Climbing Chamundi Hill (13 page)

“Is the whole thing inevitable? Does it go on forever?”

“No, not once you get a hold of the coat. I believe the story hints at a solution by contrasting the two kings—their motives—and by offering true compassion as a model of going beyond this cycle. But it's just a hint—the story is no more than that.”

I sat down again, vainly trying to conceal from the old man that I was tired. My feet were suddenly hot; they seemed to melt into the stones. But that was not the worst of it. It was my lungs again—the air seemed too thin and hot to provide my brain with oxygen. I felt light and transparent, dissipated into the hot sunlight and weak. I needed some shade; I yearned for water. Again, the old man showed no obvious concern, but looked through me in his unwavering, intense manner. He told me to rest and said he was going to get some water; there was a small spring down a side path. As he shuffled slowly away, I couldn't stop thinking about what he had been saying about the self and the ego, the “I” and “me.”

Those weeks in the hospital in Staunton had had a devastating effect on my ego. I was twenty-six at that time, and it
had taken years to cultivate a solid, if not shining, sense of self-worth. Unfortunately, half of it was tied up in what I thought I had achieved, and the other half, in what I was planning to accomplish in the wide-open future. Some of this was intellectual, but too much got invested in my body. I had been a high-level amateur soccer player, all-American in college. I had always moved easily, like an athlete. I climbed the trees for the electric company despite the fact that they paid the ground crew just as much. It seemed only natural that I should climb.

Once, in high school in Tucson, I did a research project on desert scorpions. As usual, it was a monumental job; it had to consume me—so I could win that National Merit award. I collected dozens of specimens from the Sonora Desert south of Tucson—turning over rocks and stones and gathering up the scorpions in jars for measurement. There were the pale wind scorpion, the giant desert hairy scorpion, and even the lethal
Centruroides sculpturatus
. Largest of all were the African scorpions my father—also a biologist—had smuggled in from Ghana. I kept them in my room—my folks lived in a tiny house near the campus. Every now and then some would get out and terrify my mother. I lost several to her broom. Mother never came into my room during that semester, and she kept her killer broom with her whenever she came near.

One day she had had enough, and she almost raised her voice at me—she never yelled. Her curly black hair seemed unusually wild that day; she looked younger, crazier. She accused me of trying to assassinate her. She even stooped to make the ultimatum so many sons have heard from their mothers about one thing or the other: “It's me or them, mister. Take your pick!” So I ran into the room and brought out one giant desert hairy specimen. It looked the most ferocious,
although it was not. Then I stuck my hand in the jar and let it sting me—keeping my face calm just to prove to my mother that her life was not in danger.

The scorpion affair came to an abrupt end when one of the huge African scorpions got loose in the house. Mother locked me out along with my father. The two of us sat on the front steps for hours, wondering when she would back down and let us in. Eight hours later it was I who caved in, and the scorpions returned to the desert.

For weeks after my fall from the tree, I lay suspended in that contraption that kept my back in the air. Everything I needed required the help of strangers. They took turns coming in, just voices and efficient touch, not persons. I was meat on a rack. Sadly though, I felt neither humiliation nor shame, not most of the time anyway. My day was filled, almost completely, with pain, the fear of pain, or drugged semiconsciousness. It was not the sharp, throbbing, idiotic pain of the scorpion sting. This pain was my life itself—I woke up with it and spent the whole day wrestling with it. There was no place for me to hang my ego. There was no center, no room for the observing witness, which is who we usually are when we experience the world as though it were around us. At the center was just pain, and next to it, coming and going, coming and going, the fear of more pain.

There were only twenty minutes of grace each day, always at mid-afternoon. A single wintry sun ray made its way through the window, struck the rear wall, and glided slowly the full length of the room. Suddenly, as it reached a mirror, it exploded into golden fragments that showered me with imagined warmth. That show lasted only moments, followed by a gradual softening of the light, until the room sank back into darkness.

I refused to let my parents visit. The thought of my mother's demonstrative anguish frightened me, and I didn't trust father to keep her in check. It was a hard time for Mother; her letters were confused and mournful about my shutting her out.

