Jeff Greenwald is the author of five bestselling books, including Shopping for Buddhas and The Size of the World. His writing has appeared in many print and online publications including The New York Times Magazine, National Geographic Adventure, Wired, Tricycle, and Salon. He lives in Oakland, California.
When a Nepali mentions a naga, he or she isn’t referring to a garden snake. The classic naga, a snake god, is the hooded cobra: the Arnold Schwarzenegger of the serpent world.
Nagas pop up everywhere in Hindu and Buddhist lore, savvy brokers between the spiritual and elemental worlds. Lord Vishnu, the great preserver of the Hindu trinity, dozes on the infinite coils of Ananta, a serpent-cumcouch, for eight months of the year (during the remaining four, he extricates humanity from its deadlier dilemmas). Shiva, the potent creator/destroyer, source of the Ganges, wears live cobras in his hair. Nagas are the wardens of the monsoon rains, and safeguard the Earth’s trove of diamonds, jewels, and underground treasures. And it was Muchilinda Naga, a seven-hooded cobra, who sheltered the Buddha from the sun and rain during his seven weeks of meditation on the banks of the Anoma River.
Nowhere is the Asian respect for serpents more evident than in tantra. In these “secret teachings,” snakes symbolize the deepest source of spiritual power. The kundalini lies coiled at our lowest psychic center: the root chakra, located between our legs at the base of our spine. Through specific meditations and practices – like measured breathing, sexual yoga, and the recitation of mantras – we invite that snake to dance. It climbs the spine, electrifying the six internal chakras. It reaches the ajna chakra, right between the eyes, then rises higher still, penetrating the cranium. There it illuminates the sahasrara chakra, the Lotus of a Thousand Petals, which hovers like a gnat above our skulls. When your kundalini hits that point, you know you’ve arrived. You embrace, with a single glance, all the manifestations of existence.
Once again, you’ve taken a bite of that big, juicy apple. And again, you have a snake to thank for it.
*
And what about Jordan? Maybe all he needed was a good snake dance: something to revitalize his long-dormant kundalini. I’d be home in less than a week – but I wondered if I might somehow convey, through telepathic alchemy, a real-time blessing from the Earth itself.
Ramana lay on a blanket inside the brick shed beside the shrine house, dozing beside his flea-ridden mongrel. I put my hand on the caretaker’s shoulder and shook him gently. The dog growled, but hardly stirred. The shrine-keeper rose reluctantly.
“Ramana... Malai naga puja garna manlaagchha.”
He looked at me quizzically. What need had a Westerner for a snake puja? Aside from their mythic role in the monsoon, nagas were petitioned when ground was broken for a well, or a house, or when any new construction was about to begin. The offering was essentially a protection payoff, in hopes the local snakes would steer clear of the enterprise. Nonetheless Ramana nodded at my request, and ducked into the tiny brick building. A moment later he emerged, handing me a small brass flask filled with buffalo milk. He topped the rim with a nasturtium, muttering a brief prayer. I handed him a 20-rupee note and returned to my bench.
The mist was beginning to break. Shafts of light shot through the branches of a nearby eucalyptus tree and stenciled the green water. I couldn’t see more than a foot down. How deep was this pool, anyway? What, or who, lived at the bottom?
Did I really want to know? It was a disturbing thought. As I peered over the pond’s edge, I understood something. There is more to this snake thing than the idea of transformation. Snakes have another quality, as well: They abide in the depths. Black water is their domain, and we summon them out at our peril.
So what was Nag Pokhari, then? It wasn’t the pathetic pool in front of me, covered with scum and algae. It wasn’t the cartoon cobra with a goofy expression and forked tongue, peering archly from its capital. It wasn’t the clogged jets ejaculating lamely from the reservoir’s corners. It wasn’t the benches, or the lotus, or the little temple by the entrance gate. It wasn’t even the snakes themselves, assuming that any still lived here.
This domain of the nagas, this Snake Lake, was nothing less than a double-edged allegory for everything ecstatic and horrific about the prospect of liberation. The nagas and their domain are mythic metaphors, warning buoys on the unexplored waters of our psyches. Lacking sufficient wisdom, or the proper training, we plumb these depths with fear and awe: The transition from bondage to freedom, no matter how one approaches it, has a terrifying aspect. We are suddenly responsible for ourselves.
Our best shot, our only shot at liberation, lies within the liquid mystery of our own bodies. It’s lurking in our depths, dozing in the silt, slithering between the smooth black fingers of the lotus roots, coiled between our legs. Until we plunge in, with a torch in one hand and a flute in the other, we’ll never charm it awake.
Ramana watched with amusement as, with a halting prayer, I poured the offering onto the algae-rimed surface of Snake Lake.