Varanasi: A Timeless Cauldron of Chaos and Divinity

“What’s your name again?” I asked the man who, with a tilak on his forehead, looked more like a pundit than a taxi driver. I was not sure if I got the name right the first time he said it.

“Kashinath,” he repeated, smiling.

I could not help but smile internally myself. Kashinath (one of several names of Lord Shiva) had come to ferry me to the hotel on my first visit to Kashi, as Varanasi was known in ancient times!

Shaking my head at the silly comparison, my mind returned to it after a while as Kashinath’s Maruti Ertiga negotiated the roads smoothly: Doesn’t God have an abode in each and every sentient being?

After freshening up at the hotel and resting for a while, I set out to accomplish things that topped my agenda: Visit the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, watch Ganga Arati, go to the Sankat Mochan Hanuman Temple.

From the hotel it was about four kilometers to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, so I took an Uber. But I had to get down at one end of the corridor that led to the temple, about half a mile away. I soon found out that most vehicular traffic was banned near that area to avoid (further) overcrowding.

In any case, I was happy to walk the rest of the way. The crowd seemed to swell more than usual—even though I couldn’t be sure what the ‘usual’ was. It was my first trip here, after all. I noticed the presence of Kanwariyas everywhere, which must have added to the rush, I thought. 

It was Shravan Maas, when Shiva devotees known as Kanwariyas bring the holy waters of Ganga from various shrines as an offering to the Shiva temples of their localities. The period typically starts sometime in July according to the Hindu lunar calendar and marks the rainy season that’s traditionally taken to be four months long. The Kanwariyas derive their name from the bamboo pole called kanwar that is slung across their shoulders; on each end is tied a water pot for the holy water. It is said that the pots should not touch the ground throughout their arduous journey. Usually undertaken barefoot, the yatra often spans hundreds of kilometers.

Besides the devout Kanwariyas, I saw pilgrims from all over India throng the road to the Vishwanath temple, with shops doing brisk business along the way. From chilled lassi (curd shake) to garlands and incense sticks, from Banarasi sarees to knick-knacks, and from miniature god icons to lockers for rent, the things on offer were as varied as the people who bought them.

I found the huge temple gate, clearly a new addition to the temple precincts, to be locked. A couple of sentries stood guard nearby. Then I noticed a serpentine queue of several hundred meters, which was snaking its way into the temple through a narrow side entry. When I asked one of the guards whether they ever opened the new gate, he curtly answered, “Only when Modiji comes.”

Modiji was certainly not coming that evening.

I debated in my mind whether to join the queue but then thought otherwise, for I might miss the Ganga Arati by the time my turn came. Deciding to come back the next morning, I thought of visiting the Sankat Mochan Temple instead. The arati was supposed to begin around seven and I could come back by then, I calculated.

I took a Rapido bike to the Sankat Mochan Temple and reached there within minutes. From now on, these bikes zipping through the narrow lanes of Varanasi would be my preferred way of getting around, I decided.

As I bowed before the idol of Lord Haunman (one of his names is Sankat Mochan, someone who relieves you of your gravest troubles), the image of Tulsidas kept surfacing in my mind. It is believed that the 16th-17th century poet-saint established the temple at the very spot where he had a vision of Hanuman. Tulsidas is the author of Ramcharitmanas, which, like Ramayana, recounts Lord Rama’s life, besides the feats of Rama’s foremost devotee, Hanuman. However, unlike Ramayana, which is in Sanskrit, Tulsidas chose to write Ramcharitmanas in the local Awadhi language (even though he was a scholar of Sanskrit as well). 

Both these epics are highly revered by Hindus and non-Hindus alike but Ramcharitmanas, being more accessible of the two through its simpler language, has been more popular with the masses. I haven’t read the whole poem, but one of its key portions is Sunderkand and I have found its recital (especially by Ajay Yagnik ji and Pandit Prem Prakash Dubey) to be a truly blissful and uplifting experience.

