The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck, page 19
The grounds, encompassing several hundred carefully tended acres, are impressive. At the center sits the main temple, an intricate wooden structure with a vaulted ceiling supported by a complex system of joists and rafters. Ringing the interior is a chair rail; the wall is painted white above the rail and green below. The floor is smooth, hard-packed dirt. Following us at a distance, a limping man sweeps away our footprints with a small broom. At one end of the temple a raised platform supports an altar and a lectern. An ancient backdrop of silk hangs from the rafters. Once an image was painted on the cloth, but the golden colors have faded. Moth holes perforate the silk; I touch the border and a piece of it crumbles into dust.
“Please, don’t do that,” Puspa admonishes.
A bell tolls and Puspa turns to face the south. For the next couple of minutes we stand silently as he recites his afternoon prayers. He explains that the bell chimes fourteen times a day, reminding the community to offer themselves to god. The routine changes on Tuesday nights, when Na Satra hosts a dance and concert. I’ve yet to see any women in the compound.
“Women may come to our dances,” he says, pursing his lips, as if there’s a sour taste in his mouth.
When I prod him for more information, it slowly comes out that he and the other 160 males living here equate women with temptation. If Na Satra were not dedicated to preserving the ancient Assamese folk music and dances, Puspa thinks women would not be allowed to enter the commune gate.
“We have become a center for Assamese folk traditions and we will oblige our role… Anyway, it is only one day a week.”
Radiating out from the temple are narrow avenues crowded with houses identical in shape and size. Six to eight men live as a family unit in each one, with two elders acting as parents.
“We are grouped according to age. Each house has someone under ten. Then there is a teenager, someone in his twenties, another in his thirties…”
Puspa, now in his early twenties, entered the commune at the age of seven. There are two new members in his house. “One of my fathers died,” he explains. Longevity appears to be one of the benefits of this monastic lifestyle, for his father lived to a ripe age. Puspa assures me that “prayer extends life in all ways.”
The community is virtually self-sufficient. The members grow their own food and generate income through the sale of musical instruments and fees charged to pilgrims on retreat. As we walk back to the main gate, I notice the man with the broom entering a small door at the back of the temple. He stops at the threshold to bow. Curious, I wander over. The room is separated from the rest of the temple by a plaster wall. Several idols smeared with red dye are arranged near one corner. The largest sculpture depicts an unearthly creature with the body of a lion and the head of a doe.
Puspa is quick to explain: “We don’t pray to them. They are very old and valuable, so we store them here… What else can we do?”
Back in town, a three-block strip of restaurants and boardinghouses, we hire a jeep to take us to the other, more famous Satra commune. Founded in 1740 and supported by Ahom kings until the British seized control, Aunia Ati Satra is twice the size of its cousin. Two middle-aged men walk us through the complex. It’s similar to Na Satra, but on a much grander scale. The grounds are expansive, the housing extends down long shaded avenues, the temple climbs to the sky; even the bell summoning the faithful is bigger.
We’re taken to meet the elders, who salute us in the traditional Satra fashion: with palms together, they touch their chins and slowly nod, their eyes shut. Two young boys bring out a tray laden with flattened rice, yogurt, sugar, bread, and areca nut, a menu reserved for formal occasions. The old men smile but are silent, lifting their eyes heavenward at each of my questions. A gong sounds and everyone leaves the room; not sure what to do, Shankar and I follow.
“The master awaits you. Come,” someone finally says.
Mukhya, the sect leader, is about sixty years old, and extremely cross-eyed. Frozen in the lotus position, he takes his time before speaking. He’s barefoot, clean-shaven, and wearing a spotless white outfit. His spooky eyes hold my attention.
After greeting us, he declares in a low, unnerving voice, “I can see into you and beyond you. I have the power of the third eye.”
Not willing to challenge this assertion, I shift my gaze to his arthritic hands. I naively ask the master to explain the teachings of the satra. He does so, and in less than ten seconds, I’m totally lost. He rambles on nonstop, jumping between the past and the present, detailing life five hundred years ago in the same sentence as life today. He remembers his former lives clearly; they are part of his conscious past, echoing his future. Eventually he ends his monologue and asks if we have any more questions.
