THE HEART OF SITARAM

Yes, ji, shoes and calendars check. just went to chandni chowk and saw our man jeet dadial- a treasure... though we went first to the Hanuman temple with a sadhu we met as Sabrina and i were wandering the byways of Pahar Ganj. I was scouting for a spot i had seen from a friend's hotel room, a christian cemetery tucked away between sabzi market and furniture row. Without having seen it from above, i would never have known it was there. Making virtually a full circumambulating of the wall surrounding the cemetery before actually finding the entrance, we were just coming up upon it when we ran into this Nagababa who seemed to know me or at least pretended to. After a short chat we went to find chai (never far) and smoke thick, unfiltered cigarettes. Between discussion of holy places, melas, babas that we know and where we were going next, he kept insisting 'NO money giving you, only friend, chela.' "Yes baba, of course, only friend, little giving, no problem." It was the usual diatribe with the sadhus who befriend western tourists.

Needless to say we were a spectacle to all who beheld us. The Indians love to stare and this gave them ample opportunity- two mad looking angrezis (foreign tourists) with a pagal (mad) sadhu, having chai and speaking in hindi.

Then, after a bit more wandering, the baba wanted to smoke a joint but there was (no surprise) nowhere to do it in private. So we went full public instead and attempted it on the busy road full of buses and walkers that connects the railway station with Connaught place. (Pronounced 'palace'.) He had decided that we were his chelas and that stood as the explanation to the multitudes that inquired about our unusual party. Fortunately for us the baba was only smoking grass and not charas, so we kept our heads together despite being stoned in the midst of Delhi rush hour.
Then the sadhu wanted me to buy him a blanket because he slept outside and winter was coming on. After finding the suitable chambal shop at the top of the main bazaar and much discussion about the nature of the wool and its quality, and a mountain of the shop's blankets turned into a landslide we settled on one. Naturally the 'buy the baba a two hundred rupee blanket' turned into a 'buy the baba a five hundred rupee blanket'. So it goes. I was content to make my gift to the sadhus of india through the form of this barefooted semi-lunatic. Then, brand new blanket in hand, we went back on the chaotic streets and discussion turned to the next day's activities. 'What time would we meet?' he wanted to know. Baba had plans to make a round-Delhi tour of the Hanuman temple and other choice spots and 'Would we accompany him?' (The exact phrasing has been altered). Thus settling on a time to meet, the discussion took another turn towards 'ghar'.

How would baba know what time it was? Baba had no watch. Funnily, we just happened to be passing the watch stalls in the bazaar, which are commonplace near any train or bus station in India. Baba did not want to miss our meeting time. Buy the baba a watch. After having shelled out the five hundred rupees for the kambal i was not in the mood to do more shopping according to the sadhu's whims. I had bought the blanket willingly even though it was twice as expensive as Shamgiri (as he was called) had promised it would be. So with the question posed, the shops at our beck and call and me hesitant, i turned to Sabrina. "Want to buy the sadhu a watch?" No, she shakes her head immediately, the baba should not know what time it is. I knew, too, that the watch would get traded instantly, maybe even before he was meant to meet us. He would have to be content with the blanket and the hundred rupees he got off me in cash and the Commander cigarettes and boxes of matches. "Later." was the answer he got. Thus we parted until the morrow.

After waiting an hour after the appointed time (for the baba had no watch), we went to pursue the business we had in Delhi for the Travelers puja shop in Seattle. He caught up with us just as we were to board a rikshaw to Old Delhi to get calendars printed by Maharaja Paper and Printers. He chides me in hindi for leaving our meeting place and then informs us we are bound for the Hanuman Mandir in Karol Bagh. We walked a bit, looking for the right bus on an extremely busy and dirty road under the new Delhi Metro Rail elevated train tracks. (Their construction would more than likely do nothing to eliminate the choking mess of buses and trucks and cars and rickshaws beneath.)
As we were walking and bus after bus was passing us, i turned to Sabrina and expressed my admiration that the sadhus were so calm, so in the moment, never hurrying, never running for the bus that might be theirs. The sadhus had full yoga with the divine, I explained, to what will be, and no effort to change any couse of events by trying to change God's will. They were fully in the flow of life as it is, not as it should be. Just as the words left my mouth and were swallowed by the roar of traffic, the sadhu began to run for the bus.