What’s more, since we are on the subject of Varanasi, the city of Lord Shiva, it is said that Ramcharitmanas is portrayed by Tulsidas as being narrated by Shiva to his consort, Parvati. One of the lines from the poem reads: “Uma kahau main anubhav apna; sat hari bhajan jagat sab sapna.” (“Let me share my own experience, Uma: chanting Lord Rama’s name is the truth; the rest of the world is a dream.” Uma is another name of Parvati and ‘hari’ here refers to Lord Rama.)

Suspended beautifully between a dream-like visit to Sankat Mochan and the reality of my need to hasten to my next stop, I hired another bike to reach Dasashwamedh Ghat to watch the famous Ganga Arati. The ghat is a few minutes’ walk from Kashi Vishvanath. I wasn’t late, as the arati was yet to be started. But I wasn’t early enough to secure a standing space close to the venue. A road led from the Godowlia Chowk down toward the ghat where priests performed the arati—and it was chock-full of people. I edged past the throng to a place as close to the priests as I could and stood still when I realized I could go no further without trampling on someone.

The arati began soon with the chanting of sacred mantras by the priests. After a while, they lit up the diyas of the huge arati lamps that are mostly associated with Ganga Arati performed at various holy sites in India but which also make an appearance at several temple aratis as well. It was indeed a majestic spectacle, with the priests moving the lamps in a graceful, slow circular motion, while singing the hymns to various gods, including Ma Ganga. The accompanying clanging of bells and sounding of conch shells magnified the impact. For a full half an hour or so, people stood spellbound, bowing their heads or folding their hands in prayer. Some ‘reel addicts’ couldn’t resist capturing the action on their mobiles. I hesitated, then quickly clicked a few pictures before shoving my phone back into the pocket and continuing to listen to the chants without further interruption.

When the arati ended, the throng dispersed abruptly and people rushed toward Godowlia Chowk in order to go back to their hotels or just gorge on street food at any of the umpteen stalls tended to by the local folks who were looking expectantly at the returning crowd. It was pretty chaotic but there was a strange rhythm to the whole thing. I could imagine the same scene playing out each day ever since the arati became a grand choreographed ritual sometime in the 1990s. Before that, Ganga Arati was said to be performed in a rather simple manner; there was no ‘organized show’ as such except maybe on a few special occasions. 

Going back to my own hotel on a Rapido bike, I realized something was not quite right. Something that didn’t really gel with the serene arati spectacle I had just witnessed, that seemed to be totally out-of-place for a holy city. What was it that kept bothering me as the biker moved swiftly along the streets?

“Beep! Beep, beep, beep!!”

It was the persistent, almost non-stop honking by the bikers and other motorists on the roads. And the moment it registered in my mind, it stayed put, becoming a nasty fixture in my otherwise-calm brain. My brain turned, to tweak a phrase Mumbaikars use for a goat-brain delicacy, into ‘fried bheja.’ Only when I reached the hotel and shut the door of my room did the obnoxious blare subside a little (though I would be subjected to the same assault on the auditory senses the day after and on my next visit a year later.)

Next morning, I joined the queue of devotees waiting to enter the Kashi Vishwanath Temple. Fortunately, it wasn’t half as long as yesterday and I was able to get in within 30 minutes. The ‘Modi gate’ outside (which remained locked) was as imposing as the man’s ego and seemed out of proportion to the relatively smaller size of the actual temple. It also didn’t fit in with the architectural integrity of the whole temple compound, I thought, as I moved along toward the sanctum sanctorum.

The main deity of the temple, Vishwanath, which means Lord of the Universe, is a Shiva Linga housed in a silver-covered square altar. It is believed to be one of the 12 Jyotirlingas—phallic stone emblems of Lord Shiva that appeared spontaneously on their own (called Swayambhu) at 12 different places across India. (Jyoti means light and Jyotirlingas are also visualized as pillars of light extending to infinity at both the ends; there’s an interesting legend from the Shiva Purana about how Shiva humbled the egos of Brahma and Vishnu by manifesting himself as an infinite pillar of light.)

