secret autobiography of sri jha baba

Ganga Darshan

sasjr — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 01:04:00 GMT

I've come to realize I need to suspend this journal. My personal diary has all the good stuff in it and I'm not sharing that with you fine strangers. And secondly, my emails to family and friends have the next best content. So, intrepid Nomads, that leaves you a distant third. And I know you wouldn't appreciate that status. However, I never explained my diary concept fully. And by means of explanation, allow me to point you to the finest example I know of what Secret Autobiography really means. Procure a copy of "Apparition of the Self" by Janet Gyatso (?). It conveys a context for this Tibetan sub-genre of literature and highlights the life of one crazy wild dharma yogi: Jigme Lingpa.

I can do no real justice to this brilliant (scholarly) work. It was indulgent of me to try. So, goodbye for now. I'll be here with my feet in the Ganges River, contemplating my next nothingness. Sincerely, Sri Jha Rikhi

Sunrise In Rishikesh

sasjr — Fri, 1 Mar 2013 16:50:00 GMT

Okay, I know there aren't enough photos on my journal. Believe me, I'm taking pictures, but I haven't had time nor the technical skill to upload them onto the journal in a nice narrative fashion. I'm working on it. I know you strangers are waiting on pins and needles. I'm not a Luddite, just a dunce. There's a difference.

I'm in Rishikesh. Finally, gone from the incessant flim-flam that is Pahar Ganj. However, a word of advice for fellow travelers. Get your bohemian fashion on if you hope to blend in among the intelligentsia of Rishikesh. Successful women are not just women, they are Yoginis. Handsome, suitably soiled, loose fitting clothes that fall just right off their lithe bodies, the jewelry, the beadwork. But most especially, the feet. Authentic feet. Not those borish french pedicure types that roam the malls of the world. No, these women and men are a particular kind of goddess and god in the making. If not pure born, then surely they have been groomed from an early age to be so appropriately rough hewn. Tattoes and piercings are not the coin-of-the-realm here. They exist, but instead, a kind of Rastafarian dreadlock sensibility prevails.

Of course, Rishikesh is yet another way-station along the Path. You might find a teacher here, you may not. Many ayurvedic, meditation and various yoga trainings exist. Many restaurants overlook a slowly gliding Ganga River. Sunrise and sunsets are splendid. Babas wander the streets, but most are beggars and not saints. Yet, even the beggars may be much wiser than you or I. Alas, as I was dutifully reminded by a village elder, Truth gathering (perhaps) has been pushed farther into the more remote villages and forests of India, now that curiosity and commerce reach so deeply into our collective existence. The fine trick he says, is to have patience and to stay in one place long enough to listen for the subtle voices that will lead you to the next stone in the brook. The bus that brings you here is not always the bus you will leave on.

Pahar Ganj 102

sasjr — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 00:27:00 GMT

Let's just say a short, stout Indian man comes up to you wearing a rather dissheveled doo-rag with 2 sharp metal objects tucked smartly underneath. He approaches you about how nice your hair looks and...where are you from, oh really, I have relatives that live there. Then he takes a small notepad from his pocket and shows you testimonials written in an approximate language from people who have benefitted from his services. Which happens to be cleaning the wax buildup from both your big knotty ears. When I was a young boy, my dear mother would lay me across her large lap and clean my ears with a soft q-tip and a loving touch. This man is definitely not my mother, so I quickly pull away from hands that have already gripped my lobes. Some say he applies a kind of goo (slight of hand) to the q-tip as he shows you how badly you need his expertise. With a firm, yet respectful dismissal (he's got small sharp objects close to your face) you talk him down from the ledge he seems to be walking. Finally, he moves on to another person (usually white) who carries a camera and seems inpervious to this deliciously macabre invasion of the senses.

Pahar Ganj 101

sasjr — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 10:43:00 GMT

Someone once said that drivers in India purchase a separate battery just for their horn. And that beggar women rent a new dirty baby every few weeks to keep the hustle less recognizable. Some visitors harden their heart while the more compassionate stay busy giving away their money. This is Pahar Ganj, market district and way-station for some of the most bohemian dharma bums on the planet. I'll write more later, I've got to put a saddle on a rat and ride it to the chai stand.