HANUMAN MANDIR

The bus we ran for was not going where we were going. It was time to take action and get a rickshaw, which we did. Safely delivered to the front of the temple we spent another fifteen minutes asking around at the roadside chai stalls for cigarettes. One can buy cigarettes by the piece anywhere in India, for a whole packet is often an extravagance, as is regular cigarette smoking in general. Many poorer people smoke beedies, which are far cheaper and contain little tobacco. We were not of that camp, for i was the one buying nearly everything, and we purchased a packet of Commander cigarettes.

Going back to the temple of the monkey-god we realized that the entire temple was actually a statue of Hanuman himself, four stories tall. we left our shoes at the chappal check stand in front and entered the mouth of the Mandir. This is not simply a picturesque phrase but a literal truth, for the entrance was in the shape of a giant mouth with massive teeth that swallowed us as we made our entry. To our delight, the mouth did not chew us. That came later.

The main room was not remarkably different from most hindu shrines, with the main deity in the middle 'chapel' and others housed in adjoining small rooms. However, there was a unique feeling inside, a feeling of depth and power residing somewhere inside; the fact that we had to walk through a massive mouth to get in did add to this feeling because we were now 'inside' Hanuman's body. We rang the bells and gave respects to the gods and continued to tour the temple. Down some stairs to the left of the mouth the place got more intense and more surreal. The far side of the room contained a shadowy area with a dhuni (fire) pit and some sleeping sadhus wrapped in blankets. The lighted area had a pile of grey vibhuti (ash) from which the sadhu blessed us with marks on our foreheads. The most outstanding point of interest in the room was another gaping mouth, this time of a colorful and stylized crocodile, just large enough to duck down and step into. Through the teeth and onto the tongue we stepped, entering the gullet of the croc. The devi of the river Ganges rides a crocodile and this seemed to be dedicated to Ma. Walking down a sloping and narrow passage with a low ceiling we came upon an unfinished shrine to ma Ganga in grey concrete, surrounded with what seemed to be a moat that would be filled with water sometime in future. Only one person could view at a time and we paid our respects, once again in the belly of the beast. Little did we know that this metaphor would hold true for the rest of our experiences there.

Again ducking under the teeth we were back in the room with the sleeping sadhus. Directly across from the croc's mouth was yet another passage, this time in the form of what seemed to be a cave. The walls and ceiling were made of concrete again, but this time decorated to simulate the rough rock walls of a baba's cave. We looked in and saw that stairs went down to a lower level of the cave. It seemed to be closed, however, and very dimly lit so we only looked at the entrance.
The sadhu then took us up a flight of stairs to the upper level of the mandir, which was outside, about the level of Hanuman's shin. This large flat deck was the area where the sadhus lived and recreated, smoked, read the paper and talked. We took our seats on a large carpet; after a few understated greetings from the other sadhus our baba began a virtually endless chain of chillum mixing and smoking. He was a naga baba, a particular sect of sadhu well known in India for their fierceness and intensity. He would sing loudly, gesticulate for no apparent reason and quite to himself, and not infrequently (from what i could tell) would get so stoned that he would mutter incoherently almost as if drunk. This in itself is not unique but it is also not commonplace amongst the sadhus. Most are quite quiet and keep to themselves; others, like our baba, was used to mixing with tourists and seemed quite content with any company so long as it furthered his aims: chai, chillum and chappati. He put much energy into smoking chillums and would sometimes disappear from us for a spell to go off and smoke with someone else he met. The dope smokers in India all know that naga babas are notorious for this behavior and stoners at large will often grab a baba if they see one, just for a quick smoke. They are the traditional dispensers of drugs in India, both burning and ready to burn.

So the chillums were loaded and smoked but many of the babas that came and went while we were sitting there did not partake of his chillum rampage. We seemed to be first in line (after himself of course) for the chillum and many pipes passed our way. Fortunately the ganja was quite weak so our heads were not as wrecked as they could have been if charas (hash) was involved. The scene was strange enough without involving the complications that come with a head full of hashish. We blended into the scene quietly as men came and went from the rooftop, both local men who knew the babas and various babas themselves. The local men paid us no mind and sat with the sadhus for a spell, some smoked, and then they all disappeared only to reappear (to us) later - on the floor of the shadowy room near the crocodile's mouth, sleeping through the hot part of the day.