The doctors put me on morphine and anti-inflammatory medication. That meant either sleep or drowsiness. Eventually, as the healing progressed, I was given antidepressants and willow bark extract, which is what I was taking when the hospital spit me out onto the streets of that lowly Virginia town. I had a choice to make: return to my apartment in San Diego, where I was studying, or move back into my old room in Tucson, at least until I got well. I opted for San Diego, though studying was out of the question. Instead, I floated between narcotic insensibility and chronic pain, with depression as my best friend. Mostly, though, I just waited for Rony to pull me out of that hole.

“Here's some cool water, my friend.” The old man's voice jarred me, and I was suddenly embarrassed that he had gone to bring me the water. It should have been the other way around. I thanked him and drank the sweetest liquid that had ever run down my throat—cool spring water.

THE TEST

An ascetic once arrived at the doorstep of a king named Kushika. The king immediately recognized
him as a holy man and showed him into the white stone palace. The ascetic strolled into the great entry hall without a glance at its grand fixtures, then announced that he would like to move in and stay with the king for an unspecified length of time. His exact words were, “O faultless man, for some time now my heart has desired to reside with you.”

The king was taken aback by that unexpected declaration and confessed how childish he found it to be. “Nonetheless, holy one, I shall do as you command,” he quickly added.

The sage smiled to himself. He told the king that he was tired and would like to be refreshed. The king, now joined by his wife, led the holy man to a gem-covered rosewood seat and brought a bowl of jasmine water for washing the holy man's feet. The sage allowed one royal servant to wash his feet as he cooled down beneath a fan waved by another. In the meantime, the scent of fine incense pervaded the room for his olfactory pleasure. After the guest was thus refreshed, the king brought him some honey to sweeten his palate.

Then, with visible trepidation, with hands folded, the king betook himself before the great man and said, “Tell me, O holy one, how I may be of service to you now. Whatever is mine you can have. The palace, my wealth, my very throne are yours to enjoy if you so wish.”

The ascetic was clearly pleased with the king. “I do not want any of your things, noble king. Your wealth, power, and women do not interest me. What I would
like is this: I intend to begin a special vow and I would like you and your wife to serve me unconditionally while I am thus engaged.”

This request filled the king with joy, and he immediately agreed to serve the excellent sage. The king summoned his wife, and the royal couple led their guest to his quarters in the palace, where a comfortable bed was neatly prepared. The sun was past its midday point, and the guest announced that he was hungry.

“What kind of food would the great sage like?” asked the queen.

“Bring an appropriate snack for someone like myself,” he answered vaguely. The two hosts hurriedly withdrew from the guest's room and ran to the kitchen. They returned shortly, personally bearing trays with sliced fruit, cheeses, and sweets. As the holy man indifferently picked at this and that, the couple stood tensely by, waiting for his instructions. To their relief, the guest said nothing critical.

Now he seemed to be getting drowsy. “I should like to take a nap now,” he yawned. They were about to leave, but he stopped them. “No, stay here. Sit by the bed as I sleep, and whatever you do, do not leave and do not wake me up. Oh, and one more thing,” he added as they sat at the foot of his bed, “I should like it very much if you massaged my feet while I sleep.” Immediately, the king began to rub the holy man's feet as the latter settled into a deep slumber. It was afternoon and the sun was beginning
to set. Neither king nor queen left the room, and they took turns kneading their guest's feet.

The entire night passed by in such a manner. The guest slept peacefully, while his royal hosts quietly continued to work. Another day came and then went, and the holy man slept away as the king and his wife diligently kept their promise to the ascetic. In such a way, sleeping deeply and not moving even once, the man remained motionless for twenty-one days and nights. Suddenly, on the twenty-second night, the holy man bolted upright, his eyes glazed, and without acknowledging the presence of the royal couple he left the room. Then he swiftly walked out of the palace. The king and his wife were mortified. Delirious from hunger and sleeplessness as they were, they managed to run outside after the holy man. They tried to keep up with him, but through his yogic powers he suddenly vanished.

The king fell to the ground, struck with grief and fear. The queen, however, remained calmer and helped him to his feet, and the two resumed the search. They looked everywhere around the palace walls, but to no avail; the holy man was gone. The royal couple slowly retreated back into the palace, worn out and depressed. Avoiding their servants, they dragged themselves into the guest bedroom and there, on the bed, was the saint stretched out and sound asleep. He seemed exactly as before—he showed no signs of having moved, other than the fact that he was lying on his other side. The couple resumed rubbing his feet, invigorated with relief. In
such a manner, slow as the march of ants, passed another twenty-one days.

