Shambhala

Shambhala

Copyright © 2012 by Brian E. Miller

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress: 2012941410

ISBN: 978-0615647395

Cover and Interior Design: AuthorSupport.com

Author Website: www.BrianEMillerBooks.com

Alone and without his nest
shall the eagle fly across the sun.

~ Khalil Gibran

STRANGE HOW THE
cold freeze of death seems to warm a man in his final hour, slowing the heart, glazing the eyes, drifting the mind back to where this all began. Where did I go wrong?

Rishikesh.

Rushing down from the high glaciers, frigid waters push eternally through channels carved in mountainous rock. Funneling through this small riverside mecca—and beyond—they form the most revered waterway in all of India, the Holy River Ganga, the Great Mother.

Cool morning winds roll off distant hills and down dusty roads dotted on either side with street vendors and shop owners preparing curries and countless other offerings. They will be hawked, haggled over, and sold, perhaps, for a few
rupees
. Spiritual wares, as well—yoga sessions, meditation instruction, and religious discourses—will find buyers, mostly eager Westerners.

Some would argue that the greatest gifts of Rishikesh lie beyond the hawking of street vendors, the colorful cafes, and the flood of Western tourists drawn to the ubiquitous yoga classes. This yoga mecca’s more subtle offering is found in the surrounding hills: the soul-absorbing peace of natural piety, found through contemplation of the leaves of a tree, the torrent of a waterfall, the song of a bird, the web of a spider . . .

A small gathering exits a morning yoga class, emerging into the pale glow that radiates off the cold concrete of a building. Paul stands in tranquility as he breathes in sun-warmed air. Pushing aside a strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear, he looks over at Nicholas, who makes his way from the outside toilet.

“Great class. I really like that teacher,” Nicholas says to a silent Paul, who stands smiling into the sun. Slowly opening his eyes and tilting his head toward Nicholas, he nods in confirmation.

Nicholas begins to think that he could permanently leave behind his hectic New York City lifestyle for this simple pattern of adventure and relaxation. In fact, Nicholas and Paul want to get out of Rishikesh, to trek deep into nature for some real peace and quiet. Today’s journey will take them to a waterfall.

Paul steps out into the narrow street, still quiet in the calm of morning, and Nicholas follows. An auburn cow nibbles along the pavement, following a path of dinner scraps scattered on the side of the street. Smells of cooking fires and spices permeate the air. A rainbow of Indian saris glides along, each adorning a local woman carrying a small wicker basket. “Namaste,” they greet in passing. Hands in prayer position, Paul and Nicholas return the salutation.

Nicholas’s broad build and tightly shaven hair opposes Paul’s tall, slim body and chin length hair that sits perfectly upon his head, with a slight swoop at its ends.

“What do you say? Breakfast at the café?” Nicholas suggests to Paul, patting his belly.

“Yeah, let’s load up before we head into the jungle,” Paul agrees.

They pass a vendor popping corn on a metal-spoked two-wheeled cart. Another vendor offers small statues of
devas
, along with Indian prints adorned with sacred mantras. Nicholas’ fingers sift through the prints’ textures as he passes by.

The café is a bamboo structure overlooking the river. They sit at a low table, Indian style, atop sky blue cushions. An Indian boy approaches with pad and pencil. They order two glasses of
chai
—and two big breakfasts.

Leaning back against a bamboo pole, Paul looks out across the river. Men bathe and pray on the opposite shore, pouring metal pots of water onto their foreheads as women soak clothes for washing. Bringing his attention back into the café, he catches the eye of a young beauty just settling at the table behind Nicholas. His blue eyes fix on her greenish brown orbs. They exchange smiles.

“Looking forward to getting out of the city for a bit,” Nicholas says, breaking Paul’s gaze.

“Yeah, I love it here, but we need our nature fix, man,” Paul adds, easing back into conversation with Nicholas.

The waiter places their breakfasts down. Promptly cutting up his mushroom-and-cheese omelet, Nicholas mixes a forkful with some home-style, pan-fried potatoes and shovels down a mouthful. Paul again catches the eye of the winsome one, her blond hair falling straight, with a hint of braid complimenting her flower-girl air.