Shortly after the second or third chillum, the guru of the ashram arrived on the scene. An old man in his late 70's or 80's, he sat in a chair just off the carpet we sat on. The guru was deeply mellow, with a thick face and a gentle but commanding demeanor. The existence of this four storey hanuman temple was all due to his tapas and the power gained from years of austerities. It seems that the guru inhabited a cave on the site many years ago, before the overhead train viaduct and before the deafening roar of traffic out front. He lived in the cave and pursued his yogic life of meditation on the divine and the realization of god within himself. As he gained success in his pursuit, the gods granted him powers to bring the higher beings to others and over time the Hanuman temple sprang up.

Of the nature of the transition between cave and full temple i am not so sure but it is an interesting example of how inner power is manifested in India, often through building some kind of ashram so the people can come and gain wisdom from the guru and pay homage to the gods. The site where the sadhu lived and did his penance is now open to all so they can gain and share a little bit of what the sadhu gathered from the gods and goddesses. The wonder of it to me is how a simple cave (which is still in existence within the temple and remains the baba's private room) became this odd spiritual theme-park. The depths and heights of the mysterious temple we were soon to discover.
At one point, between dispensing money to the temple painters and dispensing ganja to the sadhus to make chillums, the baba took an interest in us. His smiling eyes fell on us and he asked whether we liked these chillums. 'Sometimes', i replied in hindi, knowing that an illusive answer was better because i was unsure of what the sadhu was getting at. He then bequeathed a small lump of charas to the group to further our spiritual advancement. After this he took no more notice of us save on our departure when he granted us another smile.

"Guruji likes chillums." a beautiful sadhu informed us in english. Fine featured with a light beard and sparkling eyes, he looked the picture of the mystic of any age, of every time. He spoke good english and we discussed the guruji and the temple in a mixture of hindi and english so that both Sabrina and Shamgiri could understand. It is due to his generosity that we learned more about the baba and the temple, how it came into being and how it will become. We had smoked many chillums and the mystic baba questioned us- had we eaten? I was unsure of how to answer but it did not matter. One should eat after smoking, otherwise the chillums can have a negative effect, he informed us; one could get spacey, flighty, even crazy. This rule only applied to us mortals and did not extend to guruji. The guru had spent four years eating only one time per week and sustaining himself for the rest of the time on the holy power of vibhuti, the sacred ash from a sadhu's fire. During that time the sadhu smoked chillums morning noon and night, non-stop. The baba did not go crazy and did not die on such a diet; in fact he actually gained the power to construct the Hanuman temple and to feed many people both with food and with spirit (and with ganja). The baba likes chillums and the rule did not apply to him.

It seems that the intense penance of guruji enabled him to manifest the Ganga river right there in Delhi. Did we see the Ganga flowing in the temple? the sadhu wanted to know. In fact, we had not seen any water except where water might go after the shrine to Ma Ganga was completed. He realized we had not seen the true temple on our first look. After all the chillums and chatting we were ready to move, so the mystic baba decided to lead us on a tour of the temple. First stop: the underground cave.

We returned to the room with the crocodile's mouth where the local men were sleeping off their earlier smoke. Mystic baba pointed out the door which led to the cave where the guruji originally lived way back in another age. We then turned into the faux rock chamber with the stairs leading down. It was in fact closed but Mystic baba was second in command at this temple and in India 'closed' is a relative term. The passage was quite dark due to closure and construction and no amount of tinkering with switches and the tangle of wires could illuminate the dim passage. Electricity in India is generally unreliable at best so the lack of success with the twenty-odd switches was no surprise. Eventually one of the construction workers came and plugged in a string of dim lights that lit the stairs and passage below. The surprise came a few minutes later.
So past the barrier and down the stairs we went, into the subterranean passage below the feet of hanuman. The cement rock motif continued along the stairs and ceiling of the 'cave' and also onwards as the passage leveled out. As we got halfway down the stairs we began to understand the story about the Ganga flowing right here in Delhi. It seems that the Ganga was flowing through this underground cave and she was generous enough to fill it thigh-high with her stainless waters.