Finally the ascetic woke up. Stretching his stiff limbs, he announced that he was ready for a bath. “Rub my body with oil in preparation for the bath,” he ordered the king. Fragrant oils were brought, and both king and wife began to rub the ascetic's entire body. The man sat on the bathing stool, luxuriating under the strokes of this four-hand massage. As long as he gave no sign of wanting to end the treatment, the royal couple worked diligently in silence. But once again the ascetic startled his hosts when he stood up and walked into the bathing room, where the highest-quality bathing soaps and scrubs had been prepared. Before the couple could follow him in, he vanished into thin air.

This time the king and his wife did not panic, but began preparation for their guest's meal. The most sumptuous food was cooked and delivered into the holy man's chamber. There were several dishes of venison and fowl, vegetables steamed in herbs, fried patties made of rice-banana-jaggery gruel, rice, and spicy dhal. Numerous types of sweetmeats and exotic fruits were also brought on jeweled trays. The holy guest emerged from his bath and took one look at the royal feast that lay before him. With one wave of his hand he caused it all to explode into flames. “I didn't ask for food—you need not have bothered.”

The king showed no sign of anger or impatience. Instead, he lowered himself before the guest and asked how he could be of further service. The
ascetic, looking at the king with intense curiosity answered, “I want you, along with your wife, to yoke yourself to one of your chariots. Then I should like the two of you to pull the chariot, in which I shall be riding, throughout the city.”

Hearing this request, the king eagerly inquired, “Which chariot shall it be, sir, a pleasure chariot or a battle one?”

“Make it your heaviest chariot, the one you use to charge into enemy fortifications,” the holy man answered, adding, “and make sure all your weapons are loaded onto it: the darts and javelins and golden columns and poles and standards and flags as well. I want it nice and heavy.” After a pause he added, “You shall pull it wherever I guide you, slowly or quickly, and do make sure everyone in the city comes out to see you and the queen pull it. Oh, and one other thing. From the chariot I shall distribute to the crowd anything I choose out of your treasury: jewels, gems, gold and silver coins, sheep, and even your servants and the women of your palace. Is that clear?”

The king ran to make the arrangements. Within the hour he was strapped, alongside his wife, to the chariot. A whip cracked, and the two began to pull the heavy chariot through the crowded alleyways of the capital city. Their progress was slow, one tortured step after the other, the heavy load getting heavier with each pull. For fifty days and nights neither king nor wife had rested, and they were now barely able to move. And yet, not a single word of complaint came
out of their mouths. They just breathed heavily in silence, with a smile on their faces. Suddenly they felt a sharp blow, then another. The holy man began to strike them with a goad that had a sharp point. He struck them on their backs, and then on their heads and cheeks. Soon they were covered in their own blood, looking like a couple of kinsuka trees in flowering season. Still, neither one of them complained or so much as sighed. The citizens of the city beheld them with great compassion and whispered, “Look at the power of penance. The mighty ascetic is so brilliant we cannot look at him directly!”

After several hours the holy man had given away the king's entire fortune and had reduced his body to a bloody pulp. The king, in turn, joyfully kept pulling the chariot. The holy man then pulled the reigns and called on the couple to stop. He descended from the back of the car and moved in front of the two. With a soft voice he spoke. “I am ready to give you a boon.” He touched the two lightly, with the tip of his fingers, and instantly their fatigue and pain were gone.

“Sir, my wife and I have felt no pain serving you. It has been our honor. We have regained our youth through this ordeal. Look at my wife; she has the beauty of a goddess. Our injuries have disappeared, and our skin is radiant. We do not require anything.” The king lowered his head.

“Dear king, I have never spoken idly, and I am not about to begin now. You shall receive your reward tomorrow.” The holy man showed the couple a kind
smile. “You may not feel the fatigue right now, but soon you will. So return to your palace and rest. Tomorrow come back to this very same place.”

The royal couple returned to the palace. Although their entire wealth had been given away, the king and his mistress were now greeted by all their ministers and servants and by all the beautiful women of the court. The palace was overflowing with wealth and splendor as though their holdings had multiplied. They bathed for the first time in fifty days and ate a nourishing meal. Then, finally, the couple went to sleep.

