STONEY FAILED TO GET into foal at Vitu Karve’s stud farm even in early 1978, due at least in part to Vitu’s unwillingness to spend much money on her feed. Vimalananda soon decided to send her elsewhere, but where? All the other stud farms insisted on seeing the color of his coin. When things seemed bleakest Nature stepped in, as She usually did for Vimalananda in a pinch. This time She arrived in the form of Mr. Gokuldas Madhavdas, a friendly industrialist and race horse owner growling his way through life. Gokuldas, who to my eye most resembled a mature and knowledgeable frog, was introduced to Vimalananda by Gokuldas’s shy niece Prabha, who brought her angelic voice to Vimalananda for training on a regular basis. On hearing of Stoney’s dilemma Gokuldas insisted on attempting to prevail on Erach Ghasvala, a dapper Parsi who owned a stud in the South, to accept Stoney into his farm on favorable terms. This was a boon in itself, but the ic ing on the cake—in Hindi we say “the fragrance on the gold”—was that Scar let Ruby stood in Erach’s yard.
Vimalananda had once owned an unofficial share in Scarlet Ruby. Though he was but a part-owner, he had involved himself in all facets of the horse’s training throughout his racing career. Scarlet Ruby’s record speaks to the value of Vimalananda’s participation: win after effortless win, including some of the Classic races. Once he retired to stud Scarlet Ruby made a name for himself as the first stallion foaled in India to sire a significant crop of win ners. Though now long in the tooth he continued to sire successful foals, and Vimalananda, thinking perhaps of how fine it would be to see the offspring of a tryst between two of his most beloved equine friends, decided without hesitation to try to engineer their union.
This necessitated negotiations with Ghasvala who, like us, had a decided fondness for Black Dog, a blend of premium Scotch which is sold only in the
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Indian subcontinent. During a meeting over Black Dog in Bombay, Vima lananda proposed to Erach that he accept Stoney on a contingency basis. After her first live foal, who would go to Vimalananda, she and all her future progeny would become Ghasvala’s property. Ghasvala countered by suggesting that if he decided to accept Stoney he would give Vimalananda half of the first live foal. Vimalananda understood him to promise a half-share in the second as well. Ghasvala then hied himself back to Bangalore, promising a swift decision.
I didn’t attend that meeting and wasn’t much engaged in these delibera tions. When I next arrived in Bombay the matter had come down to the wire, for Vitu was insisting that we decide immediately whether or not Stoney would be staying with him for the rest of the year. In fact, if Ghasvala did not accept her as a brood mare that very night there would be no choice but to leave her in Vitu’s hands for another potentially fruitless year. While Roshni and I sat near the phone anxiously awaiting Ghasvala’s call Vimalananda nonchalantly launched into a numinous discourse for that night’s avid listen ers, a cohort from the group of a dozen or so “spiritual children” who regu larly came weekday evenings to listen to Vimalananda deliver his “talks.”
I was becoming antsy, and said, “Ghasvala hasn’t called yet." Vimalananda replied, “Pipe down, will you? The night is not yet over.” “But what are you going to do if he doesn’t call?”
“I’m not going to worry about it at all. I am relying on Nature to arrange something for Stoney, and I am confident that Nature will not let me down.”
“You may not be worried, but I am about to start biting my nails.”
“Calm down, my boy, it’s all a matter of fate. Stoney will end up wherever she is destined to be. I am confident for many reasons that she has a good destiny, and that wherever she goes she will be happy.”
Vimalananda then began to sing a bhajan (devotional song), and ten or fif teen minutes later came Ghasvala’s call accepting Stoney. After Vimalananda laid the telephone receiver in its cradle he looked at me with an imperious grin and said, “Nature didn’t let me down after all, did She?”
The assembled spiritual“children" then all smiled at me condescendingly, as if to cluck, “You doubted because you lacked faith.” Their smiles chafed me, for though Vimalananda sometimes praised these “children” for their spiritual fervor, both to their faces and to his other acquaintances, he was in private quite aware of their limitations. “Bashermal,” he would say to me in a reflective moment, “is the foundation of this group. He has learned well, and now spends all his free time traipsing around the countryside performing homa. There is nothing wrong with this; it is a good thing. But he could learn even more if he spent more time with me. After all, I was the one who taught him to do homa in the first place. His little bit of knowledge has gone to his head.
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“It is the same with Kalubhai, who keeps trying to impress me with his as trology. He has developed what he believes to be a foolproof system to make money at the racecourse and has become a regular racegoer, even though I have told him more than once that in all my decades of gambling that I have never seen a foolproof system. He thinks he knows quite a bit, and sometimes I have had to be harsh with him, because I don’t want him to ruin himself. This has hurt him, I know, but I simply can’t be a sugar-coated quinine tab let. Better he should be hurt a little bit now and learn his lesson than to have someone else burst his bloated balloon later, which might hurt more. Doshi comes to me mainly to try to impress me with his supposed spiritual achieve ments and experiences, and Harshbhai and some of the others come mainly to get favors-marriage of their sons and daughters, improvements in their finances, expansion of their factories.
“I advised Natvarlal not to get married because it is not in his destiny to be happily married. Then his relatives started to pressure him, and reminded him how dreary life can be when lived alone. In the end he gave in, and came eagerly to me to get my blessing. What could I tell him? I told him, ‘Go ahead!’ Now he comes to me complaining about his household problems, and about his health. His eyes were always weak, and now that he is losing se men regularly his sight is getting even weaker. But what can I do? I gave him my advice and he didn’t take it. Marriage is like a wooden laddu (ball-shaped sweet): if you bite into it you get splinters in your mouth, but if you don’t bite into it you spend the rest of your life wondering how it must have tasted.
“Then there is Bhogilal, who really does very nice sadhana, and doesn’t have enough money to get married even if he wanted to. He is friendly with a good sadhu, who keeps telling him to come live in the ashram and forget his foolish little job, which barely pays him enough to live on. In the ashram he would be fed, clothed and sheltered, and could do sadhana all day long. What could be better for him? Here is God telling him, ‘Come, my boy, I want you to do sadhana, I have made all the arrangements,’ but does he move to the ashram? No! He is afraid to leave the safety of his circle of relatives and friends. Also, somewhere deep in his heart he still thinks he might be able to get married one of these days. So he stays on where he is and does his sadhana. But half of his mind is on the pinups he has on his walls, and that half induces him to masturbate. How will he ever be able to build up enough shakti to make spiritual progress if he won’t stop having orgasms for at least a few months? It’s a waste, I tell you, a real waste of good potential.”
It was the same story with the other children,” like Dr. Martanda, who would come to Vimalananda with the intention of showing off his Ayurvedic knowledge. Usually, though, the doctor found himself being taught something
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new, as he did on the day he flourished under Vimalananda’s nose a small plas tic envelope containing a small brown object labelled “camel nose insect.”
“Doctor Saheb, have you just been in Rajasthan?” asked the galvanized Vi malananda, without even breaking conversational stride. “Look, Robby, camel nose insect! Anyone who has ever spent much time around camels knows that a male camel becomes uncontrollable when he goes into rut. When he becomes really excited he will evert his soft palate-bring it all the way out of his mouth—and then trumpet his virility so that the entire neigh borhood can hear. Doctor Saheb, would you please imitate that noise for my Robby?” Dr. Martanda hereupon begrudgingly produced a truly remarkable noise by grunting loudly while vigorously shaking his head from side to side. I saw Vimalananda stifling a smile.
“At this point,” Vimalananda continued, you must beat the camel severely about the head and neck until he calms down. Otherwise he will break his chain and run amok, trampling people and other animals. Once he calms down he will begin to sneeze, and out from his nose will come lots of white worms. Only the virile camels have these worms, and the most virile produce the most worms. The worms die immediately, and dry into the state that you see this one in. We use these in Ayurveda to treat respiratory ailments and menstrual maladies. Am I right, Doctor Saheb?” Dr. Martanda could only shake his head “yes,” in amazed silence. At first I had some doubts about the veracity of this rather too far-fetched story, but when years later on a camel safari in the Rajasthan desert I made enquiries I found that all its details checked out.
