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Shiva's
Abode: Paradoxes of a Modern Pilgrimage The Kailash-Mansarovar pilgrimage is the ultimate spiritual journey. Aman Nath was one of the chosen few this year. His photographs and account of the experience reveal that, even at Shiva's abode, human frailties hold sway over spiritual upliftment.
The Kailash-Mansarovar pilgrimage is by far the decathlon of all Indian pilgrimages: 1,800 km from Delhi and back, of which over 400 km are done on foot or ponyback. Thousands still crave to undertake this yatra which, despite the subsidy and support systems of the Indian and Uttar Pradesh Governments, remains unaffordable at just over Rs 30,000. Of the 6,000 pilgrims who actually got down to sending their applications this year, only about 500 were lucky enough to get a call--a few of them were rejected on medical grounds. The criteria of the choice were not clear: ``We would have liked you to be around 30,'' said an official from the Ministry of External Affairs addressing our batch of 54, ``but there is such great demand and we have so much pressure from MPs and ministers.'' One of the pilgrims in our batch claimed he had moved 23 names to Batch III. ``You can do it at the level below the Under Secretaries,'' he bragged. Another said he'd paid Rs 2,000 to move two names. It didn't seem to me the best way to enter the house of God--through the back door. Reading through the Chinese tourist literature, I discovered that, in the vocabulary of the Ngari prefecture of the autonomous region of Tibet, both the Kailash mountain and the Mansarovar lake do not exist. These are called Kangrinboque (The Sacred Mountain) and Mapam Yumco (The Sacred Lake) respectively by the Buddhists. The Jains claim that Adinath Rishabhdeva, their first Tirthankara, attained his nirvana here. Padmasambhava, who took Buddhism to Tibet in the eighth century, spent the last seven years of his life in this region. The official publication compiled by the Tourism Administration of Ngari prefecture reads: Ngari has been reputed as the `center of the world' where Buddha lives by millions of believers of Hinduism, Jainism, Tibetan, Bongboism and Buddhism. This is not quite true because some Hindus actually believe Buddha to be an incarnation of Vishnu. And they certainly don't think that Buddha could share the same abode as Shiva. It is more than evident that what all these religions celebrate is the natural majesty and splendour of this spot on earth, but different believers imagine their own mythology with their own tenant god inhabiting this magical spot of nature, or Nature, with a capital N, if the devout so prefer.
On the evening before we boarded the train to Kathgodam from Old Delhi railway station, the pilgrims were felicitated at a warm ceremony held at Vithalbhai Patel House. ``Sacrifice has always been a virtue in India,'' it was pointed out. ``In the legend of the churning of the ocean all those who drank the elixir became gods or devas, whereas Shiva, who drank the poison, became the Great God, Mahadeva. His sacrifice placed him above the other gods.'' We too were going to undertake this long and hazardous journey which would absolve our seven generations of all sins. The residents of Delhi were presented Rs 5,000 each by Kedar Nath Sahni of the BJP as he pointed out how pilgrimages had always united India. Indeed, we were a representative bunch of Indians unlikely to meet in any other circumstances: property dealers from Haryana; sweetmakers from Gujarat; an advocate from Rajasthan; doctors from Maharashtra; a railwayman from West Bengal; businessmen and bureaucrats from Uttar Pradesh; researchers, video filmmakers, a tent-housewala, and police officers from Delhi; a spiritual social reformer from Tamil Nadu with his disciples; and so on.
I was certainly sceptical venturing out on a pursuit with uncertain ends. If God was everywhere--even within us--then why had we set out to seek Him so far? If He was nowhere, were hardship, austerity, even dirt and drudgery the path to this conquest of nothingness? Was it necessary to forsake all familiar experiences to make way for the unexpected and unfamiliar? I was not yet going to call my expedition a pilgrimage unless a miracle convinced me. Gods have been known to divide our world, I thought, and then through our own limited and passioned beliefs, we even let them put us to war. I am equally wary of flags and national anthems which whip up their own divisive xenophobia dividing humanity into little bounded insanities called nations. I was on the discovery of the magical, boundaryless wonders of our planet.
The Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam Limited (KMVN) coordinated the Indian part of the journey. The simplicity of the accommodation and food, and the hygiene of the bedsheets, bathrooms, etc., were rather basic and there was much room for improvement. Fortunately, this was largely compensated by the staff's willingness and warmth in serving the yatris. We were 54 travellers and their facilities, toilets, etc., almost always ran short. As we progressed to higher altitudes we noticed that the fibreglass huts were still being built. Timely government planning and approvals have their own constraints but KMVN needs to professionalise or even privatise. Each segment of the hut weighed over 50 kg and we could only sympathise with the Nepalese porters who carried them precariously on narrow, precipitous routes with the Kali river raging in the ravines below. From the beginning of the yatra our path was lined by children with outstretched hands quickly rattling out ``Om Namah Shivaya'' and the pilgrims dutifully doled out sweets and money to their cue. After having heard this mantra a few hundred times, I asked the children what exactly these words meant. ``This means, give us money,'' they retorted. Our urban invasion of their unspoilt land had brought the panchakshara mantra down to its quick, contemporary meaning. The path to Shiva's abode was not all about mysticism. We would hardly have been able to put our feet on the ground if it wasn't for the relentless hard work of GRIP and PWD who make and maintain the roads, bridges, bridle paths and steps that lead us on our quest. We were delighted to meet the Indo-Tibetan Border Police (ITBP) who patrol these paths and boundaries. ``Everyone forgets us when they return to the plains,'' they lamented. But we had tears for their touching tales when we listened. And where would the yatris' pursuit of God have been if the helpful porters and ponies didn't care for their needs? Perhaps the KMVN could erect basic porter and pony shelters, at least. We felt guilty watching them crouch all night under plastic sheets and rock shelters when their next day was going to be even tougher than ours. Eight sheds would cost about Rs 2 lakh. Perhaps, a fund could be instituted for this, banking on the faith and generosity of the pilgrims. En route, the highlights were the spectacular Najang falls, the sinking village of Garbyang with its grand wooden houses, the Gunji plateau where human habitation ends at the height of 3,500 m, and the Navidang camp at 3,987 m from where the Om Parvat can be seen with a large `Om' naturally inscribed on the mountain and filled with snow. Finally, on the 11th day, we were woken at 2.30 a.m. and accompanied by the ITBP and KMVN personnel to the Tibetan border. We huffed our way up to the Lipulekh pass at 5,334 m. This unearthly hour was necessary for us to arrive at the Chinese time of 7.30 a.m. which is two and a half hours ahead of ours. They have agreed on set immigration timings with the Indian Government--when one batch leaves and the other must arrive. Tibet was treeless and the snow was melting in marvellous patterns. Courageous blue, yellow and white flowers had already dared to blossom. We slipped on the snow and ice to reach some colourful ponies which took us to a bus and two Land Cruisers. These drove us to Taklakot, a marvellous, high-altitude desert town at 4,267 m. It was once a trading outpost where radars and satellites now survey the boundaries. A monastery, apparently destroyed in the Cultural Revolution, and hundreds of lamas' caves sit as silent reminders of a monastic past. Our group was split into two. From here we were driven 100 km to Tarchen for the first parikrama. The yaks were not willing to carry us since all the snow hadn't yet melted around Kailash. We paid the same price of 150 yuans (Rs 750) for porters instead. In India the daily rates for porters were Rs 100, and for ponies, Rs 200. Part of our food supplies were stolen by the cook we had hired. Two tough days took us 60 km around Kailash, then, after a night's rest at Tarchen when the other group arrived from Mansarovar, we were taken to Hore. The parikrama around the lake is 90 km and takes two trying days. The pilgrims returned with tales of how almost everyone had fallen off their horse, or how their sore bottoms ached like never before. Acupressure was tried, talcum for the blisters and ointments for quick muscular relief. The ``Oh God'' was in everyone's aches and pains. We had been warned about losing our tempers since there was now a shortage of oxygen. Everyone had begun to gang up, taking sides in picking fights with each other. I had left this basket of crabs to spend three calm nights by the Mansarovar lake. Since God has no beginning or end, remaining stationary, I watched the clouds and birds do the parikrama, which they call cora in Tibetan. One morning, two Land Cruisers with six Chinese arrived to camp by the Holy Lake. The caretakers had signalled to me that one could take a dip in the water but not use soap. The Chinese undressed to the bone, splashed into chilled water, soaped their `travelled' bodies and washed their underclothes and socks. I watched from a distance