XII
The ‘I’ that floats along the wave of time,
From a distance I watch him.
Rabindranath Tagore
THE SUN HAD yet to rise above the distant snow-topped crests, and yet a molten sky already promised a new day’s advent.
I had been woken by crows to find myself curled beneath a pile of woollen blankets and that an entire night had passed. I stirred to rub my chill-nipped nose and uncovered, wrapped around me, the warm, protective water bottle of my cousin.
I began to slip from Samuel’s hold, but discovered myself trembling. Nor was this an ordinary shiver, but a tremor centred deep within my bones, as though the fluid membranes of my frame were now vigorously pulsating.
I fought to sit and steady my head, to reconstruct the past twelve hours. And yet however deeply I inhaled a quickening of mountain air, however wide I opened my eyes to the day’s fast brightening, my memory remained muffled.
I had no language for what had happened on the jhankri’s hillside that previous dusk, no words for the unfathomable commotion that had exploded in my every cell and synapse.
With effort, I seemed to recall a confluence of chant and drums, a pungency of smoke and oil. An abstract recollection of a firestorm in my belly, a glacier in the hollows of my chest. A paralysis of relentless spasm.
And then the deep concentric ripples of that ultimate libation.
I clenched my eyes, as though shutting out the rising light might assist my memory. I observed myself and, beyond the unruly quiver of my frame, sensed a change – yet was still unable to define the feeling in my core that was neither fear nor ferment.
It occurred to me to question how I had allowed myself to accept the invitation of this stranger so readily. I was neither particularly courageous nor foolhardy, and yet had willingly handed both mind and body to him with, what in retrospect seemed, outrageous ease.
So what now? Embarrassment at my bold baring? Run away to report this little man? If so, then for what exactly? An unwarranted familiarity in which I had irrationally colluded? A rite that had inexplicably resulted in the offering of my very own nectar of the crescent moon?
A sudden snore distracted the spate of panic in my chest. I turned to tuck blankets tight about Samuel’s chin and smiled at the reflexive, closed-eyed grin of gratitude he offered in return – even as I again questioned whether my cheery cousin had been companion or accomplice in my delivery to this isolated temple.
‘Brother,’ a voice intruded, ‘the wisdom of our Tradition is found in the essence of all life, bound into the very structure of soil and leaf, skin and stars.’
I had been so distracted by the oscillation of my atoms that I had not seen him, the man of whom I yet knew nothing beyond his manifest humanity. Kushal Magar had been tending to a steadily reviving fire, but now approached to press into my trembling hands a beaker of milky ginger tea. This, he indicated with his eyebrows, I should start sipping straight away despite its heat.
‘And how do you think our forefathers and mothers first learnt to perceive this knowledge that lay embedded as much in themselves as in the cosmos through which we spin?’ he asked, sitting down beside me bearing a steaming beaker of his own.
I blew across the surface of the tea, shook my head in answer to his question and eyed him with new scrutiny as I took a tentative sip.
‘From the gurubuwa,’ he replied. ‘The respected parent-teacher who is still here in the forest, in the valleys, on the mountain-tops. And a little in the tea that you are drinking.’
I peered with alarm into the sweet pale liquid, then looked back at the man against whom, despite the inscrutable ritual he had effected upon me the previous night, I could still not rouse suspicion.
‘Gurubuwa are not people, brother,’ he assured me. ‘They are our teaching plants – monkshood, henbane and cannabis, cobra lily, saal and datura – each with its own specific purpose and benefit. Even the tree called jhankri we use to deepen sleep. All natural means employed by prudent teachers to help the student gain a clearer insight into his true nature – and thereby the nature of the universe.’
I studied the jhankri’s bright and steady eyes, around which fans of lines bore witness to his years of carefree smiles. His pale brown cheeks bore the rosy hue afforded by clean mountain air, his mouth the easy calm of honest words. For all I could not understand or yet explain, I knew I liked and trusted this man.
Samuel stirred, drawing himself up to sit in readiness for the hot beaker that was instantly set between his palms.
‘You all right, dajoo?’ he asked
I did not know how to respond. I had just been told I had been drugged.