Vimalananda tried periodically to make his “children” understand the error of their ways, but they mostly preferred to continue in the way they were going while he mostly preferred not to interfere. “Give them enough rope and they will hang themselves,” he would say. “Because Nature loves me She loves my ‘children’too, and does much of their work for them. But many of them have come to expect me to force Nature to solve all their problems. Why should I? I did my sadhanas for my own benefit, and for the benefit of those who love me for myself. This is why I am mainly interested in paying off my existing rnanubandhanas with these so-called devotees. They believe they are doing something great if they bring me sweets and flowers now and again. They think that I should recognize the depth’ of their devotion and be prepared to do whatever they ask of me. Do they think I am going to become their slave? Ha! If they are sensible they will take advantage of what I have to offer; if not, well, once the debt is paid I’ll go my own way and they can go theirs.”
Parekh, who owned a transport company, was one of the few lower-main tenance devotees. He neither claimed to be something he was not nor pre
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tended to be smarter than he was. Whenever Parekh would send us lunch unannounced we would know that he had a problem-one of his trucks had gone missing, perhaps, or maybe he wanted to convey a grossly overweight payload. He would inevitably arrive a few hours after his food did, and would begin to massage Vimalananda’s legs while he explained his trouble. Vima lananda would then speed off in his astral body to ameliorate the problem while the massage was going on, and Parekh would sail home afterwards confident that his most recent difficulty would soon be a thing of the past.
As Vimalananda and I sat playing chess a few days after one such transac tion he told me, “Parekh is one of the few sensible people who come to ex tract work from me. He never tries to show off. He knows he is coming to beg and he comes humbly, which I appreciate. Next, he doesn’t disturb me while I am doing the work; on the contrary, he helps me out by his massage." He paused to checkmate me charmingly as I helplessly marvelled yet again over his prowess at the game. Or rather his prowess at arranging prowess for him self. Though he had been chess champion of his college Vimalananda could still be beaten by another well-trained player when he was playing on his own. But when he called a disembodied grandmaster into his body while he went elsewhere on an astral errand he was quite unbeatable. His favorite ‘substitute’ player was Paul Morphy, whom he claimed had reincarnated as Bobby Fischer. Both men specialized in the play of the knights," the skillful use of those pieces to interdict the opponent’s movements. I never grew tired of watching Vimalananda’s seemingly disorganized chessmen suddenly sweep invincibly around the board like an armored whirlwind. Occasionally when he was thoroughly preoccupied elsewhere I could wear down his con centration sufficiently, by using the Indian strategy of never moving a piece to any square where it has no support, to win a game off him. But those occa sions were rare.
“You know, Robby,” he continued as I reset the board for the next game, “all these swamis talk about samadhi as the highest goal, but I think they are fools. What is the use of these spurting samadhis, anyway? Fine, you go off into a trance, but when you drop back down to earth you are just as you were before. That sort of samadhi state stays separate from the normal waking ‘you.’ I think it is much better to retain consciousness on this plane even while you shift your main focus to other realities. Here I am playing chess with you, but as I play I can go to America to check on how your parents are doing, or I can visit Patala (the underworld), or the planet Venus, or my Guru Maharaj, or wherever I please, and still sit here acting as if I know noth ing. To be truly aware you have to know what is happening far away today, what has happened here long ago, and what is going to happen anywhere in
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the cosmos during the coming decades. But all the while you continue to function effectively in this time, space and causality. Awareness on all levels at all times–that sort of enlightenment has some use.”
This sort of awareness was particularly useful to those students like me who approached Vimalananda for help during their exams, for every student who did so inevitably scored well. It was best to advise him in advance, but even when informed after the fact he seemed able to influence results. Shernaz’s daughter Arzoo, whom I was tutoring at his behest, made it a post-test ritual to stand before him with a hang-dog look, telling him timidly that because of some stupid errors she would not do well in a certain subject. After chiding her a little for her carelessness Vimalananda would tell her, “Don’t worry about it; wait and see the result.” After she received that assurance Arzoo would without fail score best in that subject in which she had done the worst.
Though he never explained to me how he manipulated examinations Vi malananda was forthright about the means he used to help one of his friends with her piano recitals: “She likes to give performances, but they make her so nervous that she slips up in her playing. I want to help her out, because she is my child. Every mother wants her child to shine out. The Chaya Purusha Siddhi is very useful for this sort of thing. Chaya means ‘shadow. You achieve the Chaya Purusha Siddhi when you can bring your own shadow to life and gain control over it. This is not a very difficult siddhi to attain, really; the main restriction is that you have to repeat the mantra at a certain time of day while you sit on a riverbank. Once you have achieved this siddhi you can send your shadow wherever you please and it will do your work for you. When performance time for my friend comes around, for instance, I simply send my shadow to the concert hall to stand behind her, and transfer some of my confidence to her. Then she plays confidently, and her show is a success."
The University of Poona’s Ayurvedic examinations, which spanned a three-week period every year and a half, consisted of a dozen or more three hour periods of writing long-hand answers to essay questions, followed by half a dozen practicals. These became real torture sessions in the 107°F heat of April 1978. On their completion I made tracks for Bombay, ready for what I felt was a well-earned vacation. There I found Vimalananda in an excellent mood, for Stoney was finally in foal. Shortly thereafter Arzoo made her first trip to Bombay, and Vimalananda decided that we should all have an outing to Tirthakshetra, our favorite hot springs. Arzoo stayed at Harshbhai’s house, where she was stung by a wasp on the inside of her thigh on Sunday, the day after her arrival. Too embarrassed to tell anyone she suffered silently until she reached Vimalananda’s flat on Monday, when Vimalananda noticed the pain on her face and forced her to disclose her misery to him. “Let’s solve this
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problem right now," he said. “Robby, go get me the broom!” Was he going to sweep the pain away, I wondered? Yes he was—he had Arzoo spread her legs modestly, and then stroked the swollen area with the delicate tips of the grasses that compose this sort of broom. Arzoo and I were both amazed, for voila! the pain disappeared instantly, and the swelling began to subside.
But there was no time for awe; we had to be off on our excursion. The most famous of the several hot springs near Bombay are at Vajreshwari, near Ganeshpuri. At that time Tirthakshetra was little known and rarely fre quented. The first two of its four pools are too hot for anything except cook ing, so as soon as we arrived we would put our rice and dal into a small cloth bag and leave it to parboil in pool no. I while we coddled ourselves in pool no. 3. On this occasion we enjoyed both a good soak and a pleasant lunch, and were reluctantly wending our way back toward the city, jugs filled with mineral water, when our automobile conked out. Though Vimalananda tried over and over to start it the battery continued to die, and soon was dead. There we were in the middle of an unfamiliar jungle, miles from the nearest town. Night was falling. For ten minutes we tried to start the car by pushing it, to no avail.
Vimalananda then opened the car’s hood and stared concentratedly at the engine. After he closed the hood he paused for a few minutes, and when he again sat behind the wheel and turned the ignition key the engine started in stantly, as if nothing was wrong. We drove uneventfully back to Bombay, saved yet again by “Nature." As soon as we reached home the car quit and would not start for anything. We discovered the next day that the starter sole noid was burnt out. Vimalananda sent me down to make an offering to An janeya, saying, “You should be thankful to Anjaneya that you are here in Bombay now. If not for him we might still be out by the side of that road.” I accordingly made a beeline for the Anjaneya temple near the fire station, to praise Him for saving us the previous evening. While there I also sent up an orison of thanks to Nature for sending me such an intercessor as Vima lananda, and a plea to keep him interceding for me indefintely.
June 1978 found the winds of change, spawned perchance by the impend ing monsoon, sweeping across our string of horses. When he took up racing again after a hiatus of more than two decades Vimalananda’s first trainer had been the genial, foul-mouthed, owl-faced Maneckjee, and his first horse the grey Zomaral, which he owned half and half with his trainer. Shortly thereaf ter Stone Ice arrived, and after old Maneckjee’s death both horses went along
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with Scarlet Ruby to Maneckjee’s son Zubin to train. They remained there until the day when Scarlet Ruby was sent to stud and Zubin neglected to ob tain for Vimalananda his portion of the money due him for his unofficial” part share in the horse. Vimalananda, who was quick to react to unfairness, lost his temper and predicted that Zubin’s charges would do poorly during the upcoming Hyderabad season.
When Vimalananda would occasionally prognosticate for trainers or own ers who did not know him well they would often think him drunk or insane even when those predictions later came true. But Zubin, who had planned multiple winners in Hyderabad, knew enough of Vimalananda’s influence with Nature to realize what sort of predicament he was in when these win ners failed to materialize. A few months after this prediction of drought Vi malananda met Zubin at a party in Hyderabad and greeted him with, “So, my boy, how goes your season?"
