lady appeared to him once more, Juan Diego plaintively asked her not to request him to see the bishop again. He pleaded that it was impossible to convince the bishop. The Lady smiled and commanded Juan Diego to climb up Tepeyac Hill and gather the Castilian roses blooming there and bring them to the bishop as proof. To his surprise, Juan Diego found roses blooming out of season on top of the hill.

Juan Diego went back to the bishop and, as instructed by the holy Lady, opened his poncho to hand over the Castilian roses. To everyone’s surprise, an imprint of the holy Lady of Tepeyac was clearly marked on the rough cloth of cactus fibers on Juan Diego’s poncho. This was enough proof for the bishop, and he fell to his knees. The holy Lady who spoke in Nahuatl to Juan Diego calling herself “Coatlaxopeuh” (or Coatlicue?) was renamed by the bishop “Our Lady of Guadalupe” after a Spanish town that was similar in sound.

A chapel dedicated to the Virgin was built on Tepeyac Hill over the ruins of a temple to the Aztec mother goddess Tonantzin. The miraculous image of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the cloth appealed to both conquerors and conquered. The Spanish saw an image of the Holy Mary, but indigenous Indians in Mexico saw the brown-skinned image of Tonantzin and, thereby, stopped resisting conversion to Christianity. This saved the lives of so many local people who previously resisted.

The color and form on this divine cloth has not faded since the 1500s. I stood in awe in front of the Divine Mother, grateful to church authorities who permit people to view this cloth from such close proximity.

I sat down in the pews, taking in the holy atmosphere. The Basilica is so spacious that it can accommodate thousands of pilgrims that stream in daily. While the Basilica’s architecture reminded me to modern Catholic churches in Europe, the people with their passionate intensity of devotion took me back to the temples in India.

As I watched a priest perform mass assisted by a couple of altar boys, a procession of native Indians slowly passed the wide altar with its multiple steps. An old man was leading the procession, and I was fascinated by the loving way he carried a brightly-painted wooden statue of Our Lady. Watching his demeanor, I did not doubt that the goddess he was carrying was dearer to him than his life’s blood. I saw a woman moving slowly through the crowd on her knees toward Our Lady. Big tears flowed down the cheeks of her guileless face as she fixed her eyes on the Queen of her heart. Such intimacy with God is timeless. The ancient religion of Mexico is there – just masked by a Christian face.

A Rocking Cradle of Lies

When I got back to my hotel room, I remembered the voice in the morning with its running commentary on how Western influence on Mexico for the last 500 some years had stemmed the natural flow of ancient wisdom. In olden days, the people of Mexico lived in a magical, sacred world of spirituality, but they were forced into a Western materialistic value system.

Mexico’s conquerors, in order to justify colonialism, resorted to rumors and masked the truth with clever distortions. If a lie is told with authority long enough and often enough, people will be lulled into accepting it as the norm. It is not hard for ruthless leaders to get masses of good people thinking in negative stereotypes and to undermine the confidence of an entire nation.

In a materialistic society, people measure success by how much wealth a person or a country has accumulated. Value is placed on education that leads to a well-paying job in a competitive business community rather than on knowledge that leads to wisdom. I remember learning in school about the Age of Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution and that material progress meant that things will get better and better. In other words, our civilization today should be the most advanced one.

The first time I began to wonder about Western claims was when I visited the caves of Ajanta in Maharashtra, India. These pillared halls resembled chapels I had seen in Europe -- except that these caves had been carved into solid granite rock around 200 BC. I can’t think of anyone today who would take the time to undertake such a work. Could anyone today figure out how to build a city like Machu Picchu high on a mountaintop using big boulders of rock that perfectly fit on top of each other without using cement?

Looking at world events right now, materialism is on a collision course with nature. Our scientific knowledge has disturbed the rhythm of nature. Who can still read the signs of nature? Who can fix our dilemma?

An ancient story in India tells of a time when even the gods were exhausted from warring with demons. In times of trouble, it is time for the Ancient Mother to stand up and fight for us. When the male gods heard that the great demon king Mahishasura had declared himself lord of heaven and ruler of the universe, they got angry. Each god shot forth a terrible light coming from his forehead. Their rays joined at one point, and slowly, the blazing concentration of light took shape in the form of a mother goddess. The gods prayed to her and worshipped her with praise, ornaments and weapons. “Victory to the Mother,” they shouted as the goddess killed the demons and restored peace and tranquility.

This story from the Chandi, India’s famous Tantric scripture, has a deep meaning. The demons to be killed are not only outside ourselves, they also reside within us as anger, lust and greed. Lust for more power and more wealth is a sign of materialistic thought. There never is enough money, never enough power to satiate human desire.

Greatness may be forgotten for some time but, sooner or later, it will rebound. Will Mexico be able to revive its ancient traditions and make them relevant for the present and future?

Many years have gone by since I first visited Mexico City, but I still clearly remember the voice that taught me the ancient way – by situation rather than through books. I learned through experience and am grateful that I was introduced to Our Lady of Guadalupe through the ancient mother Coatlicue. I humbly place red roses at her feet.

The gods are waiting for worship. There is room for all gods and goddesses. In India are so many temples dedicated to different manifestations of the same mother goddess. Churches exist side by side with Hindu temples and Muslim mosques. Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa used to say: “God can be realized through all paths. All religions are true. Devotees call on God alone, though by different names. They call one Person only. God is one, but His names are many.”

The Divine Mother Coatlicue is ready to come out of the museum, ready to nurture and protect her children living in the holy land of Mexico.

In loving memory of Angel Rodriguez

Reminiscences of Swami Gambhirananda

I started going to the Hollywood Vedanta Society in the fall of 1970 and, although I visited the temple fairly regularly, I kept mostly to myself.  As a result, I had little to no information about special temple events or visiting VIP guests.  My attendance depended on my intuition and the call of Sri Ramakrishna whom I trusted would surely get me in touch with whoever I was supposed to meet.

           

One sunny day in 1972, I saw revered Swami Gambhiranandaji walk across the temple courtyard.  Being a novice spiritual aspirant, I kept to the back and watched the crowd of monastics and devotees greet the revered guest Swami.  I overheard Swami Chetanananda, who was then the assistant minister there, saying to a group of devotees standing nearby: “If you want to get close to a real holy man, you try to get close to Swami Gambhirananda.”

           

I watched Swami Gambhirananda walk tall right past me and, although I, too, wanted to get close to him, I did not dare to do so.  Swami Chetanananda’s words to the group of devotees burned in my mind for days after.  I tried to see Swami Gambhirananda again but heard that he had left Hollywood.  What to do?  Since I really wanted to get close to this holy man, I started writing to him at the Belur Math address.

           

Right from the start, I never addressed him as Swami in my letters.  I always wrote: dear Father.  He never corrected me.  I wrote to him every three months or so and also sent a little money as an offering.  Without fail, he always replied.  At first, his letters were very formal.  While I addressed him as “dear Father,” he addressed me as “Dear Elizabeth Harding.”  I knew that Swami had very bad eye sight and did not write himself, but his various attendants would not have written in such a formal way had he not dictated the letters in this style.