In the meantime the holy man retired to a patch of woods by the Ganges, a place frequented by jackals and vagabonds. There he spent the night. In the morning, when the king arrived, the place was completely transformed. Where there had been only thistles and snakes, the king now saw trees blooming with pink flowers and mansions with celestial cars. There were green meadows, speckled with yellow and red mountain flowers, and crystal blue lakes. Every imaginable bird and animal was peacefully feeding in that miraculous place that looked like the divine gardens. The king saw all this with amazement, knowing that it was created through the spiritual powers of the holy man. Suddenly he came to regard his own worldly power and wealth with contempt and found himself wishing he could renounce worldly affairs in order to become a spiritual being. However, because he was a Kshatriya—a member of the warrior caste—and a king, this was not possible.

The holy man saw into the mind of the king. He spoke. “You should know, noble king, that I came here to destroy you. I came to test you, waiting for you to lose your temper or your patience. Then, and only then, I would have destroyed you. And with you the entire caste of the Kshatriyas would have vanished. You see, I was seeking to prevent a future massacre of the entire priestly caste of Brahmins by the Kshatriyas. But you have proven yourself far superior to mere warriors—you are a true vanquisher of anger. You have mastered your own nature, which is the mark of a pure Brahmin. And now,” the holy man added as he swept his arm over the magnificent world around them, “now I see that you value the creative power of the spirit. In your heart you wish to become a Brahmin.”

“Yes, holy man. I recognize your supremacy over worldly power or wealth.”

“Well, then, I cannot make you a Brahmin—not even Shiva could do that. But your descendants will someday become Brahmins through marriage. Your race will be saved, and it will prosper under the spiritual guidance of Brahmins.”

I noticed for the first time that we were seated in the shade of a tamarind tree. Because the slope was steep, the tree never reached the majestic size of its brothers below, but its canopy was broad, formed into a huge bonsai shape by the northern winds. It was a beautiful spot, but I hated the story.

“What a vicious story!”

“Don't you mean, what a vicious Brahmin?”

“Well, both. What's the story saying anyway, that we prove our worth by putting up with capricious cruelty? That we gain something by acquiescing to injustice without putting up a fight? I don't buy it.” My guide seemed genuinely surprised by this display of emotion. I might have been venting, though, because the magical date-palm lotion was beginning to wear off my feet.

“You sound almost like Job railing against God, if you don't mind that I compare myself with God.” That made me laugh. This tiny wrinkled man in his brown polyester pants and worn-out rubber thongs—what a startling and comic image! Then he added, “Are your feet hurting again?”

I ignored the question and attacked. “I suppose you're going to tell me that the story is merely symbolic, that it has nothing to do with Brahmin exploitation of the lower castes, right?”

This made the old man squint at me. “If you know what I'm thinking, then you tell me what I might say the story symbolizes. Go ahead. You're in a feisty mood—tell me.”

I was no religion scholar—that's Rony's field—but it seemed obvious. “Mortification of the flesh. Asceticism for spiritual goals.”

“My goodness, there's your Catholic mother again! We don't use this kind of language—‘killing' the body. It's not the enemy you know…But then, you're not very far off, I must admit.”

“Hey, thanks. I'm not used to agreement from you. But that doesn't change the fact that you're getting ready to maul the story in that mystical way you have of reading stories.”

My sarcasm only seemed to make him happy, and he said, “Do you mean ‘reading' or ‘telling'? Well, why not? We
‘maul,' as you put it, we interpret our life all the time. Why not do it with a story?” He saw my skepticism and took a deep breath. “Look back on your own life: your childhood, your injury, all the events that are part of your life, not someone else's. What makes it your life and not theirs? The hero, of course—the central character, the constant witness. That's you, right?”

I nodded quietly, curious to see where he was going.

“Whether you tell your life to someone else or you carefully keep it concealed—as you prefer to do—in reflecting back on it you give it the shape of a story. At the same time, any given memory that you have, any moment in your life, means something, does it not? At the very least it belongs in
your
narrative rather than in someone else's. This is your pilgrimage, not the old man's—he's just the…what shall we make me? The quirky guide…that sounds good. A bit typecast, but good. Are you still with me?”