An Indian Sean Connery with a long white beard - excerpt Gurus, Rock Stars and the Men In Between

Kulu valley

Sitting in a bus at the back of a convoy, at the front of which is God knows what causing the hold up, all I know is this is stop number five in as many hours.  Lets face it there are only so many chais you can drink and only so many wees you can take.  It is however, a stunning place to be stranded… high in the sky surrounded by mountains, a river meandering below, an infrequent house with thatched roof, a small isolated temple and roaming livestock.  There is no litter and the air is clean and fresh.  This is India to the north towards Kashmir, and it’s breathtaking.  I’m in very good spirits considering I’m in the middle of a banked up convoy, how much I need to pee yet again, and the level of Indian bureaucracy I endured to be on this bus to Kulu in search of Swami Brahmaraja.  There’s a shepherd boy serenading his cows with a flute making the story of Krishna, the doe-eyed flutist God of love remarkably tangible.  The Kulu Valley, "Valley of the Gods," is famous for a seven-day festival celebrating Lord Rama's victory over the demon Ravana.  I’m in time for the festival, quite by accident.  I want to continue north to Srinigar to find the fabled burial site of Jesus, then travel further to Kashmir, but every day I hear more stories of bombs and attacks in this much-contested region.  Just recently a couple of tourists were kidnapped and held ransom. I couldn't do that to my parents.  They’re livid enough I’m traveling alone.  I wish I were more fearless, or at least my complexion and hair dark.  My ‘ice-cream’ features are like a neon light erroneously flashing, "Come and get the money!”   I may not be white trash, but sadly I wouldn’t fetch much of a ransom either.

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I’m not exactly sure what I’ve stumbled upon, but it may just be the magic I’ve been seeking.  In a fairly modest room sits a Swami.  He looks like an Indian Sean Connery with a long white beard – weird but accurate. 

See where I'm going with this?

The room is filled with Westerners and conspicuously few Indians. He’s talking about ananda, bliss.  This ananda is what all living beings seek, though only in the human incarnation is this recognition and endeavor possible. Our outer designation: doctor, lawyer, homemaker, is irrelevant.  Rich or poor, Indian or white, whether we know it or not, we are seeking a state of perpetual ananda.  It is our birthright and the goal of this human form to cultivate it.  Ignorant of our true calling we pursue fleeting sensual happiness, all the while fearing death.  We mask the fear by seeking outer trappings of wealth and security, but no matter what accomplishments we accumulate, nothing can save us from death and rebirth.  Only self-realization, knowledge of our true self can end the cycle of samsara, the cycle of birth and death.  The magic, the bliss we seek is the knowledge of our true self.

Okay.  He’s got my full attention.

As I sit in this room full of strangers, all the reasons why i left Australia are being validated.  Here is someone who is espousing a set of priorities that feels right.  He is not telling me to give up mundane work, only to put it in perspective and pursue the highest goal.  We instinctively feel when something is good and right, just as we feel when something is not, regardless of what others would have us believe.  And right now I am picking up what the Swami is putting down. 

Practicing Tantra with a seventy year old man - excerpt Gurus Rock Stars & the Men In Between

My home was filthy at first, but once I got through with it now sparkles and smells of the familiar iodine concoction for which I’ve developed a bizarre affection.  It’s home.  It’s my space and it’s private.  But it’s lonely.  While I appreciate introspection, there are moments when I feel I could live or die and no one would be the wiser.  And I’m not simply being poetic.  Coming home one day, bathing away the dust and grime of an Indian summer I emerged from the bathroom and most definitely dry, I switched on the light as dusk fell.  I was immediately thrown by what felt like a thousand bolts of electricity pulsating through my body.  In absolute shock and some physical paralysis I fell back onto my bed, still wrapped in my bath towel.  I laid there not sure if this is the right thing to do, but I could feel my psyche switching over to that almost feral primal sense, where the body becomes all-knowing, silently demanding I stop thinking like a modern creature.  Both terror and ultimate calm jockeyed for first place.

“Be still,” I told myself. 

