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A Small Case Across India
Continued Adventures of our journey through India
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Monday, April 23, 2012
Naggar: Paintings, Mountains and Country Walks
With only four days left, we decided to stop waiting on the weather and just go. Gerard persuaded me that renting a car and driver was within our budget and after a four hour drive through some incredibly beautiful countryside following the
Old wooden houses, similar to those we saw in Vashsist last year, are spread out over the terraced slopes among apple orchards –the trees still partially in blossom.
Our guest house sits beside a 300 year old castle built in the traditional earthquake proof Pahari style (layers of stone bonded together with cedar logs). Built by a Raja, the castle’s has had many lives - later a school then a courthouse, now a fancy hotel. Our first morning we wake up to the noise of a film crew arriving to shoot in the castle. Fortunately they only came for one day.
We’re so glad we decided to come; it’s not as cold as it has
been and the intermittent sunshine is fine with us.
Naggar is best known as the home of the early
20th C. Russian painter, philosopher, archeologist and mystic, Nicholai
Roerich, who had a huge following in US and France. He came here in 1928 mainly to paint the
surrounding mountains, and stayed here with his family the rest of his life.
Their house is now an art gallery of his work, with the upstairs rooms still furnished as they were when occupied. We were both very taken with his painting and the atmosphere of his house, still vibrating with the family’s presence. His wife is also known for writing numerous volumes about Agni Yoga as well as translating Madame Blavatsky’s writings from Russian to English.
Their house is now an art gallery of his work, with the upstairs rooms still furnished as they were when occupied. We were both very taken with his painting and the atmosphere of his house, still vibrating with the family’s presence. His wife is also known for writing numerous volumes about Agni Yoga as well as translating Madame Blavatsky’s writings from Russian to English.
After three days of looking at paintings, mountains and country walks, we try to make ourselves ready for long return to
Monday, April 16, 2012
Celebrating Shiva in Rewalsar
Unsettled weather has deterred us from going further north
into the mountains so we’re staying in Rewalsar a few more days until
temperatures warm up and the rain stops. During sunny spells, we walk out of Rewalsar,
into the terraced fields below the town - along winding paths literally through
farmers’ yards. Quite different from the country walks in Sarahan, but
nevertheless, country. The land seems so
old, with its criss cross cow paths on the steep hillside, and every inch of
tillable soil utilized. Only the
invasion of plastic wrappers brings us into the 21st century. Just
about everybody meets us with a smile and “namaste”.
Just as we thought Rewalsar had settled down from the Dalai
Lama’s visit, it became host to a three day long Hindu Shiva festival, celebrated
in the Punjab and for some odd reason here as well. Surprisingly,
the Sikhs also participate in their own way, providing a free langar at the
gurudwara. It is not clear to us why or what they’re celebrating.
The blurred line between sacred and profane is no different
at this festival. In the early morning
the dedicated take a dip in the murky cold waters of Lotus
Lake . All the while the women are
chanting in the temple close by. Decorated
Shiva statues are paraded through the narrow street, accompanied by drums and
horns.
The lake is ringed by hundreds of stalls, targeting women with
everything from bed sheets, steel cooking utensils to bras and nail polish. Mounds of glazed deep fried yellow dough and
other sticky sweets keep sugar levels high.
Fortune tellers, orange robed sadhus compete with deformed beggars for
rupees. A young girl walks and
pirouettes on a rope tied not so tightly from one tree to another, while her
little brother performs cartwheels and backbends. A
transvestite danced on an oriental carpet to drums and cymbals in the entry way
of our guest house to an entranced audience of entranced women and
children. As evening descends, the
temples and gurudwara light up like Christmas trees, and the drumbeats continue
well into the night.
Two days later, everyone leaves and the town returns to its
familiar self.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Relaxing in Rewalsar
As we got closer to Rewalsar we noticed bus after bus
filled with Tibetans, signaling the departure of the Dalai Lama. He had in fact
just left earlier that morning. Although many had already departed,there were
still throngs of people crowding the little streets.
It was not our beloved Rewalsar, normally so pristine and
peaceful. For three days, an estimated 7
to 10,000 people had come here seeking the Dalai Lama’s darshan. He dedicated two new monasteries (bringing
the total in the town to 5), and gave a several hour long initiation down by
the lake attended by thousands of devotees sitting, or standing, wherever they
could. Everyone was still high from
being in the presence of His Holiness and even though we hadn’t seen him, we
felt the spiritual charging.