As my turn for the darshan came, I bowed my head at the altar but before the attending priest could put a mark of blessing on my forehead—which he quickly did for each person in the moving line—I was shoved from behind and missed it. I’m not too much into rituals, but somehow I felt a little bad for being given the miss at such an important occasion. Nevertheless, I harbored no ill will and quietly sat in the adjoining open courtyard where people were allowed to linger and say their prayers. I sat cross-legged, aligning my back with one of the yard’s pillars. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and meditated for a while. 

I opened my eyes when I felt something soft, gentle and moist touch my forehead. A small boy of about six or seven was standing before me, smiling. One of his fingers was wet with vermillion and it was with this finger that he had put a sacred dot on my face, just between the eyebrows.

I smiled back at him, thanking him and quietly pressing a tenner in his hand. I watched him go and sat there a little longer, musing about the sweet little episode and how serendipitous it seemed. Count your blessings, no matter how they come.

There was one more place in Varanasi I really wanted to visit but couldn’t go, and I promised myself to see it the next time I came to the city.

After a little more than a year, I went again and visited this place that’s as important to Varanasi, if not more, as the Vishwanath Temple: Manikarnika Ghat.

Varanasi is the place in India where most people, especially old ones, wish they could die. In fact, there are a number of old age homes in the city that offer accommodation and care to those who wish to live their final days here—so they could die, get cremated, and attain moksha, which means freedom from the cycle of births and deaths. For this reason, many of these care centers have ‘Moksha’ or ‘Mukti’ added to their names.

The belief emerges from certain popular legends. One, according to Skanda Purana, says that Kashi (how Varanasi is called in the scripture) sits atop Lord Shiva’s trident and is therefore not bound by the laws of multiple births applicable elsewhere on Earth. The special, sacred status of the city gives it the power to set people free from the cycle of rebirths and, instead, allow them to merge their souls with the Divine Soul when they die.

Another legend finds mention in scriptures such as Shiva Purana and Rama Tapaniya Upanishad. It says that when someone takes their last breath in Kashi, Lord Shiva whispers the Taraka Mantra (the mantra of liberation, which is said to be the name of Lord Rama or the primordial sound Om) into their right ear, thus granting them moksha.

Whatever be the legend, one thing seems sure: whoever comes here to die is dead serious about being liberated.

Pyres burn at almost every ghat in the city, but the most preferred place to get cremated is Manikarnika Ghat. It is said that the funeral pyres at Manikarnika never cease to burn: the flames can be seen round the clock, all through the year.

When I visited Manikarnika Ghat, a few pyres were ablaze. The ghat itself, however, seemed relatively smaller for its reputation, possibly because there was a lot of construction and restorative work going on around it at the time I visited.

Before I saw the cremation site, I visited the nearby Manikarnika Kund, a small, sacred pool of water with a secured boundary. A few steps lead down to the water. There was a plaque on the wall put up by the priests association of the city that spelled out what’s possibly the full name of the place: Shri Manikarnika Chakra Pushkarini Kund. Above the name, there was a line in Hindi that roughly translates as “The primary and ancient-most holy place of Kashi.”

Again, there are a few legends about the name. According to one, in an act of devotion to Shiva and Parvati, Lord Vishnu dug a beautiful lotus pool (pushkarini) at the place with his discus-shaped weapon, Chakra. This gave it the name Chakra Pushkarini Teerth. And when Shiva saw this pool, he was overcome with emotion and his body trembled, causing the jewel in his earring to drop in the pond, which then came to be known as Manikarnika (mani and karnika are Sanskrit for jewel and earring respectively).

In my mind, I was imagining Lord Shiva admiring the lotus pond in ancient times when I was startled by the sound of a bird that just flew above the kund. Despite all those legends and their significance, not many people seemed interested in giving it a second look—except a man and a woman who were sitting on the stairs leading down to the water. The boundary of the kund was secured by iron railings. Within the fencing, I spotted a gate but it seemed closed, so I wondered how the two got inside. They were sitting next to each other, slightly apart, each lost in their own chain of thought.