           

In the ‘80s, Swami Gambhirananda’s letters to me got less formal, and he addressed me as “My dear Elizabeth.”   I remember how excited I was to receive his letters.  I would hold his letter, turn it from side to side and, with great relish, anticipate the blessings contained within.  He never let me down.  Reading his letters, I literally would feel his love and blessings pouring out toward me.  “I pray that the Divine Mother may graciously help you achieve your spiritual aspirations and let you gain inner strength to cope with the vagaries of the world,” Swami Gambhirananda wrote in one of his letters, adding “You have my blessings, too.”    

           

When Swami Gambhirananda stayed at Morabadi, I once wrote a letter to him full of despair.  He replied: “I hope you realize that true peace can only come by surrendering to the Divine within us.  The world will always go on in its own way.  There can never be any permanent solution to problems created by human nature.”

           

In 1986 I visited India for the first time.  The experience of India was much richer than I had ever anticipated.  I met Swami Gambhirananda again in person after so many years, but this time, I did not stay in the back.  It was like seeing my dear father again after many, many years.  Although my eyes saw him looking stern, my heart felt his by now familiar love.  I was not shy and felt free around him like a child feels sitting next to dad. 

           

Every evening I would go for darshan to his quarters, and he would always lovingly ask: “What did you do today?”  Then he would patiently listen to all my ramblings about what I did and thought that day.  He especially wanted to hear all about my adventures at the Dakshineswar Kali temple.  He wanted to know even minute details.  How long did I stay in the inner shrine, how much dakshina did I give to the priests, when did I go to Dakshineswar and when did I return and how.

           

I am convinced that Swami Gambhirananda’s blessings made it possible for me to spend much time at the Dakshineswar Kali temple.  He handed me a golden key as it were to the inner shrine of Kali.  Like the priests there, I could go in and out from Ma’s sanctum.  I wasn’t a foreigner.  I was home.  Moreover, I took a series of photographs of Ma Bhavatarini that later on led me to write the book “Kali, the Black Goddess of Dakshineswar.”

           

When I sent one of the photos I had taken to Swami Gambhirananda, he replied: “Thank you for the picture of Kali.  Though I could not myself see the details, I was told that it is one of the best pictures taken of the Mother at Dakshineswar.”

           

Swami had the photo framed and hung it in his bedroom.  When Swami Bhuteshananda moved into this room after Swami Gambhirananda’s passing, he kept this photo of Ma Bhavatarini on the wall.

           

Swami Gambhirananda had a lot to do with getting me started on writing a book on Ma Kali.  Originally, I had wanted to give my photos of Ma Bhavatarini to Belur Math and ask Swami Bhajananandaji to write a book on the Divine Mother.  After Swami Gambhirananda asked Swami Bhajanananda twice to talk to me and got a negative reply, Swami Gambhirananda said to me: “You write the book on Kali.”

           

I had never written a book before.  Although I had written numerous articles and was trained as a journalist, the thought of writing a book was scary.  I returned to America , and somehow Swami’s strength had entered into me and his words had struck a cord in my heart.  How could I fail when I received so many blessings?

“I hope that you succeed in your plans to complete and publish the book on Mother Kali,” wrote Swami Gambhirananda in one of his letter to me.  “May you receive in abundance the grace of Mother Kali and Sri Ramakrishna to reach the fountain of all bliss and peace.”

I returned to India in 1987 and, with great joy, sat again at revered Swami Gambhiranandaji’s feet.  He taught me so many things even when he was not directly talking to me.  I used to love sitting on the bench outside his room.  Swami’s kind attendants let me be and did not chase me away.   Sitting there on the bench I could feel the presence of Swami Gambhirananda. 

           

One hot afternoon, I was sitting on this bench watching swarms of mosquitos buzzing around my body.  I thought: what if a mosquito lands on my knee, will the stinger go through the sari?  What if a mosquito lands on my face, how bad will it sting?  What if a mosquito flies at my neck, could it crawl under my chadder?  Some time went by, and I was very busy working out “what if scenarios.”  All of a sudden, I heard Swami’s voice coming from somewhere inside me, saying: “Stop it.  Stop thinking about what might happen!  Think of God alone.”  Lost in the thought of God, it does not matter if a mosquito stings or not.

           

I asked Swami Gambhirananda once about seeing Sri Ramakrishna seated in my heart.  “Swami, how does Thakur sit in my heart?,” I asked.  “Does he face me?”

           

“No, he looks in the same direction you are looking,” said Swami Gambhirananda with great conviction.  After a while he added,” Don’t think about it so literally.”

           

Although I felt I knew Swami Gambhirananda with my heart, I knew little about his personal habits.  I am very grateful to his attendants who sometimes explained Swami’s actions to me.  I am especially indebted to Swami Atmaramananda for his untiring patience and kindness toward me.

           

One day as I was sitting at Swami Gambhirananda’s feet, he suddenly reached out and with great precision placed his hand on my head.  He held it there for a long time.  I was delighted and took it as a token of affection he extends to all visitors.  Later on Swami Atmaramanandaji explained to me that this moment was truly special because Swami Gambhirananda rarely showed open affection.

           

Swami Gambhirananda liked to tease me.  Once he asked me: “Who are you?  Are you Elizabeth or are you Usha or are you Miss Harding?”  I looked at his noble face, and immediately it flashed across my mind.  I said, “I’m the Atman, Maharaj.”  He clapped his hands and laughed.  “Look, look, how quickly she replied,” he said.

One morning after mangal arati, I hid behind some bushes in the monastery near Swami Brahmananda’s temple.  I wanted to take photographs of Swami Gambhirananda taking his morning walk.  I knew that he wouldn’t see me.  His attendants saw me hiding behind bushes but kindly did not mention it and walked past me.  When I came for evening darshan that day, Swami Gambhirananda said to me:  “I heard some clicking this morning during my morning walk.  Did you take photos?”  I sheepishly replied: “Yes.”  Swami threw his head back and laughed, saying, “You break all our rules.”  But since he laughed so heartily, I didn’t take it as a scolding.

When visiting a holy man, it’s auspicious to bring a gift.  Following this custom, I always brought fruit, flowers or sweets when I visited Swami Gambhirananda.  One day I was late for my appointment with the Swami.  I had bought very nice grapes for him but I didn’t get a chance to wash them.  So I quickly ran to Swami’s quarters, the grapes still wrapped in a newspaper.  As soon as I pranamed to him, Swami Gambhirananda said to me: “What have you brought for me today?”  I told him that there were grapes in the package.  He held out his hands saying,” Give them to me.”  I replied that I’ll give them to his attendant who could serve them nicely later on.  Swami insisted.  He held out his hands and said that the Indian way was to hand the fruit to him.  When I handed him the bunch of grapes wrapped in newspaper, to my horror he began eating the unwashed grapes. 

