At the Foot of the Divine

I am thrust back to reality by the sound of a woman screaming. I look over my shoulder to see her jostling with the men around her for a spot at the front of the altar. Tears stream down her face. Her arm is stretching out through the crowd, desperately trying to hand over her offering. The priest hastily reaches forward and takes the small satchel from her, dumps half of the coins into the collection bucket behind his podium, then hands it back, as is customary. Before the woman has an opportunity to speak or pray, or even get a clear view, she is consumed by the crowd and shoved backwards out of the room, far from the site where her long pilgrimage has taken her. Above the chanting, her wail hangs in the air long after she has disappeared. The thick smell of jasmine burns my nostrils. My gaze turns towards its source.

The great Kurukshetra war was fought sometime around 3000 B.C. between the two families, the Pandavas and the Kauravas. At the end of the war the Pandavas sought repentance for their sins from Lord Shiva. They traveled to Varinassi, where they confronted Lord Shiva, but he fled from them. When the Pandavas again tracked down Lord Shiva high up in the himalayas in the town of Guptakashi, Shiva disguised himself in the form of a Vrisha, or bull.

Bhima, the strongest of the Panavas, eventually found the great bull and recognized him for his true identity. Bhima grabbed the bull by the tail and yanked. The tail came off in his hand. The bull sank into the ground until only the giant hump on its back stuck out. Lord Shiva then appeared before the Pandavas in his true form and instructed them to worship the remaining hump of the bull as part of their atonement. The Pandavas built what is now known as the temple of Kedarnath encompassing the bull's hump. The temple was later reconstructed by Sankaracharya in the 8th century. Today the temple of Kedarnath is one of the most important and remote Hindu shrines in the Himalayas. Pilgrims come from all over India in order to worship inside.

I have come as part of a small study tour through my university at the end of my Freshmen year. I am the youngest of our twelve person class, and have never set foot outside the east coast of the US until now.

Kedarnath is located in a remote part of the himalayas only accessible after a 16 kilometer hike. Like much of India, the trail is crowded and hectic. At the start, a flurry of merchants assail travelers, offering them various means to the top. Some merchants rent donkeys and horses. Travelers can ride them or use them to carry their belongings.

The most expedient and expensive method to the top is by palanquin – a chair hoisted onto two poles that is carried on the shoulders of four young men. These men jog the entire path up and down the mountain several times a day, carrying their wealthy payloads. In addition to the palanquins, there are a few old men who carry people individually up the mountain in a large basket on their backs.

One man – carrying another person – up a mountain – in a wooden basket – on their back.

I speculated that these older men were retired palanquin carriers because their strength and endurance was astounding. Though not nearly as fast as the palanquins these old human-in-a-basket carriers were persistent. I never once saw any of them take a break.

A few people in our group opted for a horse to carry them. Seth and I merely rented walking sticks at a cost of a few pennies, plus a few pennies more for a down payment until we returned them. Seth and I bounded up the steep stone path as it snaked high up into the mountains and disappeared into the clouds. Other merchants had set up small stands along the path selling food, snacks, sodas and water. For the first eight kilometers we stopped only briefly to purchase water or a bite of food. Beyond that our pace began to slow markedly. Our jogging turned to walking, and soon we began to break often. The air grew thin. The temperature changed from a warm summer's day at the start of the trail, to midwinter evening. We drew in deep breaths and watched as the clouds we exhaled joined the others across these frigid heights.

Eventually we came around a wide bend in the mountain trail. A few kilometers ahead, the small town of Kedarnath nestled in a valley between white mountains. Spirals of smoke rose from chimneys. We struggled onward toward the ancient town, but soon found ourselves having to stop every few hundred feet. As I sat there on a rock, my chest heaving, my eyes fixed on the distance, one of the old human-in-a-basket carriers that I recognized from several hours earlier, passed me. I stared in disbelief as the old grey haired man steadfastly and rhythmically placed one foot before the other. A continuous breath of white smoke trailed from his mouth like a steam engine. His image has come to embody, for me, the essence of perseverance and determination. I composed myself and then followed the stoic figure of strength.

The streets were filled with merchants sizzling chapatis on large stones, roasting ashy samosas in the coals of their fires, and brewing delicious cups of thick milk chai. It was nearly dusk and the sun had dipped behind the mountains. A fiery red alpenglow was cast across the boundless snowy hillsides.