“Where are you from?” Paul asks.

An awkward silence.

Nicholas turns towards her, swallows another huge mouthful of eggs and potatoes, and blurts out, “Hey! Nicholas here.” He extends his hand.

Taken aback, but smiling at the humor of Nicolas’s intrusion, she merely touches his hand to complete the shake. “Where you from?” she asks, a hint of laughter in her voice.

“The States. New York,” Paul says entering back into the conversation. “I’m Paul,” he says, gracelessly slipping in his introduction.

“I’m Eva—from Ireland,” she responds, wearing a bashful smile. “What brings you to Rishikesh?”

“This guy’s doing some travel in India for a month, and I’m just here for a couple of weeks—hanging out,” Nicholas answers.

“We’re heading to the waterfall. You been?” Paul asks.

“No, I haven’t. Which one?”

Hesitant to answer, Paul looks at Nicholas and says, “It’s about twenty minutes down the road. I don’t know. That’s what I’ve been told.”

“Twenty minutes Indian Standard Time, which is, like, at least an hour,” Nicholas interjects with a laugh, turning sideways to relax with his back toward the river.

“Feel free to come along with us if you like,” Paul invites, crossing his fingers under the table.

“I would love to, but I am taking a yoga class in two hours. If you guys are around later, some friends and I are hanging out at the Swiss Cottage. They have really good food, and we usually hang out there for a while afterward. It’s cool. You should drop by.”

“That’s not far from Nishant, where we’re staying. We’ll swing by if we get back early enough,” Paul says, keeping externally cool, yet internally ablaze with excitement.

With the two breakfasts inhaled, Nicholas lip-syncs, “Bill please,” air-writing a check with his hand.

The owner nods.

“Well, Eva,” Paul ventures, “Maybe we’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes, for sure, come down,” she says, smiling as the two men exit the café’s back room, saying their goodbyes.

Out on the dirt road, Paul feels like a giddy schoolboy. A silly smile overcomes him, “Did you see that princess?”

“She was beautiful! Hopefully she has a friend,” Nicholas says as he chuckles, noting the connection Paul and Eva had made.

The morning chill has now dissipated. Paul stretches with joy, facing the sun and letting out a sigh of delight. They fall in with a crowd passing through a veritable tunnel of street vendors, the air alive with melodies of New Age chants, classic Indian music, and random instruments demonstrated by vendors. After a while the dissonance begins to fade—further and further as they escape further—first through a residential area, and still further, where the village begins to melt into forest and the country road to follow the curves of the river.

An Indian woman with almond eyes and a gold-stud nose ring squats, washing some steel dishes. She pulls her sari aside to keep it dry.

“May I fill?” Paul asks, holding his water bottle and pointing to the spigot that sits upon a round, blue-and-white concrete pillar.

The woman nods and smiles, finishes up her dishes, and makes her way a few feet to her home. Paul squats and fills his water bottle as Nicholas hands him his as well. Finishing up, he hands the bottles back to Nicholas to stash in the backpack. He washes his face and, with one swift movement, wets back his hair.

Onward they explore, bellies full, water abundant, spirits high. As the village fades further, only the sound of a distant temple bell resonates, announcing the vision of a few homeless Babas, draped in orange garb and sitting on the side of the street while shaking cups for
rupees
.

“Hare Om!” a copper-faced beggar greets them with a smile that pushes his aged wrinkles toward his eyes.

Not knowing if he is a genuine Baba or just a poser fishing for
rupees
, they toss him a
rupee
and move along. Paul notices a man wearing a white outfit slightly yellowed by time, white dusty sandals, and a white turban that swoops around his head, contrasting with his chocolate-brown skin. From a strap on his neck, a large red drum with silver garland and gold circles hangs to his waist. Propping himself up with a cane in one hand, with the other he taps out a haphazard beat with a wooden mallet. Drawing closer, Paul notices the man’s right eye is solid white from an apparent accident. The few teeth he does have sit in his mouth, settled deep in his gums, his oral cavity surrounded by a graying goatee and mustache. The beating grows louder as they near him and notice that something of his character is amiss. Perhaps he is possessed, perhaps insane, perhaps both . . .