“Swami, please don’t eat these grapes,” I protested, feeling bad.  “They are not washed.  You may get sick.”  Swami Gambhirananda smiled and said:  “The Indian way is to put fruit directly into my hand.”

From then on, I always put everything I brought for him directly into his hand.  I was also careful not to be late so that I could have plenty of time to wash the fruit I brought. 

I visited Swami one day when I was quite sick.  Swami Gambhirananda with a very loud voice kept repeating: “May you live a long life.  May you live a long life.  May you live a long life.” It was as if he was chasing my sickness away in order to assure that I’ll live long.

Swami Gambhirananda knew that I was concerned about his life.  When I pranamed to his holy feet at Belur Math in 1987 about to leave for America, Swami Gambhirananda leaned forward and said: “Don’t worry, I will not die.  I will wait until you come back.”

In September 1988 Swami Gambhirananda wrote what was to be his last letter to me.  “During the first part of the present tour I managed to have a few pages of your writing on Kali read out to me.  I hope you will be able to complete the work soon and get it published.  May the Mother be pleased to bring success to your persistent efforts.”

I became very restless in October of the same year.  Ma Kali’s eyes were haunting me, drawing my mind to Kolkata.  I wanted to go to India.  When I finally couldn’t stand it any longer by November, I booked a ticket to Kolkata.  A few days before departing the U.S., I bought a video camera.  Day and night I kept thinking that I wanted to take a close up of Ma Kali’s eyes – zoom deep into Her beautiful eyes.

Since there was not much time to learn how to use the video camera, I decided to study the manual on the plane to India.  I arrived at Belur Math on December 24 and heard that Swami Gambhirananda was to arrive from one of his tours in the morning.  I was looking forward to seeing him again and be at his quarters to receive him.  So I sat on the bench in front of his room.  One of the Swamis at President Maharaj’ quarters got upset with me for sitting there and asked me to leave.  I begged him to let me stay for a while, and when I saw that he was really getting irritated, I consented to leave. 

As I was about to walk outside, Swami Gambhirananda’s car pulled up.  The Swami who had asked me to leave now told me to stay.  “Now you will have to wait until Swami Gambhiranandaji has walked to his room.  You can’t be in his way,” he said. 

I was happy.  I quietly sat back down on the bench.  Swami Gambhirananda was being helped out of the car.  I will never forget this scene.  One attendant was leading Swami by one hand while he used his other one to support himself on a cane.  He slowly walked past me toward his room.  Although his body walked into the opposite direction from where I was sitting, his being came toward me.  There was no doubt about it.

They told me that Swami Gambhirananda was not well and most probably would have to go to the hospital for a check up.  He was running a slight fever. 

I left his quarters to go to the Math office.  On my way back to the guesthouse where I was staying, I met one of the servants who told me to go back to President Maharaj’ house.  I thought it odd because I had just left there after seeing Swami Gambhirananda go to his room.  So, I didn’t pay any attention and proceeded toward the guesthouse.  Another person came and told me that I should go to President Maharaj’ house.  I still did not pay attention.  When a third person told me that, I felt that perhaps this was the will of the Divine and that I should go.

I reached President Maharaj’ house and saw a small group of monks standing outside the entrance.  I felt shy.  Uncertain about what to do, I stood in front of Swami Vivekananda’s temple.  Swami Atmaramananda saw me and came toward me.  He told me that Swami Gambhirananda would see me now. 

Coming in from the bright sunshine, my eyes had to adjust to the darkness in Swami Gambhirananda’s room.  The Swami sat on a chair that looked like a lawn chair with a yellow towel draped over it.  When he heard me enter the room, he stood up.  To my great surprise, he threw out his arms wide and with a loud voice said, “Welcome, welcome home.”  I mumbled something about being very happy to see him and that I had bought a video camera and wanted to take snaps of him.  He patiently listened to my stammering and, after some time he softly said, “I shall take rest now.”

When I bowed to his holy feet, I did not know that these were the last words I was to hear him speak while he was alive.  Somehow it did not occur to me that he could die.  I was told that he would depart for the hospital soon.  So, instead of going back to the guesthouse for my lunch, I walked to the main gate to see his car go by toward the hospital.  That was the last glimpse I got of Swami alive.

Days went by and, every day, I would go to President Maharaj’ house to inquire about Swami in the hospital.  Some days I heard that he was better and on others that he needed more treatment.

On December 28, 1988 I got my wish.  In the morning I went to Dakshineswar and was allowed to take a video of Ma Kali in the inner shrine.  I am familiar working with a camera but shooting a video was still quite new for me.  In a way, I struggled as much with my excitement of being in the inner shrine as I did with working the video camera.  What a pity.  I wish I would have known more about shooting videos.  I could have had a fantastic video of Ma.  As it is, it’s a bit of a bumpy viewing -- a shaky camera zooming in and out.

That night, I happily went to bed.  I got my Divine Mother safely in my video camera.  I was still smiling and going over the scene in Dakshineswar when the guesthouse servant loudly knocked on my door around 10:30 p.m.  “Get up!  President Maharaj has died.”

 How could this be?  That is not possible.  I somehow put on a sari and was about to leave for the Arogya Bhavan where Swami’s body was laid out when my eyes fell on my two camera bags.  For some reason I did not pick up my camera but took my video camera.  Like a sleepwalker I followed the servant to the Bhavan.  It was very dark and a crowd of monks had already assembled even though the body had just recently arrived.  In the middle of a bare room lit by a couple of dangling light bulbs was a bed.  Swami Gambhirananda’s dead body was lying there with great dignity.

Monks and lay members were chanting amid shock, grief and excitement.  Somehow I got pushed toward the foot of the bed and stood in front of Swami’s holy feet.  I could not think.  A tremendous wave of pain made me numb.  Tears shot like fountains from my eyes.

Something inside me made me pick up my video camera, assemble it and start shooting.  Nobody paid any attention to me. 

I was transfixed on Swami Gambhirananda’s noble face surrounded by fragrant garlands.   It was too painful to be me.  I was in deep shock.  My voice changed and became very low.  My body became rigid.  My eyes became the video camera and my body became the tripod as an incessant flow of tears rolled down my eyes.  As I sat next to Swami Gambhirananda’s dead body, scenes rolled past my mind like a movie.  I saw with great clarity the deeper meaning of my relationship with the great Swami and realized what a giant soul he was.  I realized how much his silent influence had affected me in so many positive ways.  Things I thought I had done and actions I thought I had successfully completed were in reality performed by his giant will. 

I missed my opportunity to thank him.  My upper sari was wet with tears.  I could not talk to him any longer.  I could not tell him that I now knew how great he was.  I was left alone with this knowledge.  So much pain.