The streets were also teeming with Sadhus. A Sadhu is a man who renounces his life, gives up all of his possessions, and embarks into the world on a spiritual quest as a wandering ascetic. These Sadhus typically grow dreadlocks, long beards, and mustaches. The smoking of Hashish is illegal in India, but is an age old tradition among Sadhus and is still permitted in their case.

In modern day India, where millions of people are homeless, becoming a Sadhu is often just a formality. For this reason, Sadhus can be found along the streets everywhere in India, often smoking hash and tobacco from their traditional chillum pipes. Most Sadhus are serene figures who beg in silence with bowed heads and humble eyes. In return for a small offering, they heap immense praise upon the giver, offering a short prayer with them, and often gracing their forehead with a tilaka, or traditional red dot of paint symbolizing the third eye of Shiva.

There are many sects of Sadhus and many ways of expressing their faith. In Haridwar, I spent an afternoon with a group of Sadhus who had each made an additional sacrifice in their life. One of the men had pledged not speak for two years. He had succeeded in his pledge, and renewed it. Another man had pledged not sit down for five years. He created a makeshift hammock to sleep in that always kept his body propped up at greater than a 45 degree angle.

Back in Kedarnath the Sadhus were aggressive to the point of grabbing people's arms and clothes to demand money. These Sadhus were merely there to capitalize on the generosity of the thousands of pilgrims who flocked to Kedarnath in pursuit of spirituality. My friend Darren, nicknamed Sunshine, also had dreadlocks, a long beard, and mustache. The Sadhus gave him the most trouble. They regularly harassed him for money, trying to make the appeal that they were brothers due to their similar appearance.

After making our way to the small hotel where we had made reservations months before, we discovered that they had gotten the dates wrong. There were no rooms available in any of the other hotels in town, and our group of twelve ended up cramming into the only accommodations left, sleeping four to a bed. This ended up being an asset, since there was no heating, and the temperature plummeted below freezing at night.

The morning after we arrived, four of us, Seth, Sunshine, Chris, and I, decided to follow a path that led further into the mountains to a lake known as Gandhi Sarovar, where part of Gandhi’s ashes had been spread. We crossed through the town and descended a rocky slope towards the river that drained from the mountains. The closer we got to the river the more prolific they became – piles of human feces. More and more until they could be found on every rock, resting within every square foot. It was here, I was shocked to find, that the entire town came to relieve themselves. We weaved carefully through the area until the piles began to thin out. When the river spread into several shallower braids we jumped across from rock to rock.

The snow distorted any clear sense of a path, but we climbed the muddy hill anyway, making our way in the direction that had been indicated to us. Small wood houses were built along the hillsides, accompanied by small terraces carved out and reinforced with stone. At one point the hill became extremely steep and slippery with dense snow. Chris took the lead, using his boots to dig foot holes in the shear wall of ice. We found long rocks and used them for an additional grip. We held on tight to our rock ice picks, dug our toes into the narrow ledge Chris dug out for us, and inched across the ice wall Sunshine had made the mistake of wearing sandals, and his blue feet were suffering for it.

Once we had crossed the wall of ice the trail became less steep. The winds began to pick up, and the sky became grey. After several miles, we crested a steep hill, and resting on the other side was a crystal-blue lake – one of the sources of the holy Ganges river. At the moment we reached the lake
Shiva opened his palms, patted the thick grey clouds, and sprinkled Ghandi Sarovar with a light majestic snow. We sat around the lake meditating with Ghandi's spirit amidst the sublime peaks. Silence predominated.

When we returned from Ghandi Sarovar, our professors arranged for us to enter the temple of Kedarnath. Not by standing in the long line that zigzagged from the temple door, through the surrounding gates, and down the busy streets. No, we would honored, privileged guests, accessing the temple through a separate, private entrance along the side.

Indulgences, dispensations, bribes, sacrifices. All different words to describe the powerful manifestation of a God's monetary desires and vanity. For the right price, anyone can buy first class seats at the foot of the deity of their choice.