At the Manikarnika Ghat, I watched the pyres burn for a while and then made my way back through a narrow, serpentine street. I noticed a shop with the sign ‘Blue Door Lassi Shop.’ It was flocked by a lot of Gen Z youngsters and a couple of Westerners. I stood in the long queue, hoping to grab a special concoction of the curd shake that, going by the frenzy of click-clicks around, must have been made famous by the likes of Instagram. But just as my turn came, the large metal pot in which the shopkeeper had kept the lassi ran out. A fresh lot would need to be prepared, which would take several minutes. Already delayed, I was a bit irritated at the timing. “Forget it,” I told myself and walked on.

Fortunately, I chanced upon another shop close by that was selling not lassi but thandai. A cool drink made of milk and spices, thandai is quite popular, especially in the northern parts of India. There was no rush here and the guy tending to the shop even offered me a place to sit down while he prepared a glass of the drink for me. I watched him make it with patience and delight: it was apparent from his confident and steady hands that they were used to making it this way for long years, the recipe probably passed down through generations.

It was the best thandai I ever had in my life.

As I resumed my walk up the street toward Godowlia Chowk, there was a commotion within a short distance. The reason became clear in a few moments. I stepped on to a pavement stone and saw others rush hither and thither to avoid a herd of bovines that was marching past down the lane. 

Before I emerged from that narrow street, I stopped by an old sweet shop. How old? The signboard read: Shri Rajbandu. Since 1887. I chose to buy Varanasi’s famous lal peda (If you ask me, it could give Mathura’s even more famous peda a run for its money!)

I stood near Godowlia Chowk for some time before going back to my hotel. I looked around me and saw a swarm of humanity just as you would see in any major, bustling city. People were rushing everywhere in a chaotic fashion, on foot, riding pillion on bikes and, not far from where I stood, in cars, buses, and other vehicles. There was a sense of urgency, of finishing what was on their mind, of getting on with life as usual, doing their duties, clicking pictures that would probably fill up their phones’ storage rather than become fond memories later on, or just rushing about so as to tick the check-boxes on their itineraries and lists.

The need for speed, even in a place as timeless as Varanasi, trumped everything else. What would Lord Shiva make of this and his city today? I thought.

Perhaps I should have stayed longer but I didn't get much time to ruminate on things that often seem wasteful to minds more attuned to a practical, go-go life.

But then, most times, I'm not much different from them.

Lost in such thoughts, I, too, was carried away hurriedly by the biker who soon came to pick me up, zipping expertly through the crowd and the traffic—honking as hell.

(All images here: Sanjay Gupta; All reality everywhere: Lord Shiva)

Why Matthiessen’s Snow Leopard is a mountain of a book

…and why you must scale it, at least once in your life.

The Snow Leopard was lying on my bookshelf for more than five years before I picked it up. In those five years, it beckoned me often. But somehow, the silent pull wasn’t strong enough for me to make a physical move.

Until now. Beset by a strong desire to go visit the mountains, especially the Himalayas, but unable to do so for multiple reasons, I possibly did the next best thing: Picked up the book and traveled with its author, Peter Matthiessen, on a mystical journey of self-discovery to the Crystal Mountain on the Tibetan Plateau, near the border with Nepal.

When I was almost finished reading, a combined sense of fulfillment, dread, sadness, and joy took hold of me. Sadness at the knowledge that a wondrous journey was coming to an end; joy at the treasure chest of beauty and wisdom Matthiessen opened up, scattering its pearls all along the way, for countless readers like me.

The author undertook this journey along with the field biologist George Schaller in the 1970s, walking hundreds of mountainous miles for a little over two months. They wanted to study bharal, the wild blue sheep-goat of the region, with a faint chance at being among the lucky few to spot the amazing, revered cat, the snow leopard.

The book, The Snow Leopard, at first appears to be a diary-like account of that journey (date-wise entries of varying lengths double as chapters within sections). It is that but, thankfully, much more.

I’m in agreement with this blurb taken from a review by Jim Harrison for The Nation: “A magical book: a kind of lunar paradigm and map of the sacred…The book has transcended the usual limits of language.”

The Snow Leopard is indeed transcendental, and not just on account of language. It is a timeless travel classic that can very well serve as a spiritual refuge in times of distress and doubt.

