All Kinds of Magic: One Man's Search for Meaning Across the Material World (6 page)

‘I appreciate your finding a valid path to God,’ I said, ‘but why such a difficult one, with so many hardships and austerities?’

‘How much of the stuff you own do you actually
need
anyway?’ said Ram lightly. ‘Besides, I really felt so disgusted with the world I came from. I wanted no more to do with it.’

‘In what way?’

‘Almost every way.’ Ram stopped walking suddenly, his bony face lit up by an almost messianic fervour. ‘The West has become obsessed with trying to seek fulfilment through the external world. We think if we get
that
car,
that
house,
that
stupid electronic gadget then we’ll be happy. But each time the bar raises. Even with ten houses we’re still not happy. And yet we don’t come to our senses. We idolise those people most in our culture who are the most deluded.’ He grinned. ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

I nodded. I understood well enough, but nevertheless I was a very long way from wishing to join him. Renunciation, frankly, seemed a little selfish.

‘What I found here was an incredibly ancient method of self-exploration and, ultimately, for finding happiness. India is changing fast, of course, but the
sadhus
aren’t.’ He cackled. ‘That said, they
are
beginning to get mobile phones. One of the phone companies is here at the Mela, offering free talk time for
sadhus
. They see it as good marketing to have
babas
using their brands. Never thought I’d see such a thing.’

I asked Ram if he felt that he was accepted here: a white man dressed as a renunciate.

‘By the
Juna Akhara
?’ He paused, and his brown watchful eyes softened. ‘I believe so, yes. They accept anyone, providing you jump through the right hoops. That’s one of the greatest things about the
sadhus
, actually. But then conversely there are many rituals, initiations; money must change hands in some circumstances. Actually, there are many pecking orders, you’d be surprised.’

‘Why is that surprising?’ I asked.

‘Well, I was surprised,’ said Ram. ‘I mean, it seemed ironic to me that although
sadhus
have renounced the world, they have recreated so many of its barriers within their own organisation.’

We came to the camp at last. A line of open tents revealed about twenty different
sadhus
, of various ages. Before each tent, an open fire smouldered, fed only with wood from dead trees, or wood that had fallen naturally. Several enormous chillum pipes were being passed round, glowing red with
charras
– black marijuana resin. A cluster of wizened but seemingly contented faces peered up at me. Some of them had long dreadlocks in imitation of Shiva, from whose matted hair it is said the Ganges first flowed. Most of them were smeared in sacred ash, so that their skin glowed as white as Greek statues.

Ram greeted his comrades and told them, in guttural Hindi, what had happened to me. Several greybeards tutted at the story, while one of the younger
sadhus
– his pupils dilated to soup bowls – let out a shriek of wild laughter. They were sitting cross-legged on the ground, on Kashmiri rugs or folded wool blankets. Strings of crimson, yellow and orange marigolds hung from above, while from the ashes of the fire a great iron trident pointed to the heavens. Everything was carefully swept and cleaned. Smells of
nag champa
incense in the air.

An old greybeard, noticing my attention, spoke out in broken English.

‘Trident is weapon of Shiva! With it he destroys enemies. But also he is destroying attachment to the world. He is cutting us free.’ He patted the ground beside him in invitation.

While Ram went to get me some water to clean myself off, I removed my shoes and sat down on the edge of the circle. For
sadhus
(and Hindus in general) purity is everything. One must always remove one’s shoes when sitting before them, as well as avoid pointing one’s feet directly towards anyone. For them the world is alive with unseen forces and it is a part of their
sadhana
, or practice, to keep these forces at bay. On one level that means dirt, and they will always begin their day with a ritual bath – usually in a sacred river or pool – but on another level this means more insidious forces: energies, and negative influences of all types.

Their fireplace – the
dhuni
– is another integral part of this belief system. Its origins are unclear, save that on some level it is a relic of an earth goddess cult. The
dhuni
itself is not the fire but the hollow in which it sits, representative of the
yoni
or female vulva. Into this, a flame is kindled, on to which suitable objects are fed and consumed. This is a symbol of the world itself: a process of continual change and transformation. It is also a reminder of the possibility of evolution from the physical to the spiritual level, and to offer ghee or other objects to the flames is to honour this notion.

Some months later, a Swedish Indologist added another interpretation to my understanding of the sacred fireplace. ‘The opening up of the self to the mystical realms of consciousness can be very dangerous,’ he said, ‘because it leaves the practitioner open to all kinds of influences. That’s why the
sadhus
are always drawing boundaries around themselves. They do it with their lines drawn in the earth, by sprinkling water and by sitting before fire. This protects and grounds them. It purifies everything it touches.’

As Ram returned with a metal tin of water and a rag, several of the
sadhus
helped me to clean my shawl free of
kulfi
. I was touched by their kindness, their attentiveness to putting this foreigner at his ease. My awkwardness at suddenly being thrust into the heart of the
sadhu
encampment began to recede. I felt entirely welcome.