Although some Swamis encouraged me to take rest and go to sleep, I did not leave Swami Gambhirananda’s body all night.  I knew that in the morning thousands of people would come to pay their obeisance, and I most probably could not remain seated next to the holy body.  Moreover, wanting to enshrine these last moments within my heart, I did not dare to look away from his face, fearing I’d loose a second of seeing his glowing face.

He did not allow me to look away from the pain.  I felt I was made to be the witness, thereby taking part in the death experience.  In agony I walked behind the procession of monks carrying his body.

It is strictly forbidden to take pictures on Belur Math grounds, but nobody stopped me as I walked holding the video camera in front of my eyes.  I must have looked like a veritable embodiment of pain.  The huge crowds of devotees that had assembled in the morning on the Belur Math grounds parted to let me through, and I walked like Moses through the Red Sea.  I kept telling myself not to sob too loudly because the video camera would pick up this sound. 

In agony, I watched his holy body burn and saw his beloved head fall to the ground.   My mind burned with him. I walked through the tunnel of pain and came out on the other side knowing that love and attachment are two different things.  Yes, one can love without being attached.  This great love never dies.  It is always with us.

When I came back to the U.S. and watched the video I took of Swami Gambhirananda’s cremation, I knew that it was not only for me.  It was a document that vividly showed that death could not touch this giant being we called Swami Gambhirananda.  The video was much less shaky than the one I had taken of Ma Kali at the Dakshineswar Kali temple.   My body, being in a deep shock, was very rigid and served well as a tripod.

For the next two years, I did a lot of research on Swami Gambhirananda’s life and teachings.  I interviewed many revered Swami’s of the Ramakrishna Order such as Swami Bhuteshananda, past president of the Ramakrishna Order, Swami Kashishwarananda, Swami Shivaswarupananda, Swami Atmasthananda, Swami Chetanananda, Swami Atmaramananda, and Swami Kamalananda.

A few times a week, I would drive over an hour after work to meet with a professional video editor and sometimes work late into the night.  I had never worked on a video before, and it was difficult for me to create a storyboard and write the script.  By Master’s grace, slowly all came together.

Once the video was edited, I hired Rich Capparela, a renowned U.S. radio artist who often hosts programs on classical radio stations.  We laid down the soundtrack as Rich was reading my script.  He is a great professional who picked up difficult and unfamiliar words very quickly.  There is one section in the script where Rich had to read out the names of  all the many great Swamis that Swami Gambhirananda met in his life.  After Rich got through reading about four to five names, he suddenly threw his hands up in the air exclaiming, “Just when I thought I had it all down, there was another ananda and another ananda.”  His tongue couldn’t make it, and he had to start over again.  At one point during the scenes where Swami Gambhirananda’s body gets cremated, Rich cried.   After the recording session, Rich did not charge his regular fee.  Actually, he asked for a very minimal amount of money, saying: “It is my honor to be part of this project.”

I went to Bombay and asked Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia to play original music for this video.  Hariji hired a small studio and, looking at the video, he played his flute.  When the video finished playing, we found out that the sound technician had made a mistake and nothing got recorded.  Luckily Hariji liked the video.  Instead of getting upset, he shrugged his shoulders and said,” Well, that was a long rehearsal.”  When we watched the video again and Hariji saw the cremation of Swami Gambhirananda’s body, he played his flute with such sadness that he made me cry.

When the video production was completed, I took it with me to Belur Math, and Swami Atmasthananda arranged for a viewing at the great library.  Many senior monks and brahmacharins attended.  Swami Atmasthananda also invited me to the event.  I was a little scared that I might get a scolding for there were some sections in the video that I shot without permission.  For instance, I took a video of mangal arati in Sri Ramakrishna’s temple hiding my camera under my chadder.  I also took a video of Holy Mother’s shrine.  I stood in front of Her living picture, asking Mother’s permission to shoot.  Usually, there are so many people and guards there.  But when I asked her plaintively, suddenly all people left and, from within me, I heard.  “Shoot now.”  I did.  A little later, many people came to bow before Her.

By Mother’s grace, I didn’t get scolded, and I believe the video was well perceived.  Back in America, I organized a screening at one of the large movie studios in Hollywood.  I wanted Swami Gambhirananda to be a movie star for one night.  My mother and I went to Sony Pictures and rented two screening rooms at the Executive quarters at the old MGM studios.  They were very elegant. 

When I talked to the studio executive about my project, he was interested and charged me only a fraction of the cost that he usually charges for these fancy screening rooms and the projectionist.  I hired the studio catering staff to provide refreshments in the foyer.  These were three girls who immediately took a liking to my project.  They understood that I had wanted to build a monument for Swami Gambhiranandaji who I feel was my real father.  The day of the screening, they went to all the studio parties and events, took away the fancy flower arrangements and brought them to the foyer.  Needless to say, the hundred people or so who attended the premiere showing of Swami Gambhirananda’s documentary video were treated to a lavish event.  When people entered, they received a yellow rose and were then treated with fancy delicacies and soft drinks.  As the guests mingled speaking softly about Swami Gambhirananda, the atmosphere was festive and laden with spirituality in an environment that is at other times extremely worldly.

Although this video deals mostly with Swami Gambhirananda’s death, it is rather clear that it was only his body that is gone.  Shortly before his passing, Swami Gambhirananda told one of his attendants: “I feel I’m nearing the house of death.”  Then, quickly, he corrected himself and said, “No, I am not.  There is no death for the Knower of God.”

This article by Elizabeth Usha Harding was originally published in a Bengali edition of reminiscences of Swami Gambhirananda as well as in "Footfalls, Swami Gambhirananda and Other Journeys" by Bibhas De.

The Bauls

(This article was originally published in Prabuddha Bharata, a monthly journal of the Ramakrishna Order that was started by Swami Vivekananda in 1896.)

Nabani Das Kshyepa Baul

“A band of minstrels suddenly appears, dances, and sings, and it departs in the same sudden manner.  They come and they return, but none recognizes them.”

- Sri Ramakrishna (Gospel Chapter 49)

Sri Ramakrishna said that he would be born again as a Baul; the Holy Mother Sri Sarada Devi told this to Swami Arupananda.  According to one of her recorded conversations, this would happen within a century, while Girish Chandra Ghosh and some others were of the opinion that Sri Ramakrishna spoke of returning in two hundred years.

My First Experience with the Bauls

It was the year of 1985 – almost one hundred years after Sri Ramakrishna’s passing -- and I was living near the Hollywood Vedanta Society at the time.  When I heard that one of the most famous Bauls – Sri Purna Das Baul – was on tour in Los Angeles, I went to find him.  This was my chance to get to know more about the Bauls.

I had been rather ill for almost a year, suffering from a severe respiratory infection and, since I had never experienced any long-lasting illnesses before, I felt insecure and thought that I might never get well.  When Babu, Purna Das’ eldest son invited me to come to the 1986 Joydeb Mela, I happily accepted.   For a long time I had the desire to go to India, travel to a remote place and write about it for the National Geographic magazine.  This was my chance to do that and to forget about my illness.  Moreover, deep in my heart I cherished a wild dream:  perhaps, I would find Sri Ramakrishna born again as a baby Baul at the mela, fair.