‘Of course, our gurubuwa plants are only ever applied with defined purpose by a wise teacher to enable a student to overcome the fears that restrain him,’ Kushal Magar impressed again. ‘So that the “masculine” mind-set of logic and limitation might be loosened, and thereby perception heightened.’
‘Is that what I experienced last night?’ I asked hoarsely, still struggling to draw together the elusive memories of my initiation. ‘The loosening of logic and limitation?’
‘You will soon come to learn that the rites of our Tradition have at their heart the dismantling of conditioning and ordinary references,’ he replied, ‘in order to reveal the truth within.’
I nodded, as though I understood.
And yet, as I felt again the trembling of my limbs and viscera, I still wondered what I had undergone and to what purpose.
Unless the four Aims of Life are known, man performs his actions blindly, and thus keeps walking in the darkness of his own ignorance.
Tripura Rahasya
I HAD BEEN asleep again. When I woke, Kushal Magar was washing rice. Samuel was snapping sticks for kindling.
Even though midday had already passed, they both insisted that I rest. On no account was I to undertake a single chore. Not even to help pick grit and beetles from the lentils scattered across a broad woven tray. Instead, I watched them both at their work and sifted through the muddled memories I was still struggling to assemble.
‘Aims of Life!’ The eddies in my head were only now beginning to disperse. ‘Jhankri-dajoo, in the list of requirements for a suitable student didn’t you mention four Aims of Life?’
‘The Purushartha, as we call them – literally, “that which is beneficial to humankind”,’ Kushal Magar replied as he rinsed pale pink grains in cloudy water. ‘The practical principles our culture long ago determined to be the most effective means by which to gain self-knowledge, find fulfilment, and establish both personal and social stability. The most effective path to wisdom.’
‘But what do you mean by wisdom?’
‘A suppleness of disposition that enables us to apply whatever knowledge we may have – especially self-knowledge – to the greatest benefit. For us, this means restoring and then maintaining balance in ourselves, our society and thereby the wider world.’
He let me consider his words as he squeezed the rice in his fists, spreading it out to dry in the sunshine. He indicated for Samuel to stoke the fire in readiness for cooking pots, then settled down before me.
‘You see, brother, when the four Purushartha are attended to step-by-step over a lifetime, they lead to what we term the “steady sunrise of understanding” – which some prefer to call enlightenment.’
‘A lifetime?’ I exclaimed with an impatient flush.
Kushal Magar placed his right hand to his heart, then leant forwards to touch mine.
‘There is no wisdom to be found in hurry or short cuts. Only broken promises, stomach ache and nose bleeds.’
This was one lesson I wished I might have learnt years ago.
‘So, brother, are you ready to begin?’ he asked, drawing himself up a little taller.
I looked into his eyes and nodded. Then closed mine to better hear his meaning.
XIV
It is only by attendance to Dharma that both men and Man may flourish.
Mountain saying
‘OUR FIRST AIM of Life is Dharma,’ Kushal Magar began. ‘Expansion of consciousness through the fulfilment of moral duty. It is symbolised by the image of Shiva’s bull – Nandi, the Happy One – for he embodies the balance of nature, the order of the universe.’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ve already lost me,’ I admitted, having to disrupt my focus and open my eyes again. ‘What do you mean by moral duty?’
‘Well, consider true morality to be an innate sense of what maintains or restores balance in ourselves and the world around us – and what does not,’ he replied. ‘In essence, it is to choose to think, say and do nothing to the detriment of ourselves or others. And then to become actively engaged by living and loving fully, fearlessly, wisely, that we might all do our part to resolve conflict and ease our own and others’ suffering.’
This notion of a morality that was not based on precepts that claimed an absolute unconditional value was deeply appealing. The Tradition, then, had no Surah Al-Ana’m to define an irrevocable Koranic moral code. No authoritative Levitical Law to enforce someone else’s notion of ‘righteous living’, with its preponderance of proscriptive ‘Thou Shalt Nots’ and the ever-attendant menace of heavenly reckoning.
‘Compulsory “morality”, in contrast, imposes laws that eliminate personal responsibility,’ he asserted. ‘Random rules of religion that result in a juvenile sense of “morality” derived from the fear of punishment and the hope of reward. An individual is thereby moulded who follows rules without ever needing to develop personal ethical maturity. An individual who will for ever act “morally” for little more than their own self-interest, in the distorted belief that the love of their particular parental deity is entirely conditional upon their “good” behaviour.’