wondering if this was the holy water my fellow pilgrims would carry to India. Later, I was to read that our camp at Zaidi was at the western tip of Mansarovar called the Dirt Cleansing Gate. Perhaps, that is why the washing of sins of the Hindus was done there. But the water collection would be better done at the Fragrant Gate to the south or the Lotus Bathing Gate to the east. The purity of the water was once again more a matter of faith. There is another lake nearby which had once been a part of Mansarovar. This is named Rakshas Tal and is reputed to be the place where Ravana bathed. The water was crystal clear and the lake bottom was lined with pebbles whereas, at Mansarovar, there is a dirty, greyish silt. ``Don't touch this water, it is for demons,'' said the Panditji accompanying us. But many of us drank from it, even bathed in it, to gather the powers demanded of us in this Kaliyug. Later on our journey, there were loud, metallic noises beneath the bus carrying us back and its parts began to fall off. ``I told you not to bathe in Rakshas Tal,'' said the Panditji. I suggested we pee the water out while they screwed on the fallen parts. When the bus started again, it seemed we had confirmed a superstition. By the time the two high-altitude circumambulations of Mount Kailash and the Mansarovar lake were over, everyone had prayed, loved, hated, shared, bitched, fought, complained and sweared. In short, the pilgrims had displayed all their human frailties and insecurities, behaving like ordinary mortals. It didn't seem that the toughest Hindu pilgrimage had brought any improvement in our human nature. At best we had performed the ancient fire ritual of the havan, our foreheads painted with the sectarian mark of Shiva. My great-grandfather was a founder-member of the Arya Samaj which gives preference to mantras and fire worship over rituals and idolatry. As we burnt sandalwood and poured clarified butter, I wondered about the ecological relevance of a havan today--the Vedic sacrifice, an ancient ritual of purification. Offerings made to the fire are believed to be liberated from their material, gravitational bonds and sent to the heaven-bearing skies. The gods return fire with benevolent rain, completing the cycle of nature and answering, as it were, the thirst of parched souls. There were a few foul-mouthed rowdies who used abuses to punctuate every sentence. Their religious slogan shouting was also the loudest. Frankly, if they had hoped to equate their scale of sin and virtue, the balance did not seem in their favour. On our return, everyone dreamt and talked of home. Their hardships and efforts had taken them to Shiva's home. Some had even invented incredible stories of their darshans. They claimed they had seen the ganas of Shiva, which, in fact, turned out to be our porters. In their moment of weakness, the pilgrims began confessing to each other how they were diabetic or had high blood pressure and heart problems which they had hidden in fake reports. But since Shiva had called them, their faith had pulled them through. We risked our lives on the return journey shortening our trip by three days, traversing the raging Shankhola river on a makeshift bridge of tree trunks. The metal bridge had been washed away along with 25 ponies and several people asleep in their homes. Our luggage was daringly thrown across by the brave porters. Surely, this encounter with danger and death gave value to our lives. And in endangering life, we were adding value to death. There was another consolation. ``The yatra is so tough,'' explained a pilgrim, ``that the rest of life's journey becomes easy.'' While reappraising the pilgrimage, I wondered if I was being too finicky or just a purist, but I had found it wanting at many levels: The selection process lacked transparency but in our very Indian way everyone had accepted it as God's decision. The rejected were fortunately reconciled to their own fate. The chanting of mantras and the singing of bhajans was always a random decision. We could never gather all the 54 of us. Any handful would begin to chant and sing out of tune or in squeaky bird voices and often they forgot the words. One yatri chanted his Yajur Veda mantras 11 times a day but didn't quite know why. Everyone seemed unaware that, without the proper mantra siddhi, years of repeating mantras would yield little result. A proper pronunciation and the location of the vocal apparatus where the mantra should be recited is vital. So is the bhuta shuddhi and the practice of nyasa which prepares the body and the mind to act as a fit receptacle for the deity. Equally important is dhyanavidhi, a specific visualisation appropriate to any mantra. Perhaps, some initiation was necessary. The ritual of parikrama was only seen as a physical feat which had to be completed. The yatris treated the circumambulation days like any other, continuing their same mundane conversations and jokes while some even used abusive language. Since we believe that life is cyclical with rebirths reinvigorating the old cycles, the parikrama had symbolisms of regeneration where the vibrations of the mountains could be sought. But no one had really been made aware since Hinduism is a way