Ah, India… It was so good to me last time, I knew the only way from here was down, especially if the return trip was to be all about Shiva. Hindus know that unless the calling for the Lord is in the heart, the destination, the holy cave, will never be reached. Regardless, He’ll put numerous obstacles on your journey so you prove the depth of your devotion. In my case, the Great Lord and his first test came to meet me all the way in Washington. I arrived into Dulles Airport only to find out that due to floods in Mumbai, Air France cancelled my flight and, hence, my trip was to start an entire week later. These French… The moment of petty frustration was immediately replaced with the guilt of concerning myself with an inconvenience of such kind when hundreds of people were mourned. So, hours on the phone with travel agents, rescheduled vacation, blah, blah – test number one. Bring it on, Mahadev! Like something brought me to Shiva-istic UG Krishnamurti last year, something was bringing now directly to the source.

FYI, Shiva, in his/her many forms, has a multitude of names that are used interchangeably: Bhole Shankar, Ardhanarishwara, Mahadev, Nataraj, Rurda, etc, etc.

But perhaps a bit about the Amarnath cave, the pilgrimage to which was forthcoming…

»On the Cave and the Legend

One of the most important Shaivist events during July/ August in India is the Amarnath Yatra, an annual pilgrimage where thousands of Hindus undertake an arduous trek to the Amarnath cave in the Kashmiri Himalayas. The cave is located in a glacial valley at 4,175m (13,700 ft.). It is about 150 feet high and 90 feet long. Inside the cave are four or five ice formations that resemble the figures of different gods. The biggest figure is regarded as Siva (Amarnath). On the left side of the linga (Shiva’s phallic symbol) is an ice formation called Ganesh, and on the right side is one of Parvati.

This is The Cave which was chosen by Bhole Shankar for narrating the secrets of immortality and creation of Universe to Maa Parvati ji. The story goes like this. Centuries ago Maa Parvati asked Shiv ji to let her know why and when He started wearing the beads of heads (Mund Mala). Bhole Shankar replied “whenever you are born, I add one more head to my beads.” Maa Parvati said, "My Lord, my body is destroyed every time and I die again and again, but you are Immortal. Please let me know the secret of this." Bhole Shankar replied that it was due to Amar Katha.

Maa Parvati insisted that she may be told that secret. For a long while Shiva ji continued postponing. Finally on consistent demand from Maa Parvati, He made up his mind to tell the immortal secret. He started for the lonely place where no living being could hear it, choosing the Amarnath Cave. En route, He left His Nandi (The Bull which He used to ride) at Pahalgam (Bail gaon). At Chandanwari He released Moon from his hairs (Jataon). At the banks of Lake Sheshnag He released the snakes. He decided to leave his Son Ganesha at Mahagunas Parvat (Mahaganesh Hill). At Panjtarni, Shivji left the Five Elements behind (Earth, Water, Air , Fire and Sky) which make living being. It is believed that as a symbol of sacrificing the earthly world, Shivaji and Maa Parvati had Tandav Dance. After leaving al this behind, Bhole Shankar enters the Holy Amarnath Cave along with Parvati Maa.

Lord Shiva takes his Samadhi on the Deer Skin and concentrates. To ensure that no living being can hear the Immortal Tale, He created Rudra named Kalagni and ordered him to spread fire to eliminate every living thing in and around the Holy Cave . After this He started narrating the secret of immortality to Maa Parvati . But as a matter of chance one egg which was lying beneath the Deer skin remained protected. It is believed to be protected by Shiva -Parvati Asan (Bed) . The pair of pigeons which were born out of this egg became immortal having heard the secret of immortality (Amar Katha) and now live near to the cave.