The restaurant owner, who we befriended last year, happens
to be a Hindu, but he was excited that His Holiness acknowledged him as he
passed by in his car. It felt a bit like
arriving at a party too late, but there’s nothing we could have done; we’d
never have found a hotel room. Devotees slept in the streets, beside the lake,
wherever they could find a space.
Leaving our bags with the restaurant owner, we went to
search for a room. It always surprises
us the number of local people who remember us when we return. They see so many
tourists in the course of a year, why do they remember us? “It’s your faces,” the monk said, as he
rented us a room in the same monastery as last year.
It took a couple
of days for the town to return to its quiet sleepy self. They swept the streets, dismantled tents and
only a handful of visitors, including us, remained. The restaurant shut down for a day while it
was thoroughly cleaned and the staff took a well earned rest. It interested us that the local vendors were
happy to see the extra business leave town - more concerned about quality of
life than making profit. Three days was
enough. Rushing around serving thousands of customers was not why they choose
to live in Rewalsar.
Rewalsar has a particularly special feel for us because
Hindus, Sikhs and Buddhists live side by side in harmony. The town is sacred
for all three groups. Additionally,
we’re happy to see signs for ‘Ruhani Satsang, Beas ’;
with weekly meetings.
The two
monasteries we watched during construction last year are now completed. They
are huge edifices with lavish decoration – intricate Tonka painting centered
around large Buddha statues. While visually impressive, we are bothered that
these magnificent spectacles are financed by donations coming predominantly
from the refugee community that can barely afford it. But in a way I guess it’s
no different from any other organized religion.
We are also not surprised to learn that although the community lives in apparent harmony, that there were some ruffled feathers in the Hindu community over the gigantic size of the statue of the Guru Rimpoche, not the Buddha they expected. It’s the second largest Buddhist statute in
Beyond finding Rewalsar so appealing, we also wanted to come
back here to see someone we met here a year ago. Frederic had emailed when he
was going to be here and with great expectation we looked forward to seeing him
again. But on our arrival, several people told us that he had fallen ill for
more than two weeks and ended up going back to France
early. We were very disappointed. Gerard commented that he had been looking
forward to seeing Frederic ever since we parted at Heathrow a year ago. (By
coincidence we had been on the same plane out of Delhi ).
I’ve noticed that
while we’re traveling it’s easier to let the unexpected come into the day than
when I am at home. It doesn’t mean that
the same thing couldn’t happen at any time under any circumstance, but in my
daily routine, there’s little space for this.
After breakfast at one of our favorite restaurants where a sweet husband
and wife team make our stuffed piranhas and chai right in front of us, we watch
a Tibetan woman opening her store across the street and go over to inspect the
handicrafts. I spend a long time looking
at shawls while she and her cousin, a Buddhist nun, chat to us. They show us pictures of the village in Tibet
they left 22 years ago, walking on foot to Rewalsar. They make no heavy sales pitch but happily
pull out shawl after shawl for my inspection.
After a while a
Swedish man and a Buddhist monk, his spiritual guide, came into the store, and
joined the conversation. They invited us to participate at a nearby monastery
in a small ceremony to a certain manifestation of one of the ancient
lamas. We were led into a small room
that is normally locked and sat in front of a black demon like statue; the monk
proceeded to chant while we sat in meditation. With no interruption to his
chanting, he picked up a stack of prayer cards and periodically tapped us on
the head and back. Then he pulled out a
small camera and photographed the statue -and we did the same. Like most Buddhist monks he was a jolly old soul!
Life still has a lot of magic if we can just let it in.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Sarahan, Sangla and the Jeori Pass
Man proposes and God disposes…we’ve had to change our plans.
The Buddhists that we met in Agonda wrote us that the Dalai Lama was dedicating
a new monastery in Rewalsar the very time we planned to arrive there. At first I was excited at the opportunity to
see him again, but then we realized that the town would be mobbed with Tibetans
and devotees, and there would be nowhere to stay. We had to figure out an
alternative for a few days. Gerard
consulted the map…and decided on a remote mountainous route following the Satluj
Valley with detours down into the Sangla
Valley reaching as close to the
Tibetan border as one can go without a special permit.