“No, Holiness,” I respond, still reeling from his first answer.
“Good,” he says and claps his hands.
A young boy hurries to Mukhya’s side for instructions. He leaves and returns carrying three volumes, each the size of a doorstop, of Mukhya’s biography of Aunia Ati leaders.
“I have put it all down … all my lives are here, all the lives of the other masters are written inside this book. You must buy it to learn about us.”
Besides being written in a language I can’t read, the books carry a hefty price. Neither Shankar nor I offers to buy the set, so Mukhya resolutely starts to read aloud. Shankar gathers his courage and interrupts him halfway through the second page.
“Holy One, what is the story of the tulsi tree?”
Mukhya closes his skewed eyes and explains that the story of the log is based on a dream he had many years ago. This surprises Shankar, who mentions that his grandmother once told him the tale and ascribed it to seers who lived centuries before Mukhya.
“It does not matter. Believe me or your grandmother.” He glares at Shankar. “A tulsi log will someday float down the river growing two shoots that look like eyes. When this happens, god will follow, descending to earth. Often this log is reported, but I tell you it does not exist. The story came from my dream. That is all.”
He invites us to stay and share their communal life. We decline and ask if we can take his picture before leaving. He grants our request, but not before he straightens his tunic and combs his hair. As I focus, he crosses his eyes even more than usual. Afterward he gives a blessing, wishing us “goodness.”
Near the main gate a ghostly hand beckons from inside one of the enormous columns. A Shivaite, Saa Baba, has been given shelter inside the pillar. His skinny body is smeared with ashes, a scraggly beard reaches to his navel, and his tangled hair brushes the backs of his knees. He has been living in the column for two months and expects to stay another month before continuing on his pilgrimage to Benares. A walking stick is propped in one corner, and incense saturates the dank cubicle. I offer him alms, but he refuses.
“I asked you to visit me,” he says touching my arm gently. “I wanted to see the firang… I want to give you a gift,” he adds, handing us each an orange. “Think of Shiva as you taste the sweet juice.”
We return to the ghat to find Narayan inspecting a cook pot. Sweat drips from his face, and he uses a finger to flick it back into the stew.
“Perfect. Just in time for dinner,” he says triumphantly.
“What’s cooking?”
“Fish stew. I hope you like it spicy.”
I look around for my water bottle. While we eat the fiery stew, Narayan shares his impressions of the Satra communes. Like us, he finds Na Satra a pleasant place; he especially likes to go to their dances. The Aunia Satra, however, is a mystery to him.
“Did you see him? Did you see his eyes?”
Whatever reservations we have about Mukhya aren’t shared by the thousands of pilgrims who flock to the commune, some staying as long as three months. Narayan tells us of the miraculous powers attributed to Mukhya, recounting stories told to him by the faithful. One man said Mukhya healed his blindness, another swore his cancer disappeared, and others talked of similar incredible cures.
“He has great power,” Narayan insists.
Although this island is dedicated to the bosom of Kali, I’ve been unable to locate a single statue or reproduction of it. Narayan says there are none that he knows of: “This is not Kamakyha with all its poles and holes.”
We cast off before dawn the next day, striking a course for the southern bank. The fog is once again thick, and within an hour we’re lost in a maze of tiny islands. The keel scrapes mud, forcing us overboard to tow Lahey-Lahey. At one point we even drag her across an island, hoping for a shortcut to the main stream. It’s exhausting work, and we heap abuse on each other. Considering that we’ve been together for more than two weeks, never apart longer than fifty minutes, I find it remarkable that Shankar and I are still talking.
Eventually we find deep water and plenty of river traffic. Downstream three boats are being towed against the current by crewmen on the bluff. Wherever possible, the crew abandons its poles for the tow line. The captain sits and steers while the others trudge along, singing in cadence, pulling the vessel upriver.
