shanti shanti

I have faith in many Gods and many religions, but I believe in myself, my host VJ proclaims. I sit cross legged facing him in the flickering candle light, considering the stream of declarations and observations and stories that fall from his lips like fortunes from a cookie. I can’t distinguish truth from lies, history from fantasy. I don’t think opium does anything but change the texture of experience from solid to liquid and the pace from animal to plant. VJ confesses that sometimes we go slow, and sometimes we go fast, and I think to myself that Varanasi exists in a different continuum completely, an ancient maze of peeling pastel alleyways where bathers offer bodies to the earth and dirty laundry to be cleansed . Heather and I listen and laugh and fade into the fabric. Every so often he pulls charras from his cigarette pack and when we thank him replies, “it is my goodness.” VJ smokes constantly and drinks what we give him and takes opium each evening, a little black ball that smells of earth and subtle spice. He “make all life like this. and feel good,” but through the blur come fragments of wisdom. He teaches us his history, his purpose, his perceptions.

I bring you in the world, said God. Now you go guru. They will have experience, power, teach you. You begin life with God, but you finish with guru. and life is beautiful.

We are one. I don’t mind.

Bodies are burned every moment of every day for 5000 years. This is the oldest inhabited city and an eternal flame consumes its people. Four men carry their dead through the streets and plunge him into Mother Ganga, a kind of catharsis, a baptism. The body is then covered in ghee. Rama created cows and rams at the same time to make ghee for this ceremony. Loved ones pour water from the river into the open mouth. Sometimes it is swallowed, mostly though it spills back out over the cheeks, the neck, the chest, the earth. The flesh and organs are weighed and, if the family can afford it, the proper amount of wood is laid on top. Men sit above the ghats with green scales and pyramids of timber, waiting for the wealthy to come. The pile is covered with more ghee then powder and set ablaze. The fire is not fed, only watched. The shadows shuffle around it slowly, breathing life into death, making it dance. Silhouettes on the horizon, like the drawings on a cave made of blood and soot. It is better this way. The living make sure the dead depart properly, watch their bodies waste away and know the spirit is free. There is no possibility of escape. They are lucky for this and strong. One part doesn’t burn. No matter how much wood is consumed, how much time, it will remain in tact, an organ inside the belly. It is carried to the water and fed to the fish. If the person who died was old or young or weak there will be wood left over. It is taken by the poor to kept their families warm, and to cook their meals with, to keep them alive.

Saraswati will grant you one wish. But this you cannot choose. One thing you say during the day will come true, be carried out. You must be careful always.

So we watch for the rhinosorous, and then we will know He is listening.

As the sun falls, kites flutter overhead, watching for prey. The children taunt each other from roof tops and ask me where I bought mine and if I know how to fly it. Of course, I respond, but they know I’m lying. A cover of ants swarms the bodhi tree, producing patterns with their bodies, moving bark. Perhaps they are pilgrims called to prayer, trying to free the kites trapped in its branches, dangling. don’t jump shout the boys below. Somehow the shadows of boats rippling on water are more real than the forms themselves. as if God reflects the true nature of life. instability. the consequences of shifting light, visions.

I hold a baby goat in my hands, and its heart beats so fast it scares me. Take it home with you, VJ tells me. The mother begins to cry, to bleat. Goats-- he says-- animals are more intelligent than people, they simply cannot speak. I wonder, would they be angry or forgive us. Who is the more evolved beast?

The goat eats part of my blessing for breakfast--not the baby, another one. Heather Rose and I step into the silt sludge of the Mother Ganga and offer her our strings of blossoms, bestowed with intention. I hold the lei gently in my hand, like a string of prayer beads, contemplating the millions before me who came to show reverence. Lost in thought, I feel a tug on the line and find myself facing a goat. Like the troll of a bridge he takes his toll. I let him nibble away, wondering which of my wishes he’s consumed then toss the remaining flowers into the belly of the goddess, pressing her water into my mind and throat and heart.