Shantji came back from his morning outing excited to tell me of a new friend. He had gone to eat at an ashram where they feed monks everyday, and there he met a quite interesting Swami that lived up the hill. What was most exciting for me was Shantji told me he spoke perfect English. A lot of people in India speak English but not so many in the circles I had been traveling in. Even those who did speak English did not understand American English, especially with my southern drawl.
After resting a bit we would go to meet this Swami. We walked along the cliffs of the beautiful, blue green Ganges up a winding road then down a rocky path to a very tiny castle. I say castle, because that’s what it looked like, even though it was just one small room. Maybe it was more like the spire on a castle. Below was a small cave dwelling and an uneven, very steep staircase that lead you to a tiny railess balcony with a majestic view of the river. As we headed up, we were greeted from the top of the stairs from our new friend with a big smile and warm welcome.
“Please come, please come in and have some chai,” he cheerfully said as he waived us in. Tall, healthy, bubbly and shinning is how I would describe him, as well as a little goofy. He was originally from Calcutta. Bengali Baba was what they called him. He seemed to be 50ish. When he was young in Calcutta his profession was an engineer of some sort, so he was quite educated. I believe he told us he was around 30 when he met his Guruji and renounced it all for this austere life he was living.
I had met many Swamis in India, but I must say, Bengali Baba seemed to be the happiest. He just seemed like a happy soul. I’m sure partly due to his general nature, but he claims it is due to his “Mother,” and by “Mother” he means Goddess Kali. He lived to serve the Goddess and this he did with utmost joy and devotion. He was so exuberant about having us there, I giggled to myself wondering what Shantji might be thinking of this goofy Baba. It was as if in this very first meeting he wanted to tell us everything about his “Mother” and his life living there on the hill devoted to her… like we were his long lost friends that he may not never see again.
This was on my first trip to India. These Babas who lived in caves, slept in alleys and wandered the country were new to me. I was delighted to finally meet one who spoke good English and could understand my accent. However, Bengali Baba was giving me so much information, my head was starting to spin. He was amusingly giddy.
Shantji was quite delighted to find the days newspaper and settled himself in on Bengali Baba’s cot. I sat on the floor chattering with Bengali Baba while he made us tea. In front of me in a shrine on the wall was “Mother.” This was always the way Bengali Baba addressed her. The statue seemed quite old and very well loved, decorated with flowers and sweets rested at her feet. From underneath his cot he pulled out a container of hot mix and one of sweet biscuits. He served us lovingly and… exuberantly, of course. Shantji and I were amazed how delicious the chai was, as we knew he made it with powered milk because he had no real milk. You would have never known. Bengali Baba had a certain magic, and everything he ever served you was the most delectable regardless of how humble its nature. Perhaps it was blessed by “Mother.”
Bengali Baba was a humble soul but was quite proud of his cooking and although grateful, he found most of the food he was fed in the nearby ashrams quite unsatisfactory to his more sophisticated taste. He told me how fabulous Bengali food was. Being very interested in the art of Indian cooking, I asked if he would teach me to cook a Bengali dish. He agreed to the cooking lesson… yes, quite exuberantly, as you might imagine. He gave us a list of ingredients to bring back tomorrow for lunch. Not only did we get a list, but we were instructed very specific shops to buy the different items. He only considered one shop in the area worthy of a very particular type of sweets. Only one of the dairy shops had the quality yogurt and only one sold the best basmati rice. We did not have a written list, so this would be left up to our memory. I hoped Shantji could remember the details of the names of the special shops, because the funny sounding Hindi names were hard for me to remember.
When we came back the next day at the appointed time with groceries in hand, again we were greeted warmly. We handed over the items for his inspection. We did not get the best basmati rice. Shantji thought it was over priced at the shop. Bengali Baba was disappointed in its quality, but said he would make do. The special sweet shop was not open when we went to get the sweets, so the sweets we brought were also not up to par. He said they were for “Mother” anyway. I thought to myself, “You have to have special sweets from a special place to feed your statue?” To Bengali Baba “Mother” was not a statue. She was a form of the Goddess as well as every woman in a human body.
Shantji headed down for the river for his morning dip while Bengali Baba and I started cooking. We sat on the floor in the tiny room in front of “Mother” washing, chopping chatting and laughing. He had one funky propane burner and two pots to cook subjee (vegetables), dahl (mung beans) rice and chapattis. Underneath his cot, in all types of odd containers, he had a variety of seeds, spices and chilies. I watched his hand measurements of a pinch of this and a throw of that and tried to write it all down as best I could in the book of recipes I had been collecting. Within an hour or so we had the most perfectly prepared, delicious Bengali feast. This goofy Swami was charming me.
Shantji was delighted to see me charmed and perhaps even more delighted with the food. Bengali Baba offered us his space to rest after our lunch… a very lovely Indian custom. Shantji nestled himself on Bengali Baba’s cot, and I found a cozy spot in front of “Mother.” Bengali Baba went down below, as the room was too small for 3 to spread out.
