The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck, page 21
Before leaving, we exchange presents. They give us a new bamboo push pole, and I hand them several packs of cigarettes. We drift apart, but a hundred yards off, a voice calls after us. One of the boys sprints along the beach. “We need a match! A match, please.”
13
The Treasure of Kamali-Kunwari
Gauhati is 136 kilometers from Tezpur, a three- to six-day journey depending on weather, currents, and our mood. So far we’ve averaged thirty-five kilometers a day; true to her name, Lahey-Lahey is taking it slow.
Later that week we skim alongside the thick growth of the left bank. Above us a bluff rises straight up from the water, curving twenty-five to thirty feet out over our heads, reminding me of a rogue wave. Many trees in the area have fallen, and their tips overhang the bank. Kingfishers swoop in and out of their nests in the mud cliffs; a flock of widgeons bobs off to starboard, too far away to be disturbed by us. But seconds later, for no apparent reason, the ducks take flight and the kingfishers shriek.
“I’ll bet there are turtles around here,” Shankar comments, keeping an eye out for the telltale bubbles. “I’m hungry.”
A loud cracking noise cuts the air. We stop paddling. Suddenly, with an explosive sound, a giant chunk of the bank drops into the water just twenty yards astern, splattering us with mud. Waves roll over the rail and Lahey-Lahey spins out of control, ramming the cliff. Shankar pushes off and we regain steerage. As we frantically try to paddle clear of the bank, we hear another cracking sound, louder and closer.
“Paddle, man. Paddle!” Shankar shouts.
Not more than three boat lengths away, a fissure opens in the bluff and another piece of the cliff begins to teeter. More roots snap; the crack gets wider. Splam! The cliff plunges into the river. A tree limb strikes me, and Shankar is buried under a deluge of mud and leaves. Lahey-Lahey is pinned, beam to the current, hard against this new island, the bilge filling rapidly. I jump overboard and grab the bailing can.
“Shankar! Shankar!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m OK.”
“Then get out. She’s going under. Bail!”
“I can’t even stand.”
He manages to free himself and clambers over the side. Lahey-Lahey‘s rail clears the surface, and the two of us get to work, trying to empty the swamped boat before she capsizes. Shankar uses his new shoes to bail. We gain enough freeboard to climb back in, and we paddle to a nearby island safe from nightmare bank. We spread everything out to dry and lie down in the sun, too exhausted to talk.
Later I survey Lahey-Lahey for damage. The bottom planks have opened, crazing the protective layer of pitch; the stem has twisted and the topsides are loose along the stern post. Several dozen well-placed nails make her seaworthy again, but I can’t stop all the leaks. From here on, for every hour of paddling, we bail for ten minutes. After making an offering to Brahma and imploring Him to watch over us, we head out, keeping our distance from the bank.
As we close in on Gauhati, we begin to see the freighters of the Brahmaputra. They’re shaped like arks, with plenty of freeboard, bluff bows, and wide beams. Lahey-Lahey is smaller than their rudders. Over fifty feet on the water line, they carry jute, grain, rice, firewood, and other bulk cargos. We watch the crews struggle as they tow or pole their ungainly vessels against the current. On average, traveling upstream takes three times longer than traveling downstream.
The sunset sky is ablaze, the water washed in red. It’s clear now why so many Assamese refer to the Brahmaputra by its mythical name of Lohitya, or Red River. According to Assamese legend, Parasuram, an avatar of Ram, hatcheted his evil mother. For this crime, he was condemned to circle the globe with the axe, unable to cleanse himself of his mother’s blood. After years of wandering, when he finally reached the Brahmaputra, the holy water purified him; the axe slipped from his hand and the blood dissolved, forever staining the river.
“There they are. Up ahead. Those are the Gauhati Hills,” Shankar exclaims the next day.
“Can’t be. Look at the map, Shankar. It’s Bura Mayang. We’re still ten, twelve miles upstream.”
“Hey, man, this is my town. I know these hills.”
As we come abreast of the hill, it becomes apparent that this is Bura Mayang; my smugness irks Shankar no end.
“At least you’re consistent,” he notes, “just as poor a winner as a loser.”