I winced. He was talking about me.
‘The Tradition therefore does not recognise morality to be a code of law that imposes someone else’s idea of right and wrong. Not prescriptive man-made “virtues” dependent upon the customs of a particular culture at any one moment in its history.’
‘Then if not obedience to a set of rules, of prescriptions and prohibitions,’ I pressed, ‘what is the “moral duty” of Dharma?’
‘You tell me.’ Kushal Magar smiled, with an unwavering gaze. ‘What do you consider your moral duties to be?’
I looked back at him in silence.
And felt my cheeks begin to flush with the realisation that I could think of nothing honest to offer in reply.
XV
The greatest self-respect of all is to allow yourself true happiness.
Mountain saying
THE RICE AND lentils were simmering in their pots when Samuel settled back down to join us. He had said uncharacteristically little since our arrival on this hillside the previous afternoon, and yet had never once allowed his attention on me to falter.
I now turned to him in the hope that he might say something, anything, to fill the embarrassment of my silence. Instead, he simply rubbed a mark from my cheek with an affectionately wetted thumb and blinked back at me as though in equal expectation of an answer.
I decided the jhankri’s questions were just too hard, for they were asked as though I might have actually paused to consider seriously the life I led. As though, being physically fully grown, I might have actually taken the time to examine my motivation, the purpose and impact of my thoughts and actions.
It was only now in sitting here with him that I could begin to see that, in truth, both I and my life were mindlessly, pointlessly adrift. How, then, could he think I was suited for this mountain Tradition? For who was I but yet another Westerner with a backpack, disillusioned – or perhaps just bored – by the self-indulgent life from which I had walked away, and to which I would inevitably return?
‘What if I tell you that your first moral duty is to yourself?’ the jhankri intervened. ‘A moral duty to do, say and think nothing to your detriment? To determine your true nature and then to live fully – and happily – in accordance with it?’
I looked towards the mountains, feeling suddenly exposed. Just who was this man, I wondered, who with such apparent ease could catch me at my thoughts and challenge them?
‘Brother,’ he said, so tenderly that I turned back to look at him, ‘self-respect – mindfully attending to the way in which we value ourselves – affords the balance that enables both the individual and the society in which they live to flourish.’
I wanted to believe this could be true, yet was surprised to be confronted by my own, previously unrecognised, pessimism. Was such a Utopian ideal possible beyond the simplicity of the tribal culture in which his people so evidently flourished? Could such a seemingly radical paradigm ever be applied in my own fragmented, materialistic, frivolous society?
‘This moral duty to ourselves includes the choice no longer to live life through an endless round of habit. No longer to live through merely learnt reactions to external stimuli – year upon year of the same beliefs about ourselves and the world through which we move. For such a life, brother, is nothing but repetitive self-limitation.’
I considered his statement with rising unease. Had I ever had a single, truly original thought or insight that I could claim to be my own? Was there any idea that I had not inherited from my parents, teachers, Church, books or television? Had I ever had one notion that pressed beyond the mindless norms to which I unquestioningly adhered?
‘But isn’t this tendency to habit – this “self-limitation”, as you call it – a fundamental attribute of humankind?’ I contested.
‘Habit is a defensive response to what we perceive to be an unpredictable, even potentially dangerous, world. The problem is that we tend passively to accept our particular familial, social and cultural customs as unquestionable truths. We end up living our entire lives through them, without ever stopping to examine their benefit or purpose – even when they diminish us or others.’
Was it really possible that I merely experienced the world and myself through the same endless round of thoughts, beliefs and emotional responses that had been imprinted on me in childhood and adolescence?
‘We all do it, brother,’ he offered in what seemed like consolation, ‘living in a universe of infinite possibilities, yet repeating the same unproductive, even detrimental, choices. Only ever accepting as “true” that which fits our ordinary custom. Becoming so entrenched in habit that we grow stagnant, lonely, disillusioned, depressed or even sick – until we cannot even remember how our true adaptability and joyfulness once felt.’
‘But this is me!’ I burst out with unintended fervour.
