Chai Pilgrimage

Pahupatinath is an ancient Hindu temple on the banks of the Bagmati River in Kathmandu, Nepal.  Dating back to the 5^th century, it is considered one the oldest and most important Shiva temples in all of Nepal.  One early myth tells the story of Lord Shiva taking refuge in the woodland valley to evade his Godly duties.  Residing in the forest, he became renown as Pashupati, the Lord of the animals.  When the other Gods finally found him, they were quite angry, and insisted that he return to his residence on Mount Kailash.  To escape, he disguised himself as a deer and ran off to hide in the forest.  In the ensuing chase, a piece of his antler was broken off and fell to the ground.

Many years went by, and the antler lingam, or empowered phallic symbol, was covered over by vegetation and the passing of time.  Finally, a cow herder noticed one of his cows going to the same place each day to offer up her milk onto the earth.  When he examined that spot, he found the horn and recognized it as a Shiva Lingam.  Soon, it began to be worshipped by a growing number of people and eventually became the site of a temple.  Now Pashupatinath is an elaborate temple complex with extensive grounds comprised of the main pagoda-style temple, numerous smaller Shiva lingam shrines and burning ghats along the river, where Hindu devotees are cremated.

It was here, where a cow made her milk oblations to the lingam of Pashupati, that the renowned holy man known as “Dudhadhari Baba” or “Milk Baba” welcomed us.   Ram Krishna Das earned his Milk Baba title because of his austerity of receiving his nourishment exclusively from milk for over 25 years.  According to Ayurveda, milk is considered a Sattvic, or spiritually pure, food.  It is peacefully obtained from a cow, considered the holiest of animals, without the loss of life, and is complete to sustain human life.

The saddhu, now around 80 years old, has also committed to wearing his hair in jatta, or dreadlocks, since he took his initiation at 18.  If not wrapped up on top of his head, they would drag on the ground behind him.  He has practiced many austerities including years of meditation in isolation, barefoot pilgrimages through the Himalayas and a lifetime of celibacy.  He is a great scholar and master of the Hindu epic, the Ramayana, whose teachings he fully embodies.

Milk Baba invited us into his small kutir, or ascetic’s hut, where a circle of temple musicians sat by candlelight singing verses of the Ramayana.  Between verses, Baba would discourse on their meaning.  Not being fluent in the dialect, we sat quietly sipping the chai he offered us and enjoying the darshan, or vision, of this gentle living saint.

Here’s a lively sermon from Pastor Eddie D. Smith to sip your morning chai to.  For a more extensive explanation of Namaste, check out this earlier post.  And again, Namaste!

Click image to enlarge.

The Ganges River is affectionately referred to as Ganga Ma by Hindus who revere the river as nature’s embodiment of the Divine Mother. It is said she flows from Heaven onto the matted hair of Lord Shiva’s head before descending onto Earth in the Himalayas.

Art by Shiv-Ram of Ramana’s Garden Orphanage, Rishikesh, India :: Artseva.org

If she were to hit the Earth directly, her intense force would destroy it. Ganga Ma flows through Northern India, traveling over 1500 miles from the Gangotri glacier to the Bay of Bengal, bringing her life-giving waters and compassionate blessings to all along her path. She heals the land, making it fertile as her waters overflow during monsoon season. To touch or even look upon her is believed to be a great blessing. Our friends Deepu and Vijay showed us photos of the flood that spilled into their house when the river rose during heavy monsoons. They enthusiastically told us, “Yes, Mother Ganga came in and blessed our family’s home. We were very happy.”

To bathe in her life-transforming waters removes all sins and can bestow moksha, or eternal liberation from the cycles of death and rebirth. Every Hindu desires to dip into this holy river at least once in their lifetime. It is auspicious to have one’s ashes offered to the Ganga after death to be carried directly to Heaven. As she flows, she gathers both prayers and sins to be sanctified and released into the depths of the ocean. She is liquid grace, unfathomable and eternally giving. She is Mother.

There are certain places on Earth, call them vortexes or centers of the universe or suns shining with divine light, that attract celestial bodies who are empowered by circling around them.  The 14th century Bodnath stupa in Kathmandu is such a place.  From morning until night, hundreds of Tibetan Buddhists circumambulate the enormous white, dome-shaped shrine to the Buddha’s enlightenment.  Chanting Om Mane Padme Hum in low, resonant tones, they slide worn prayer beads between their fingers and turn prayer wheels built into the wall of the stupa.

As soon as we were in view of the stupa, a heartfelt attraction drew us into the mantra and into orbit. Spinning prayer wheels inscribed with the mantra, we became part of the collective prayer of pure compassion being sent to all sentient beings.  The subtly palpable vibration of the mantra was carried by the ringing bells, the wafting amber incense, the movements of the embodied souls walking clockwise around the stupa and through the stupa itself, like a transmission tower, out into the universe.  Even at night, as worshippers sleep, thousands of colorful prayer flags continue to release the mantra of compassion into the wind, while Buddha’s calm, omniscient eyes stand witness.

Bodnath sits in the heart of Kathmandu’s Tibetan community, making this not only a religious center, but also a social gathering place.  So, after recharging our spiritual batteries and broadcasting our love into the stratosphere, we honored our bodily call for comfort with some masala chai and a chocolate brownie at a stupa-side café.  Who says you can’t sip chai and awaken your Buddha nature at the same time?

My dear friend and teacher Hamid lovingly served me my first cup of masala chai 17 years ago. It was a moment I will never forget…sitting on the floor of his Chicago flat, the elevating aroma of incense mixed with spices, classical Indian rhythms vibrating through my being. Hamid emerged from the kitchen with two steaming cups of his spicy chai. I remember that first sip. It was the most delicious taste that had ever passed over my tongue. I sat spellbound in a chai-induced state of bliss as the chai coursed through my body. It warmed me all the way up to my soul.