We continue paddling long after sunset, determined to reach Gauhati that night. There’s no moon, and thick clouds obscure the stars, but the city lights guide us. At the edge of town we ship the paddles and glide noiselessly, our eyes on the lit windows along the riverbank. In one a woman cooks dinner alone, pausing to smile at her television; next door a man sits at a table reading a newspaper; the neighbors are arguing; and downstream a young couple embrace and start to disrobe. We float by, undetected, the images changing, lights flicking on and off, people coming and going.
The residential neighborhood gives way to the commercial district. Strings of light bulbs ring a busy marketplace, and headlights bounce along the roads. Solitary figures with oil lamps crouch along the bank, fishing or urinating. A raga sometimes floats through the air; the smell of garlic and onions whets our appetites.
Steering into a state-run ghat, we bang on the side of a dilapidated workboat.
“Who’s that?” a voice asks.
“Two travelers,” Shankar explains. “Can we tie up for the night?”
Giving him no time to answer, Shankar climbs aboard. He speaks Assamese, and I understand little except that he’s calling me an “important American official.” Shankar convinces Paresch, the night watchman, to bend the rules and allow us to moor next to the barge. Paresch helps us remove our gear and promises to keep an eye on Lahey-Lahey. He pours us tea and proposes a toast: “You both must be crazy to travel in a splinter like that, but welcome anyway.”
We walk ashore, and scores of people in the market stop haggling to stare at us.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Shankar.
He doesn’t know, but we quickly find out with a glimpse of our reflection in a window. We look awful. I haven’t shaved in days, and Shankar’s hair could be used for a bird’s nest. We’re dressed for the river, not the metropolis; our pant legs are rolled up, our knotted shirts are open, and we’re caked with dirt. We hail a cab and drive straight to Shankar’s family home. This time everyone is up when we arrive.
“I’ll get some hot water ready,” says Kumar, pinching his nose.
“You must be very hungry,” adds his mother, bless her heart, who has cooked a large dinner. “A mother always knows when her boy is near.” She dotes on us, heaping giant portions on our plates, refusing to let Kumar and Amar question us until we’ve eaten.
When I first visited Gauhati, after the plane ride from New Delhi, I saw little of the city besides the bus station. This time Shankar has promised to show me the sights. Over the past three weeks, he’s been telling me stories about this timeless city, which has been reincarnated often under many names.
Krishna and his white stallion visited here, leaving hoof marks in the granite. Other, lesser gods have also left their astral calling cards, usually in the form of a hand or foot print pressed into stone. A number of temples dedicated to minor deities and fringe cults are located here: the city is the center of the cosmos for Tantrists and many astrologers. Hien Tsang, the Oriental Marco Polo, lavishly praised the city (then named Pragjyotisphur) for its wealth, architecture, and culture. In particular he was impressed by the astrologers, who could read a man’s future by studying his shadow.
Earthquakes and floods have destroyed the buildings Hien Tsang wrote about in the sixth century; however, in some pockets of the city ancient traditions and culture remain intact. I want to meet someone in touch with this past, hoping they might know about the pink-headed duck. Shankar recommends Kamakhya Temple as a place to visit, saying, “They still do things the old way.”
In the morning Shankar and I decide to climb the hundreds of stone steps leading to the temple complex on Nilachal Hill. The four stairways (one on each side of the hill for each of the seasons) were built in a single night by King Narakaur, a mortal who dared to love a goddess. One step from completing his labor of love, he was tricked by the goddess and smitten dead for his arrogance.
I pause at each landing to catch my breath and study the statuary of penises and vaginas which are intended to inspire the weary. Kamakhya is, after all, dedicated to the forces of creation. It honors Kali and her yoni, or vagina, as the supreme creative principle, and it extols the sexual prowess of Shiva, who, from the look of things, was very well endowed.
When Kali’s breast fell upstream to form Majuli, her vagina landed here in Gauhati and created Nilachal Hill. Tantrists have been gathering here for centuries. To them, any land within sight of the hill is sacred, and no higher moment exists in this illusory life than sexual climax within the aura of Kali’s yoni.