‘And so I offer you the Tradition’ – he smiled – ‘for its principal purpose is to free us from the rigidity of repetitive thought and action by which we limit ourselves. So that we might live according to our true nature which, like the physical universe from which we are inseparable, is in essence rational and harmonious, abundant and joyful.’
I may have been raised to accept mindlessly Judaeo-Christian concepts of talking snakes and giant-killing shepherd boys, a city destroyed by a spirited brass section and corpses rising from the dead – but who had ever talked to me of self-limitation or my true nature?
I turned to look back out across the valley towards the mountains.
And felt myself submerging beneath ideas so unfamiliar they left me breathless.
XVI
All the joy of this world derives from the wish for another’s joy.
Bodhicaryavatara
‘AS OUR FIRST Aim of Life,’ Kushal Magar continued, ‘Dharma next teaches that after mindfully attending to our own well-being, we direct our attention to the care of those for whom we are responsible. Such a duty includes neither doing, nor saying, nor thinking anything to their detriment. And to whom do you consider we have our primary responsibility?’
‘Those we love?’ I answered instinctively. ‘Not such a difficult duty to undertake.’
‘Why would it be any easier than your primary duty? For if you cannot first nurture yourself, how effective and authentic do you really think your “selfless” attention will be to others?’
I looked back at him – and found that, once again, I had no reply.
‘Dharma, then, encourages us to learn to attend to the well-being of our inherited, adopted or chosen families. To honour those who raised us, expressing no arrogance or anger in their presence. To cherish and protect those with whom we share our life. And, of course, never to quarrel.’
Even as he spoke the words, I felt the cold, hard rent of regret.
‘Dharma guides us to educate our children – and if we have none, to educate another’s. And then to support our friends, those whom we employ and those with whom we work.’
I nodded. I liked this practicality.
‘The moral duty of Dharma also includes honouring our teachers, such as our grandparents, mother and father, children, friends. The fields and forest, the weather, crows.’
I raised my eyebrows.
Kushal Magar tipped his head and chuckled. ‘Yes, brother, these mountains, their skies and forests, insects and animals are all part of my daily education.’
He paused for me to consider the almost romantic mystery of his words before continuing.
‘After our teachers, comes moral duty to our pitrs – our ancestors – from whom we inherit our genetic and cultural heritage. It is one reason we place so much importance on our family ties and, of course, nurturing the next generation.’
This honouring of ancestors had been evident throughout my journey across India, both in the garlanding of photographs of deceased relations in homes and shops, and in the annual pitri-puja rituals in which some of my own relations devotedly participated. Our relatively recent Western pastime of genealogical research seemed elementary in its fervid acquisition of names and dates when compared with the depth of respect here afforded forebears as a natural part of the daily round. In fact, it might be said that our loss of knowledge of our ancestors had contributed to modern generations not only with a diminished sense of familial responsibility, respect or gratitude, but with little sense of place in the cycle of life, or of the individual simply being but one, fleeting expression of an infinite continuum.
As for nurturing the next generation, I had been struck by the way in which children in these hills were valued and doted upon, both by their families and their community. Children were passed from knee to knee between strangers on public transport, cooed over and dandled with indulgence. Children were massaged by their mothers with vigorous affection, whilst fathers tended them with a natural inclination to nurture. Where my culture could too often treat both the elderly and children as a necessary nuisance, here both were regarded as a cherished blessing.
‘This duty to our ancestors is, in effect, another level of responsibility to ourselves,’ Kushal Magar revealed. ‘For here we consider each of us to be an embodiment – a summary, if you like – of the past seven generations. We inherit their experience, which we have a duty to make conscious and then, where necessary, resolve – thereby ensuring it is not expressed in our own lives as imbalances of unreasonable emotion, obsessive compulsion or disease.’
I was astonished that such an insight should have arisen among a people with no science, as we would judge it, of genetic inheritance. Nor with knowledge of the mechanics of epigenetics, by which the chemical impact of ancestral experience remains attached to our own DNA, apparently bequeathing us both psychological and behavioural tendencies.
‘Dharma next guides us to fulfil our moral duty to those beyond our immediate circle. This we do by showing benevolence to one and all, without judgement or condition. You may have noticed that one way we express this generosity of heart is by extending hospitality to any guest, even if a stranger.’
