Bageshwar: View of the High Himalayas
Trip Start
Oct 09, 2007
1
45
Trip End
Mar 10, 2008
Bageshwar,
Uttarakhand,
India
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Dham sits serenely alone about 2/3 way up the southernmost forested hillside of Bageshwar, looking north to about 10 Himalayan foothills, with the town nestled in the narrow river valley between them. The Saryu River, melted from the Pindar Glacier of Nanda Devi, curls through the valley, forking just below the Dham to form a small island. The river fills the air with the constant, soothing sound of water eagerly rushing over rock. Rising above the foothills to the North, stretching across most of the horizon on a clear day, are the rugged, snow-capped high Himalayan mountains of Magtoli, Pancha Chuli, and Nanda Devi.
The climb to the Dham was challenging for me. Since the town was crawling with Nepali porters (who are real supermen), my ludicrously heavy luggage didn't make it prohibitive. For Rs. 120 (I paid him Rs 150...the equivalent of $3 USD), I got away with feeling ridiculous and guilty, watching the man carry my three overburdened bags, while I lagged far behind him and Bhupal, beet red in the afternoon sun, huffing, puffing and pausing to catch my breath every 50-100 feet of the criss-crossing path.
As we passed houses along the lower levels of the path, women in bright colored saris were working in their gardens, tending their cows and goats, carrying their babies, visiting with one another. They literally howled with friendly laughter at the spectacle of me. These villagers are so fit and hardy, with the vigorous life they lead, walking and climbing these hills carrying everything they need, they just couldn't help themselves.
Reaching the Dham, I was greeted with a clear and stunning view of the snow-capped mountains, glowing golden in the late afternoon sun. It felt like a personal welcoming blessing from Baba Lokenath. The weather was cloudy for the next 3 days, but on the last two days, the mountains were often in full view.
Nestled beneath the terrace in front of the temple is a series of three simple, concrete bedrooms. The priest and his son share the largest room. I had the next one.
As I settled into mine that night, I met an unexpected, additional welcoming committee of two. The first was a huge spider who, after much internal deliberation, I conclusively determined to be the size of a tarantula (just not as hairy or thick bodied). He stood motionless in the SW upper corner of the room, next to several cracks in the concrete, directly above my bed at the pillow end. My bed was nestled up against the wall. When I finally got over my shock enough to turn around, I gasped out loud (again), seeing that another, smaller spider (but not small by any means for a house spider), was on the wall beside the light switch that I had just been groping for in the dark.
I remembered all of Baba's stories about scorpions and tigers, and that no one who comes to Lokenath Dham can be harmed...including animals. (See Entry #17: Of Scorpions, Tigers & Snakes -- and Trust in God). The bigger spider looked more like an animal than an insect to me. He looked like could eat me for lunch...and that I didn't see a plethora of other insects around the room for him to dine on was not in the least bit reassuring.
But who was I to violate Baba's promise of safety to anyone who takes refuge in him? This spider had taken refuge in the Dham. So I slowly, oh-so-calmly-and-quietly, so as not to disturb him, pulled my bed away from the wall while talking to him in as soothing a tone as I could muster. "I am going to just move my bed out from the wall a little, to give you some space, just in case you need to come down here tonight. I will leave you alone. I am not going to hurt you. You will leave me alone. You won't hurt me. Then we can both go happily about our business, respecting each other's distance....right? Just please, please don't crawl on me in my sleep. Please stay away from my bed tonight."
The surprising news is, I actually slept, and slept well, after wondering for about 20 minutes if I was having a heart attack. It helped that I never saw the big one moving throughout my stay there. He was out of his lair each night when I came into the room. He seemed to just sit there, motionless. And once I turned the light off, if I ever needed to turn the light on again, he was gone again. I took solace in choosing to think of him being back inside that crack. I came to consider him my roommate.
Enough on spiders (though there is more to tell)... and back to the temple.