At the top of the stairway, we’re greeted by a dozen priests all waiting to guide visitors. The fifteen hundred devotees living in the complex earn their keep by working as instructors in the rituals a pilgrim can perform to expiate sin. We avoid hiring a guide, but I do buy the freedom of a dove, the cheapest available sacrifice. The priest, or panda, dabs the head of the bird with a mixture of saffron and water. As he releases it, the panda raises his voice in prayer.
“Oh, Mother of Creation, bless this man. Grace him with many children.”
“Hey, I don’t want many children.”
“It’s the usual prayer… You will have to buy two more animals: one to ask the goddess to forget and the other to ask her to listen again.”
The temple of Kamakhya is a sprawling building, with distinct sections built at different times. The architecture is a jumble of corners, domes, circles, spires, and arches. Some of the walls are weathered and smooth; others are decorated with filigree and statuary. Most of the relief work celebrates genitalia; doorways are arched and crowned with escutcheons emblazoned with mating animals; fountains are shaped like vaginas. Shankar tells me that in the temple basement there’s a tunnel connecting this shrine of the yoni to Shillong, a city nearly a hundred miles away.
Shankar wanders off to take pictures, while I join the line of pilgrims waiting to enter the temple. Fifteen minutes later I slip away from the crowd, leave the main chamber, and head for what I suspect are the basement stairs. Two steps from the bottom my sleuthing is abruptly stopped by a surprisingly burly panda.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Looking for the passage, the tunnel of love.”
“How dare you! Only true believers can come down here. Go now!” he shouts.
“Are you making a sacrifice?” another panda asks, as I walk inside a nearby pavilion.
“I made one near the entrance,” I say, a bit confused.
“Are you here for the slaughter?”
“Pardon me?”
“Leave this holy place. Go away.”
“Can I take some pictures first?”
“You insult the gods. Go!”
Other pandas are attracted by the commotion and circle me, wagging their fingers and scorning me in low voices. Luckily I spot Shankar in the stone amphitheater overlooking the pavilion. I apologize profusely to the pandas, explaining that I’m a firang and intend no disrespect. I join Shankar, who’s watching a middle-aged couple lead a goat into a small enclosure. They give the leash to a stout-legged priest who ties the animal’s legs and positions its head on a chopping block. Another priest pins the goat as his partner raises the largest cleaver I’ve ever seen; the head must be severed in one blow. The executioner grunts as he lifts the heavy weapon. “Haaar!”
Blood spurts from the neck, dousing the panda, and the head drops to the floor. The body twitches as it’s stuffed inside a plastic bag; one leg punctures the plastic and the priest shoves it back inside. The executioner waves the couple out and swings the bag over a half wall. No doubt goat will be on the menu tonight.
Another couple enters leading two goats. I leave immediately and walk over to the Pond of Fortune, a kinder locale. A priest tells me that Indra, mother goddess, dug the pond for Sad, an avatar of Kali. He swears that the pond is bottomless and claims that scientists trying to plumb its depths have never struck bottom.
“It begins on the other side of the world,” he states matter-of-factly.
Less than a stone’s throw away is a small pool dedicated to Shiva, and it’s full of turtles. I pick one of them up and try to coax its leathery head out of the shell. A man dressed in white approaches me. Assuming he’s going to scold me for doing something sacrilegious, I drop the reptile back into the water.
“Good morning,” the man says in perfect English. “Do you like turtles? They are holy to Shiva, but you must know that, don’t you?”
I introduce myself as a tourist with much to learn.
“That, my foreign friend, is obvious. Many priests would beat you if they saw you handling the holy turtles.”
“Oh, then you’re not a priest?”
“I am a Tantrika following the Tantric Way.”
He has been watching me and the reactions of the pandas. “They think you might be an evil spirit. Did you do something to offend them?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you need help. If you like, I will teach you,” he offers, pausing to look at the sun. “Yes, you have been sent to me for instruction. I can tell.”
For a moment, his words and gestures remind me of my old friend Babba in Calcutta. This man, however, has never left Assam.
“This is where I will remain. I will live and die here among my brothers. I want my ashes scattered on the yoni, and only my brothers know the rites.”