I pressed my shoulder into Samuel in recognition of the remarkable kindness I had been shown since my arrival.
‘So do you see?’ Kushal Magar asked. ‘Dharma is a way of living not just for personal gain, but to restore balance, the natural harmony, where it has been lost, whether in yourself, your family or your society – and, thereby, in the wider world.’
I looked towards the mountains again and smiled.
The late afternoon sun had illuminated their peaks to such brilliance that it seemed I might have pressed my face through the rent of some celestial veil and was now staring into paradise.
XVII
Abundance is found not in what we have, but how we love.
Bindra
SAMUEL WAS VIGOROUSLY scrubbing karai pans and metal thaliya plates with dry earth when Kushal Magar indicated to me that it was time for the second Purushartha.
‘Are you ready?’
I pulled my shawl close under my chin, a blanket around my legs, and nodded.
‘Our second Aim of Life is Artha,’ he began. ‘Expansion of consciousness through the fulfilment of social responsibility. In our hills, Artha is represented by Kubera, our symbol of the Earth’s abundance and hidden treasure – the greatest of which, of course, is self-knowledge.’
‘The fulfilment of social responsibility,’ I repeated for my own benefit.
‘Artha requires that we prosper in our material endeavours, within the requirements of Dharma,’ he explained. ‘This means diligently and honourably earning the means by which to support ourselves and provide for those for whom we are responsible. In this way, Artha not only ensures that we function effectively and usefully in the world, but that we maintain a balanced society in which all mankind, even the least able, can flourish according to their own innately rational and harmonious natures.’
I was still puzzled by his insistence that mankind is inherently rational and harmonious by disposition when the sweep of human history was a tireless legacy of cruelty, conflict, greed, violence and self-destruction.
‘The word artha literally means “to take up one’s work”, or “to go about one’s business”,’ he continued, unperturbed by my inadvertent scowl, ‘yet it derives from the root ri – “to gain”, “know”, “enjoy”.’
‘We also use artha in Nepali to mean “purpose” and “meaning”,’ added Samuel, who had turned to rinsing plates and pans in a wooden pail of water.
‘However, it is important to understand that Artha does not merely refer to monetary reward,’ Kushal Magar emphasised. ‘You see, Artha also refers to the acquisition of knowledge and friendships, for both are priceless treasures. We must have – and ensure that others have – all that is needed to be able to fulfil our first Aim of Life.’
‘It’s hard to grasp how the drudgery of working in an office or a factory to pay the bills bears any relation to an “enlightening” path,’ I admitted.
‘But only until you realise that there is no sacred or profane. No spiritual or sensual. No divine or mundane. These are simply subjective, culturally dictated notions that do not accurately reflect the reality of existence. Worldly achievements are not separate from any so-called “spiritual” accomplishments.’
‘Then I could say that I come from a culture driven by Artha!’ I protested. ‘Except that in our obsessive pursuit of “material endeavours” as you call them, we are disconnecting from ourselves and each other, whilst systematically destroying the planet!’
‘But this is not Artha,’ he declared, ‘for this Aim of Life is not the pursuit of material wealth for personal gain. Nor is it in conflict with Dharma – the principle of thinking, saying and doing nothing to the detriment of yourself or others. Rather, the purpose of Artha is that all aspects of your life should flourish. That all your life should be abundant. Do you see?’
I nodded cautiously.
‘Then engage in Artha as a means by which to express all that you are capable of expressing, in every area of your life,’ he directed. ‘Through your relationships and education. Your work and recreation. Your loving and passion. And through the dynamic fulfilment of every one of the Purushartha. For it is this that is our true tantric sadhana.’
‘I’ll try, jhankri-dajoo,’ I replied, when in truth I struggled to believe that such an abundant life could ever possibly be available to me.
An intelligent and perceptive person, attending to Dharma, Artha and also to Kama, without becoming the slave of his passions, will obtain success in everything that he may do.
Kama Sutra
KUSHAL MAGAR AND I sat in silence.
Another chilly night had passed, yet still we were wrapped in heavy shawls and blankets. Together we sipped the day’s first brew of tea, and watched for another dawn to break its beams above summits looming in silhouette.