Besides Schaller, Matthiessen is accompanied by a curious mix of porters (Sherpas and Tamangs) to help with their load, cooking, and other routine tasks. Throughout the journey, he portrays these characters in witty detail and draws your attention to the rich variety of life ever-present in nature in a way that makes you feel as if you are right there, witnessing all this firsthand. His writing is not grandiose or lavish but simple, natural, endearing.

The most important bits, if you ask me, are his inner detours in which he talks about the workings of Buddhism’s various streams, the revered figures like Milarepa and Avalokiteshwara, what it means to seek one’s place in the universe, and what truly gives us peace and happiness. Profound as these things are supposed to be, Matthiessen makes them come alive and within easy reach as he melds his noble thoughts effortlessly with the daily ‘step and stave’ of walking on snowy, alpine paths, and surviving with barebone necessities in the company of strangers that seem to be living in another century yet whose simple acceptance of life and its harsh ways are so disarming, so uplifting at times.

Among the most charming, intriguing parts I found are the ones where Matthiessen describes Tukten, the enigmatic sherpa, and his equally enigmatic relationship with him throughout the journey (and possibly beyond it in another life).

Take this early passage, for instance: “Tukten has elf's ears and a thin neck, a yellow face, and the wild wise eyes of a naljorpa, or Tibetan yogi. He radiates that inner quiet which is often associated with spiritual attainment, but perhaps his attainment is a dark one. The other Sherpas are uneasy with him; they mutter that he drinks too much, uses foul language, is not to be trusted…This disreputable fellow is somehow known to me, like a dim figure from another life.”

Despite his “reputation,” Tukten exerts an extraordinary influence on Matthiessen—without actually doing any exertion. For he is an effortless, easygoing being who seems unperturbed in the most trying of circumstances.

Toward the end, when Matthiessen is parting ways with Tukten, shaking his hand and watching him go in the cab, he draws parallels between the sherpa and himself: “Without ever attempting to speak about it, we perceive life in the same way, or rather, I perceive it in the way that Tukten lives it. In his life in the moment, in his freedom from attachments, in the simplicity of his everyday example, Tukten has taught me over and over, he is the teacher that I hoped to find…”

There appears to be a fine, mystic example at one place in the book of how some Tibetans “live” what most ordinary folk merely “perceive.” It occurs when the traveling party needs to pass a narrow stretch of cliff about a hundred feet above rocks at the edge of a lake. Matthiessen, who has been walking ahead, pauses at this point, leaning into the cliff to let the nine porters in his entourage pass by. What he witnesses next is nothing short of surreal:

“At that dangerous point of cliff, an extraordinary thing happens. Not yet in view, the nine fall silent [the porters were chattering before that] in the sudden way that birds are stilled by the shadow of a hawk, or tree frogs cease their shrilling, leaving a ringing silence in the silence. Then, one by one, the nine figures round the point of rock in silhouette, unreal beneath big bulky loads that threaten each second to bump the cliff and nudge them over the precipice. On they come, staring straight ahead, as steadily and certainly as ants, yet seeming to glide with an easy, ethereal lightness, as if some sort of inner concentration was lifting them just off the surface of the ground. Bent far forward against the tump lines around their foreheads, fingers wide spread by way of balance, they touch the cliff face lightly to the left side, stroke the north wind to the right. Light finger-tips touch my upper leg, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine hands, but the intensity is such that they seem not to distinguish between cold rock face and warm blue jeans. Mute unknowing, dull eyes glazed, the figures brush past one by one in their wool boots and sashed tunics, leaving behind in the clear air the smell of grease and fires. When the bad stretch is past, the hooting instantly resumes, perhaps at the point where they left off, as if all had awakened from a trance.”

I read the above passage a couple of times, as if in a trance myself.

Later on, Matthiessen wonders about the incredible incident, thinking it to be a form of lung-gom, a Tantric discipline that permits the adept to glide along with uncanny swiftness and certainty, even at night. He also compares it to the yogic concept of prana: lung-gom literally means wind-concentration and prana is the vital energy or breath that permeates everything.