 

»August 5th - Delhi

The plane is touching down in Delhi’s Indira Ghandi airport. I can’t believe that I’ve actually made it. Nothing about India is certain, including coming there. I’m holding my bottle of Vittel, and the pilot is mumbling his arrival routine in French, but India is already here; it’s leaking through the air-tight illuminator windows. The Indians on the plane instantly transform from the guest-visitors of France to full-fledged owners of this land. It’s their soil now. At the customs, one can easily spot “the supervisor”; he’s the one in the front of the room, never letting up on the air of self-importance. And here is the newbie clerk, with humble diligence handwriting in the customs documents. Is this a 10-year visa I have? Yes, indeedy. And I have another 4-5 of those to procure in my lifetime. He doesn’t yet have this nonchalant -ness of the others who cultivated it through years of service. Everone’s names are hand-written on some yellow funny paper and posted above the desks. Ahhh… this is so home... In a dysfunctional, yet painfully-familiar way. How can this possibly feel like home? Who the hell knows... It just does.

A self-proclaimed sadhu by the name of Hortario is waiting for me in the visitors lounge. Skin, bones, penetrating gaze, long hair, chillum to be served later… Has he forgotten who he is? Right, he’s a Latindian. We get outside; the Delhi hits my nose. Thank god I’m not given a chance to stand around and look like a lost foreigner. Quickly into the cab. A boy sticks his head inside. Hortario says something in Hindi and rolls up the window. “What did he want?” I ask. “Money”, he answers, with a tone and look “as if” the boy could want anything different.

The hotel was SUPPOSED to be posh, comfy, colonial, blah, blah. A nice cushion before the arduous trek. Whatever... Expedia lied about everything except the price. Ok, yeah, so the bed is comfy, and the pillows are western (read: we had a lump of synthetic instead of a slab of concrete under our heads), and the shower is hot. I indulge ‘till my fingers are water-logged, knowing it’s my last hot shower for a while, and possibly for the rest of the stay. A trip to the bathroom is accompanied by a mineral water bottle to brush my teeth. Yes, I’m home.

 

»August 6th - Jammu

There is no time to lounge around. It’ll be up-and-go for many days ahead. The flight to Jammu is at 8 am, and after what turned out to be a $20/hour bed, we’re in a cab. What is it they say about the noise and pollution of Delhi? It’s green and quiet. I think Mysore is more Delhi than Delhi.

On the plane, I’m prepping my mind with a book on Shiva. Would Shiva himself approve carrying a 1-pound book up the mountain to see Him? Probably not. But the book is well-written by a devoted Westerner, so I read on.

The jamming Jammu… Kashmiri boys are cute. Very cute. And we can already see the Himalayas from here. On our hands are pre-paid tickets for a “luxury” hotel, transportation to Pahalgam, and hotel in the same. Before coming, I knew that everything I was sheltered from during my first stay in India would be pressure-cooked and served to me in compressed time on this trip. But that was the beauty of this adventure. If I wanted otherwise, I’d have been dancing tango on the beaches of Sitges. I fuss and fuss, but inside I love these silly little hardships, the dirt, the roaches, the “which country, madam?” every few seconds. So the luxury hotel is like a state penitentiary (not that I would know, of course). All chambers veer off a long narrow corridor soaked in an unforgiving neon light. The room has bars instead glass on its single long, narrow “window”. Folks feel free to peek in and hang out nearby, until Hortario inventively hangs a towel over this hole into the world. Ah, our western need for privacy… Bed linens look like they haven’t been changed since last century, but to a request to bring us clean bed sheets, the hotel clerk makes a confused face. Baby roaches are frolicking around on the floor; Mom and Dad come later at night and park themselves in the bathroom right on its wonderful cement floor. I too come out of the bathroom, slip on the wet floor, and fall flat on my sacrum. This knocks the breath of out of me for a second. Lord Mahadev, you won’t make things easy for me, will you? Could I at least get a Kundalini release out of it? Check this out; I’m playing Quid Pro Quo with Shiva…

 

»August 7th – En Route to Pahalgam

Up early again; need to get on the road. Pack and re-pack. Off to the travel office where transportation for Pahalgam is supposed to be waiting for us. WAITING FOR US… Ha! Naively, that’s my question to my travel companion. He just rolls his eyes in response.