Inside the temple of Kedarnath, the woman's cries are still echoing through my mind as I watch the burning jasmine. The priest passes the jasmine around our group on a metal pan. I want to get up and run. I want to dive through the crowd and find the woman who had been shoved aside. I want to give her my seat at the foot of Lord Shiva. In the Hindu religion idols of gods are not merely depictions, but actual manifestations of the gods themselves. I am as close to the divine as is possible. I am lost. I don't know what I'm doing, what I believe.

It's my turn now. I take the pan of burning jasmine and wave the thick smoke across my face to cleanse my soul. I clench my throat and try not to cough. I am overwhelmed with guilt.

We are in a small room, trapped between two worlds. In front of me is a window looking into an elaborate gold shrine of Shiva decorated with ornaments and candles. Shiva is holding a trident symbolizing his ability to destroy ignorance, with the three prongs representing his three fundamental shakti, or powers. Iccha – will. Kriya – action. Jnana – knowledge.

Lord Shiva is the third member of the Hindu Trinity alongside Lord Brahma and Lord Vishnu. Lord Shiva is often associated with destruction, but his cosmic significance is much broader, since in Hinduism death is closely linked to rebirth. Lord Shiva is responsible for maintaining the cyclical process of creation, preservation, concealment, disillusionment, and recreation. It is said that Lord Shiva is in the midst of a great cosmic dance whose energy sustains the cosmos, and when he stops dancing, the universe will end.

Behind me is a doorway blocked off by a podium with a priest standing behind it. Ordinary pilgrims must look through the obscured doorway, past the room where we are sitting, and into the window where the elaborate shrine of Shiva resides. A dim and obscure view of the divine.

The priest is chanting, burning, waving more incense, carrying on his rituals. He is wearing saffron robes and a rudraksha mala – a necklace of 108 rosary beads used in worshipping Shiva.

Behind me is an endless commotion of people vying for space in a shrinking world. My mind drifts back to Ghandi Sarovar, and the vast virgin lands of the Himalayas. India is as eclectic as the thousands of gods its people worship. When the ritual ends we leave and slowly begin to regroup, recover, outside the temple.

“Where is Seth?” someone asks. No one has seen him since we exited the temple. One of our professors tells us to wait while he looks around.

Sunshine also volunteers to go looking for Seth, and quickly wanders off. He returns a short time later, disturbed and despondent. The Sadhus came after him again, more aggressively this time. Several of them surrounded him in the open streets, pushing, pulling, all but grabbing the money directly out of his pockets. It was all he could do to shove through the circle and hurry back to where we were gathered.

One of the girls in our group raises her finger and points far away. A small dark colored dot is scurrying up a distant white mountainside. “Could that be Seth?” she asks. Someone goes back to the room and grabs a pair of binoculars. It is Seth.

No one follows him up the mountain.

When Seth appears at the dinner table later that evening no one presses him with questions. When Sunshine takes his seat we are shocked to find that he shaved the long beard that he had been growing for years. His lips, which we are seeing for the first time, curve upward in a modest, melancholy smile.

All of us are ruffled in unexpected ways by the confusion, the majesty, the chaos, that is Kedarnath, that is India. I admire Sunshine's decision. “If wearing my hair and beard like this makes me one of them, than that's not who I want to be,” he sighs.

I also admire the way that Seth dealt with his frustration. He delved into the wilderness, that solitary sanctuary, and summited a mountain. He followed the path of the Pandavas after they had built the temple of Kedarnath, meditated in the heights where Ghandis spirit flows, and, with any luck, caught the attention of Shiva, destroyer of evil, who cleansed his spirit with a breath of Himalayan wind.

I recognize that I have met Shiva here in Kedarnath, but not in the manifestation of his golden shrine. I met Shiva as the creator of the ancient stone temple of Kedarnath, and the vast himalayas. I recognized Shiva as the concealer in the hidden power and determination of the old human-in-a-basket carrier. I encountered Shiva as the preserver of Ghandi's spirit in Ghandi Sorovar. I watched Shiva manifest himself in our mutual disillusionment, in the pilgrim woman before the shrine, in Seth atop the mountain, in Darren surrounded in the marketplace, in myself frozen in Kedarnath temple. And in this emerging sensation of maturity and deliberation that I have never felt before, I recognize Shiva as the creator and revealer of wisdom in the most unexpected of ways.