There are several passages in the book where Matthiessen shines a light on meditation—both by dwelling on Tibetan-Buddhist teachings and by his own sincere attempts at its practice.

What I really liked is the author’s openness in not restricting his writing to any one particular sect but embracing multiple streams and cultures. So, even as he is talking about Tibetan yogi Milarepa’s teachings, he doesn’t shy away from dwelling on meditative experiences as varied as those of bushmen and dervishes. Consider the following excerpts:

“Meditation has nothing to do with contemplation of eternal questions, or of one's own folly, or even of one's navel, although a clearer view on all of these enigmas may result. It has nothing to do with thought of any kind—with anything at all, in fact, but intuiting the true nature of existence, which is why it has appeared, in one form or another, in almost every   culture known to man. The entranced Bushman staring into fire, Eskimo using a sharp rock to draw an ever-deepening circle into the flat surface of a stone achieves the same obliteration of the ego (and the same power) as the dervish or the Pueblo sacred dancer. Among Hindus and Buddhists, realization is attained through inner stillness, usually achieved through the samadhi state of sitting yoga. In Tantric practice, the student may displace the ego by filling his whole being with the real or imagined object of his concentration; in Zen, one seeks to empty out the mind, to return it to the clear, pure stillness of a seashell or a flower petal…

“Like the round-bottomed Bodhidharma doll, returning to its centre, meditation represents the foundation of the universe to which all returns, as in the stillness of the dead of night, the stillness between tides and winds, the stillness of the instant before Creation. In this "void", this dynamic state of rest, without impediments, lies ultimate reality, and here one's own true nature is reborn, in a return from what Buddhists speak of as "great death". This is the Truth of which Milarepa speaks.”

In November 1971, before Matthiessen started his Crystal Mountain journey, he and his wife (her name is Deborah but he affectionately refers to her as D), who was suffering from cancer, attended a Zen meditation retreat in New York. In one of the meditative sessions, they both happened to sit opposite each other. Just the night before, Matthiessen had quietly perceived his wife to be dying and on that morning when they both meditated, his heart was full of compassion. He chanted the Kannon Sutra, which is dedicated to the Bodhisattva of Compassion who is known by several names, including Kanzeon, Guanyin, Avalokiteshwara and, of course, Kannon (an aside: the popular Japanese company Cannon derives its name from it.)

Matthiessen recalls, with incredible grace, what happened in that deeply-moving session during his Himalayan journey:

“Before dawn on Sunday, during morning service, D chanced upon to sit directly opposite my own place in the two long facing lines of Buddha figures—an unlikely event that I now see as no coincidence. Upset by what I had perceived the night before, by pity and concern that this day might be too much for her, I chanted the Kannon Sutra with such fury that I “lost” myself, forgot the self—a purpose of the sutra, which is chanted in Japanese, over and over, with mounting intensity. At the end, the Sangha gives a mighty shout that corresponds to OM!—this followed instantly by sudden silence, as if the universe had stopped to listen. And on that morning, in the near darkness—the altar candle was the only light in the long room—in the dead hush, like the hush in these snow mountains, the silence swelled with the intake of my breath into a Presence of vast benevolence of which I was a part: in my journal for that day, seeking in vain to find words for what had happened, I called it the “Smile”. The Smile seemed to grow out of me, filling all space above and behind like a huge shadow of my own Buddha form, which was minuscule now without weight, borne up on the upraised palm of this Buddha-Being, this eternal amplification of myself. For it was I who had smiled; the Smile was Me. I did not breathe, I did not need to look; for It was Everywhere. Nor was there terror in my awe: I felt “good”, like a “good child”, entirely safe. Wounds, ragged edges, hollow places were all gone, all had been healed; my heart lay at the heart of Creation. Then I let my breath go, and gave myself up to delighted immersion in this Presence, to a peaceful belonging so overwhelming that tears of relief poured from my eyes, so overwhelming that even now, struggling to find a better term than “Smile” or “Presence”, the memory affects me as I write. For the first time since unremembered childhood, I was not alone; there was no separate “I”.”