We pass Jorhat, the tea capital of Assam. Its large fishing fleet is on the water today; the boats work in pairs, with one craft anchoring the shore end of the net while the other heads midstream, the crew paying out the mesh as they go. The men from the beached skiff take positions about one hundred yards away and start wading through the shallow water, beating its surface with sticks and yelling. This signals the offshore boat to start circling back in, closing the trap. We watch the fishermen come up empty five times in a row. As Gopal told me several days ago aboard the Lucky, “You get used to coming up empty. This is India, you know.”
A couple of days later, when we’re camped several miles upstream from Kaziranga Wildlife Sanctuary, thieves strike. We normally sleep with our gear next to the tent, leaving only a few items in the boat, but that night our campsite is less than ten yards from Lahey-Lahey and we don’t unpack everything. We sleep through the night, undisturbed, but upon awakening, we discover that our tools, pots, fishing tackle, and some clothes have been taken, and most unfortunately, Shankar’s shoes.
“I’ll get those bastards. I’ll make them pay, man oh man, I’ll get them,” Shankar fumes.
“Forget it. We can replace everything… It was only a pair of shoes.”
“Dogface, don’t tell me it was only a pair of shoes. They were mine. I loved them.”
“Let it slide.”
Shankar finally quiets down as we come alongside the wildlife sanctuary. Kaziranga Park, a 165-square mile tract, borders the Brahmaputra for nearly twenty-five miles, more than a day of paddling aboard Lahey-Lahey. Along with the Manas Wildlife Refuge across the river near Bhutan, Kaziranga is the premier spot in India to observe big game, including the largest herd of one-horned rhinoceros (Rhinoceros unicornis) in Asia. Cats, monkeys, boar, deer, and hundreds of other exotic animals are found here. Our cameras hang at the ready as we paddle by this stretch of jungle.
Before 1900 the fabled rhinos were found in many sections of India, but now they are close to extinction. By far the single greatest threat is poachers coveting their valuable horn. For centuries people have attributed fantastic medicinal and aphrodisiac properties to powdered rhino horn. Supposedly a pinch of it can cure lethargy, cancer, or the common cold. Many of the lucky who own a horn rent them out; its presence under a bed is believed to ensure sexual potency, minimize the pain of childbirth, and drive the devil out of a sick person.
Anxious to see the menagerie, we paddle noiselessly, deftly sliding Lahey-Lahey along the glassy river. But not one animal comes into view. In fact, we even miss Kaziranga Lodge, where we had hoped to spend the night. Tucked behind a large sandbar, the colonial structure is hidden from anyone traveling downstream at water level. I spot it too late, while looking back over my shoulder. We decide to press on rather than pole against the current.
Our luck changes several miles later. We see a fishing cat crouched on an overhang with every muscle tensed, ready to spring. We drift in for a closer look at this rare feline. The wind, luckily, is off the bow and carries our scent away from the cat. As we near, I admire its silver-gray coat flecked with black spots. Its eyes are fixed on the water, its ears twitching. The cat has a reputation for killing cattle and dragging off dogs and babies. Shankar snaps a picture, and the click of the shutter breaks the silence. Startled, the cat spins and in one smooth motion bolts into the jungle.
Not far beyond, maybe a kilometer at most, we sight five elephants splashing in the river. They make a tremendous noise, one bull in particular bellowing its enormous presence.
“Give them plenty of room, Shankar. The bull is in musth. Look at all that black crud around his eyes.”
Musth is the external manifestation of a year’s worth of internalized rage, and for several weeks each year, a bull in musth is to be treated with extreme caution. Right now there’s nothing predictable about him save his ferocity and ill temper. As we pass far to port, the elephant raises his trunk and blares at us. Just to make certain we know who’s boss, he trumpets again, watching us until we disappear around the bend.
The air is exceptionally clear today. One hundred and ten miles to the north the Se-La region of the eastern Himalayas is visible; the mountain peaks appear to be holding up one end of the sky. I think of the water flowing all the way down from the 23,000-foot Mount Chomo (Adorable Woman) to this spot under Lahey-Lahey. Near Chomo from our angle is Mount Kangto (Snow Giant), purportedly the second favorite child (Ganges being closest to his heart) of the Father of All Mountains and King of the Snow, Lord Himalaya. South of the river and to the east lie the low Mikir Hills, which once, eons ago, towered over the Himalayas.