Just before the water began we were cautioned: don't get your clothes caught in the electric motor that was buzzing away three steps from the surface. I did anyway, and so did Sabrina. Good start to an adventure that was shaping up to be a potential nightmare of epic proportions. Nothing seemed right: the dim brown passage that twisted off to some unknown place underground, the thigh-high water of extremely dubious cleanliness, the obviously (and already proven to be) faulty wiring, and two sadhus of unknown reputation one of whom has already shown himself to be unpredictable and volatile. Despite the sheer idiocy of such an undertaking we hitched up our clothes and followed the mystic into the murky water were the first goddess to greet us was the black goddess Kali, the destroyer. This did not portend good results for us.

We waded through the water as the sadhu introduced us to the tantric goddesses of power, destruction and death whose shrines lay along the winding passage. We were in the subterranean lair of the nine goddesses and apparently going to meet them face to face in due time. That time seemed quite near in fact. As the passage took another turn there was some debris in the water signaling the closure of the passage up ahead. Informed of this situation the nagababa behind us decided that we should forge ahead anyhow, into an even dimmer and narrower corridor. Mystic baba told us that eventually the passage would extend all the way around the temple underground in a long circle but that it wasn't finished yet.

'So that's that.' i said to myself as the nagababa lead our party into the closed area. 'that's us, finished.- If they're going to do us in, this would be the place and time... these goddesses love a bit of blood sacrifice... i doubt they would frown on the sacrifice of a couple of foolish angrezis in a secret chamber underground..." Thus my thoughts ran as i waded to my doom. However, as you have probably guessed, we survived the ordeal with only mucky thighs and a deep sense that we would probably contract some lesions of some kind by nightfall. I was almost a bit disappointed that we did not get the opportunity to donate to a bloodthirsty goddess. This is the way of things and the goddess was not desiring any white blood on that day.

Thus relieved, we slogged up the stairs and back to the ground level of the temple after what seemed like an age. The mystic baba then wanted to take us up to see the special works above, where they were constructing a very special temple. Beyond the first two floors of the temple was all construction, cement and scaffolding. Up we went, stairs and then scrambling up the bamboo and stick scaffolding, up through Hanuman's legs and into his waist. Going up further the stairway got narrower and we moved into his stomach and up through the lungs. Only special people would be able to visit this part- the sadhu informs us. As things got progressively smaller there was an opening and the sadhu urged us to climb inside, which we did, and the babas popped their heads out. The small box was open the the air and the view was superb. As we gazed out the baba giggled... Sitaram was in the heart of Hanuman! This was the heart of the temple, literally, were Sitaram would dwell when the temple was completed. Twice a day, the giant mechanized arms of Hanumanji would reach towards his heart and pull it open, revealing this chamber where his heart's only desire would dwell. This action of devotion twice daily would be computer controlled, of course.
Hanuman is noted for his intense devotion to Ram and Sita the divine couple of the epic Ramayana. Often the iconography depicts the monkey god tearing his heart open and revealing Sitaram, the perfect couple. The funny and strange thing about it was that we had been traveling as just that very couple. My name in India is Ram and just for ease and a bit of comedy Sabrina called herself Sita. Thus we were Sitaram. The Indians loved it! And here we were, Sitaram, sitting in the heart of Hanuman; it was all working according to plan!

Leaving the heart, we went up to the hat of Hanuman were we smoked and looked out at Dehli from a place that few save the monkey would see. We then descended and headed back to the chillout area on the roof. On the way I lost Sita and the mystic baba and sat down in the food line and was served slop on a plate, ashram style. Sita and the baba had stopped to clean their feet and seemed to be gone a good while, but it did not worry me overly. I felt I could trust the baba to some extent while in the temple, after all they did not thrust a knife into our backs in the underground tantric swamp.

After some time they did return, but Sita seemed a bit put off. It seems that the baba had gotten her alone and then made overtures of love and devotion to her. He was passionate about her, it seemed. He couldn't live without her. This was not the first nor the last time a baba would make a move on my girlfriend. What was this? These supposed renunciates cannot even be subtle enough to keep it together for two minutes alone with a woman. What is asceticism coming to? A sad display that gave Sabrina a dark attitude about babas until we finally met Amargiri, my teacher.
We then got up and went back to the comparative normality of the streets of Karol Bagh, New Delhi. After that, the nagababa went with us to chandni chowk to buy the calendars and then took us up to the sadhu samaj just outside the old delhi railway station. There we smoked some more chillums before walking all the way back to Pahar Ganj, after dark thru the colorful bazaars jammed with shoppers.