Some Indians don’t make a distinction between a working place and a sleeping place. Home is where you are. Or they are. If you need to catch an auto-rickshaw at night, you’ll find the driver snoring behind the wheel. In the early morning, with a confident knock on the door, we, the only westerners in town, step inside the travel office to see the clerk lazily crawling out of his “bed” in the back of the room. One minute later, he’s already at the desk, perked-up, making calls, offering us chai. He’ll see many people today, and no one would know that he never washed his face, brushed his teeth, or showered today. Strangely, he doesn’t smell like it. And his eyes really sparkle, so who cares. We wait and wait, instead of our transportation waiting and waiting. Isn’t that one of India’s lessons? JUST WAIT. Sounds kinda like tango. Said by a die-hard, old-school milonguero…

At about 9, we’re ready to go, sharing a 315-km ride with 6 other locals in a shaky mini-van, or mikrik, like we call them in Russian. Destination: Pahalagam, the starting point for the trek to Amarnath. It’s less than the distance between DC and NY, but we know it’ll take all day. We’re driving through a village. A little boy is about to cross the road without looking, and the driver is veering off to the side, without slowing. A pre-accident, rameshian slow-motion feeling inside me: it’s meant to happen, and we can’t do anything about it. The car hits the boy on the side of his head. My heart sinks. The driver nervously repeats “Allah, Allah, Allah…” as he’s getting out of the car. The boy is screaming in high pitch, covering his bleeding head. The driver starts wiping off the blood with a dirty rag. He’s wiping off his guilt. Stop! I yell at him, get my bag; I have an antiseptic. But they just shove the boy into the car. Thankfully, there is a pediatric right down the street. Five minutes later, if that, the boy comes out of the doctor’s office with a clean face and a small band-aid on his temple. I know, like everyone else there knows, that no one did an x-ray, MRI (ha, what a joke!), and this boy can easily be walking around with a concussion. Or maybe something worse? Maybe it’ll affect his health and well-being for the rest of his life, but there won’t be anyone to blame, sue, or run after. He’ll just have to accept it, ‘cause we drove off. I wonder if Allah is ok with that.

We stop at the first food camp. Through donations and government support, all food and medical services for those doing the Amaranth Yatra are provided at no charge. They don’t just give you the food – they offer it from the heart. We grab our plates and sit amongst other yatri’s (pilgrims), being stared the hell out of, for obvious reasons. But these are curious stares – they wonder what in the world the two westerners like are doing on this hindu pilgrimage. If I had an answer for them…

Time seems to flow in a different dimension here; it disobeys the rules of mathematics. Being on the privileged front seat, I keep peeking at the speedometer. It calibrates from 40 to 60 km/hr. Then why is it taking us all day? Ok, so there is the accident, the chai/food stops – but still, it doesn’t add up. You have to switch off the right side of your brain. End of story.

I’m sitting next to the driver. For the lack of room, I’m right next to the stick shift that he has to move frequently and rigorously, rubbing up against my thigh. I can’t help wondering what goes on inside this driver’s head with each “rub”. But he stoically keeps a dispassionate countenance. Must have had a great deal of training, I think.

Oh, the breath-taking mountain views, stretching for miles and miles, keeping us company on the ride… They are worth every bump, every extra hour of travel, every rush of motion sickness, and every leg rub for that matter. But Shiva wasn’t done with his challenges. About an hour outside of Pahalgam, we are stopped by the military, and the van is directed inside some court-yard. We are ordered to step out, and in the next minute, surrounded by an army of kashmiri soldiers, guns menacingly shining on their belts. J u s t d r o p t h e e g o, I say to myself. Let the men deal with it. “Foreigners doing the Amarnath yatra? Not, it’s not safe. You’ll have to spend the night, and then we’ll see.” Then somehow things turn around, and under an implausible excuse of not having appropriate accommodations for us, they let us go. Our bus companions are happy - all these stops and checks they’ve had to do b/c of us foreigners. Shiv is not done playing yet. 10-minutes down the road, another military check-point, and voila! We’re past the curfew for entering Pahalgam. After all, our entire crew is to spend the night in this city of mountain vistas and military uniforms. “Very beautiful hotel, sir!” our driver assures us as he’s bringing us to the ONLY hotel in this town. To add insult to the injury, as foreigners, we are being way overcharged for the room.