Samuel was attending to a call of nature beyond the jhankri’s vegetable patch, behind the maize ears drying on their bamboo poles, whilst my head was reeling with questions and conflicts provoked by the previous day’s teaching, none of which I yet felt able to voice.
I raised my face towards a sudden warmth of sunlight and strained to listen to the tune of an unseen goatherd far below in the river valley.
‘Ready for our third Purushartha?’ the jhankri asked.
I turned and nodded in reply.
‘Then to Kama: expansion of consciousness through the fulfilment of sensual pleasure. This we represent by Kama himself, our symbolic god of love and bringer of joys, embodiment of the profound affections, passions and pleasures that afford life its meaning.’
Unthinkingly, I raised my eyebrows. This was perhaps the most surprising of the Aims of Life for one reared in a culture that, for all its profligate decadence, still deemed sensual pleasure the antithesis of any ‘spiritual’ development.
‘The Tradition encourages us to embrace, heighten and explore our senses mindfully,’ he explained ‘for only then are we truly able to engage with ourselves, the world and each other. In this way, the fulfilment of Kama transforms our experience of life, for there is joyful, sensual pleasure to be found in even our most humdrum responsibilities.’
I considered the potential for ‘joyful, sensual pleasure’ in the mundanities of domestic life back home – of sorting laundry, vacuuming the carpet, choosing supermarket cheese – and felt dismayed.
‘Humankind is remarkably adaptable,’ he continued. ‘An essential quality for our survival, but one that also desensitises us to such a degree that we regard a truly extraordinary world as quite ordinary. It robs us of the wonder to be found in every moment, in every raindrop that falls upon our faces, in every sunrise seen, in every voice heard, in every person met.’
I knew this all too well. Whether shoes, music or holiday destinations, the new always seemed brighter and more exciting – but only until their inevitable absorption into our benumbed ‘normal’. Why else did we forever buy new clothes and curtains, change the kitchen cupboards, seek out new lovers and carelessly lose old friends?
And it was undoubtedly the unhappy truth, as others have observed, that if the stars appeared but once in every century, the world would await that rare dusk wide-eyed, ready to celebrate our shared awe. But when those same wondrous, myriad constellations nightly scatter their pinprick lustre across the sky, we choose instead to stay indoors – and watch the television.
‘Consider that if, for example, you are someone who has the privilege of eating an apple every day, yet take a bite without attention, without attendance to Kama, your eyes will no longer thrill at the vibrant subtleties of its colouring. Your lips will no longer feel the polish of its skin. Your tongue will no longer taste the quickening acidity of its sweetness.’
I nodded, for I could recall the time I tasted my first peach. It was a summer’s day and I, a four-year-old, was sitting beneath the tree that bombed our garden with its fruits. I could still remember my childish doubt that this soft, warm globe, so delicate in colour and furry to the touch, could possibly be edible. And then the mustered courage of that first bite – the fleecy skin against my palate, the luscious flush of flesh within the mouth. It was exquisite. And yet, in its subsequent familiarity no other bite had stayed in my memory as had the heady fragrance of that first pleasure.
What other abundant daily delights, then, did I no longer notice? How much of my life had already passed me by unseen, unfelt, unknown?
‘Kama, then, encourages us to pay attention to all pleasures accessible to our senses,’ Kushal Magar stated. ‘Through sight, taste, sound, smell and touch. Through art, music, dance and food. Through play, work, sadhana, love and breath. Through family and friends. Through attending to the well-being, and thereby the happiness, of others. For when every act in life is undertaken in order to find its inherent pleasure, there is Kama to be fulfilled in every minute of every day.’
As though my eyes were newly opened, I could now see the fundamental ways in which this third Aim of Life was embraced in practice among these mountain people. Kama was fulfilled in their fearless gaze and touch, their unabashed affection and tireless generosity of heart and table. And as the recipient of such repeated benevolence, I had felt myself protected, cared for, nurtured, at ease with them and with myself.
‘But, jhankri-dajoo,’ I said, ‘just as Artha could be interpreted as a sanction for excessive, even destructive, materialism, couldn’t Kama be taken as licence for intemperate abandon?’