This had an all too familiar ring – ever since I’ve been
traveling with him, Gerard has always wanted to find the remote and lonely
places! This goes back to 1972 on our first trip together to Tunisia .
A French doctor in Tunis examined
the nasty rash on Gerard’s leg and asked, “Where have you been?” Hearing our
reply, he exclaimed, “Gafsa? I’ve lived in Tunisia
for 35 years and I’ve never been there!”
And he’s still at it…now Gerard has come up with this
proposal! For a moment, I lose the
spirit of adventure. My mind focuses on
the long bumpy ride, anticipating the discomfort before it happens; forgetting
that it is short lived. Usually in the
end it’s well worth any discomfort. Taking into consideration how complicated public
transportation would be we decided to hire a car and driver. So I was spared
the bus rides!
Before leaving, we had to see a point of interest in Shimla that we’d missed on our previous two visits - the magnificent Viceregal Lodge where the British Viceroys toIndia conducted business during the summer. It was also the location of the Shimla
Conference in 1945, when Independence was first seriously discussed; now used
as an Institute for Advanced Studies, with just a few large formal rooms open for
public and with plenty of old Raj photographs. The Lodge looked like somebody
had uprooted an Elizabethan style mansion from the English countryside and
dropped it into the foothills of the Himalayas , complete with manicured lawns and gardens. For me, it
was definitely worth the several km steep uphill hike out of town. Nursing his sore legs the following day, I’m
not sure Gerard shared my enthusiasm!Before leaving, we had to see a point of
interest in Shimla that we’d missed on our previous two visits - the
magnificent Viceregal Lodge where the British Viceroys to India conducted business during the summer. It was also the location of the Shimla
Conference in 1945, when Independence was first seriously discussed; now used
as an Institute for Advanced Studies, with just a few large formal rooms open for
public and with plenty of old Raj photographs. The Lodge looked like somebody
had uprooted an Elizabethan style mansion from the English countryside and
dropped it into the foothills of the Himalayas , complete with manicured lawns and gardens. For me, it
was definitely worth the several km steep uphill hike out of town. Nursing his sore legs the following day, I’m
not sure Gerard shared my enthusiasm!
Before leaving, we had to see a point of interest in Shimla that we’d missed on our previous two visits - the magnificent Viceregal Lodge where the British Viceroys to
We met our car and driver at the bus stand the next morning
and set off, somewhat disappointed by the state of the car. As we anticipated
the road was long and bumpy, but the sheer beauty of the Himalayas
compensated. The further out from
Shimla, the more interesting the landscape became. But in some places the road
was so deteriorated from the ravages of winter that it was hardly passable,
especially in our old beat up Indica.
The fact that the transmission kept popping out of third gear didn’t
give us great confidence. But the driver
was slow and cautious. Once I let go of my innate need to get to the
destination in the shortest time possible there was plenty of time to take in
the scenery – the breathtaking view from the treacherously narrow mountain
ledge, looking down into a lush green valley, snow capped mountains towering
above us.
Our first
overnight stop was Sarahan, an exotic temple complex high above the valley,
surrounded by a small village. Sections
of the temple were over 800 years old – courtyards and inner courtyards with
intricate wooden carving. It appeared to us a strange combination of Buddhist
prayer wheels and Hindu gods. In fact it seems that most of the Tibetan population
has converted to Hindusim, while still maintaining some of their Buddhist
customs - not unlike the Catholics in Central America .
The other thing I loved in Sarahan was the small
country lanes bordered either side by stone walls and flowering fruit
trees. I often say to Gerard, ‘I wish I
could go for a nice country walk” – and
here I am, doing just that!
The next morning we continued the bone shaking ride to Sangla. Not surprisingly, the road got even worse.
There seems to be continual minor landslides, probably worse in winter, and the
road is barely passable in places.
Again
we turned away from the valley and climbed up to Sangla. The town itself didn’t amount to much but a thirty
minute walk away was a beautiful old village with a temple and fort. The latter
is reportedly 800 to 1,000 years old.