of life, a samartha religion offering many options. The hygiene of sleeping was something no one could turn a blind eye to. Considering that there were streams flowing everywhere in India as well as in Tibet, the bedsheets were never washed crisp and white. In China it was hard to say how many people had slept in our beds before us. There was a layer of gravel in my bed at Tarchen, and even with my own bedsheets, the stink of the yak hair of my quilt was something I only forgot when I was sound asleep. We were huddled in rooms with five to nine pilgrims, each paying Rs 2,000 per head in a room. We segregated the ladies and men and even then slept sideways so as not to touch our neighbours' dreams. Some of us had to sleep on the rough mud and stone floors because quite clearly they didn't have facilities for us all. The hygiene of the toilets in Tibet and the absolute absence of bathing facilities were things that our catalogue of instructions from the Ministry of External Affairs had warned us about (``The toilet facilities are quite primitive and not very hygienic'') but no one was prepared for what we saw at Taklakot. Since the Purang Guest House supposedly opened in 1982, when one large trench was dug up to receive its daily dose of human excreta, no attempt had been made to clear the mountains. Perhaps, they were intended to compete someday with the Himalayas. The stink was everywhere and those who dared to use the toilets hovering with flies and insects, bandaged their noses and mouths for fear of asphyxiation. Others jumped the back wall to squat in the open among the boulders, a stick in hand since big, black dogs barked us away from their territory. The water tasted of kerosene and it was hard to brush one's teeth, but we were compelled to bathe from dirty drums and hose pipes. Did we really have to sink so low for our soul to rise? If the idea was to take us halfway to Heaven through the contrasting gates of Hell, the Ali Travel Agency, which holds the contract to host us, was entirely successful. However, to our surprise, the Chinese food at Purang was excellent. Perhaps the Aghori Vimlananda is right when he says: ``I have never believed in religions. Religions are all limited because they concentrate only on one aspect of the truth. That is why they are always fighting among one another, because they all think they are in sole possession of the truth. But I say there is no end to knowledge, so there is no use trying to confine it to one scripture or one holy book or one experience. This is why I say when people ask what religion I follow: `I don't believe in sampradaya (sect), I believe in sampradaha (incineration). Burn down everything which is getting in the way of your perception of truth.''' If Mansarovar is the `sea of the mind', should the pilgrims of different religions call it different names to limit this experience by what Einstein called ``the sea of ignorance''? What would the lesson of travelling to the wise and distant horizons of Kailash-Mansarovar be if it did not teach us that this extraordinary planet belongs to us all to share and relish but not to divide? Aman Nath has been a regular contributor to India Today since its inception. He is currently working on an encyclopaedic book Shiva, Shiva, Shiva -- A Different God on the history and evolution of the Shiva myth. He is also the co-founder of Neemrana Hotels. |
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"The sea of ignorance
beyond the fringes of human knowledge is God."
When I first met the group of 54 yatris who comprised Batch III of this
pilgrimage, I was mildly concerned at the overdose of ``Om Namah Shivaya'' in their
greetings, some of their foreheads marked with the three horizontal tripundara marks of
Shiva. But if Nehru, the agnostic, could govern a nation of believers for many long years,
surely I could survive one overtly holy month, I reasoned. As they say: For those who
believe in God no proof of His existence is necessary; for those who do not believe in God
no proof is possible. 
At the railway station, drum beats and cries of ``Har
Har Mahadev'' and ``Bam, Bam Bole'' surprised me. Enthusiastic seers-off pasted saffron
bands and tikas on our foreheads. In one early conversation in the train, it was explained
to me how lucky we were to be visiting the home of the only god who lives on this earth.
Of the three worlds--patala (netherworld), prithvi (earth) and swargalok (heaven)--only
Shiva lived on this planet and Mount Kailash was his abode. ``You will see all you want
to: His trident, kettledrum, even His vehicle Nandi. All you need is faith in Him.'' 
All my childhood I had lived and travelled
long summers in the Himalayas--from Gulmarg to Darjeeling--so I was at least ready to
honour the mountains again. At school I had read Sir Francis Younghusband who had
subjugated Tibet for the British and conquered the peak of Kamet. What he had written
still held good for the Kailash-Mansarovar yatra: ``Man likes to be at his best, but often
nothing short of a Himalaya peak can extract it from him--can compel him to be fittest in
body, alertest in mind and firmest in soul. So he is drawn to the mountain and the
mountain makes a man out of him.'' 
