The Blind Man Who Saw It All
It was some years back, in India. Seeing Delhi for the first
time was so overwhelming for me. I had lived all this time without knowing this
place existed… Well, I knew it was a place on Earth, but I didn't really know it
at all. I was completely delighted to behold the enormous sea of humanity, waves
of vintage imagery, buzzing, humming, calling in the streets, rickshaws, saris
and turbans, spicy exotic smells and every shade of color, the dirt and the
flies. Life, raw exposed and unpretentious like the sparkle in the eye of a wise
old woman. It had existed all this time without me, how could it be? All of a
sudden, possibilities that I never comprehended confronted me at every turn.
India was so strange… Immediately, I fell into
wonder. I felt so tender. The possibility that I was the stranger here, and not
India, cleared my vision. This set the perspective correct for the next decade.
Now Mother India could pour her story into my open ears. India gave me
everything I could imagine and that which I could not expect. I had come home,
like I had never come home before. Something very subtle from within was saying
that this was so. My eyes were as big as saucers, and my heart was soaked with
sentiment. Traces of these feelings are still with me today. The first days in
India pointed me in the direction of Rishikesh and the Himalayas. On the way
North, a stop in Haridwar, a city famous for its bathing ghats, classic Indian
temples and beauty. It was there that I first watched a modest and simple Indian
villager bathing in the Ganga (the holy Ganges River). He was upstream just a
little. I could feel that he was drenched in his prayer, soaked in the sanctity
of the holy waters. He reminded me of something I could not touch, but knew. He
offered orange and yellow flowers from his heart to God, laying them gently onto
the Ganga. As his flowers floated by, I could feel his worship in the scent of
the marigolds. The rushing current swept away a part of me that I could not
retrieve, I did not try. I could not imagine a moment other than now, life was
telling me her secrets. That night covered me in grace, peace and deep sleep.
North of Haridwar, in Rishikesh, there again I met the Ganga. I sensed that we
had been ancient together. Now she had come to this Earth in the shape of a
river, a goddess in liquid form. Everyday was filled with sitting near her. We
were like two old friends, she and I. Never did I tire of our visits or the
intimacy we shared. We were always empty for each other, like a bird reflected
in still waters, like a cup of tea, fine music or sacredness. Twice a day I
would cross over the Ganga on the Ram Jhula, a beautiful suspension bridge that
spans the width of the Ganges. From a distance, one can watch mule teams cross
the Jhula at sunset… this is a meditation in itself. This bridge is a world of
its own. There are monkeys, and humans, and cows. At times, there are so many
people that one just gets swept along. There are beggars, there are motor
scooters whizzing by. The bridge is like a planet in a way. Sometimes it is
completely empty like all of space. Passing this way daily, one gets to know the
faces that frequent the Jhula. Children are there; they sell little balls of
flour dough for one rupee. The buyer throws the balls over the bridge and into
the Ganga so far below. In a matter of an instant, great gatherings of large
fish come to take the bait, and the people catch a view instead of a
fish. Everyone is happy with this
exchange. It is forbidden to catch fish from the Ganga. On the bridge, there are
photographers taking snaps of the tourists. Couples pose: with the children, the
grandparents, the cousins and so on. No one will disrupt this historical moment.
No one minds to wait at all. All movement ceases until the shutter clicks. On
Ram Jhula, the contrast is motion, commotion or dead silence. There are the
beggars sitting on the bridge waiting for a coin to drop in their cup. This is
music to their ears. Being a beggar is not easy. They work hard for that coin. A
certain humility is required. Even the aggressive ones possess humility, for a
beggar is always humble or humiliated. In some way, we are all beggars. I think
of Gautama Buddha, born a prince among men. He gave up his kingdom to surpass
earthly royalty, and he did. He gave his son, Prince Rahul, a begging bowl as
his inheritance, for Buddha knew the kingdom was empty like the bottomless bowl
of the beggar. He knew the gem within himself called enlightenment.
This is the story of a beggar king. Where I came from, if you didn't have, you
had no chance for happiness. Where I came from, too much was never enough. Daily
while crossing over the Ganga, one beggar continually caught my attention. He
leaned upon a staff because his legs were weak… He was a blind man. And he wore
a thin piece of very old cloth. He held his tin cup and with his head turned
toward the sky, he would sing, "Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare." I
always stopped to listen. He never knew that I was there. To watch him delivered
more than a college diploma in social science. He told more about the human
spirit than any church sermon could convey. As I observed him with great
curiosity, I could detect joy in him, in his song, in his life. How could it be?
He had nothing to be joyous about. Look at his condition, so pitiful! In my
world, from what I had learned about life’s values, there was no slot for a man
like this to be like that. He shook my ideas to pieces; they tumbled one after
another. Standing at a distance, I watched him, neutral and receptive for the
teaching. He opened my heart and broadened my understanding. Oh, how grateful I
was to get caught by this image. His name was ‘Haridas,’ which means ‘servant of
the Lord.’ Sometimes, I would go to Haridas and tell him in my broken Hindi that
I had put a silent five-rupee note in his cup. Next to him, I could feel a
fullness that I had not found in my concept of freedom. He was a freedom I had
not considered. There was contentment in him. He was watching the world in his
own way. I was beginning to see beauty through the eyes of a blind beggar more
clearly than I had ever seen beauty through my own. Haridas did not know me, but
I felt like I knew myself more and more because of him. I was beginning to know
love. Once, after listening to his song, I stood in front of him so touched by
his position in my heart, I said: "Haridas, you are truly a wealthy man." I left
him then, on the Ram Jhula bridge. There he remained as I left the Himalayan
Gateway. I was heading back to Jasper Park, Eugene, Oregon, to take up my work
again as a park-caretaker. Often, I would tell people of this blind beggar that
did not know me. Because of him, I knew me much better than before.
Two years passed before fate turned me again in the
direction of Rishikesh. I was so excited. I thought I would burst, nearly did.
When I was flying into Indira Gandhi International, the blind beggar, so frail,
appeared in my heart. I thought, "Well, India can be hard, it can be very tough
to survive. Perhaps the heat evaporated his fragile frame. Maybe his song
brought no coin, or perhaps his health just could not hold him anymore."
Fate brought me again to the banks of the Ganga. The
crowd was thick that day as I was walking across the Ram Jhula bridge. In front
of me, about half a crowd away, I saw a tiny little man. I could tell by the
back of his head that he was blind. I called his name just to see, after all it
was two years later. Was it him? "Haridas!!!" He called back in a flash:
"ShantiMayi!!! ShantiMayi!!!" He knew my voice? My name? He had known me all
along. I was so astonished, I could not move. I stood, hands fastened to the
cables of Ram Jhula, staring into the Ganga as he dissolved slowly away into the
crowd. I could not catch him, but in that moment, he caught me again, right by
the heart strings. He showed me that we had always seen with the same "I". He
taught me to love what I did not understand. He opened a way into myself. With
him, all my concepts had to be silenced so that I could truly see. With him my
heart could hold no prejudice so the true love, unconditioned and neutral could
light the way to a deeper understanding. With him desire stood still and I found
that a blind man can see what others cannot. And that the senses merge somewhere
in a meeting of heart. There, the subtlest sense of being shines powerfully,
unobstructed and unaided as it truly is.
From an old diary of ShantiMayi
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