“What rites?”
“Secrets,” he says softly, seating himself at the edge of the pond.
“Can I learn them?”
“Certainly, but you must study and prepare yourself… People, you see, don’t understand us very well,” he says, pondering the water. Two turtles leave the pond and head slowly toward us. “People are ignorant about Tantrists. They think we are evil because we celebrate sex … sex is a way to god.”
I’m all ears. The notion of salvation through orgasm has its appeal. Shankar joins us, and the two men from Assam speak rapidly.
“This guy’s off his rocker,” Shankar tells me, switching from Assamese to English.
“Oh, you speak English as well,” the Tantrika says, surprising my friend.
I explain to Shankar that the man is willing to show us how to reach the Source of All Light through sexual activity. Shankar is momentarily intrigued until the Tantrika reminds us that arduous study is necessary.
“It will take years for you to discover the answer,” he says. “I will answer as many questions as I can, but there are very strict guidelines I must follow.”
“Are you going to stay?” Shankar asks me.
“Yes, maybe there are shortcuts.”
“Good luck. I’m going back to town. Do you remember where the house is?… Good. I’ll see you later or at the boat in the morning. We leave at…”
“Ten. We leave at ten,” I answer, “unless you want to stay longer.”
“I’ll be ready. See you later, alligator.”
“May Shiva enter your heart,” bids the Tantrika.
We sit in the same spot for an hour. He explains that Tantrists view the libido as the essence of the universe. To him, sexual energy is the purest form of energy. If properly directed, sex and ecstasy provide a path to Nirvana.
“Orgasm is bliss,” he instructs. “Orgasm is the point of nothingness. It is the only moment when the human no longer desires.”
He’s got a point.
“Orgasm is the ultimate state of desirelessness, something we call moksa or anada.”
The Tantrika’s name is Prem Sarma. He’s forty years old, although he looks sixty. Thick brows shade his recessed eyes, and his beard fans out across his thin chest. He grew up in Shillong, the third of five sons, and learned English at one of the elite missionary schools. After finishing college, he worked as a teacher.
“Years ago, during a term vacation, I met a very holy man on a visit to Kamakhya. At the end of the semester I left my job. I left everything to become his pupil … to be a Tantrika and find bliss.”
“Has it worked out?”
“Better than I hoped. I love life. Look at me, I am very happy.”
Assam is one of the few places in the world a Tantrist can find happiness. Not only is it home to Kali’s yoni, but the people are tolerant; some of the rites peculiar to cults within Tantrism are outlawed in other states of India. Even here, he says he’s stared at when he wears his weights.
Weights?
“Yes, it is an exercise in self-control. I will show you.”
Prem demonstrates by taking out two iron sash weights, each about three pounds, that he carries in a satchel on his belt. Making sure that none of the pandas are watching, he stands and attaches the weights to the tip of his penis. This exercise in self-control looks incredibly painful.
“But I feel only good things… It is something we learn. You can learn its pleasure.”
“No thanks. I want to know more about moksa.”
I find it impossible to concentrate with the weights dangling in front of me and ask if he would mind removing them. As he unties the cord, he talks about the benefits of the Tantric life. “We seek to enjoy, others do not.”
Most high-caste Hindus equate the loss of semen with a loss of spiritual power. Indeed, Brahmins consider Tantrists unbalanced sex fiends, polluting themselves and everything that is holy by their rituals. For Brahmins, self-denial is requisite to finding peace.
“And that is wrong,” says Prem. “Why should you or I deny our bodies? Why not put them to work? Why not use sexual energy to reach moksa? I believe god is in the pleasures of life, not pain.”
Instead of suppressing pleasure in its many forms, he has studied methods of channeling and enhancing these sensations. Pivotal is the notion that a man can exist beyond the realm of physical sensation once he has learned to internalize his sexual encounters. Many Tantric rituals involve stimulants such as liquor and drugs, which, when used properly, extend the state of moksa. It’s a highly regimented existence, with the sacred text of the Tantras dictating tasks to be accomplished each day. Prem remains tight-lipped when I ask about certain Tantric rituals, like their fabled orgies.