Peter Matthiessen died in November 2014, a little over a year after I started my own meditation practice. My only “interaction with him” has been through reading The Snow Leopard—and yet, I can see some of my own experiences reflected in the crystalline waters of many of its passages. How gladly I would have treated him “as my own Tukten” were we to meet somehow!

When Matthiessen describes nature and the birds and the streams and his own presence in their midst, he does so with an effortless mastery over words, stringing them together in a beautiful, fragrant garland:

“The ground whirls with its own energy, not in an alarming way but in slow spiral, and at these altitudes, in this vast space and silence, that energy pours through me, joining my body with the sun until small silver breaths of cold, clear air, no longer mine, are lost in the mineral breathing of the mountain. A white down feather, sun-filled, dances before me on the wind: alighting nowhere, it balances on a shining thorn, goes spinning on. Between this white feather, sheep dung, light, and the fleeting aggregate of atoms that is "I," there is no particle of difference. There is a mountain opposite, but this "I" is opposite nothing, opposed to nothing.

I grow into these mountains like a moss. I am bewitched. The blinding snow peaks and the clarion air, the sound of earth and heaven in the silence, the requiem birds, the mythic beasts, the flags, great horns, and old carved stones, the rough-hewn Tartars in their braids and homespun boots, the silver ice in the black river, the Kang, the Crystal Mountain. Also, I love the common miracles—the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the contentment of doing one thing at a time: when I take my blue tin cup into my hand, that is all I do. We have had no news of modern times since late September and will have none until December, and gradually my mind has cleared itself, and wind and sun pour through my head, as through a bell. Though we talk little here, I am never lonely: I am returned into myself.”

Matthiessen’s is one of the few books I’m sure to return to more than once—one of the few, too, I cannot recommend highly enough. There’s so much more I wanted to excerpt from the book, but I must pause now and content myself with what follows (and no, there’s no conclusion to this; only continuity):

“Near my lookout, I find a place to meditate, out of the wind, a hollow on the ridge where snow has melted. My brain soon clears in the cold mountain air, and I feel better. Wind, blowing grasses, sun: the dying grass, the notes of southbound birds in the mountain sky are no more fleeting than the rock itself, no more so and no less—all is the same. The mountain withdraws into its stillness, my body dissolves into the sunlight, tears fall that have nothing to do with “I”. What it is that brings them on, I do not know.

In other days, I understood mountains differently, seeing in them something that abides. Even when approached respectfully (to challenge peaks as mountaineers do is another matter) they appalled me with their "permanence", with that awful and irrefutable rock-ness that seemed to intensify my sense of my own transience. Perhaps this dread of transience explains our greed for the few gobbets of raw experience in modern life, why violence is libidinous, why lust devours us, why soldiers choose not to forget their days of horror: we cling to such extreme moments, in which we seem to die, yet are reborn. In sexual abandon as in danger we are impelled, however briefly, into that vital present in which we do not stand apart from life, we are life, our being fills us; in ecstasy with another being, loneliness falls away into eternity. But in other days, such union was attainable through simple awe.

My foot slips on a narrow ledge: in that split second, as needles of fear pierce heart and temples, eternity intersects with present time. Thought and action are not different, and stone, air, ice, sun, fear, and self are one. What is exhilarating is to extend this acute awareness into ordinary moments, in the moment-by-moment experiencing of the lammergeier and the wolf, which, finding themselves at the centre of things, have no need for any secret of true being. In this very breath that we take now lies the secret that all great teachers try to tell us, what one lama refers to as "the precision and openness and intelligence of the present.'' The purpose of meditation practice is not enlightenment; it is to pay attention even at unextraordinary times, to be of the present, nothing-but-the-present, to bear this mindfulness of now into each event of ordinary life. To be anywhere else is "to paint eyeballs on chaos". When I watch blue sheep, I must watch blue sheep, not be thinking about sex, danger, or the present, for this present—even while I think of it—is gone.”

Before I bid adieu, just one more thing, which rings like a divine chant throughout the book: Om Mani Padme Hum (Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus.)

Namaskar! Thank you for reading :)