The man chants as he taps, “To go alone we seek for truth, darkness abounds thee who goes alone, darkness abounds thee, beware the sleeping tree that beckons thee!”

His gaze finds Paul, and the drum beats louder as they pass. The old man continues to chant as he beats out his rhythm, “He who seeks his home is he who goes alone!”

Paul gazes back to the old, decrepit man, who still stares at him. The old man’s head bobbles like a puppet’s, as if it might snap off at any moment.

“Quite the poet, huh?” Nicholas says nervously, breaking the serious spell.

“Ha!” Paul laughs audibly as they round a bend and the road opens to a vista more desolate than before.

Still haunted by the spell, Paul eases his confused, furrowed brow, “His English was impeccable. Strange.”

“This country truly has some of the oddest things I have ever seen,” Nicholas adds. They both laugh.

They come to an opening in the shrubbery on the roadside. It leads down to the sand and rocks lining the river.

“Let’s walk along the river a bit, then we can cut back up to the other side a little further down,” Paul suggests.

“Yeah? Let’s do it!” says Nicholas, up for anything and just happy to be in India.

They resolve to take a dip in the glacier-cold waters to cool off and cleanse their spirits in the Holy Mother Ganga. The river is said to hold great energy, has been prayed to daily and nightly for thousands of years. Reaching its shore, they stop and take in its beauty, calm in some spots, with pockets of rapids that could easily pull one under or whisk one away into a maze of rocks downstream.

Filled with joy and excitement, they feel their hearts grow giddy. They climb huge boulders eroded by monsoon waters, leaping from boulder to boulder, startling lizards, exotic birds, and butterflies. There are pocket stones here of all sizes, shapes, and colors—stones of such beauty that Paul and Nicholas wish they had endless pockets to bring them home and share with others.

Feeling reverence for the beauty of it all, they explore further. When they find an open, shaded and sandy area, Nicholas removes his pack and sits down to rest. Removing his shoes, he thinks of how this spot would be perfect for yoga. He lies back on the sand and gazes up at clear blue.

Paul continues to poke around a bit, finding his way up a hill made of loose rocks that have settled on the slope. Noticing a little bird, silky black with a perfect white stripe on the top of its head and a dark-orange tail, Paul approaches slowly to get a better look. The bird pops its tail up and down, almost taunting Paul with its beauty. Carefully climbing the rocks, Paul reaches the top, and the bird flies off, swooping down and then settling on a boulder in the middle of the shallows of the river far below. Looking around, Paul feels as though the bird has led him up here. He observes the unique little world on the small, rocky, hilltop plateau.

Removing his shirt and wrapping it around his head like a turban, he sees a makeshift opening in the rock wall. The hollow opens under the shade of a tree.
It seems as though someone may live here
, he thinks. He sees the mouth of a small cave plastered over with brick and concrete and painted a bright orange. A small picture of Lord Shiva sits next to a carved
lingam
, a rounded, phallic stone Paul remembers having read about. It symbolizes many things, including abundance, fertility, and divine union of male and female. The rounded stone sits carved in a
yoni
, representing the female. The two conjoined forms venerate Shiva and Shakti, the divine male and female, their union symbolizing infinite endlessness.

Realizing this is a place of worship, Paul notices something written in Hindi, and above it, in broken English: “Who are you? I am that person when you have forgotten me you look to your peeping in self soul/spirit you will find there all that. Can you please give me all your troubled pain? I give to you pleasureful of human life.”

Paul pokes his head in to check for any unsuspecting creatures. Spiders the size of fists are not uncommon here, but he decides to enter, finding an area that would hold two people sitting. The cave is about three and a half feet high and looks out over the rushing rapids of the river. A burlap bag on the floor, for sitting, and a light cotton shawl, folded up, create the perfect meditation spot.