‘Except that Kama refers not to selfish desire, but to pleasures that do not diminish the quality of your consciousness. For example, whilst the Tradition does not prohibit intoxicants, such as alcohol, we would not use them to such an extent as to undermine the quality of our consciousness. The same applies to food, our gurubuwa teaching plants and sexual play. For Kama is pleasure in accordance with Dharma and Artha, its underlying principle being that only a happy, healthy, gratified body–mind can be effective in achieving the other Aims of Life.’
‘May I?’ Samuel asked as he returned to sit beside me. ‘It’s just that in the Mahabharata, our great epic, Prince Arjuna and his brothers discuss which of the Purushartha is the most important. Strongman Bhima concludes it is Kama, for without the reward of pleasure a man does not strive to do his moral duty: Dharma. He does not attain earthly profit with integrity: Artha. Nor does he strive to see and live according to the “bigger picture”, which I know is Moksha.’
I looked at Samuel with surprise. He had never before revealed himself conversant with the classical texts.
‘Bhima’s reasoning is that without Kama, a man does not love,’ my cousin declared, ‘therefore Kama stands above all others!’
‘This is wisdom, bhai.’ Kushal Magar smiled. ‘For Kama is indeed the essential, eternal pleasure that brightens both the light within and light without.’
Liberation is not attained in any other way except by severing the knot of ignorance – and this by the expansion of consciousness.
Tantraloka
SAMUEL HAD TWO guavas in his knapsack, carried from his parents’ garden. He cut into the fruit with his penknife and presented the pale, solid slices to the jhankri.
‘Dajoo,’ Samuel said, offering the fruit to me, ‘we must soon begin our journey if we are to reach home by nightfall.’
His sudden talk of home startled me. I had quite forgotten that I had another life to which I was expected to return. I felt no inclination to leave this hillside or these temple steps, this crow-spun sky or the smiling man with eyes as bright as sunlit snow.
‘Then, jhankri-dajoo,’ I appealed with sudden urgency, ‘I need to know the last Aim of Life before we leave!’
‘An eager student is a gift.’ Kushal Magar smiled. ‘Mine in return is to share the wisdom of these mountains with one who is both willing and sincere.’
He paused to touch his heart again as though, I suddenly thought, to remind me to keep mine open.
‘The Tradition begins with the Purushartha to guide us to embrace every aspect of daily life without reservation, whilst affording it purpose and meaning,’ he began. ‘So each Aim encourages us to continue in our usual business. Dharma: doing our duty to ourselves and to those for whom we are responsible. Artha: doing our part to sustain a stable society in which all may flourish according to their own nature. And Kama: exploring the pleasure inherent in every moment, in every breath. The Purushartha, therefore, teach us to remain fully active in the world, and yet not to be enslaved by it. It is in this that the fourth Aim of Life plays its part.’
He paused to slip another slice of guava into his mouth and watched my eyes as I struggled with impatience as he slowly chewed.
‘And so to Moksha,’ he announced with one last swallow, ‘the word we use for the end of an eclipse, when darkness lifts and sun or moon are once again restored to their full brilliance. This we symbolise by Shiva himself, our culture’s symbol of all that is benevolent and the truth that is a way of being.’
‘But what does Moksha mean?’ I asked impatiently.
‘The expansion of consciousness – self-knowledge, personal order, if you like – by learning to perceive the essential connection that underlies what might initially appear to be difference and separation. This is so that we might develop greater empathy, inspiring in us effective, dynamic compassion, rendering us of greater benefit both to ourselves and to others, in order that we might always think, speak and act out of goodwill, with a generous heart, rather than merely for our own profit.’
Another piece of guava. Again he watched my eyes. Again he slowly chewed.
‘But if the Purushartha are so practical, how do I “do” Moksha?’ I pressed, wanting a plan of action with boxes to tick and targets to reach before I had to leave.
‘Brother, Moksha does not describe a freedom that is to be “done”,’ he insisted, fingering another slice of fruit, as though to goad my eagerness. ‘Each of the Purushartha is interdependent, and Moksha is discovered over a lifetime through the mindful fulfilment of the previous three, as we learn to choose to release our attachment to old, unhelpful patterns. As we learn to free ourselves from the rigid confines of self-interest, and thereby from our self-inflicted suffering. As we come to understand that every aspect of our lives plays its part in the balance of the universe – both our concord and our conflict, our kindness and our cruelty, our compassion and our indifference. All light, all darkness. All beauty, all suffering. All joy, all pain. All life, all death.’