“What season?" asked Zubin, jauntily. “I am here on a holiday!" Then Zubin meekly buttered up his owner over the evening until Vimalananda magnanimously proclaimed, “I will permit you to win one race, on the last day." Zubin did in fact win one race in Hyderabad that year, on the last day of the season. He then quit training altogether.
Vimalananda’s horses were thereupon transferred to one Appagaru. When a year later Appagaru went off to train in Bangalore, the horses went to Mr. M. Lafange, where they sat when I arrived on the scene. Lafange was not a bad man, but he was cheap. From the beginning he tried to save money by scrimping on his horses’ rations and on the straw they used for their bed ding. I never much liked him, but so long as he catered to Vimalananda’s whims I at least endured him. In 1978, though, two new owners entered his stable and Lafange got too big for his britches. Plans were therefore afoot, ini tiated by the ever-scheming Dr. Kulkarni, to transfer Vimalananda’s horses to the care of Mr. Tehmul Antia, a handsome scapegrace whose charming wife Dinaz did everything she could to make us feel that we would be welcome in her husband’s stable. Tehmul could only get a trainer’s license if he could show to the Club that he had a minimum of six horses under his care, and Vi malananda’s string of six-Zomaral, Elan, Repay, Kamaal, Timir and Ba jarangi-would enable him to comfortably satisfy that requirement.
I completely lost my sympathy for the Lafanges on the morning I went to request Mr. Lafange to appear before Vimalananda in his hotel room, that by his contrition he might avoid the loss of Vimalananda’s horses. When I reached Lafange’s home I found no one there but his wife, who replied to my query with some asperity: “Mr. Lafange cannot come to Mr. Vimalananda whenever he is summoned! He is busy with his other owners."
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“Fine,” I said, and left in a huff, thinking, “He’ll soon have plenty of free time for those other owners.” I arrived at the hotel ready to present my case in detail, only to find that Vimalananda had already made his mind up to shift from the world of Lafange’s rnanubandhanas to Tehmul’s karmic milieu. Mrs. Lafange’s fresh insult provided us a convenient excuse for moving on, and we prepared a story of innocent lack of recourse: “We wanted you to come to set tle things, Mr. Lafange, but you were busy with your other owners."
In the end it was Lafange himself who did the deed, when a day or two later Roshni called him from Bombay and he told her that everything was just fine with the horses in Poona. Thoroughbred horses are a finicky lot, each with its own idiosyncrasies; Elan, for example, would only take her carrots grated. The trainer was expected to take care of these individual requirements, and was paid for doing so. Shortly after Roshni called Vimalananda to report that all was well Arzoo, who acted as our spy at the Poona stables, called to report that all was in fact not well. Arzoo notified Vimalananda that the horses were getting no carrots or other treats and that there was a shortage of bedding straw. Vimalananda promptly called Roshni back and accused her of shield ing Lafange. Roshni promptly “got wild” and called Mr. Lafange, but got through only to Mrs. Lafange, who told her that all was well. Roshni then called both husband and wife liars, told Mrs. Lafange that Mr. Lafange was “dead” to her, and hung up.
To tell an Indian woman even in jest that her husband is dead to you is a dreadful insult, for it acts as a sort of request to Nature to bring that death about. Being an Indian woman Roshni knew very well that Mrs. Lafange would be sure to retaliate. Indeed, when Vimalananda called Lafange in the evening to patch things up Lafange told him, “Take your horses out of my yard!” Lafange expected that Vimalananda would then beg forgiveness for that slight, which would allow Lafange some moments of self-righteous satis faction before he would grudgingly permit the penitent to scrabble back to his fold. Little did he know that Tehmul was waiting to step into his place, that to Tehmul those horses swiftly went. Then, after it had become too late for any entreaties, the Lafanges realized that they had lost their fount of golden eggs. Had Roshni not lost her temper the horses might still be with Lafange, for Vimalananda usually harkened to supplication as readily as did Prithviraj Chauhan. Lafange was predictably livid when he discovered the defection and refused to speak to Dr. Kulkarni (“that traitor!”) for weeks thereafter.
“At least," said Vimalananda on his arrival in Poona at the end of the drama, puffing contentedly on a cigarette, “Lafange now has some other owners. I’ve been wanting a new trainer for some time, and one of my rea sons for waiting so long to leave has been Lafange’s lack of horses. Every time
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I hinted that I might shift Lafange or his wife would come to me whining about how poor they are and how they would be ruined without my string. I don’t hate the man, so I didn’t want to destroy him. But I am really glad to be free of him and his mokul.”
I had dropped in on the Lafanges only once before, in the company of Vi malananda during the 1977 Poona season. On that occasion he had drawn my attention to a large rock that sat completely covered with the red powder called sindura smack dab in the middle of the parlor of the small flat the Lafanges called home. “Yes?" I asked him with my eyebrows. “Mokul," he whispered. After we left he explained to me that a mokul, which is a sort of Muslim angel, had taken up residence in that rock, and that while the Lafanges were aware of the good he could do them they couldn’t seem to comprehend the ill he could cause if he weren’t pleased.
“I am glad to be free,“Vimalananda continued, “because the Lafanges are always asking the mokul to do things for them and keep trying to bribe him by offering him this and that. But because the mokul doesn’t appreciate their greedy attitude he is never in a very good mood, and so their prosperity is never very good.”
“Aren’t they asking for trouble by fiddling about like this with an ethereal being?”
“And how! They’re in way over their heads. They don’t comprehend any thing of how the mokul thinks, and I am very much afraid they will just con tinue creating trouble for themselves until they are destroyed. I tried to explain to them how to take care of the thing, but they wouldn’t, or couldn’t, listen. Then I told them that I’d get rid of him for them. But they think he is going to be their ticket to the big time, so they refused that too. It’s so ironic; they don’t know what to do with him but they insist on holding onto him.”
“Like a baby pulling a dog’s tail.”
“That’s right. Even if he is a good dog he will probably bite you if you an noy him long enough. Then why should you cry about it when he does?”
“This is all the Law of Karma at work again, I suppose?”
“What is there in life but the Law of Karma? My concern was not to be dragged down with them, and now that Nature has given me a way to exit gracefully I have taken it gladly. I know that Tehmul is no saint either-have you looked closely at his physiognomy?—but he owes me something, since I have helped him get his license. Also, he is inexperienced, which means that he won’t interfere too much with me at least for a while. Hey, Arzoo!”
Arzoo had, after putting some rice for our lunch in the pressure cooker, come to the front room to listen to the latest in the Lafange saga.
“Why is it that after an hour of cooking we have not heard any whistle
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from the pressure cooker’s safety valve? Shouldn’t the cooker’s pressure have built up by now?” Arzoo agreed that it should have, and we all filed into the kitchen to probe the mystery. There was the cooker, cooking merrily, but not a sign of any pressure.
Arzoo then clumsily blurted out a confession: “Now I remember! I put wa ter in the vessel with the rice but I forgot to add water into the bottom of the cooker. Now it’s too late; the rice must be burned.” She began to hyperventi late and wail: “What if the cooker is damaged? If it is damaged my mother will kill me!”
“Oh, pipe down,” said Vimalananda genially as he took charge of the pot, and when he opened its lid there sat perfect rice steaming fragrantly within! “Your mind was on my talks instead of on your cooking, but because Nature loves me She loves my children’too, so long as they don’t get too big for their breeches. But don’t try this stunt when I’m not around or you’ll be saving up to buy a new pressure cooker! It’s time you learned to concentrate on your work.”
I knew that admonition was meant for me as well, for I had just been offi cially made Vimalananda’s racing agent and was now expected to handle much of his business both at the stables and in the offices of the R.W.I.T.C. As it was my responsibility to ensure that there was enough money in each horse’s ac count to cover that month’s B.T.F. (Basic Training Fees) and race entrance fees I quickly made friends with most of the office staff and, since I also handled the matter of the vet bill, Dr. Kulkarni quickly became my friend. Many of the other trainers also began to acknowledge my presence, having concluded early on that I would only work so hard for Vimalananda’s benefit if I were his (probably wealthy) silent partner. I did what I could to foster this useful misap prehension, which helped to open the doors of the racing fraternity to me.