Meanwhile, one of the older
babas
– a man of indeterminable although certainly advanced age, with furrowed bronze skin and matchstick limbs – proceeded to load himself a chillum pipe. In the popular Western imagination, all
sadhus
smoke vast quantities of marijuana. But it is actually only the Saivite sects, and of these mainly the
Juna Akhara
, who smoke. (For most
sadhus
smoking is as off limits as all the other worldly pleasures.) Certainly, for the
Juna Akhara
, marijuana is a sacred plant. In scripture, Shiva is permanently intoxicated by it, in a state of divine bliss, and it is believed that to smoke the plant allows the devotee to share in this, a momentary journey beyond the veil.
Sadhus
who smoke will generally honour Lord Shiva before an inhalation, chanting a chillum mantra, such as:
Bum Shiva!
, or
Bam Bam Bholanath!

To my right, the old-timer did just this, wrapping a scrap of muslin around the end, raising the heavy clay pipe to the sky and uttering a forceful chillum mantra, before sucking on the end, then exhaling a great pungent cloud that momentarily obscured everything around us. Instantly, I could see his pupils expand, a beatific smile play about his lips and his whole bony torso slacken. Refusing my own turn, I passed the pipe to the
sadhu
on my left. These days, marijuana affects me poorly, and the last thing I wanted in this sprawling and highly disorientating environment – where I’d already been attacked once – was to lose my senses. Nevertheless, it was pleasing to watch the
sadhus
smoke, and to observe the effects
of the intoxicant. Recalling the notion of anthropologist David Abrams that magic is merely an expansion of the senses, I could well imagine how marijuana might facilitate such a process. One’s ears tune in with delight and appreciation to previously unnoticed sounds. The wandering nature of the mind is temporarily stilled, and a sense of equanimity comes over the user. To be in nature is to find oneself overcome with the wonder of being.

Drug use as a means of reaching God is, of course, as old as man himself. Of the over 1,000 hymns in the Rig Veda, 120 are devoted to a substance called
soma
– a sacred drink with the power to transport the user to the heights of ecstasy. Several thousand years later, the exact identity of
soma
is unclear, but many Vedic scholars have their theories. Some believe it was made from
Amanita muscaria
– a mushroom favoured by Siberian shamans. Others contest this, suggesting instead the psychoactive plant
Peganum harmala
, or, according to Terence McKenna’s theory, the fungus
Stropharia cubensis
. Perhaps most convincingly, Paul Devereux, in his classic book
The Long Trip
, has suggested that
soma
may not have been one plant but ‘a sort of archetypal concept that stands for the psychoactive, sacred experience that can be found in the plant kingdom’. If that is indeed true, then perhaps the
sadhus
, even as I sat besides them, were imbibing
soma
to join Shiva in his sacred realms.

‘We have drunk the soma, we have become immortal . . . we have found the gods. What can hatred and the malice of a mortal do to us now? . . . the drop that we have drunk has entered our hearts, an immortal inside mortals.’ (O’Flaherty)

Ram was certainly doing his best to find the gods. Now in the middle of the
sadhu
circle, he seemed to be smoking his way to oblivion. His head swayed faintly to the pulse of a small drum; his long fingers tamped great plugs of
charras
(handmade hashish) into his clay pipe. As the latest chillum touched Ram’s lips he let out a hacking series of coughs, prompting one of his comrades to reach into his bag for a sticky brown bottle. I caught a glimpse of the label as he did so, and had trouble suppressing a chuckle. ‘Bhati’s Cough Elixir,’ it said, ‘tasty and effective.’

Later, once the smoking session had ended, Ram led me around the Mela ground to meet some of the other
sadhus
. Above us the sun was a burning disc, and those who had tents were retreating into the shade to sit out the worst of the heat. Cooking fires brewed tea and heated wheat chapattis, while those pilgrims with no camp to sit in made their way to the riverside in the hope of a cool breeze. To walk through the Mela as the guest of this respected ascetic was to gain a glimpse of the veneration these men are accorded in India. Everywhere, people bowed respectfully to Ram, their eyes cast courteously downward. I realised that the Indians made no distinction between a foreign
sadhu
like Ram and any of the others. The
sadhu
was outside caste, quite literally a ‘god man’.

First on our list was Amrabati, one of the oldest and most celebrated of the
Juna Akhara
ascetics. Since the
sadhu
lifestyle with its rituals and austerities is intended to speed up the process of burning off negative karma, certain
sadhus
take this one step further still. Mortifications, such as holding limbs in the air, or tying heavy weights to their genitals as I’d seen that morning, are methods of cultivating
tapas
or inner heat. This
tapas
is a form of spiritual energy as well as the source of the
sadhu
’s magical power.

Amrabati has been holding his arm vertically in the air, without a break, for more than twenty years. Denied proper movement and blood flow, his hand has withered like a plant without water. It hangs in a sort of noose, the fingernails curving into obscene brown ringlets. It’s hard to tell Amrabati’s age – he might be forty-five or seventy-five – but what is evident from looking into his deep-set, smouldering eyes is that here is someone who has tested himself beyond the limit of most of our imaginings. Now he looks out with a curiously empty gaze, no longer as interested in the machinations of the world about him as in his own internal battle. By any reckoning, he is a powerful presence to behold.

I greeted the great
baba
and sat down quietly while Ram paid his respects. Amrabati, his skeletal arm trussed up as if in some medieval hospital brace, nonchalantly packed himself a pipe with his free hand. In his case, I sensed the marijuana might have made his extraordinary ordeal a good deal more bearable. For the other
sadhus
, too, his mortification has raised him in high esteem; while we sat there a string of visitors came to pay their respects. Amrabati received them with little more than a regal nod, occasionally speaking a few gruff words. He seemed hardly of this world any more.