And I thought the Jammu hotel was bad? He-he… With an awful stench from the bathroom, my shishi aromatherapy candle was of little help. A few more nights in a place like this, and Pratyahara, or any association the body, for that matter, is done with. When they say yoga in India, they mean a lot more than throwing your leg behind the head. After a while, there is nothing to throw the led behind. I eat some murky-soupy dhal dish in the hotel. This one I know will hit my stomach hard; I can see little choleras and dysenteries smiling at me from my plate.

 

»August 8th - Pahalgam

Up early next morning. No problems at the military check-point. Driving through this militant Muslim village at dawn was eerie, a bit surreal. Shortly we reach Pahalgam, where the hotel is Ritz Carlton compared to the one the night before; I can relax here. It’s a mountain village – grey sky, green Himalayas, rugged folk, horses - reminded me a lot of the Georgian Caucuses. We stroll through the streets; the town looks deserted. But maybe it’s a holiday, or a weekend? What day of the week is it? Damn, I don’t even remember; welcome to India. There is a group of pilgrims arriving in this hotel later in the day, and we’re all going on a short bus ride, from where we’re starting the pilgrimage. Here is a jolly overweight man, who cooks free food for us and indoctrinates us into the “parole” of the yatra. “Jai Bole”. No sorry, no thank you – Jai Bole, he teaches us. Jai Bole means Innocent Lord. It’s the salutation, the gratitude, and the pardon of all Amarnath yatris. Here is where we get the news that all three lingams/stalagmites in the cave, representing Shiva, Parvati, and Ganesha have already melted. Somehow, it seems to bear no importance to me…. We decide to spend the night here before starting the trek. A break would be good to re-gain strength – and then off to Amarnath. The Great Lord is grinning at me from above as the soupy dhal from the night before makes itself known – I’m now sick and weak. Perfect timing – just before starting the journey up the mountains. I knew it! Hortario is convinced it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. I argue that it was my intuition. But he’s probably right. And he’s already working on plan B - I stay in Pahalgam; he does the trek and meets me back here in 2 days. Somewhere in between my stubbornness and the imminent loss of the bravado effect was the firm NO. Hell no. I didn’t come all the way here to sit in a hotel room – Shiva won’t win this one from me. I was going up there come hell or high water. And there was going to be plenty of both.

»August 9th – Trek to Amarnath, day 1. Pahalgam to Chendanwari

You are not the body, you are not the body, you are not the body… Then where is that Pure Consciousness? I could use some of it to scrape myself off the bed. If I allow myself to look anything like I feel, I’m relegated to this hotel for the next three days. No cave for Ms. Liz. I have a 15-kg backpack to carry up to 14,000 feet in the next 2 days. Did I forget that I’ve never hiked for more than six hours at a time, in low altitudes and with no weight? At the moment, my wisest sage is Nike – “Just Do It”.

The jolly cook from the night before meets us with a smile in the morning; after filling our tummies (well, their tummies; the mere smell of food creates turbulence in my stomach) he’s dutifully packing about a dozen of us sardines in the can of a van. Another hour in this thing, and the journey starts. We are stopped at a checkpoint for one more unexpected long wait. Meanwhile a bunch of kids run up to the car and curl their little fingers around the door edge. They don’t speak a word of English, and are curious out of their minds. They smile, giggle, ask something, giggle again because they don’t understand my English words, then run back to bring their buddies – see if they have better luck with these foreigners.

We are finally unloaded from the truck and ready to start. Everyone spurts in a different direction, but we know we’re all headed to the same destination. I put on my backpack, take one step and… halas! I need to stop kidding myself – I’m too weak to carry myself, let alone this dead weight. So much for handling the burden myself. Other options are

1) go back to Pahalgam (I show my middle finger to Hortario)
2) get a porter with a pony.