As it turned out, my first trip to India put me into the fast lane to God.  Although I never wrote a story for National Geographic, I got cured of my illness, and I started to live and experience first-hand what I only had been reading and dreaming about before.

For those unfamiliar with this event, Joydeb Mela is a three-day and three-night Baul festival which takes place every year during the time of Makar Sankranti, the 14^th day in January as per the solar calendar when the sun begins to travel northwards.   The mela is held in Kenduli, a small village in Birbhum located about 30 km west of Shantiniketan where Rabindranath Tagore founded his famous forest university. Tens of thousands of people throng to Kenduli during the mela to hear the Bauls sing and to bathe in the Ajoy river during the auspicious time of Makar Sankranti.

The poet Jayadeva who composed the Gita Govinda, is said to have taken birth at Kenduli, although some dispute that and put his birthplace somewhere in Orissa.  Be it as it may, the Joydeb Mela is dedicated to honoring Jayadeva and his wife Padmavati and, as one wanders or rather is pushed by the crowd through narrow, dusty lanes lined by make-shift stalls, one finds many pictures, statues and small booklets glorifying the poet.  One of Jayadeva’s famous saying is sabar upare manush satya tahar upare nai  - there is no higher truth than the human soul.

Throughout the year, Kenduli is a sleepy little village but, when the mela starts, thousands of people arrive in cars, buses, bullock carts, and on bicycles.  There are long lines of dusty villagers that have walked for days to get there.  Every year, temporary large tents are erected in Kenduli where the Bauls stay and perform.  Generally these tents fill up with people way past maximum safety regulations.

Brajabala Dasi, wife of Nabani Das and mother of Purna Das Baul

When I arrived in Kolkata, it was night time and Purna Das’sons Babu and Bapi picked me up from the airport.  The first impressions of India rolled past me as I pressed my nose against the car window.  I saw people walking in the dark and shopkeepers sitting in small stalls lit up by flickering kerosene lanterns.  This sight was deeply familiar.  It reminded me to my early childhood when my mother, grandmother and I stayed in a house in the Austrian countryside after the war.

Purna Das Baul Samrat

Early next morning, Purna Das, his wife Manju Das, his three sons Babu, Bapi and Chotton and I squeezed into a light-blue Maruti mini-van and drove to Shantiniketan where we picked up three musicians that were to accompany Purna Das during the performance at Joydeb.  It was hot, dusty and extremely uncomfortable sitting in the crowded car.  As we drove on a small country road over pothole after pothole and dodged one head-on collision with a truck after another, we were all getting somewhat irritable.   All of a sudden, Manju Das began singing a Baul song.  It was as if she waved a magic wand.  The mood changed instantaneously from being irritable to joyous.  Everybody in the car started singing, and we arrived in Kenduli elated.

I did not want to get out of the car when I saw the mass of people that surrounded us.  The ocean of excited faces staring at us was scary to me.  Out of exuberance over the arrival of Purna Das, people were shaking the car.  The side door opened and Purna Das stepped out of the car unperturbed and smiling.  I was scared to get out, and I was even more scared to be left behind.  Clutching my camera equipment and purse, I pushed through the throng of people, following Purna Das’orange turban bouncing above all the heads in front of me.  I was terrified of getting lost. 

In later years, I learned that there was never any chance of me getting lost.  I may not have known where I was, but everybody among the thousands of people attending Joydeb knew exactly where I was at any time.  I was one of, perhaps, two or three Westerners that attended the mela.  During my first trip to India, I still thought like a Westerner.  I had not yet learned the Indian way.

Kenduli did not have much of an infrastructure to support that many people.  At that time, there were dirt roads, and it was very dark at night because few houses and tents had electricity.  Yet, the magic that happened on a stage lit by a single light bulb is difficult to describe.

They say that once you have listened to a Baul singing ecstatically, you will never forget this experience.  I can vouch for that.  Even though I don’t understand the words being sung and need to rely on somebody’s translation, my inner being intuitively responds to the call of the Baul.  Filled with passionate longing for God, the Baul sings earthy songs dripping with the juice of divine love.  As he sings loudly, the red earth of Bengal resounds and carries his call to villages far off into the horizon.

The Ways of the Bauls

Though most Bauls are poor, their spirit is rich due to non-attachment to external things.  Outwardly they wear the garb of a beggar but, inwardly, they delight in the wealth of bliss.  Established in his sadhana, the Baul sings with the freedom of a soul without shackles.

 

Baul songs are mystical, poetic and multi-layered.  Underneath the obvious meaning of words, lie deep meanings that cannot be properly understood by a person who does not practice sadhana.  Secrets of Baul sadhana are given openly in hidden language.

Naboni Das Khyepa Baul’s elder brother Rasaraj wrote the following famous Baul song “yemon beni temni rabe...” 

The way my braid is, that’s how it will stay.

I’ll get into the water, I’ll splash water around

But I won’t get my hair wet.

I’ll swim about this way and that way

I’ll dive into the water and won’t listen to what people say.

I’ll enjoy myself but not suffer because of it.

Gosain Rasaraj says: “Listen, my friend,

That beauty leaves me speechless.

I won’t be chaste; I won’t be unchaste.

I won’t leave my Lord.”

On a similar note, Sri Ramakrishna often told his householder disciples engaged in worldly activities: “A boat may stay in water but water should not stay in the boat. An aspirant may live in the world, but the world should not live within him.”

 

The Baul sips like a bee, as it were, the most suitable nectar from Hinduism, tantric Buddhism and Sufi Islam and distills this concoction into a honey that gives him an intoxicating direct experience of God.  This approach to God is perceived as too unconventional by people who lack the freedom and willingness to comprehend.  Therefore, Bauls have been labeled as “mad” by orthodox prejudice for at least 600 years.  Breaking conventional social customs, Bauls deliberately dress in both Hindu and Muslim garments.  They embrace all, disregarding religious, caste and social restrictions.

Kanai Das Baul

Authentic worship of God, according to the Bauls, takes place only deep within the heart where the divine moner manush, “Man of the Heart,” is enshrined.  “God is hidden in the heart of man and, neither priest nor prophet, nor the ritual of any organized religion, will help man to find him there,” writes Professor Edward Dimock, an eminent scholar of Bengali literature.

The village of Kenduli has been built up quite a bit since I attended Joydeb Mela in 1986, and the number of people attending this festival has dramatically increased.  Purna Das Baul, who was one of the first Bauls to bring Baul songs and philosophy to the drawing rooms of Kolkata and the rest of the world, has done much to spread awareness of Baul traditions.  Before Purna Das Baul, the Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore added much to the popularity of Baul ways.  Drawing inspiration from the Bauls, Rabindranath Tagore was a great supporter of Purna Das’ father, Nabani Das Kshyepa Baul.  He collaborated with Nabani Das Baul, supported him financially and gave him land for a Baul institution.

