Your Pain is My Pain

Babaji is a fellow who practices yoga with us. I'm not completely certain, even though we've asked several times, how he came to be at Swamiji's - but they have the same Guru, so they refer to themselves as brothers.

Babaji showed up and started practicing yoga last winter, and according to Swamiji, Baba was always angry, always yelling that he'd had enough and he was going to go. Swamiji would stay calm and say "Don't go, stay" Babaji was supposed to take 15 pills a day when he showed up. He started practising Yoga and decided to fuggedaboutit with the medication.

Babaji lost his wife during the birth of their second child. The child was also lost. And I don't know how long after that, he lost their first child as well. So Babaji was a Naga Baba for a while - a sanyasin who wanders around owning nothing, not a stitch of clothing, no garments. (Sometimes called naked Baba's) We saw pictures of him at a Kumbh Mela. All he wore was a loin cloth, I think mainly because there were many folks around.

A simple description, cobbled from online info and what I've heard: Kumbh Mela "the great festival of the pot of nectar of immortality" occurs every 4 times every 12 years and is attended by millions of people, making it the largest gathering in the world. (I found one reference to the 2001 gathering that said 70 million people attended. The population of Canada is hovering at 35 million, I believe.) The story of Kumbh Mela originates thousands of years ago when gods and demons together decided to churn the milky ocean to obtain the amrit (nectar of immortality). As the Kumbh or the jar containing the immortal nectar finally appeared, there arose a fierce tussle among both gods and the demons. For twelve days and twelve nights (equivalent to twelve human years) the gods and demons fought for the possession of the pot of amrit. It is said that during the battle, few drops of nectar fell at four places : Prayag, Haridwar, Ujjain and Nasik transforming them into famous religious pilgrimage centres for Kumbh Mela.

Babaji, it seems to me, has been through a lot. I thought Babaji was almost 50 when I met him. I couldn't place his age at all. Everyone looks older here, under the hot sun. Babaji looked just as shocked as I did when we realised he's younger than me. "You thirty-nine? Me thirty-eight!" "Thirty-eight? Like 3 and 8? Thirty eight?" "Yes, yes, thirty-eight."

When Babaji was gone for 2 weeks off to a wedding, and he was supposed to be gone only for four days, we all missed him. (The measurement of time in India is a delicate science. If someone says "Yes, come back in 1/2 an hour," they really mean "Come back anytime later but not now, I can't help you now." Possibly, they can't help you today or tomorrow at all, but they don't want to say no. In fact, when Baba returned I said "Babaji, what happen? You 4 days say? 4? Now 2 weeks plus." I was speaking Hinglish - thus the disjointed sentence structure. Babaji stared at me until he understood what the heck I was saying and then replied "You my husband?" Maybe you had to be there, but it was very funny to me.)

On another occasion, I made him laugh by calling him "Mataji" (great mother) while he served us kicharee. His response "Mataji Nay! Babaji! Babaji" I get a kick out of making jokes in broken Hindi or English and making people laugh. I like crossing this great divide I feel. I have to with humour, I feel there's no other choice really. And I can feel my heart, my soul dances when I make a joke and it's understood, by Babji or Swamiji, the guys at the Hotel or the shopkeepers - and they laugh. Sure, okay, it helps me feel heaps better about myself. Oh yes, Eufemia, you can run but you can't hide from your ego.

Insert inner monologue here:Yes, yes, I alone will build a bridge between our cultures and bring about World Peace! Oh, If only I had I made it to the Miss Etobicoke pagent, and on to Miss Universe, I coulda been a contender. I coulda had a platform from which to do my good deeds, instead of toiling away here online. But no, no, I was disqualified because my teeth were too pointy, a little sharp. Sure, they said it was the photos they found but they could never prove it was me. Never. But did those judges care? No. That's the trouble with people, not enough faith...

Faith. Have faith, I tell myself. All will be revealed to you, Eufemia, one day, probably after you leave, you'll understand why you're here. Make peace, stay calm, ignore it, walk away, do not engage. Or, use the old standby: Don't shoot 'til you see the whites of their eyes. Happiness is a warm gun. Whoa, whoa, back up. I've gotten a little off track. Martin Luther King said "We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools." I love him. Do you think he had a great sense of humour? I wonder. He had a great sense of humanity, and that's more than enough for me.

For the last week, possibly longer, I'm not so feeling funny. My sense of humour has disappeared with the rising heat (Low of 10 degrees Celsius at night, daytime into the 20's. It goes up to the high 40's here.) Babaji saying "Mia, mia, mia - like a cat," has elicited no response from me. He likes to say my name and tell me that's how they say "Meow" here. So, no, not a seriously respected name. I shoulda said Fifiji the minute I stepped off the auto rickshaw.

Then I cried at yoga. A few times. During the afternoon class. And yesterday, I really couldn't seem to hold back the flood gates. I cried at Yoga, I cried at the Hotel, I cried at the internet. When you cry in India, men get annoyed, and angry. They don't like it at all. These people remind me so much of my southern Italian family, it just made me cry harder. Swamiji talked for quite some time, and I felt so responsible, taking up valuable class practice time. There's Swamiji lecturing me not to be sad, why myself is practicing yoga, why attaching to this pain, if for why practice yoga, what you practice, this not yoga.