“Oh fuck, this is it!   I’ve finally done it.   I’m going to die alone, without anyone knowing where I am and how I died.  It’ll be days, maybe weeks before they find my body.  I had no idea it would end like this.  This sucks!” 

“Sssh,” my better self responded.  “Be calm, let your body heal.  It knows what to do.” 

I drifted off to sleep or death, I wasn’t sure which.  Hours later in complete darkness I woke with a gasp like the first breath of a newborn.  I was alive.  My body had indeed known what to do.  I wanted to tell someone.  I don’t even know what time it was, but I could tell it was the middle of the night.  The world was dark and silent, something rare even in rural India.  Used to the almost daily blackouts I have candles and lighter by the side of the bed.  I found my clock, four a.m., and decided the best thing I could do was to give my body as much time for sleep as possible.   The next morning I told the young boy at reception.  But it’s India and nothing will be done.  Ever since, when about to touch the switch I can be found sporting rubber soles and gloves.  Madam is looking very sexy these days.   If there can be an experience worse than death, perhaps it’s broaching the subject of tantra with a seventy year old man.  This aspect of Vedic culture intrigues me.  I’ve been hoping Dadaji will broach it, but as of yet he hasn’t and my days here are numbered.  It’s been a month and I’m leaving soon to continue my travels, and in particular to meet a Swami in Kulu.  I have to approach the subject now or never. 

“Dadaji, um… there is something I’ve been wanting to learn.  I don’t quite know how to say it…” 

After much prodding I continue, “I want to understand… to learn how to do tantra*.  I feel like it is an important part of life.” 

I can hardly describe the look in his eyes, which if I take a stab is some diabolical combination of disbelief and absolute glee. 

“Oh my, what do you want to learn about it?” he probes in his antiquated but flawless upper-crust accent. 

“Well, you’ve covered other aspects of Vedic lifestyle and philosophy but this is a huge part too.  I want to be trained in that aspect of my life.  I’m only young and I want to know how to do it properly.  You know… sex.” 

“You really want to learn this?” 

“Yes, I do!”  

I’m relieved to finally expose the subject, grateful that he’s taking it in stride.  Without another word, and with a look in his eyes that might just remain forever tattooed in my memory (no matter how many showers I take), a rickety old man complete in grey Neru suit lurches toward me like a zombie in a horror movie, lips open, intent on teaching me firsthand the secrets of tantra.

“Oh God no!  No, no, no.  I don’t mean that.” 

He stops in his tracks, “What do you want then?”  

He’s truly perplexed.

“I want to learn the philosophy of tantra, that’s all.  God no!  It’s actually late, I should go.” 

I almost admire his optimism.  Almost.  One thing do I concede looking at it from his point of view… a young blond literally landed on his doorstep one month ago, completely unannounced.  Why not a young blond that wants to be his tantric mistress?  

It’s time to leave.

* An indepth science where sexuality is practiced as a sacred ritual.

Excerpt: Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between ch 13

Strangely I am getting some of my sexual needs met through my classical Indian dance. OK, so that statement warrants elaboration. After my return from India and throughout my meltdown I continued my private studies in Mohini Attam and Odissi. This last year I added Kathak, a style from Northern India which is more upright, Mogul-inspired and features intoxicating fast turns that look like Sufis on crack. Clearly a naughty yogini in many ways, these post-Ashram years I’ve been getting my spiritual juice less from those aforementioned rules and regulations, and more through my dance and music. Particularly with dance I am satiated and lost in the sensuality and nuance of the different styles.

Classical Indian is part pure dance and part abhinaya (story telling). Through the use of gestures and mudras (hand movements), one recants stories of Gods and Goddesses that more often than not include the loving pastimes of Divine couples such as Radha and Krishna, Shiva and Parvati and so on. As a dancer matures the emphasis on the storytelling component increases to the point where it is possible and desired to lose oneself in meditation of the story being told. Between private lessons and my dance company’s choreography and performances, I lose myself in dance. This deep connection with my body, contemplation and active expression of esoteric subject matter helps me access and develop a deeply feminine side. Especially with the cutthroat business of real estate, this connection with the feminine is essential. I never want to become a high-powered super-bitch broker. I’m more than happy to let my job be the silent patron of my arts and nothing more.