And what an unusual world that fraternity was! There were the “big” train ers, like Ardeshir Rustomjee, who kept in their own stables the Club limit of 60 horses but controlled more via their villeins. After thoroughly drilling these bright and seemingly pliant assistants in their training methods the big trainers would “lend” them enough horses to be individually licensed. The owners who trafficked with these assistants would then be confident that even though their horses were not officially saddled in the master’s stables the master’s eye was on them nonetheless.
Next came the mid-size and small trainers, some quite talented, who had never accumulated quite enough good press or good fortune to join the ranks of the big boys. A few of these were private trainers, who trained horses for a single owner. Some trainers were ex-jockeys whose knowledge of how both to boot home and to hook horses made them really expert players of the game. Param Singh, who began mid-sized but soon graduated to bigness,
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was one of my favorites in this genre. Both he and his able assistant Nusrat Hassan, who afterwards also became a major trainer, had great respect for Vimalananda and always made it a point to chat with me as well.
Near the bottom of the heap of trainers sit the masalawalas, who are satis fied only when they can make their charges win at long odds. A masala is any mixture of spices that is used to flavor food. Each Indian recipe has its own masala, without which the dish falls flat. Similarly, each horse or mare re quires its own pattern of spicing” in the form of track work, veterinary treat ment, handicap and the like for her to create a tasty bet for her owner and trainer. A racecourse masalawala, who specializes in “cooking” horses that no one else would eat,” works overtime disseminating disinformation to ensure a glorious repast for himself and his friends.
Masalawalas will do anything to get their horses fit enough for a good gamble. Sometimes masalawalas take healthy horses and sedulously hook them for months together until they drop so far out of the public eye that no one will take a flutter on them even when they look fit enough to run a good race. Sometimes they take broken-down plug horses and patiently return them to racing fitness, and sometimes they experiment on defective, neurotic or uncontrollable horses with unorthodox training methods. Whatever his preferred methods you know a trainer is a real masalawala when you can never tell that his horses are on the job. Foremost among the masalawalas during my time was Mohammed Mustapha, who was ably assisted by his son Mashallah, ‘Mashie’ for short. They invariably greeted me as I walked by, and invariably never gave me the slightest idea of what they were up to.
Owners also come in large, medium, and small sizes, the smallest of them owning only a part of a single horse. It is widely rumored that some big own ers enter the racing business for the express purpose of gaining tax relief by losing money, for horse racing is reckoned in India to be an “agricultural un dertaking” which attracts favorable tax rates. It is said to be an open secret that many owners launder their “black” (illegal) money by betting heavily, for once the government tax is paid on a bet any winnings therefrom become “white” (legal) money. Regular bettors in those days abated their tax burdens by opening special accounts with bookies. When a “1 + 4” owner told his bookie that he wished to bet Rs. 100 the bookie would write “Rs. 100” in his book and would charge tax on that amount, but would calculate the owner’s bet as Rs. 100 + 400 = 500 and would pay off on that amount. For a “1 +9” owner the tax was paid on Rs. 100 and the wager became Rs. 100 + 900 = 1000. “Mad” bettors who wagered hundreds of thousands of rupees on a race placed those sums with private, often illegal, bookies, and any winnings from those bets remained wholly unlaundered.
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Horses belong to one of five handicap classes in Western India. Two-year olds enter the system in Class V-A and are promoted or demoted as they win or lose. Those who live up to their potential rise to the ranks of the crème de la crème who occupy the top handicaps of Class I, and those who are but nags tumble down to Class V-B, where they become masala fodder. Our Timir, for instance, was a reliable Class III horse who after flirting briefly with Class II remained in and continued to win races in Class III throughout his career. The biggest tests of talent in Western India are the Classic races, which are terms races that are at least theoretically open to horses of any class. At that time the Classics included the Indian versions of the 1000 Guin eas, the 2000 Guineas, the Oaks, the Derby and the St. Leger, and the R.W.I.T.C. Ltd. Invitational Cup. The big trainers handle most of the Classic winners and Class I horses, leaving only the dregs of the upper classes to the mid-size brigade. The masalawala eternally plays his horses between classes
V-B and V-A, with the occasional foray into class IV.
Tehmul’s yard, which sheltered horses from all the classes, soon became my own classroom. There I watched horses schooling and lounging, spurting and galloping, loosely rolling and gently trotting. I discovered that work in the sand is good for horses with dinky joints, and swimming benefits those whose bodies are stiff. I learned how horses are fed and groomed and their stables cleaned, and was introduced to bog spavins and bone spavins and shin splints, and how to treat them (one of the best ways to treat shin splints being to wash the area repeatedly in the horse’s own urine). I saw how swol len joints were chemically blistered to reduce them and how tendons that had bowed out were “pin-fired” to create thick bands of scar tissue to hold them in place. I learned to extract useful rumors from the current of vulgarisms and ribaldries that circulates like irrigation water from yard to yard, and to note without overt comment the many inequities and grievances as they ac cumulated. I studied jockeys for falsehoods and inconsistencies as they dis sected a defeat with the owner and trainer, aware that they were already thinking of their next rides as they described their last ones. In between I re warded myself for all this work by sitting in awe of Nature’s plan, as I watched the late afternoon sun shine on necks and flanks and hindquarters that rip pled with quivering well-tuned muscles as the horses gambolled and tit tupped through their evening walks.
Tehmul notched his maiden success as a trainer on August 15, 1978, India’s 31st Indepedence Day. His first winning mount was our milestone-maker Timir, who won in a spectacular dead heat. As he passed the winning post an infuriated Vimalananda snapped, “Had Shernaz not disturbed me last night Timir would have walked this race!" Shernaz had disturbed him to tell him of
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Arzoo’s high fever; he resented the distraction not because he did not care for Arzoo but because Shernaz by this time in her life should have known how to deal with a fever. Arzoo’s fever, which turned out to be typhoid, went on for weeks—as Vimalananda had predicted some weeks earlier in the wake of an amazing event.
One ominous afternoon a monkey climbed in through the front window of Shernaz’s house and advanced to the middle room where Arzoo lay sleep ing on her bed. Next to the bed stood a full-length mirror, and when the monkey saw himself therein he saw a rival. He probably threatened that op ponent a few times before he lost his temper and threw an uppercut at him, a punch which broke the mirror and lacerted his hand. His screams of panic and fury awoke Arzoo from a deep sleep into the terror of finding herself ly ing alone, flecked with mirror shards, covered with the blood of a monkey who raged just a foot or two from her bed. When Vimalananda was told of this he said solemnly, “This bodes very ill for Arzoo’s health. I will try to avert it, but I think she is about to fall seriously ill,” and so she did. She also recov ered completely, thanks to Vimalananda’s nursing
Timir continued to create landmarks in the lives of his affiliated humans when the young, talented, personable Homi Mehta became a full-fledged jockey by winning his 40th race on his back. Everyone loved Timir. Though he tended to be somewhat testy his behavior was generally genteel. Most male horses who are not expected to win Classic races are gelded early on to keep them tractable, but Timir had escaped the castration knife because he was a “double rig”: neither of his testicles had ever descended into his scro tum. Another reason male horses are caponized is to keep them from wasting their energy in masturbation, which becomes quite the fixation with some of them, as it did with Repay, the horse who had begun the 1978-79 season as Vimalananda’s great hope. Repay was unusual in two ways: while most horses sleep standing up he would instead make up a nice bed in the straw for himself each night, and lay down to sleep; and he had a striking predisposi tion for self-fellatio.
Many of Vimalananda’s horses showed some sort of sexual peccadillo. Elan, for instance, who had returned to racing from stud, would regularly be come so aroused by any well-hung stallions nearby that she would begin to swish her tail and gush fluid from her vagina, which did away with any inter est she had in her work. But Repay’s was a rare and strange case, for every other horse (in India at least) masturbates by rubbing against a handy surface like the door of his stall. Even Dr. Kulkarni, who had seen most every equine aberration, was perplexed: “It’s astounding," he informed Vimalananda. “At first I could not believe it when the groom told me that he was sucking him
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self off, but it is true. We have tried to stop him with a ring, but he refuses to quit until he has an orgasm. In fact, it has now become a daily habit. I know you don’t like to cut your horses, but I don’t think you have a choice in this case." Unwilling to give up just yet Vimalananda instructed the groom to continue trying to interrupt Repay’s persistent sperm-swilling, first with the ring, which was positioned on the end of his penis to hinder erection, and then by applying bitter herbs to his organ to discourage him from taking it into his mouth. Neither of these expedients worked, though, and eventually a reluctant Vimalananda had to agree with Dr. Kulkarni’s assessment. Repay was emasculated in the spring of 1979.