After a good, long rest, we all enjoyed another cup of chai. Then Shantji and I moved along our way. We stayed in Laxman Jhula for about 3 weeks, and several days a week we would visit Bengali Baba. Shantji and I liked to take our dip in the Ganges just down the river from Bengali Baba’s, so it was always convenient to visit afterwards. I enjoyed getting to know him, and Shantji enjoyed his newspapers. Bengali Baba’s tiny castle became like a home to us. We were always welcome.
The most adorable thing about Bengali Baba was that he honored all women as the Goddess. He saw all women as incarnations of “Mother.” Shantji thought he was just smitten with me, but I thought differently. As a woman you know they way a man looks at you how they are seeing you. He was smitten with me and perhaps even in love with me, but not with Uma as “Uma the American woman.” He was in love with Goddess Uma, an embodiment of “Mother” sitting right in front of him. I was in love with his light. It was the sweetest love I ever experienced with a man without any romance. We fell in love with the divine reflection we saw in each other.
We went to see Bengali Baba one last time before we left Laxman Jhula. I brought him some special sweets from the special shop, some milk from the quality shop and some flowers for “Mother.” We said a teary, but cheerful, good bye to each other and he followed us up the path to the road and waved us on. Those days in Laxman Jhula were some of the most mystical of my life. I knew that I would return to that place again, and I hoped Bengali Baba would still be in his tiny castle loving his “Mother” when I did.
Fortunately, the very next year I got to go back to Laxman Jhula. We had been just an hour away in Haridwar at the Kumbh Mehla for about a month when one day the opportunity opened up for us to catch a ride to Rishikesh with Swami Nardanand (another beautiful being and another story). We spent the morning at his ashram in Rishikesh. We had some business to attend to and needed to use the computer there. We had a lovely meal and a nap (of course). All the while, I’m feeling excited to get over to Laxman Jhula and find Bengali Baba.
After resting, we catch a rickshaw through a very crowded city. It was Kumbh Mehla time and the Dali Lama apparently was in Rishkesh that day. Many roads were closed off, so we had to take the long way around to Laxman Jhula. Finally, we were dropped off in the crowd and the heat to walk the rest of our way. I was even side swiped by a car in all the commotion. It hurt, but I was not injured. This was not a pleasant walk. I wanted to stop and buy some fruit or something to bring to Bengali Baba. All the fruit was dusty from the road and over ripe from the hot sun. Finally, after much aggravation I found some not so happy looking grapes that would just have to do.
Shantji and I were grumpy and grouchy with each other from our stressful trip and decided not to speak to each other for a bit. The crowd finally thinned as we started walking up the hill. We walked down the cliff to the Ganges to take a much needed dip before reaching Bengali Baba’s. Even the riverbank was crowded. This was not the Laxman Jhula I remembered from the year before.
Shantji stripped down to his underwear and got right in the river. Men are allowed to do this. Women, however, are not allowed to wear something as convenient as a bathing suit, so we have to change our clothes outside. In India I have a swimming dress. One of my biggest joys of being in India is dipping in Mother Ganges, so I had gotten to be quite good at changing into my swimming dress out in public and comfortable with it also. However, today I was agitated with the crowd and the men onlookers hovering around like buzzards waiting to catch a peep of something. I knew they would not dare do this to an Indian woman, and their lack of respect infuriated me.
Finally, I get into the fresh, cold water and feel the power of the Mother running through my veins. I enjoy my time merging with her and then find a rock to sit and dry a bit in the sun which now feels fabulously warm in contrast to the cold river. My onlookers are still present, and I tell them off and suggest they go away. I don’t know if they understood me or not, but it felt good to get it off my chest. Shantji comes to my assistance and tells them more sternly, and in Hindi, to bug off. It’s much easier and more graceful to get into a dry swimming dress than out of a wet one. Shantji’s presence and the big rock provided a little more peace.
I’m feeling better after the dip but still frazzled but happy that Shantji showed some chivalry. We walk up from the cliff and over to Bengali Baba’s castle. I’m slightly nervous to find him not living there anymore. We walk up the steep staircase to find him there smiling his beautiful smile. He is even more radiant. Shantji and I both notice this right away. He is even happier, more shining but he is also calmer and more centered. He is as happy to see me as I am to see him. I forget entirely about the stress from earlier. We share our new stories over a cup of his delicious chai, and my pitiful looking, dusty grapes could not have been more sweet.
A couple comes to visit him while we are there. The woman’s name is Uma too. They are thanking him for the blessing of a grandchild. He was loving that woman the way he loves me, the way he loves “Mother.” I had never seen him with another woman… it had always been just me and “Mother.” It was beautiful to see this divine reflection showing through another mirror. Shantji notices this too, and this time I see Shantji charmed by him. I think he too has become smitten.
Bengali Baba had changed some. He was still the radiant light of the “Mother,” as he was before, but was more empowered with her love. His being was more integrated. He was also still humble, still bubbly, still shining and still goofy. I think I will see him again. I don’t know why, but somehow I think our paths will cross somewhere, sometime.
