Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
covertly gathering sunset had set this bare concrete hall on fire, a
gilded pink blaze of pulsing light that blasted straight from the
western horizon as if aimed just at us.
Soon, a pair of double doors opened onto a dimly lit room. We
rose as one and pushed in. Almost bare but for a gigantic Victorian
four-poster bed, the room was sepulchral and choking with clouds
of cheap incense, a tacky floral perfume reminiscent of Bangkok
hookers. At the rear of this preposterously ornate bed, on three tiger
skins, sat Siva Bala Yogi himself.
He had a broad, serenely unwrinkled and youthful face, and
wiry hair matted with cow dung (a traditional and sacred bug
deterrent, apparently) that was drawn into a single tube, thick as a
drainpipe and hanging down to his waist. The eyes were closed; a
vague smile played through his spidery, gleaming black beard. In
accordance with the story, his torso was impressively huge, like a
barrel perched over pathetically spindly legs still locked, still crossed
in
padmasan
, the smooth soles of their delicate brown feet facing
upward on top of either thigh. His rat-gnawn fingers indeed looked
gnarled and permanently bent, interlaced, resting on his lap. He
was utterly naked except for a tiny loincloth all but invisible beneath
an edifice of a gut that was not fat but solid and muscly in appearance.
Through the haze of joss-sticks and in the flickering light of oil
lamps, he was -
whatever
he was - certainly not ordinary.
I sat down near the foot of the bed, aware of the spiced, earthy
smell of those village men now wedged in on either side of me as it
mingled with blowsy two-bit incense. When all present were seated
on the hard stone floor, the doors of this solemn and resonant room
were closed with a clanking finality of bolts, shutting us inside the
yogi's permanent night. Thick wooden shutters on the far wall did
not look as if they'd been opened much, if ever. What sort of
ceremony were we in for here?
Nothing, however, appeared to be happening. We sat. The yogi
sat possibly fast asleep. Before long, I was aware of a building
sensation that felt like a cross between panic and a sinus headache.
In retrospect, it was the experience of raw and rather aimless energy:
unpleasant, unnerving . . . yet intriguing. This sitting business must
have lasted for a good thirty minutes; then someone started ringing