During this period of our protracted focus on semen Vimalananda found one day the occasion to enlarge on its nature and importance, and on the im plications of its wastage. “You must know," he began one evening after an af ternoon of viewing the recalcitrant Repay at the stables, “that the word shukra means semen in Sanskrit.”
“I do,” I replied. “And you know that Shukra is also a name for the planet Venus?”
“Yes. The texts also state that the planet Venus, is the guru of the asuras. In that context they call him Shukracharya (Shukra + Acharya (teacher] = ‘Ve nus the Guru’). When the texts say ‘asura, do they mean the asuras who are the enemies of the devas? The asuras that some people call demons’?”
“Yes, those asuras.” “Who are supposed to live under the earth, in Patala?”
“Well, not exactly. Patala is on a different plane of existence from our Earth, an astral plane. The asuras are a sort of degenerate race of astral be ings. The devas, who are also astral beings, are willing to help us humans if we know how to properly propitiate them. The asuras are much more selfish, and use their power to delude other beings into believing what the asuras want them to believe. A lot of this ‘flying saucer’ business has to do with the asuras. They like to play around with humans, pretending to be divine while they experiment on us. Some deluded people even worship the asuras…but they usually regret it in the end.
“Asuras are very fond of indulging themselves with meat, alcohol, and sex. I like to call asuras shukra-charya, ’those whose behavior is motivated by se men,’ because they believe in using sex freely for enjoyment, and don’t mind wasting semen. That is why asuras worship the god Brahma, the creator. The planet Venus is called ‘Shukra’ in Sanskrit because Venus is in charge of sexu ality. “Shukracharya’ can thus also mean “Semen-Teacher,’ which is quite an apt way of translating Venus’s name.”
“Why?”
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“Because Shukracharya possesses the Sanjivini Vidya, the knowledge (vidya) of return to life (sanjivini). That is, he can bring the dead back to life, which he does with the help of semen. Sanjivini Vidya is so great that you can take a corpse, bury it, and make a contract with Mother Earth to keep it invi olate for up to six months. Then you can still bring it back to life after that six months, with the same soul, same personality, and same karmas, good for another hundred years.”
“Isn’t this what some sadhus do?”
“When an Aghori is about to die he will find someone else who is on the threshold of death and will then enter that body. This is called para-kaya pravesha. Through it you can live on and on and on. But it is different from Sanjivini Vidya.”
“I keep hearing stories about the Sanjivini Vidya. What exactly is it?”
“Good question. If you want to know about Sanjivini Vidya you should ask Shukracharya directly. All I will tell you about it right now is that is has some thing to do with semen. You’ve heard of cloning, haven’t you? Sanjivini Vidya is a sort of super-cloning, in which thousands or millions of beings can be produced from a single spermatozoon. But it is not that simple to perform.
“Sanjivini Vidya mainly utilizes the subtle form of semen—the ojas-in stead of the physical sperm. The asuras are very practical, and they are very interested in physical semen, so they follow Shukracharya. And he in turn tries to get them to go beyond the physical semen to the ethereal ojas, from the mundane into the more subtle regions of being. It is one facet of the eter nal play of guru and disciple.
“Sanjivini Vidya interests me because of the role it played in an incident which happened long, long ago. Its repercussions are being felt even today, so listen carefully! The asuras are so jealous of the fact that the devas are allowed to run the cosmos that they do nothing but plot wars against the devas to challenge them for dominion of the universe. All the wars have the same re sult: the devas are defeated until they seek help from some superior being, like Shiva or Vishnu, Who helps them regain heaven.”
“Why should the devas always lose first? Aren’t they the good guys?”
“They are good, but they are also complacent. They are easily satisfied with their achievements and have no interest in progressing further. This makes them vulnerable to the asuras, who are always hungry for more, always will ing to try something new.
“Why not just have a universe without asuras, since they’re so much trou ble?”
“Because you can’t have devas without asuras. The devas balance the asu ras and vice versa, which is natural. Without asuras the devas would let the
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universe stagnate. Nothing would ever change, because the devas believe in the status quo. Asuras believe in change, and in fact the devas change only when the asuras force them to change. But the asuras are so selfish that if they were allowed to rule the universe they would quickly demolish it. You cannot trust asuras with authority because even though they can achieve great things they also create great chaos. Like children they can be both very kind and very cruel. They can perform terrific austerities, penances which the de vas could never dream of doing, but when their austerities produce shakti they always misuse it. Fortunately for us not all asuras are experts at sadhana. Most asuras are very foolish, in fact. They can follow the rules and restric tions of sadhana nicely for a while. But then, because they have no inherent sense of purity, they dissipate the shakti they are building up by breaking their own rules. Thank God that they do, for otherwise they would still be running the universe, and it would be in a terrible mess!
“During these wars with the devas the asuras had a distinct advantage in that any of their number who were killed in battle could be brought back to life again. The devas lacked this advantage because their guru Brihaspati, the planet Jupiter, lacked knowledge of the Sanjivini Vidya, which was Shukra charya’s exclusive preserve. The devas knew that they would always be in danger of being conquered by the asuras as long as Shukracharya alone had this power, so they decided to employ subterfuge. They sent Kacha, Bri haspati’s son, to Shukracharya to learn the Sanjivini Vidya by trickery.
“When Kacha reached the city of the asuras and informed Shukracharya of his intention to learn Sanjivini, all the asuras warned Shukracharya against it. They knew that if Kacha learned that vidya the devas would be able to use it against the asuras in battle.
“But Shukracharya told them, “I will never turn away anyone who comes to me for knowledge. The devas have humbled themselves sufficiently to send the son of their preceptor to me, and he will study. The asuras had to keep quiet in front of their guru; whom they relied on to provide them with the energy to enjoy the things they valued most in life: good food, good wine, and plenty of combat and sex. They kept quiet to his face, but behind Shukracharya’s back they grumbled.
“Kacha was such a brilliant pupil that he attracted the attention of Devay ani, Shukracharya’s daughter, who promptly fell in love with him. Shukra charya encouraged his daughter’s suit because he knew that she loved Kacha purely. The word kacha means the loincloth a boy wears during his period of study while he is celibate. So when I tell you that soon Kacha and Devayani were ‘married by the ceremony used in heaven’ I mean that Devayani di vested Kacha of his loincloth-and with it his sexual continence.
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“This development alarmed the asuras even more, for now their enemy was wooing their preceptor’s daughter. Thinking it best to get Kacha out of the way once and for all they waylaid him one evening in a lonely place, killed him, and left his body for the wolves. When Kacha didn’t come home at night Devayani was very upset. Even Shukracharya was concerned, and by using his yogic powers he was able to discover that Kacha had been murdered. With the help of Sanjivini Vidya he brought Kacha back to life.
“But asuras do not give up so easily. They waited for another opportunity and before long took Kacha unawares again and killed him again. This time they pounded his body into a paste and mixed it into sea water. Again, how ever, Shukracharya revived him, because of Devayani’s tears.
“The third time the asuras decided to make sure. They killed Kacha, burned his body, and dissolved his ashes in a bowl of wine. Then they offered the wine to Shukracharya to drink. Shukracharya drank it, exclaiming as he did, ‘Victory to the asuras!’
“Again Devayani cried and cried when Kacha did not come back to her. This time Shukracharya tried to reason with her: ‘Daughter, the asuras will never permit Kacha to remain alive, and I cannot continue to revive him. It is better that he stay dead. But she was adamant; she told her father bluntly, ‘I cannot live without Kacha.’
“As he prepared to employ the Sanjivini Vidya yet again Shukracharya got the shock of his lifetime when with his yogic hearing he heard Kacha tell him, ‘Wait, I’m inside you!’ With his yogic vision he discovered Kacha to be inside his own belly. Now he was really in a fix. If he brought Kacha back to life he himself would be torn to bits as Kacha emerged from his abdomen, and Devayani would lose her father. If he did not raise Kacha from the dead Devayani would lose her lover. What to do?