The salmon/peach colored temple sits quietly, nestled into the steeply sloping, grass and pine duff covered hillside, with a wrought-iron fenced terrace that wraps around toward the east. I spent most of my days sitting on the terrace, soaking in the peace, mesmerized by the endless varieties of exquisite birds (orange headed, bright green, long tailed parrots; several large and small species of blue birds; the tiniest bird I have ever seen; tiny and medium sized yellow birds; a beautifully defined chickadee; several varieties of very elegant, long tailed birds, a red-red-red bird, to mention only a few) as well as animals (lemurs, monkeys, weasels), and the occasional villager wandering silently up one of the many interlacing foot and animal paths, shepherding their cattle, who were seeking tastier grass.
At one point, I asked the priest about the tigers that Baba said roam the area. "Are any still around?"
"Yes," he said, pointing to an area of jutting rocks on the very nearby hillside, about 400-600 feet away, "One lives in a cave right over there. Many animals have been killed, goats, cows..." Stunned at just how close that was, I immediately ran to get my camera.
When I asked Bhupal the next morning about the last time he saw the tiger, he responded casually, "About 15 days ago, right over there," pointing just below the Dham to the southeast, maybe 200-300 feet away. Each day after that, every time I saw a villager following their cows over that way to graze in late afternoon, I was more than a bit apprehensive (and mystified) at the risk they were taking. But the priest later assured me when I mentioned it that the tiger only comes out at night. (But I distinctly remember Baba saying that they sometimes come to sun themselves on the terrace. Sun=Day, Right?)
I was hoping for a sighting, at a nice, safe distance, of course, but left without one. It's a bit odd that I am more afraid of spiders than tigers. Some people might consider it a good thing...a blessing even...that I had no experience to change my perspective on that.
Bhupal, the priest, who appears in his late 30s to early 40s to me, lives at the temple with his 8 year old son, Chandra Pandey. He takes beautiful, loving care of the temple and grounds and the garden and has been here almost 20 years. (He must have been extremely young when he started.) He performs a morning and evening puja here, but no one else seems to ever come. It is a quiet, lonely life for Bhupal, which is why his son came to live with him. "It's not good to be alone so much," he said one day. I never asked about his wife, but I assume that she couldn't take the isolation.
Bhupal and Chandra Pandey play cricket on the temple terrace. When Bhupal goes to market, Chandra hangs longingly over the fence, anticipating his father's return for a game. Chandra Pandey makes cricket balls out of plastic bags and rubber bands. I thought briefly that I might buy them a cricket ball, but I soon thought better of it. Would a real ball make his game with his father any more enjoyable than it already is? There would be no way to touch or improve on the fun they are already having together. And a real cricket ball wouldn't loft as softly as these homespun ones do. With a good whack from the bat, a real ball would fly over the fence and bounce down the hill to be lost in in the dense trees near the houses below. Some already do that already, but they pose no loss. So, No. A real cricket ball would actually spoil their game. It would steal the joy in it.
Bhupal took very gracious care of me. He cooked delicious meals of rice, dal, subgee (vegetables) and chapatis every day. He cooks in their room and washes dishes on the walkway from a bucket of water. Pouring the water into the garden for the flowers. He would never even let me wash my own dishes.
On the second night I was there, I heard a woman's loud screaming after I had gone to bed. I came outside to see if someone needed help. Bhupal was washing dishes on the walkway. "Rajneesh devotees live in that house down there. They carry on like that several nights each week," he said smiling, amused at the silliness of it. The screaming went from prolonged, wailing pain to guttural rage and everywhere in between ... real primal scream stuff. I could only imagine what these simple villagers thought, and how hard it must be for those living right next door to them.
The Rajneeshee's wild carryings on couldn't really disturb the beauty of the Dham, though. The indescribable, deep eternal peace of Baba Lokenath's presence is palpable. It soaks the hillside. It saturates the air. It reaches out, touches you, and draws you in. Stepping on to that terrace that first evening, I immediately felt, "This is home. I could stay here forever." Just breathing is meditation. I began to have an inkling of what is being said in the 108 Names, when it refers to Baba Lokenath as, "the Eternal and Unmoving".
After 4 days of soaking it in, I will be back for more, and a longer stay, next year, with a better camera. And I have joined the ranks of the few other devotees who have come here who are urging Baba to develop capacity for a small retreat here at the Dham