While the popularity of the Bauls brought material success to some, it did more harm than good to the true Bauls who practice serious sadhana.  It brought an influx of shilpis, professional singers, who dress like Bauls and sing Baul songs for money but do not practice Baul sadhana.  According to some estimates, there were over 200 shilpis at the 2008 Joydeb Mela, almost outnumbering the real Bauls.  The shilpis cash in the rupees while the real Bauls are still poor.

Moreover, misunderstanding of the “way of the Baul” has caused a lot of mischief at Joydeb Mela.  Nowadays aside from simple village folk, hordes of people from cities throng to Kenduli during Joydeb.   Attracted by the term “freedom,” worldly city dwellers come to Joydeb Mela to indulge in licentious behavior.  They come to smoke ganja, get drunk and behave badly with women unaware that their distorted understanding of freedom only leads to greater bondage and suffering.

Bauls are rather difficult to comprehend.  I have lived with Bauls, read most books written on the Bauls, interviewed people on Baul philosophy and seen most video clips on Bauls that are available.  Rarely have I found worthy information and accurate statements in books written by Westerners as well as Indians.  Either the books are too scholarly or they deal with an author’s misguided perception of what it means to be a Baul.  One cannot understand the Baul intellectually; one must intuitively feel them with one’s heart.

Some statements in these books remind me to Sri Ramakrishna’s fable of the blind men describing an elephant.  Touching different parts of the animal, each of the blind men has the experience of the elephant but that experience is only partial.  The blind man who touches the ears of the elephant proclaims that the elephant is like a winnowing fan and another, who touches the leg, says that the elephant is like a pillar.

One cannot label Bauls and put them into convenient categories.  Baul sadhana practices differ from one Baul clan to another, from one akhra, Baul ashram, to another.  Perhaps it would be easier to herd cats than to start an organized group of Baul members.

Yet there is a through-line of similarities among the different Bauls.  Be they Vaishnava Bauls or Muslim Fakirs, be they grihasta, householder, Bauls or sannyasin Bauls, all Bauls believe that love for man is the path leading to love for the Divine.  All Bauls practice intense pranayama and various kundalini and yogic practices.

Nabani Das Baul became such an adept in breath control that he could stay under water for a long time.  His wife, Brajabala Dasi, told a story about the time she and her neighbors thought that Nabani Das Baul had drowned.  A neighbor saw him enter into a pond in Shantiniketan in the early morning hours but did not see him come back out.  As villagers stood around the pond lamenting, Nabani Das Baul resurfaced and was startled by the commotion.

Bauls dress in flaming orange colors or in patchwork kurtas that reach down way past their knees.  They do not cut their hair and generally tie it up in a top knot.  When they dance, their steps follow practices so ancient that they are universal.  An Australian aborigine elder joined Purna Das Baul during a performance in Australia.  While Purna Das sang an old Baul song and performed dance steps handed down by his ancestors, the aborigine elder sang an old aborigine song in the same tune following the same dance steps.

 

Traditionally, Bauls only used percussion and stringed instruments for accompaniment.  Of these, perhaps the most famous one is the gopiyantra or ektara, a one-stringed drone instrument that is plucked by a wire plectrum.  The drone sound reminds the Baul of the oneness of all.  The next in importance is the anandalahari or khamak which is a drum that is plucked.  A pair of strings attached to the skin of an open one-headed drum is fixed to another small drum.  By tightening and relaxing these strings, the Baul strikes them with a plectrum, creating a most exhilarating sound and beat.

Other Baul instruments are the dotara, a four-stringed long-necked lute, the duggi, a kettle drum which is tied to the Baul’s waist, nupur (anklets), kartal (cymbals) and the khol, a drum that is a Bengali village version of the mridanga.   Today, some Bauls also use the harmonium, tabla, flute and violin.

Bauls earn most of their living by singing in public places, at railroad stations, and by going from door to door.  Their style of living is simple – some would say lowly - but their attitude, their way of thinking is most high.  They may sit on a used, torn mat on the verandah of a clay hut and eat a simple meal, but they share it with their family and whoever happens to be around with such gusto that the simple food turns into nectar of the gods.

Bauls give respect to all.  In the West, we may say “thank you,” and think that we are done with giving respect.  I remember Purna Das Baul scolding me once severely after I thanked Sri Manohar Kshyepa Baba, a most respected guru of many Bauls, for allowing me to interview him at Joydeb Mela.

Manohar Kshyepa Baba

“Who are you to thank such a great soul as Manohar Kshyepa Baba?” scolded Purna Das Baul.  “You are in no position to thank him.  All you can do is pranam and beg for his blessings.”  I learned a great lesson.  Bauls regard their guru as God and pay the utmost respect to him.

Non-attachment is another trait of a real Baul.  I remember Purna Das Baul telling me a story about his childhood.  His family moved often from village to village.  At one time, they stayed longer at a particular village.  Outside this village was a small roadside Kali temple.  Purna Das Baul took a liking to this image and went there every day without telling his parents.  Curious about where his son was going,  Nabani Das Baul followed him one day.  “My son, you should never be attached to any external thing,” said Nabani Das Baul.  The next day, the family packed up and moved to another village.

Another story I heard from Purna Das Baul gave me a lesson in same-sightedness.  Nabanidas Baul was gone for many weeks and his family was starving.  Ma sent out Purna Das Baul in search of his father.  After searching for a while, Purna Das Baul found his father in a small village that was suffering tremendous food shortages due to draught.  They had asked Nabani Das Baul to stay and do a special sadhana to bring rain.   Nabani Das Baul told the villagers to feed the children.  When they did as told, not only did rain come but also miraculously food appeared , brought by neighboring villagers.

Purna Das Baul tapped his father’s shoulder and mentioned that his family is starving while he is feeding children in this village.  Nabani Das Baul replied, “Who says that these are not my children?  All are my children.  I am feeding my children.”

Sri Ramakrishna Baul

I am still waiting to meet Sri Ramakrishna as a Baul.  Though many disregard the possibility of Sri Ramakrishna being born again -- saying that he has given enough and does not need to return -- I believe that Sri Ramakrishna will return as a Baul.  Perhaps he will come in 100 years, perhaps in 200 years.  In my humble opinion, the mood of a Baul might suit Sri Ramakrishna well.   Outwardly, the Baul shows tremendous emotion and drama but inwardly, the Baul is still like Shiva soaked in the bliss of Oneness.

It may be apt to conclude this article  -- my humble attempt of verbally using a few brush strokes to sketch a picture of a real Baul -- by quoting Sri Ramakrishna talking about the Bauls in The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna recorded by M.

Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa

Sri Ramakrishna (to M.):  Leaning on one side too long yesterday while in ecstasy in Adhar’s house, I got pain in my leg.  So I now take Baburam with me wherever I go.  He is a sympathetic soul. 