“Shukracharya decided that he had no choice but to teach the Sanjivini Vidya to Devayani. As he taught it to her Kacha, listening from inside his belly, learned it too. When Devayani pronounced it to resurrect Kacha Shu kracharya’s belly burst open and he dropped to the ground dead. Then she pronounced it again and revived her father.
“Shukracharya looked at them both solemnly and said, ‘Well, I never wanted things to work out this way. Had the asuras not been so stupid this never would have happened. I curse them for their stupidity!
“I am also to blame for falling prey to the desire to drink wine. This desire clouded my perception, else I would have been able to see Kacha in the cup before I drank it. I curse wine-drinking, because it causes one to give out se crets which should never be given out!
“Kacha, now you are as good as my son, because you have been reborn
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from my belly. You and Devayani are my own. I want the two of you to get married
“Kacha said to him, ‘Gurudev, I cannot. You yourself have said that I am now like your son, because I have been born from your belly. If I marry Devayani now it will be like the marriage of a brother and sister. Moreover, I now have what I was sent here by the devas to obtain. I must therefore now go back to my real home?
“Devayani said to him, ‘So you loved me only for that purpose. You de ceived me. Go then! But I curse you that your knowledge will never be of any use to you!
“Kacha replied, ‘Even if I am unable to use my knowledge I can teach it to others, and they can use it. But I curse you in turn that you will never find a man of transcendent wisdom to marry; you shall have to marry a king or a prince.
“And that is what happened, to each of them. When like Kacha and Devay ani you are full of shakti because of having done lots of austerities any curse or blessing that you pronounce must take effect. However, the force of these curses drained all the shakti from Kacha and Devayani so that neither could make use of the Sanjivini Vidya even if they wanted to. Shukracharya’s knowledge was thus saved.
“Whose fault was this debacle? Mainly Kacha’s. He came to Shukracharya as a stooge of the devas to steal knowledge, which is forbidden. Also, he used Devayani. He led her along when he was interested only in the knowledge and not in her. And when he knew he was in the wrong why should he have cursed her? He should have kept his mouth shut, and accepted the results of his actions. But his wounded ego made him lash back at her, which com pounded his guilt.
“Now, a subtle mind will ask, “Why did it happen that both Kacha and Devayani were overcome with the desire to curse, which made them both forget the Sanjivini Vidya??”
“Yes, why did that happen?”
“It is simple: Shukracharya perverted both their minds with the help of a certain siddhi; he forced them to curse one another. He did this not because he was being selfish with his knowledge; in fact he had planned all along to teach it to Devayani since he really did love Kacha as a son. But both still had imperfections—Kacha’s deviousness and Devayani’s sensuality—which con vinced Shukracharya that he had to prevent them from obtaining the knowl edge until they were fit to use it properly. Knowledge placed into the wrong hands always causes problems. So Shukracharya made the best of a bad situ ation by ensuring that both of them would be born on Earth, which is what
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happens to those from the heavenly spheres who lose their shakti. They will have to remain on Earth until their imperfections disappear; then they will both remember Sanjivini.”
“That could take a while.”
“Is Shukracharya in any hurry? He believes in doing a thorough job since there is no question of the limitation of time. But then he is no ordinary be ing; he is a Muni, a Mahapurusha. In fact he is a one-eyed Muni. He lost his other eye because of Vamana, Vishnu’s avatara in the form of a dwarf Brah mana.”
“And how might that have happened?” I greatly wished to know how his version of Vamana’s story differed from the textual ones.
“You know that the devas and the asuras once churned the Ocean of Milk to obtain Amrita, the nectar of immortality. At that time Vishnu helped the devas, led by Brihaspati, to defeat the asuras, kill their king Bali, and steal all the Amrita. This was a karma for which the devas later had to pay. As guru of the asuras Shukracharya was also the guru of their king. After he used San jivini to bring Bali back to life he worked to enable Bali to conquer the devas in turn. Eventually Bali triumphed, and Vishnu, the Preserver of the cosmos, could do nothing to protect the devas. How could He? He had broken his promise, given at the time of the Churning, to provide the asuras with some of the Amrita they had worked so hard to obtain. This caused Him to forfeit His right to help the devas on this occasion. Karma is karma, after all; it shows no favoritism, not even to the gods themselves.
“But in order to protect dharma Vishnu had to somehow return control of the cosmos to the devas, so He devised a ruse. He arranged to be born as the Vamana Avatara. Immediately after His birth He approached Bali at Bharuch (the ancient Bhrigukaccha), on the north bank of the holy Narmada River.
“Just then Shukracharya was causing Bali to complete a great sacrifice that would reinforce his position as ruler of the cosmos. At the end of every sacri fice offerings are made to Brahmanas, and Vamana was filled with such pro found spiritual radiance that Bali decided to make his offerings to this tiny ascetic. When Shukracharya perceived that Vamana was in fact Vishnu and had come to take the kingdom away from Bali, he warned his disciple not to give anything to the dwarf. But Bali was determined, and said to his guru, ‘When the Lord Himself comes to me as a beggar and requests something of me won’t it increase my glory to give it to him? Whatever the outcome I will
get to see Him in His true form, and I will get His blessings.
“When he saw that his disciple was prepared to rebel against his order Shukracharya cursed Bali to fall into Patala, deprived of all his wealth and glory. Bali willingly accepted his mentor’s curse, and when he told Vamana to
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ask for whatever He wanted Vamana replied, ‘All I want from you, O king, is as much land as I can cover in three steps.
“Bali said, “That will be a truly paltry gift. Ask for more!’ But Vamana in sisted, so Bali resolved to give three steps worth of land to Vamana. To seal his promise he prepared to offer a dana vrata, an oath of donation. The central act of this sort of vow involves pouring water onto the ground. This makes the Earth and Water Elements witnesses to the pledge. It is very dangerous to make such an oath, because if you break it Earth and Water will turn against you. Then any body of water you come across may try to drown you, and the earth may literally slip out from under your feet.”
“As in an earthquake?”
“Yes. It is better never to make any vows, because they can land you in very hot water. It is much wiser just to play it safe by doing your best without promising never to fail. It is very difficult never to make any mistakes. In fact, every human makes mistakes, which is why I tell people never to worry about their mistakes. Worry is not useful. What is useful is to make different mis takes, to learn from your mistakes so that you don’t keep making the same ones over and over again.”
“Was Bali wrong to go against his guru’s order?”
“Shukracharya thought that he was. But Bali was determined to give Va mana what he had requested, and was ready to swear to that effect. From his side Shukracharya was equally determined to ensure that his disciple did not lose his kingdom. As the moment for the oath approached Shukracharya shrank himself to miniscule size and entered the spout of the water pot. When Bali tried to pour the water out onto the ground, therefore, nothing came out.
“Vamana knew what was going on; how could He not know? He took a blade of darbha grass, which is so sharp that it can cut your finger, and stuck it into the spout. The blade of darbha poked out Shukracharya’s eye and his own blood spilled out onto the ground to seal the oath. After the oath was taken Vamana expanded from His dwarf body into a being of enormous size. With His first step He covered the entire Earth, and with His second step He covered the rest of the universe. Then He looked down at Bali and said, ‘Now, where shall I put my third step? There is no place left to put it. You have bro ken your promise.?
“But Bali said, ‘No, Lord, I am still here. When you put your foot on my head you will have encompassed everything. Vishnu smiled at Bali’s clever ness, and did so. In this way Bali got the great blessing of having Vishnu’s foot placed on his head. Vishnu awarded Bali immortal life in exchange for his gift of the cosmos. Bali still rules his subjects down below the surface of the earth. No one realizes it, but an offering to the Earth is really an offering to Bali.
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When you have propitiated King Bali you have accomplished more than half your task. Sacrifice is called bali dana in Sanskrit because you are in fact mak ing an offering (dana = gift) to Bali. It is his job to be propitiated in this way, and to reciprocate by assisting you in what you want done.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Vishnu came to Earth as Varaha, the Sacrificial Boar, to save the Earth from the asura Hiranyaksha. Then He returned as Narasimha, the Man-Lion, to save Prahlada from his father Hiranyakashipu, Hiranyak sha’s brother. Next He came in the form of the diminutive Vamana to beg the three worlds from Prahlada’s grandson Bali.” “What a rnanubandhana He had with that family! And what an outstanding pedigree, that produced so many Grand Champions.”