Because, in case you were wondering, yoga brings balance, peace of mind, not this, you understand. Yes, well eventually, I'm sure you have the achieve some peace of mind, don't you?Or maybe it's just the appearance of peace of mind? Heck, I'll take the appearance, sure, kyon nahee? (why not) Bring it on, bring on the appearances, I can fool myself can't I? Or, as the leader of the Free World (ha ha) likes to say, "I can fool some of the people, some of the time but most of the people, shame on you, you ain't gonna fool me again!" (I know, I'm paraphrasing George Dubya Bush. It's come to this. Please send help in the form of rehydration salts. Thank you in advance) As I was saying, appearances, I'll take it. But just so you know, I can't afford Lulu Lemon.

Right then, at class, Swamiji's talk was just making me cry harder.

Swamiji: "And okay, make Headstand. Do."

I thought I should leave. I had already messed up the vibe, already brought my special dark cloud of disturbance into the area, but I thought I could save it by leaving. And headstand, I was learning against the wall and now Swamiji says no wall. Sure, well, I fell over the day before attempting this asana and I screamed in terror as I was falling over. I have made some progress, when I first got to Pushkar, I couldn't do it, wouldn't do it, nor could I imagine myself doing it at all.

But I hate being a quitter, I've walked away from so many things and been disgusted with myself for giving up. In the past, I lived by this motto: When the going gets tough, I go. So I put my arms down. I measure the space between my elbows. I put my hands down and try going up. I get up halfway, feel my balance is completely off, and start to fall over backwards again. I scream again, still afraid, still terrified. Now the crying really kicks into high gear: fear and grief and rage. I hit my lower back and sacrum as I land, but at least I didn't snap my neck. I crawl back to my mat, and think again "I should go, I gotta go. I should leave this place, go home, back to Canada, and leave these people to practice in peace."

Pushkar is so different from Toronto, hey? So different from Vancouver. But me, this problem I have of feeling like I carry a particular brand of poison inside and it would be better if everyone kept away from me, better if I didn't infect anyone else, this problem is my same, same no different problem.

Swamiji: "Okay, now comes crisis. Now do. Again. Second round"

I think Swamiji's nuts. Or completely stupid. A total moron, and I've been listening to him for 5 weeks now. Why? In this moment, I want to tell Swamiji to go jump in Pushkar lake, "and while you're at it, why don't you make a Puja as well!"

Babaji started meowing. I forgot to mention that if a wimper escapes me on an exhale, Baba imitates my wimpering for the rest of the class. And sometimes, he just wimpers and points at me. Usually I just give him heck and say, "Babaji crazy, Babaji crazy." But I'm bawling too hard to say anything to anyone, because if I open my mouth I might just say "I want to go home. Can I go home now?" And I realised too, that I wanted my mother, the one the aliens snatched at my birth and replaced with the poor woman I've known as my mother my whole life - the kind, gentle, loving-at-all-times mother. And I realised that while I was in pain and sore all over, the biggest ache was coming from my heart. I want to be seen! I want to be understood! Who thought that? Me? Am I sure? This neediness, this grasping, clawing desire makes me feel like throwing up.

Swamiji said, "Babaji, buncha stuff in Hindi!"

Swamiji gets up and walks over to me. I measure out the distance again, still crying. In measuring the distance, you clasp your hands and make a triangle, but to my Catholic upbringing, it looks like I'm in a modified prayer pose. That sets me off again, because I'm on my knees, my hands stretched out in front of me in prayer. I start begging; "Please God, please god, please. Make this stop. Make me less crazy, please. Or at least, don't let me die here, now, attempting a headstand."

Sidebar: Apparently 500 people a year die from coconuts falling on their heads in India. I have no way of confirming this, but 2 different people told me this as fact and I thought geez, wow, really? I would not want to write that obituary.

I go up, halfway, while I can hardly see because I'm bawling. Then I straighten my legs out. Swamiji is standing nearby, to catch me. I stay up for maybe 10 seconds, unassisted by Swamiji or a wall. "No use support otherwise then always need." I come back down. Mincho cheered "Way! Good crying!"

The rest of the class, I try to stop crying. The thoughts about being unbalanced, being the worst ____________________ (fill in the blank) kept coming, fast and furious. At the end of class, I ran around with Swamiji's granddaughter. He sent her over to me, and pointed out to us that she was upset because her father had yelled at her. "Look what happen to human. We have the tension and then, we give to someone else." Running around in circles and holding hands makes kids very happy, very quickly, and it definitely made me feel better too. My boo-boo felt less painful.

I folded up my mat thinking "I'm not going to make it through meditation, I don't think."

Then Babaji came over to me to say "Om Namah Shivayah. Inside room go. Now Japa yoga." Japa is the repetition of a mantra. This from another online source: Japa is the repetition of any Mantra or Name of the Lord with devotion and feeling. It removes the impurities of the mind, destroys sins and brings the devotee face to face with the Lord. Every Name is filled with countless powers; just as fire has the natural property of burning things, so also the Name of God has the power of burning the sins and desires. Sweeter than all sweet things, more auspicious than all good things, purer than all pure things, is the Name of the Lord. The Name of the Lord is a boat to cross this Samsara. It is a weapon to destroy the mind. It is a spiritual food for the hungry soul.

But I didn't know that yesterday, hey? When Babaji came up to me, all I could think was "Japa Yoga, what's that? Kriya Yoga, Japa Yoga, Hatha Yoga, Satyananda Yoga. Yoga this, Yoga that! And Jesus Christ was a yogi. And Now what, now what?" I looked at him, confused, as I clutched my mat to my chest.

Then Babji said, "Your pain is my pain," and I started crying again.