Gerard was interested in the wood and stone structures while I was
fascinated by the faces of the local women and children peering out of windows
and around the sides of buildings – sometimes friendly, sometimes just curious. 837
The hotel manager said there is up to 6 feet of snow in the
winter and those who can, leave town. The less fortunate are snow bound for
four to five months and have to stock up on provisions. I imagined them snow shoeing out of the upper
floor windows of their houses, while the cattle are sheltered on the ground
floor. As I watch a woman cutting
mustard flowers in the early morning sunshine, filling the basket and loading
it on to her back, I reflect that the lives of these people seem hard - but simple
compared to the clutter I deal with back home. Three women breaking stones into
gravel, their pounding beginning at first light, drove home the point – simple,
but very hard.
After three days
we reached the end of the valley at Chitkul, an elevation of 3400 meters. We were wonderstruck by its natural
splendour and beauty. The town amounted
to little – just a few dwellings, including a tea stall – but the snow capped
mountains reaching down to the river and the blue green water sparkling in the
bright sun was hard to take in. So remote and so peaceful….it was well worth
the trek! Gerard comments that a good
friend says “there’s a reason why Vermont
is Vermont ”; similarly, this unspoiled beauty is due to the
fact that Chitkul is so remote and difficult to reach. We both hoped that after Chitkul, the rest of
our stay in Himachal Pradesh wouldn’t be an anticlimax.
The next day we set off for our last destination, Kalpa. It
may be hard to believe but the road got even worse, taking a terrible beating
on the car – and its passengers. Traveling
along narrow mountain ledges, we pass through “shooting stone zones.” I saw the twisted frame of a car that had
fallen from the road above. There is no
way its occupants could have survived and I wonder how long it was before
anyone found their remains. There are
few other cars on the road.
In the nondescript town of Rekong Peo
–13KM short of our destination - our car died!
The driver fetched mechanics while we sat on the roadside, providing
entertainment for the passersby as we were entertained by them also. After several hours the mechanics, shut the
hood, and it was clear our car was not going any further. Instead of scenic Kalpa we’re stuck for now
in Rekong Peo – but at least it’s a town, and our hotel room has a great view!
I didn’t feel good about leaving our driver beside the car
sunk into a fog of despondency, pounding his forehead with his cell phone.
Unable to communicate, he could no longer help us. In only three days – which
felt more like three weeks – I felt emotionally involved with him. He could speak barely any English, but now and
again, he’d ask simple questions, like how many children did we have, and how
long we’d been married. “40 years,”
Gerard said, holding up his hand four times.
He didn’t believe it. “No, not your age, how long have you been
married…four…five years?” I worried if
he had enough to eat; if he was cold sleeping in the car. And now we were separating before completing
the journey. But what could we do?
No one in town could speak English; our cell phone had no service... But we borrowed a phone at the hotel and called our agent in Shimla. To our relief the next
morning a new driver and car, in considerably better condition, arrived at our
hotel to take us down the mountain. To
reach Rewalsar, we had to retrace our footsteps and then turning north, begin
the climb up to a 3100 meter pass. On the way we drove through lush green
valleys, spring flowers and blossoming fruit trees, then giving way to more of
an alpine landscape. At Jeori Pass ,
we stopped at a chai stall that could have been out of the middle ages, except
for the plastic chairs.
As we began the descent down the northern side, it was clear
why the pass had just opened – huge banks of snow and slush lined the roadside.
It was getting dark, so we stopped at a
tiny guest house a short distance down - the only guest house in who knows how
far so bargaining was limited. Not a
five star room but we had an excellent meal by candlelight – due to a power cut
– and went to bed under a heavy quilt.
1016 The next
morning, we stepped out on the balcony and saw below us terraced green fields
and brilliant yellow patches of mustard flowers, with a hamlet nestled in the
side of the mountain. We took a stroll and descending the stairs into the lanes
we both had the sensation we were walking down into someone’s house. It felt so intimate.
Like waking from a sweet dream we descended down the
mountain into a more familiar reality. Still attractive, but it paled in
relation to where we’d been. For once,
enjoying the ride so much, I was in no hurry to reach the destination. If I had
given in to my reluctance of brief inconvenience I would never had any of these
experiences.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Music in the Park
Our stay in Delhi
was just long enough to visit with the family, and exchange clothes for
something heavier before into the setting out for Himachal Pradesh. But Delhi
was at its best. There are perhaps two or
three weeks at the end of March when the weather is perfect – not too cold…not
too hot – and the air fresh and clear.