According to Assamese folklore, the Brahmaputra was the issue of a forbidden love. From his home atop Mount Kailas, Brahma was entranced by the grace and beauty of Amogha, the mortal wife of an Assamese king. One day the king went on a pilgrimage and Brahma flew to the side of Amogha. He assumed the form of a goose and followed her about. As she bathed, the god became so excited that he climaxed, spilling a puddle of semen. When the king returned, he noticed the milky liquid and ordered his wife to drink it. Reluctantly she obeyed. Divinely impregnated, she gave birth to a son in the form of water. Water cascaded from her womb for weeks, creating a lake in the Himalayas. Growing ever larger, the lake became a sea, and its mass eventually split a mountain in half, springing the Brahmaputra on its holy course.
In Salmora we were told to report to the Kaziranga Park police, which we have failed to do. Not wanting to be mistaken for poachers, we shoot across the river to look for a remote campsite. We find one and settle into our evening routine.
“What are you doing?” Shankar asks as I open the bags of rice and dal.
“Dinner.”
“Where did you find the pots? With my shoes?”
I have forgotten about the theft, but my brooding pal hasn’t. After a meal of cookies and cigarettes, I leave Shankar at camp and set out for an evening stroll. The jungle, a factory of sounds, is less than a mile away, but this sparsely covered island is fairly quiet. Where reeds grow, crickets sing their mating calls. Croaking frogs flop into the water as I approach. Occasionally I hear the clicking of beetles, and twice the mournful cry of a brown fishing owl stops me. It’s an eerie sound, hollow and long: “Habooom-ooo-habooom.” To a superstitious Hindu two screeches of an owl presage success in an undertaking, whereas one is an omen of death. As the chill of night begins to penetrate, I return to the crackling fire, feeding it more thatch and bamboo. I shake my charms and think about the pink duck, hoping that the owl hoots herald a face-to-face encounter.
The next day, countless paddle strokes later, near the town of Bishnath, we spot some large rock formations where the Mikir Hills dip to the river, supplanting the alluvial plain with a craggy, forested landscape. The Brahmaputra traces a major geological fault line running between the Himalayas and the Mikir and Naga hills. Earthquakes are relatively common, and devastating ones occur approximately once every thirty years. The worst quake in recent memory (1950) nearly flattened Shillong, turning to dust several centuries of civilization. In one spot near Goalpara, the river channel shifted almost a kilometer to the south. Violent upheavals in the lower Brahmaputra dumped thousands of acres into the river, choking the stream and raising the level of the bed. The water, temporarily dammed, backed up and ploughed east-northeast, its flow completely reversed. Waves ten to twelve feet high marched upstream, destroying fishing fleets and washing away entire villages.
The town of Bishnath miraculously escaped major destruction. According to local lore, it was saved because of its numerous temples. From Lahey-Lahey we first see Bishnath as an elegant array of curved eaves and high domes floating above a rocky shore of mica and feldspar. The silicates reflect the light, making every crag and rock face sparkle. Bougainvilleas are in bloom, and lime trees sag under the weight of fruit. Several fountains spew mist into the air. As we get closer, we begin to discern dark colors from shadows, and we note that most of the doorways are painted rich greens, blues, and browns. The lighter hues emerge slowly.
The town has an actual harbor, the first we’ve seen, its entrance marked by a twenty-five-foot stone obelisk. Two rusty hooks are attached to its tip; when Bishnath was a major port for British steamships, oil lamps were hung from the hooks to guide the night traffic. We beach just as a herd of water buffalo are driven onto the sand for their daily bath. After squeezing through the herd, we find ourselves at the beginning of a peaceful, shady street. Freshly whitewashed houses run the length of the avenue. It looks like a movie set, spared from the poverty and hardships affecting most other villages. Although no one is in sight, sounds of life abound: hammering, crying babies, clanking pots and pans. We stop at the first teahouse along the way.
The owner is out, but his son greets us like long-lost brothers. Makul hugs me with a wrestler’s grip.
“How did you arrive? The bus is not due for hours.”