Saying this, the Master sang:

How can I tell you, O friend! What is in my heart?

I cannot live without a sympathetic heart.

The man of the heart is recognized by his look.

He is rare; he swims in bliss and is steeped in love.

The man of the heart trades in love.

Where can we find the man of the heart

Who carries only a tattered rag under his arm?

He does not say a word; he travels the high road.

The man of the heart makes a stir on the high road.

Sri Ramakrishna:  The Bauls sing such songs.  There are also songs like this:

Wait, O Dervish, holding the begging bowl,

Stand and let me dwell on your beauty.

Sri Ramakrishna:  The siddha (perfect individual) of the Shakta Cult is called a kaul.  According to Vedanta, he is called a paramahamsa.  According to Baul Vaishnavas, he is a Sain.  There is none beyond the Sain.

A Baul becomes a Sain when he is a siddha.  For him, there are no differences in the world.  One half of his necklace is made of cow bones and the other of the tulsi plant. 

Sri Ramakrishna:  A Baul once came here.  I said to him, “Are you finished with all the work of refining?  Is the pot down from the fire?”  The more you boil the syrup, the more refined it will be.  First you have the juice of the sugar cane, next molasses, after which lumps, next sugar, then sugar candy, hard sugar balls, etc.  It is being refined continuously.

When is the pot taken down?  That is, when will spiritual practices come to an end?  It will be when the sense organs will be conquered.  The sense organs will become loose like the leech which drops off itself when lime is put on it.  He lives with a woman but does not know her.

Jai Guru

Yielding to the Storm of Kali

This article, written in 1992, first appeared in Tattva-Sangarba, the journal of the Sringiri Shankaracharia Math, India. A portion was also published in Tantra Magazine and Light of Consciousness. 

There’s a sacred wind blowing, heralding the dawn of mysticism. I feel it, my friends feel it, and the news media has started writing about it. We are waiting with bated breath for the day to come when mystics will inhabit the world, when Christians, Muslims, Jews and Hindus get so intoxicated with love for the God of their heart that their differences melt into a giant pot of divine love. When I close my eyes and think about it, I can almost taste what a world consummated by collective mystical union could be like.

Ma Bhavatarini Kali

A mystic in my dictionary is someone who, over and above his or her spiritual and/or intellectual disciplines, is in perfect tune with the consciousness underlying all-the very thing we all have in common and that which differentiates a live person from a dead body. Everybody is hooked into this life-giving consciousness, but only few enjoy its divine bliss and splendor. A mystic enjoys the glamour of God because he or she has managed to shake off the ego, which is the only thing that separates us and prevents lasting happiness.

We’re living in a time when things are getting ready for change. As we approach the millennium, suddenly old beliefs we’ve lain in comfortably for so many years don’t hold any longer, baring the field of doctrine to a tempest which may reshape Western religious and intellectual thought.

On the spiritual side, there is turmoil. Organized religions have trouble keeping their formalities flexible enough to accommodate people’s desire for a more personalized religion. I believe that people want to practice yoga whether they call it by this name or not. They want to have their own personal connection with God and put sacredness back into every aspect of their daily lives. People are reaching out to spirituality, something that can be substantiated by the fact that Pope John Paul II’s new book, Crossing the Threshold of Hope topped the best-seller list, bypassing Faye Resnick’s raunchy tell-all book about Nicole Brown Simpson.
On the scholarly side, there is turmoil. Faith in secular, rationalist humanism-with progress as the promise and reason as the tool-is eroding for the first time since this philosophy germinated in the Renaissance. Rationalist humanism made us believe we could discover the “laws of nature” through reason and, applying this knowledge, things would get better and better.

And since we’ve failed to harness nature over all these years, the voices of advocates of the chaos theory are now getting louder, undermining the conventional theories of rationalist humanism. According to the chaos theory, we’re living in a universe of chaos where change is the norm, and where change without end does not necessarily mean we are progressing toward anything better.


As a lover of the Hindu Goddess Kali, I have no problem with chaos. I see it as Ma Kali’s divinely intoxicated dance. As the destroyer, Kali clears the path for new creation. Shouting, “Off with the ego!” the great Queen of the Universe clothes Herself in chaos so awesome that our arrogance automatically falls off, giving way to unconditional surrender.

Ma Dakshineswari Kali of Laguna Beach

This black goddess Kali is mysticism personified. As such, She has a tremendous unifying power. She intoxicates us, fermenting us into the same wine. I’ve been privy to gain first-hand knowledge of this. Over the past couple of years, I have sponsored public Kali pujas held in Laguna Beach, California, performed by Sri Haradhan Chakraborti, the main pujari (priest) of the Dakshineswar Kali Temple. So many blissful faces, so many diverse people worshipping side by side-Westerners and Indian, people from the Vedanta Society, SRF, Yoga Center, ISKCON and followers of a veritable rainbow of yogis and yoginis too numerous to list.
The first time I felt like abandoning myself to the divine will was when I first saw Ma Kali’s face in the inner sanctum of the Dakshineswar Kali Temple, Calcutta, India. I was so awed that I forgot to ask Her for anything, not even to straighten out any of my problems. All I wanted was to let go of myself just like a child lets go of the string, releasing the balloon to ascend toward the vast blue sky.

Perhaps this feeling of wild abandonment was caused by the inexplicable ecstatic joy I fest at the time, or perhaps it was just the noise of my rapidly beating heart that drove away my thoughts. Whatever the reason, this feeling came to me quite naturally and was not something I deliberately manufactured.

Yet, what seemed so easy a thing to accomplish at first has turned into the hardest task I have ever attempted. Years have passed, and I still don’t know how to completely surrender at Ma Kali’s feet. It’s a vicious cycle. The more I long to surrender, the deeper my understanding gets of what it means to surrender to the Divine. One moment I feel I have done it; the next, I realize how much farther I need to go.

I found Kali-or She found me-in 1986 while I was traveling in India on assignment for a magazine. I was immediately overwhelmed by the very tangible power one feels in Her presence, and I got frustrated when I could not find enough information on this mystical black goddess. I had so many questions and could find no books written about Her in a language my heart could understand. So, I began research and wrote one myself.

The fuel for my passion that drives me to do all kinds of things-such as writing a book on Kali-is love. Life is boring without love. I think that perhaps I need more love than other people do, because I don’t want to live without it. I remember my teenage years, which I spent mostly depressed. Though I got plenty of love, it was never enough to satisfy my hungry heart. I was a beggar for love, begging with outstretched hands: “Oh please, give me love, give me love, give me more love.”

Today, I am a lot wealthier. Ma Kali’s presence in my heart reversed, as it were, the current of love within me. Previously, this current flowed from the outside in and made me depend on favorable external influences. Now, it flows from the inside out. When I stopped depending on people to love me and started listening to and feeling the love in my own exciting heart, the current of love reversed.