“Yes, they were all unique. Bali was smarter even than his guru Shukra charya when it came to donating heaven and earth. After all, how often does the Lord Himself come to beg? Only once so far in the history of the cosmos. It was an opportunity not to be missed, and because he took advantage of it Bali became immortal.”
The doorbell drew me briefly to the door, after which Vimalananda re sumed his exegesis: “Look at how difficult it is to know what is a curse and what is a blessing! When Bali disobeyed his guru Shukracharya realized that his disciple’s term as ruler of the universe was over. Shukracharya’s curse that sent Bali to Patala was therefore a blessing in disguise, because Patala is Bali’s natural homeland.”
“You mean that by his curse Shukracharya ensured that Bali would make it home again, no matter what happened with Vamana.”
“That’s right. And what of Shukracharya himself? What does it mean that his eye was poked out? With two eyes we see duality. By putting out one of them, in the esoteric sense, Vishnu gave Shukracharya a vision of undivided Reality. This was Vishnu’s blessing to Shukracharya, not his curse. See how the devas love to play about!
“The play of the devas is part and parcel of the play of the Rishis. Shukra charya, who was the son of the Rishi Bhrigu, made the asuras so powerful that only Vamana, who was the creation of Angiras Rishi, could save the de vas. Angiras Rishi also happened to be the father of Brihaspati, the guru of the devas, who was also the great rival of Shukracharya. So in reality all of this was the play of Bhrigu and Angiras.”
Vimalananda stopped long enough for a thorough stare in my direction. Then he continued, “A good guru will always try to do the right thing for his disciple, as Shukracharya tried to do for Bali. But what if the disciple refuses to cooperate, or is so addicted to intoxication that he commits guru droha (offense or treachery against the guru)?”
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He stopped for me to answer, so I said, “I guess the guru will have to curse the disciple, like Shukracharya cursed Bali.”
“Actually your guru will not even have to bother cursing you if you perform guru droha, because that very action will act as your curse. In Bali’s case the curse turned out to be a blessing simply because he had Shukracharya for a guru, and because he disobeyed his guru specifically for the purpose of satifying the Lord. Most disciples who perform guru droha, however, do so out of ego, and because they self-identify with their action it truly has the force of a curse.
“Guru droha is really a terrible thing. Blindness from birth is one of the ef fects of guru droha in a previous incarnation; so is depigmented skin. Albi nos and people who have leucoderma (vitiligo), which we call shwitra (‘white leprosy’) in Sanskrit, are obviously depigmented. But even those people whose skin is simply very pale—a condition which is often associated with affliction of the Sun in the horoscope—have also been cursed in the past by their gurus. Many, many Westerners have white skins, don’t they? The white race—the ‘palefaces’—have lorded it over the dark races for almost five cen turies now. They have tried to brainwash us that we are inferior because our skins are darker than theirs. But I think they are inferior, because they can’t take the sun, neither literally nor figuratively. Why figuratively? Because in Jyotish the Sun stands for the Soul, and who is the guru if not the embodi ment, for the disciple, of the Supreme Soul, the Eternal Absolute? Guru droha is so terrible because it is a rebellion against the authority of Reality. Many of our ‘modern’ Indian boys and girls think it would be fantastic to marry a white girl or boy—but I think they are crazy.”
I glanced reflexively at my own pale skin.
“It is no surprise that Westerners mainly find false gurus. When you have cheated your own guru in the past why should you not be cheated in now? You get what you pay for; that is the Law of Karma.”
“So why is this? Why do most of the people in the West want knowledge from the wrong motive, and get only cheats as gurus?”
“Why? Because most Westerners are asuras at heart. All the celestials, in cluding the asuras, have to go somewhere when they fall down to earth. Many of the asuras—who are very fond of indulging themselves with meat, alcohol, and sex, remember—have been born in the West, where they continue to in dulge themselves. Occasionally one of them wakes up, a little; but because asuras are egotistical they conclude, as soon as they learn a little, that they know everything. Almost as soon as they learn how to meditate they start calling themselves gurus. But what do they really know of Indian wisdom? Nothing! They are still just probing our spirituality now. They will be learn ing spiritual things from us for the next 500 years. Even the dog of one of our
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Rishis could teach them for one hundred years and still have more to teach, Westerners are so far behind us in spirituality that to shine out among them is nothing. It is child’s play for our so-called swamis to go abroad and try to im press all the monkeys over there with their so-called knowledge. I can tell you one thing: A real guru will come to the Westerners only when they decide that they are ready for real knowledge, and they invite Shukracharya.”
“And just where will they go to search for Shukracharya?”
“They won’t need to search for him; when they are sincerely ready he will appear. They are his disciples, he is responsible for them. It is a great blessing to be guru or king to a bunch of asuras, because you are in a position to im prove them. Unfortunately they tend to fall back into their old habits very easily, since their innate natures cannot change. Even Shukracharya tires of them now and again. I call people asuras when even though they have the de sire for sadhana they cannot seem to follow the basic rules of discipline. I am willing to try to help such people out, but most of them are by no means
ready for spirituality yet and I grow tired of them too.”
• I thought of one of Vimalananda’s well-loved spiritual"children” from the West who while reading the Upavana Vinoda, a text on the Ayurveda of plants, remarked a little too flippantly how its pages prescribed that certain weird things be planted under trees to make their fruits or flowers grow to the size of an elephant’s trunk. Though this sort of conjecture seemed harm less enough for me it occasioned a violent cloudburst from Vimalananda, who insisted that I write this errant fellow and advise him to try these sub stances on himself, that he might develop an elephant-trunk-sized penis. Chastened and distressed by his faux pas the child’ wrote back to discover how to again enter Vimalananda’s good graces only to find that he was al ready there, for Vimalananda was always enthusiastic to forgive.
But do not forget, for the Upavana Vinoda contretemps provided him yet further fuel for occasional anti-Western commentary: “Part of the problem lies in the way Western culture has developed. The West is so utterly contrary to the East in so many ways that it is no wonder that people from the two ar eas cannot understand one another. For example, Indian dance focuses more on facial expressions than does ballet. In fact, the best Indian dancers can dis play all the possible emotions with their faces alone. Or consider haute cou ture. Until recently in India a man’s honor rested on his turban and his mustache. If you were to shave off a Rajput’s mustache or take his turban from him he would never be able to bear the shame; he would commit sui cide. But today we have adopted the Western trait of judging everyone by their footwear. Nowadays the first thing anyone does is to look down to see what sort of shoes you are wearing, and whether they are properly shined.
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“And what of sex? We in India, or at least a few of us, still know how to en joy sex. And I don’t mean just the Tantrics, whose sexual practices are as far ahead of the foolish things that your American “experts in tantric sexuality’ write about as the sky is distant from the earth. Even our rulers understood sexual refinement. Take the Emperor Akbar: not only was he noble, he was versatile to boot. He invented biryani, the famous dish of meat and rice, and jelabi, the well-known sweet. He even developed his own variety of mango as well. You can still find Aam-e-Akbari and Aam Jehangiri, the varieties of mango that he and his son developed, in a few parts of North India. Back in Akbar’s day the imperial gardeners would feed these trees blood, saffron, marijuana, musk and various other substances while they were growing. These things would gradually percolate into the tree’s fruit and turn its flesh a beautiful saffron color.”
“Blood?”
“Yes, the best fertilizer for mangoes is blood; that’s where much of the blood from the slaughterhouse in Deonar ends up.” Deonar is the Bombay suburb which hosts Asia’s largest slaughterhouse.
“So when I eat a mango I may in effect be drinking blood?!”
“Yes, and when you eat a banana you may be eating a rat, because the best fertilizer for banana trees is dead rats!”
“Eeuuw!”
“The Law of Karma, my dear boy, the Law of Karma. Anyway, one mango from one of Akbar’s trees could give you a beautiful intoxication that would last for an entire day. Now, Akbar’s enjoyments were as refined as his fruit. When he was interested in loveplay he would take half of one of those intoxi cating mangoes for himself, and would send the other half to his favorite wife. She would know from this that the emperor would be calling on her that evening and would prepare herself accordingly. In the evening both would eat their slice of mango, and by the time they met they would both be nicely excited. Then they would have a beautiful loveplay.
“That was the sort of refined sex that Akbar enjoyed. Do we find such sex ual refinement anywhere in the West? No, and it is because sex has become so free and so common over there. You see a girl, you like her, you go up to her and say, ‘Hey, how about a nice screw?’ No preliminaries, no romance. Sex in the West is now seen as nothing more than a bodily function which you should relieve whenever you feel the need to do so. No wonder perversions are so rampant in the West. Once you have stripped all the mystery and the emotional excitement from sex what is left but the technique?”