One evening we went to an open air classical Indian concert in Nehru
Park . Gerard happened to see the
free event advertised in the Sunday paper. The concert was dedicated to the
famous shenai player from Varanasi ,
Bisimillah Khan, who transformed the shenai to the solo classical music
instrument it is today. His death in 2006 at the age of 90 was marked with a
national day of mourning; he played for both the Independent celebrations at
the Red Fort in 1947 and again at the Golden Jubilee in 1997. During the interlude was an excellent
documentary of his life and music. The featured
artist was flute player Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasi who we’ve seen a number of
times in Boston . Even at his
advanced age, he could still produce magic out of a bamboo flute. It was very pleasant to be sitting in the
park in the cool evening air, listening to one of India ’s
top classical musicians.
We never know when illness is going to strike and our Indian
family has been hit hard this year. The
grandmother passed away just days before we arrived and now the mother has been
diagnosed with some strange auto immune condition that’s attacking her liver.
The doctors want to put her on steroids to weaken her immune system, setting
off a controversy among the family about what the best treatment would be –
steroids or holistic. The daughter, who was here from Bangalore ,
was also herself suffering from two angry looking boils on her arm.. Meanwhile,
the other side of the family, who we often stay with, was having their own
problem – their younger son is suffering from an undiagnosed condition producing
fever and loss of weight.
Gerard and I were sorry to leave the family dealing with all
these issues, and hope that when we return in three weeks things will be a
little better for them all.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Varanasi: City of Death and Liberation
After our experience in general seating, a night train in
2AC was blissfully comfortable! But the “weather
disturbance” followed us. Gerard watched
a lightening storm from the window beside his bunk, while I slept soundly
above. Arriving just before 5 am , the now familiar Varanasi
train station was easy to navigate in the dark. Too early to go to our hotel,
we waited until light. Gerard adeptly handled the hustling rickshaw drivers and
they left us alone.
Standing beside a toothbrush seller, I watched the deaf mute
sitting cross legged on a mat, a bundle of branches from the neem tree beside him.
His handicap didn’t seem to impair his ability to do his job with great
efficiency and ease. He’d select a
branch and with precision chop it into equal lengths and add them to the
rapidly growing pile in front of him. He
seemed optimistic…and early morning business was good. Positioned at the station exit, a steady flow
of travelers stopped for a “toothbrush”.
Holding up one finger to indicate the price, he patiently let the
discerning customer disrupt his pile of sticks, rifling through to pick exactly
the right one. Women wanted a skinny
stick, men a more substantial one. An
old man with softening teeth wanted the edge of the stick shaved. For an hour I watched in fascination. The pile of rupees he kept under a piece of
newspaper in front of him grew rapidly and became 5R….10R notes as he made
change.
A boy with a
pile of newspapers came by and gave him several. He stuffed them away in a bag beside
him. Later another boy dropped off the
Times of India in English. He put that
away too…when business slowed down later in the day, I presumed he’d read them When
he went off for a few minutes to relieve himself, he put a stone on top of the
newspaper covering his rupees, confident no one would take them. It was now lighter, and time for us to snap out of our trance
and get going…
Entry into our
beloved city was rougher than usual. We had never been here during rain nor had
we been here when it was cold - and on our arrival it was both. Walking through
the muddy lanes at six in the morning to our guesthouse was not the welcome mat
that we were hoping for. Surprisingly even
though they refused to take reservations on the phone, we had the “best room”
on the fifth floor overlooking the River Ghanges.
My trusty
guide/maintenance man set up a washing line, and rewashed the floor…and the
“clean” towels …and we settled in. When I think about it, it’s amazing that
Gerard can travel in India
at all, he’s such a neatnik! Then he proceeded to wash his sneakers...Later in
the day as the sun came out, and the sweepers had done their job, the city we
remembered began to reappear.
Longing for live
classical Indian music we finally had the opportunity our first evening here. It
was the last day of a prolonged Holi celebration which included four performing
groups on a boat facing the ghat. First the solo instrumentalist played a
shenai, and then came a violinist, followed by a young energetic sitar player.
The last performer was delayed by another freak thunderstorm. We hustled back
to our guesthouse and when it stopped raining we could hear a female vocalist
through our open window. Of course we
hope to hear more, but it looks doubtful.