I would go over to Hamid’s for tabla instruction, but before the lesson began, we would sit with our chai and embark on conversations led by our mutual love for the Divine. We would discuss spiritual practice and Hamid would illuminate the teachings of saints like Sri Ramakrishna and Bawa Muhaiyaddeen.  Hamid became a guiding light to my inner path. I learned by his living example the way of compassionate activity and the unity of all sacred traditions. Finishing the last sip of chai, the lesson was over and my drums would still be sitting in their bag. It soon became clear that tablas were not my forte and perhaps our meetings held another purpose.

When I finally asked him for his chai recipe he replied, “I’ll have to show you.” Along with the other spices he crushed up in his mortar and pestle, he would add enough peppercorns, black, white and red, to make it a fiery brew. After boiling it twice, he poured the chai back and forth between two pots to let it breath in the air element. Sometimes he would garnish it with a few strands of saffron. To me, the taste of saffron became synonymous with the heavenly taste of chai.  Still today, i use saffron as my special ingredient that rounds off the bitter taste of tea with a flowery high-note.

Hamid’s chai remains in my memory as the finest. He always made it with goat’s milk and maple syrup. When I started making my own chai, I didn’t know there was any other way. Now on those rare occasions when I drink goat milk chai, it reminds me of Hamid.

Hamid was my chai guru. He taught me not only how to make chai, but also his “secret.” He told me that chai should be prepared with prayer or mantra or loving intentions. This was the most important ingredient. It imbued the chai with a blessing that would pass onto whoever drank it. Since then, I have been preparing homemade chai almost daily. It is my ritual and my offering.

Ganesh is the elephant-headed God in the Hindu tradition who is honored at the beginning of all ceremonies and endeavors. He opens the Way. We offer our love and gratitude to the One who blessed us with inspiration, guidance and protection, and continues to remove all obstacles on our Chai Pilgrimage. I have always loved elephants. Maybe that’s why I instantly connected with Ganesh when I first ‘met’ him. I made this Ganesh (available here) to remind me of his wonderful attributes and immense wisdom.

Ganesh is the inspiration for probably millions of artists. Everywhere we turned, we saw his image. We sighted this Ganesh-in-motion on the back of a rickshaw in Kathmandu.

We passed this Ganesh on a narrow alley in old Kathmandu. He seemed to be glowing.

I colored this ‘chai wallah’ version of Ganesh in my sketchbook.

Our friend Veejay is an artist living in Varanasi. He’s made (literally) thousands and thousands of Ganeshes.

Veejay’s brother, Deepu, carved this Ganesh for us.

And this special “lucky Ganesh penny” sits on my desk — my friend Amanda sent it to me from India.

I love to surround myself with reminders of the Divine, because it does just that — reminds me to REMEMBER. This is something I definitely ‘took’ from my visits to Nepal and India. Here, my days are filled with so much activity–work deadlines, cooking, cleaning, errands, and exercise — that I appreciate the reminder to pause for a moment, breathe, and give thanks. Whether the reminder is an image of Ganesh or Buddha, or even a vase of flowers or a walk in nature, it takes me to the same place within. Peace.

As we ascended the steep stone path to the hilltop Tashiding monastery, each step took us deeper into a palpable prayer. Thousands of colorful prayer flags stamped with Tibetan mantras released their blessings into the clear sky above our heads. The breeze playfully spun windmill-like prayer wheels, spiraling out loving kindness towards the blue mountain horizon. A field of stupas rose out of the earth like white and golden Buddhas popping up in Heaven’s flower garden. The silent blessings permeated our being and carried us barefoot around the monastery grounds.

A wall of mani stones, slabs of granite painted in bright colors with the great Tibetan Buddhist mantra om mani padme hum etched into them, encircled the entire stupa compound in an energetic ring invoking compassion. As we came around a corner, we spotted a figure inside a corrugated tin and stone shack built into the prayer wall. A man peered out from behind stacked slabs of gray stone. As we approached him with obvious interest on our faces he signaled us to come in and sit.

He sat surrounded by engraved tablets, chiseling the next prayer. His long fingers held a chisel in one hand braced against the carving easel, while his other hand gently tapped with a small hammer. His graying dark hair was tied in a knot like a small stupa on top of his head. His face had sculpted asian features and long, thin strands of hair hung from his chin and moustache. He worked diligently as he peered through thick brown glasses tied with a string around his head. Occasionally he stopped and looked at us for a few minutes, the three of us speaking no words.

I somehow asked him if he had carved the thousands of prayers surrounding the shrine. It is like a game of silent charades. You can have an entire conversation this way and not even realize you haven’t spoken a word. He signaled his hand in a circle then pointed to himself to indicate that, yes, he indeed was the artist of this massive body of prayerful work. It seemed irrelevant to try to ask him how long he has been living here as a sculptor. If he told us 300 years, when this monastery was first built, we would have believed him. It is that way in India — no unbelievable truth is beyond doubt. We sat in wonder and witnessed this timeless being living in the heavenly realm dedicating his life to extracting prayers out of stone.

He laid his tools down, and with a flick of his head, flung his glasses to his forehead. Aromatic smoke rose from under his blackened teakettle. He took the kettle and poured another cup, took a bite of a biscuit and a sip of tea. He then sat in silence and closes his eyes. I think he was napping. After a few minutes, his head nodded foreword and his glasses fell back onto his nose. He opened his eyes, took a long sigh and continued his work.

We later learned his name, Yanchong Lodil.