“You’re not trying to tell me that we will find sexual refinement anywhere in India, are you?”
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“Oh, no; forget it! At least Westerners are not so inhibited as today’s Indi ans are. Today’s Indians are hopeless when it comes to sex.”
“Haven’t you always said that there are a few Westerners who could learn how to perform Tantric sexual sadhanas properly?”
“Yes, I have; but the question is, will they be able to do without sex long enough to gain control over it? They live their lives so fast that they think ev erything can be done instantly; they have no patience. Most Westerners today believe that all their desires, and their sexual desires in particular, should be gratified immediately. But there is nothing speedy about refinement; it takes time and restraint. Refinement occurs automatically in all aspects of life, and especially in sex and in spirituality, if you just slow down. Westerners think the spiritual urge can be gratified in the same way that they gratify their sex urges. No wonder that most of them end up with fake gurus.”
“Do you have a theory as to why these differences between East and West?” I knew he must.
“The reason for all these cultural differences is the great difference in the svabhava, the inherent nature, of Westerners and Easterners. There are three main traits inborn into a Westerner. First, he wants to make money and be come a millionaire; his god is money, no doubt about it. Second, he wants to enjoy what he earns; he sees no reason to save it. Third, he calculates: first phase, second phase, third phase. These three traits explain why so many Westerners try to mix commerce and spirituality.
“Once a sadhu was invited to the USA. The American who was seated next to him in the plane became curious–a shaven-headed fellow in saffron robes sitting in the next seat–and asked, ‘Excuse me, sir, who are you?’
“The sadhu answered, “That is just what I am trying to find out: who am I?’
“The American then realized that he had come across an intelligent fellow, and asked, ‘How are you searching?’
“The sadhu replied, “By means of “Om.”’
“The American realized that there was some potential there; like most Americans, he was a good businessman. When the plane stopped in London he phoned ahead to his people in New York and told them to meet the plane at the airport.
“After the plane took off again the American said to the sadhu, ‘Please put your hand on my head? When the sadhu did so the American intoned, ‘Om, Om, Om. I am now your disciple. You must instruct me. The sadhu didn’t know exactly what to think.
“There was a crowd of people to meet the sadhu and his new disciple once the plane landed in New York. The poor sadhu didn’t know that it had all been arranged beforehand; he thought it was spontaneous, so he went along
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with it. Pretty soon he was lecturing one day, holding a meditation camp the next, and so on. ‘Om’ pillowcases came onto the market, along with ‘Om’ books and so many other ‘Om’ products.
“After doing this for some little while the sadhu said to his American pro moter, the man he had met on the plane, ‘What have you done to me? When I’m not talking I’m meeting people individually, and we are always flying off to some city or other. I have lost all my peace of mind. I want to go back to India.
“The disciple’ said, ‘But Swamiji, why go back now? You have $2 million in the bank
“Swamiji said, ‘What is the use of $2 million when I have no peace? You be my chief disciple, take all my money, and run everything. I am going back to India to get my peace back. And that is what happened. He got his peace back and the American took over the business, made a lot of money, and enjoyed his life.”
“Which means he was cashing in his good karmas.”
“That’s right. America is perfect place for withdrawal of good karmas be cause it is the place where this effect of commercialization is most pro nounced. Why? All because of the gravitation in that part of the world.”
“Gravitation?”
“Yes, the quality of the gravity there. For that matter it’s all due to our grav ity, and to something in our water, that India has always been a special place, that everyone here different. India can never go completely communist be cause our people are stoic. Because they believe in the life beyond they try not to create problems for themselves in this life if they can help it. If belief in the after-life had not been there we would have gone communist long ago. Dur ing the 1942 Bengal famine, which even Western historians agree was a man made famine created to fill the pockets of certain businessmen, people would sit starving outside fancy hotels in Calcutta and beg food from those emerg ing after ten-course meals. It never occurred to those starving people to get together and storm the hotel and steal the food. Even though they died like flies they never tried to grab for themselves. Why? They remembered the Law of Karma. These people had every right to steal and eat but they didn’t. That is India.”
“So is everyone in India a saint, even the beggars?”
“Far from it! Some of the greatest evil in the world has been perpetrated here, like that engineered famine, and the Visha Kanyas. What I am getting at is that most people in India even when they are miserable still know that they are suffering from the effects of previous bad karmas. This makes them think twice and three times before reacting to their misery. India is a deposit
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counter for good karmas, at least for most of our people. We believe in the life hereafter and work towards it. Now we too are suffering from the effects of the American disease, but originally we in India believed in stock-piling our good karmas and using them only when there is real need. We had the same philosophy about money too. Even now most Indians prefer to save rather than to spend. Did you know that an English scholar has estimated that one-third of the world’s total wealth is buried under the desert in Rajast han? From what I have seen there I think he may be underestimating the amount. It may be more, but it is certainly not less.
“The Western countries, and America in particular, are withdrawal counters for good karmas. You might say that most of the people there are enjoying their karmic pensions. They have suffered and toiled over many lives and now they are getting the result and wasting it away. Some are do ing some sadhana, I grant you, but only a few are doing penance compared to the number who are frittering away their penances.
“Think of the word saha, which means to endure, to go patiently through hardships without rebelling. When you invert saha you get hasa, which means to laugh. If you endure all your evil karmas at the beginning of your life then you can achieve your goal and live comfortably at the end of your life. Then you will have nothing left to do but laugh like a madman because of the overwhelming joy of it all. But if you enjoy yourself at the beginning of your life and waste all your good karmas you will find that your end is lamen table. And since what you are thinking about when you die determines your next rebirth-ante matih sa gatih—your future birth is likely to be lamenta ble too. It is always better to endure whatever fate throws your way. You will definitely receive your reward—eventually. But if you try to laugh now you are heading for sorrow in the end. Don’t forget the old saying: ‘He who laughs last laughs best.
“When all of America’s good karmas have been used up then only their bad karmas will remain, and you don’t know what will happen. Westerners don’t know what they are heading for. Because they are rich they can purchase more luxuries and kill more animals than poor countries like ours. But when the time comes for them to pay it all back they’ll be ruined, I tell you, ruined. We are seeing the decay already. Look at television. It is a extraordinary thing which has become an emotional addiction for millions of people. So many people, with Westerners leading the pack, get all their emotional stimulation from TV. This is frightening, because many Westerners now live machine like lives; even their love is machine love. Westerners have become so depen dent on their gizmos that they can’t live without them, just as we cannot live without our servants. They have become slaves to their machines.
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“When you have a servant you must always be sure that the servant knows who is boss; otherwise the servant will take over. Here in India we are slaves to our servants. They can tyrannize us and we humor them because we need them to get our work done. Westerners think they have solved this problem by building machines. It is true that machines can’t go on strike, don’t take tea breaks and have no emotional problems to interfere with their productiv ity. But machines are also living beings, in a sense. The machine says, ‘So, you’ve created me to be your slave? All right, now I’ll control you. And that is just what happens. It is the Law of Karma.
“Westerners have created a modern machine-filled world for themselves, which is fine. But in the process they have lost much of their humanity, which is a much more terrible thing than losing your life. So I thank God that India is still a poor backward nation for the most part. We still possess part of our humanity. We still have our traditions to fall back on, and our peculiar ap proach to life. I think India is a fine country to live in, because we have every thing, good and bad, over here, and you are not protected from anything. You have no choice but to learn to deal with everything, sometimes in the most disgusting circumstances.”
“Perhaps Saturn, who is the power behind those of your experiences that you never wanted to experience, has some sort of special relationship with India?”
“Of course he does, and why not? At least over here we worship him as a God. The few Westerners who even think about Saturn call him a devil! If you were he where would you like to be?
“Westerners have spent decades trying to protect themselves from un pleasantness, but they, like us, will eventually have to learn to deal with real ity. Saturn will force them to do so. Now they are intoxicated with their machines and addicted to their pleasures, but like all other intoxications these will not last. An Aghori may take intoxicants and indulge in sex, but such activities always remain under his control; no good Aghori ever lets any intoxication control his mind. Addiction to anything but God is a sure path to misery; addiction to God is the only path to happiness.”
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