Our fourth time
in Varanasi , we find it an easy
place to be in. There’s so much activity
on the street that just going to and from wherever we need to go is
fascinating. And even in our hotel room, the monkeys entertain us, hanging on
the bars in front of the window, sitting with their feet dangling in, talking
to us. Even though there are many places to visit, it’s not a necessity. Gerard
says that staying in Varanasi
reminds him of the three months he spent in Marrakech one winter. It wasn’t so much about what to do; it was
much more about just being there. On the other hand, I feel I should be doing something;
still learning that you don’t have to make things happen….sometimes they happen
of their own accord.
It’s easy to be
social here – most of the shopkeepers are more than happy to enter into
conversation with the tourists. Both of us are amazed that merchants remember
us - even from several years ago.
“Hello, I remember you from two years ago, you bought the blue
bedspread!” The CD shopkeeper smiles and says, “And when did you return?”
But as in any city the exploiters are
lurking, looking for an opportunity. I’m well aware that you’re not supposed to
take pictures at the Burning Ghat, where the cremations take place, but I go
ahead and do it anyway. And this time I
got caught! Three men pounced on us. They ranted and raved about how illegal it
was to take pictures at the cremation site and what a big mistake we’d
made. “The police will demand a large
fine and destroy your camera. But….we all can a big hassle with the police if
you make a donation to the hospice or buy kilos of firewood.” “How much?” Gerard asked. “3000 rupees!” Greed had once again foiled their plot! If they’d asked for 300 R they might have gotten it. But 3,000?! Gerard said, “Forget it, we’re going to the
police,” and started to walk off. Two of
the three saw the futility of their ploy, and didn’t follow. The third, with breath smelling of alcohol,
persisted. “But sir, we can avoid big problems with the police if you make a
donation.” Again, Gerard says, “How much?” And now it’s 500 rupees! He confronted the man, “Have you been drinking?” Denying it, the drunkard shrank away. Once again the tour guide comes through; he’s
good at deflecting difficult people and situations.
Our friend from
Agonda, Johnny, showed up for a couple of days and one of the things he really
wanted to do was see the cremation site at the Burning Ghat. Making our way through the back alleys, we
came on to the back side through the mountains of wood. Young boys approached us wanting to guide us
through the ritual - but of course for a “donation” for the hospice. For the
most part, we managed to avoid all of that and stood quite close to a funeral
pyre. This isn't something morbid but for the western eyes it’s very sobering
to see bodies slowly melt away in the flames. Even if it’s only for a moment, the
inevitability of death cannot be denied.
When the skull finally explodes in the heat, the Hindus believe it’s the
final release of the soul from its physical entrapment. All three of us were moved and silent. We
left feeling a little more in touch with reality…although I’m sure what we
witnessed affected each one of us differently.
People come to Varanasi
to die; they believe that if they die here their soul will be liberated. Therefore, one could say that this is a city
of death – or liberation! No matter
where you are there’s funeral processions making their way to the cremation
ground. Somewhat similar to the funeral processions in New
Orleans , there is a joyous character to it all. We even met an English father and son, who
had brought the grandfather’s ashes to put in the Ganges
at his wish. So other than all of the
other fascinating aspects of this city, it really is renowned for death and
liberation, making it necessary to go and see the Burning Ghat at least once.
Both of us have had
a long standing interest in the Muslim saint, Kabir, who lived in Varanasi . So with that in mind we thought we would go
out to visit his birthplace. As it
turned out it was a long dusty rickshaw ride and the very large
memorial/meeting hall was more about the person who did the fundraising than it
was about Kabir. Close by we stopped in at a Kabir Sahib Ashram where a young
man spoke good English and tried to explain to us the lineage of which they
follow. All in all interesting, but not really worth the hike out there.
50154 Coincidentally,
there’s a temple immediately next door to our guest house and we noticed over
the door the name, Shibendu Lahiri.
Curious we went inside in the evening and there was a mass of pictures
of the swami order of Kriya Yoga, of whom the most famous in the west is
Paramahansa Yogananda (Autobiograhpy of a Yogi). His Master’s Master was Lahiri Mahasaya. Here
it was a strange blend of Hindu lingam, marble statues and pictures of several
past yogis…and Einstein! But their
devotion still seemed very Hindu based, including waving incense, conch blowing
and bell ringing. Not exactly, what I
understand the practice of Kriya Yoga to be! But we still like to sit there and experience
the intensity of the sound for a moment overwhelming the oscillations of our
busy minds.
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