If only people would become lovers rather than wanting to be beloveds, there would be a lot less hurt and hatred in the world. It’s much easier to be a lover because the ego gets less in the way. As a lover, I am more prone to love unconditionally, without expectations. As a lover, I seek happiness more for my beloved than for myself. It encourages me to be unselfish. In my case, unselfishness did not come over night. I’m still working on it and have a long way to go.

My ideal is Sri Ramakrishna, the Godman who lived at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple for 30 years. His passionate love and total surrender to Kali united his being with Hers, making Her will and his inseparable.
“Surrender seems like such a passive act,” remarked my friend Tray during a recent discussion. “Yet, it’s really a lot of work.”

But it’s certainly worth it. The more I go about loving unselfishly, the deeper the feeling of satisfaction. It is my sincere belief that as long as I am unselfish and live in tune with God, my love will always be replenished. I’ll never run our of love, even if the people I love hurt me. I may not be immune to getting hurt, but when I do, underneath the tears continues to flow a sweet current of bliss.

To me, surrender to God means to live constantly in tune with God. This is, indeed, a very hard thing to do. The belief that I am not the doer and Ma Kali is doing something through me comes with practice. It shouldn’t be wishful thinking or come from an emotional sentiment that may land me in a mental institution. When it is real and true, it is a tangible feeling beyond doubt.

I have met many people who I thought had attained great spiritual heights. But, after spending time with them, I discovered that their talk and behavior was based on past spiritual experiences and learned behavior-which is certainly not bad. But, God cannot be realized in the past or future. God can only be realized in the present.
It is truly rare and great good fortune to meet someone who lives in the present moment and whose spirituality bubbles spontaneously from the heart. When one lives constantly in tune with God, every word, every action is spontaneous. Even when one repeats God’s name a thousand times, each repetition is fresh and completely spontaneous.

Though surrendering to Kali means giving up the ego, depending on which Kali worshipper one talks to, one gets a slightly different point of view. I may long to annihilate my ego but my friend Gita may not think this is the goal: “I believe the purpose of creation is to love God-realize one’s identity with Kali but retain the semblance of separation so She can be loved,” said Gita. “It is Mother who gave us this ego and these desires in the first place. It’s up to Her to take them away or fulfill them. She gives so much, even the things that lead to pain. We asked for them and She gives them to let us grow. When you realize that everything is Kali, the desires drop away and you just love Her.” My friend Jose does not worry about the ego. “I never made a conscious effort to bring God into my life,” said Jose. “God is doing everything. I am a Krishna devotee and had no intention of worshipping Kali. It’s Sri Ramakrishna’s trick. Somebody brought me an image of Kali, and I now worship Her every day.”

One thing all Kali worshippers I met have in common is a sense of fearlessness. I don’t have to be afraid of anything for I worship the Mother who gives birth and destroys all things created. So, whom or what to fear?
Ma Jaya Sati Bhagavati, one of the most vivacious American spiritual teachers I know, has turned Kali worship into a most practical application. Ma Jaya gives Kali to people afflicted with AIDS. She tells them, “I can’t cure you, but I can teach you how to die fearlessly in the Mother’s arms.” Ma Jaya, who is also an artist, activist and humanitarian, is the founder of the Kashi Foundation in Sebastian, Florida.

One can read a lot about spirituality and surrender, but one doesn’t get the taste for it until one experiences it. It helps to spend time in the company of the holy, people who have dedicated their lives to realize God. Their company stimulates sacred emotion, which, in turn, overpowers mere analytical thought.

I owe India a lot. I have learned so much by just being there. In my book Kali, the Black Goddess of Dakshineswar, published by Nicolas-Hays, I tried to convey to the reader what it feels like to stand in the courtyard in front of the temple. The following is an excerpt:

The closer one gets to the inner shrine, the louder one hears throaty shouts that echo from within the temple. “Ma, oh Ma, Ma go Ma! Jai Kali! Jai Kali Ma! Jai Ma Bhavatarini ji ki jai!” One also hears the loud clanking of a bell that rings in spurts. Yet, one still cant see anything in front besides heads and raised arms. The front entrance to the Kali shrine has three arched passageways. Because the middle one is blocked, worshippers enter and exit at both sides. Today, it is very crowded, and one is shoved through. Cold sweat stands on the forehead as one suddenly finds oneself inside a cool covered veranda. It is quite cool although there in no visible air-conditioning system. Toward the left, suspended from the ceiling, hangs a big brass bell. Every other pilgrim who is pushed past, reaches up and clanks it as loudly as possible at least a couple of times. Parents hold up their children to give them also a chance to clank the bell, thereby proclaiming to Ma Kali that they have arrived, that they exist. Countless bare feet shuffle over the cool, smooth marble tiles. Occasionally one steps on something slippery and wonders what it is. Perhaps it’s a flower, spilled water, something indefinable that is better not to know. Whatever it is, one will never know because there is no chance to see the ground. There are too many bodies, pushing, pressing and crowding like moths in the night toward a light that is still a little farther off.

Everyone’s focus is on the lighted entrance in the middle of the covered veranda. A cast-iron gate prevents people from entering, so they crowd before it, half hanging over it, trying to get a little closer inside. Some people kneel, reach through the gate and touch the ground within the sanctum. Immediately behind the gate stand two priests keeping watch. There white dhotis bear the marks of their profession-red sandalwood paste, vermilion and flower stains. Their foreheads are marked with large vertical lives of vermilion, the signs of a male Shakti worshipper-women wear large vermilion dots. Pilgrims hand their baskets of offerings to attending priests, who take the hibiscus garlands and expertly fling them into the lighted inner sanctum at Mother Kali’s feet. Basket in hand, each priest disappears inside, utters some mantras over the basket and offers it to Mother Kali with reverence. A few sweets from each basket stay with Ma Kali in a box next to the altar. The rest of the offerings, together with flowers taken from the altar, are returned to the pilgrim. These returned offerings are called prasad and considered a great blessing. God has taken the first bite-eaten the subtle essence of the food-and the devotee, swallowing the gross elements of the food, takes the second. Anxiety has reached a fever pitch, and the short distance walk from the arched passageway to the lighted inner sanctum seems to take forever. But, when one finally stands before Kali, time seems to stand still. Everything stops. The people, the noise-all is mysteriously gone. One stares with wide eyes, forgetting even to blink. All one sees is Kali and nothing else.

Nobody can define Kali, the mystical black goddess. My book is just a blueprint, an attempt to take people a little closer to the realm of Kali. After a talk in a Berkeley bookshop, one person came to me and said, “When you talk about Kali, you talk about love, whereas I and my group look at Her as a militant, liberated woman. She kills all the demons single-handedly. How do you reconcile the two views?” Pointing to the garland of skulls Mother Kali is wearing, I used an observation Betty Lundsted, my publisher, made some time ago. When you look closely at the severed heads, you see that they are all smiling. They are smiling because Ma Kali killed their egos. After they were liberated, only love remained.

The heart is such a small place. God and the ego cannot coexist there. If one is there, the other has no room.