I was bewildered. This was not what I had been brought up to believe. Surely, kindness and beauty: right. Conflict and suffering: wrong. Surely, joy and life: good. Pain and death: bad.
‘You see, brother, it is only as we learn to find our own resolution to these apparent contradictions, as much in ourselves as in life, that Moksha arises – the realisation that we already have all we need to be complete, to be all that we can be.’
I returned the intensity of his gaze.
And wondered whether he could even begin to perceive the squall that assailed my heart and mind.
XX
Keepers of the Tradition are not known by ‘holy’ show or dress, but by unconditional affection, respect, and honest love.
Kushal Magar
SAMUEL SCOOPED TWO boiled eggs from the pot and dropped them into a bucket of cold rainwater. Kushal Magar had insisted we take them from his chickens as sustenance on our long journey back towards the town. He had also presented us with a large papaya and a bunch of ‘honey bananas’ donated to him by a villager in gratitude for restorative ministrations.
‘So what do I do now?’ I asked, unsettled by the need to leave so soon. I was well aware my permit to remain in the mountain district was about to expire and could not be renewed, yet I was not ready. ‘I still have questions – many questions! And I don’t even know if I can remember half you’ve told me!’
‘The passage of our lives is directed by our questions – so all is well,’ he said, smiling. ‘And what more do you think you need? You have an understanding of both bhavana’s mindful intention and the Purushartha Aims of Life.’
‘But you said they’re only the beginning!’ I protested.
‘Which is the perfect place to start – and very often exactly to where we ultimately return. So consider the purpose of your thoughts, words and actions. Attend to the four Aims of Life. Adopt only what you know you can understand and are capable of maintaining. The rest, for now, is irrelevant.’
Samuel approached with his food parcel wrapped securely in a cloth. He had even boiled drinking water collected from the stream that cut its boisterous course towards the distant river valley. ‘I really think it’s time, dajoo,’ he pressed.
I turned to help gather our few provisions, when Samuel whispered that perhaps I should give something to our host to show respect.
‘Of course, a true teacher of the Tradition does not impart his knowledge for personal gain,’ he assured me. ‘Neither for reputation, nor for wealth. However, in our culture it is respectful and polite to give something to support our jhankri-dajoo as he earns no wages.’
‘But we can’t give him back the food he has just presented to us!’ I hissed. ‘So then what? Money?’
I dug into my inside pocket and pulled out a single one hundred rupee note.
‘That’s more than enough,’ Samuel said. ‘Unless you have a rupee coin.’
I tried my trousers and nodded.
‘One hundred is an end,’ he explained, ‘but one hundred and one is a beginning!’
Every interaction here was an education. I still had much to learn from the sensitivity and respect these people showed one another. I turned towards the temple doors and placed my offering of what amounted to little more than one British pound in a small wooden bowl at the foot of the altar.
I turned towards Kushal Magar, now standing at the base of the dusty path that marked the beginning of our long walk home. I approached him slowly in my reluctance to leave, then bowed, touching my right hand to my heart, to his feet and back to my heart, as a child in these hills would honour a parent.
In return, he placed his hands on my head in ahashis blessing, then bent to whisper in each ear a repeated stream of syllables that bestowed upon me the serenity of those vast peaks beyond.
The jhankri pressed his head to mine.
‘From today, brother, remain wholly engaged in restoring balance in yourself and in the wider world by living with mindful purpose. Learn wisdom from your daily exploration of the four Aims of Life, and always live yours with gratitude. Be free from laziness and apathy – yet addicted neither to work nor leisure. Embrace pleasure – but be moderate in your eating and drinking, your sexual expression and your sleep.’
I smiled that he should have been able to read me with such unnerving accuracy.
‘Keep your speech sincere, truthful, encouraging and never to the disparagement of others. Avoid speaking of the good you have done, or of what you have been told in confidence. And think on that which inspires you to live and love well.’
It was undoubtedly Kushal Magar of whom I would be thinking.
‘Remain steady in your devotion to your teachers, whoever and wherever they may be,’ he said, his smile broadening. ‘But most of all, brother, choose always to be happy.’