In the next five minutes, from the army of Ahmeds, Mohammeds, and Karims that surround us offering their services, we now have a helpful companion – Ahmed. It’s the hardworking Muslims that help the Hindu devotees in this most significant Shaivist pilgrimage. I give him my backpack. The fella is shorter than me; he sinks from the weight, but doesn’t blink an eye, takes the horse, and moves on. I guiltily follow by foot, lightweight. Hortario is determined to carry his own burden, stuffed in an archaic barely-alive backpack circa 1980. Anno Domini, that is. Hmmm… he’s got a lot more juice than I thought. Let’s just see how long this bravado lasts.

It’s 32 km to the cave from here. We do our naive calculations – 6 hours, and we are there! Have we already forgotten the elastic quality of time in this part of the world? The 1st couple of kilometers blow our ego right out of the water. Up a steep incline, on slippery stones, trails… Even the horses are having a hard time. What’s carrying my fellow pilgrims through this? They have large bodies, don’t get much exercise, yet move steadily forward as if carried by some invisible force, while I’m panting my way through? Indeed, that force is called devotion. Good point, actually – so, what am I doing here? I can’t call myself a shaivist… Or, a shaivista, for that matter. What’s carrying me through it? Everyone knows, unless the calling is in the heart, Shiva won’t bring you to the cave. Will I make it? Is it significant that I’ve already made it this far? They say, you should walk to the cave with a pious mind, repeatedly chanting Ohm Mamoh Shivaya inside. Miraculously, it helps.

But at the top of the 1st ascend, I give in. I need a horse. And oh, by the way, I’ve never been on one before. I get an incinerating look from my travel companion along with a one-minute crash-course on horse-riding. The minute I get on the animal, I realize I’ve just discovered a new hobby. I’m loving my ride, as Hortario continues up the mountains with his 15 kg, by foot. Is that the weight of what’s pent up inside I wonder? Of course, he’s stubborn and wants to tell chivalrous stories afterwards, but there is something else.

By the way, we are the only westerners around.

Somewhere along the path, a young fella tags along – Karan. He’s in his 20’s, speaks perfect English, and is doing this Trek with his parents and their family guru – Swami Yogesh. There is so much goodness coming from all of them; we’ve just met our human talismans. I’m curious about why Karan is doing the pilgrimage; turns out he’s madly in love, and wants to ask Shiva for the girl, who won’t give herself to him. One can only admire how the same body contains the western look, education, habits, lifestyle, and such intense religious fervor. Or maybe it’s the emotional intensity spilling over into devotion. This conversation brings my own question up to the surface – perhaps instead of searching for some nebulous something, I should just ask Shiva for what I want. Isn’t that so simple – just to openly ask for it? And He knows what you want anyway…

Suddenly, amidst the stern grey landscape, a liquid blue mirage unfolds – Lake Sheshnag. Like a sapphire jewel, it’s cast in the silver band of mountains. According to the legend, Shiva wanted no living soul, except for his consort Parvati, to hear the secret of immortality. So even the snakes he carried around his neck, had to be abandoned along the way and dropped by the beautiful lake.

Chandanwari, the 1st overnight camp is around here. It’s been a full day of trekking, and we’ve only covered 16 km. We’ll be spending the night here, in a tented camp. As Hortario is sorting out sleeping arrangements (he wants the tent with “the view”, no less), I’m hanging out near the check-point. No one has yet found our wine from Paris; it’ll become kosher by the time we drink it. I’m now a major point of attraction, and folks are flocking to see the crazy foreign woman doing the yatra. A few minutes later, we are in a comfortable large tent that is to become our abode for the night and the start of our surreal encounter with Swami Yogesh, or Swamiji, whom we later referred to as “the Genie”.

This glamorous guru, wrapped in flowing red robes, a PHD in psychology in his “previous life”, (and I’m not referring to re-incarnation), has decided to dedicate his current life serve the humanity. He does so not only in India, but through numerous teaching gigs abroad. He seemed not only curious about us, but also well-predisposed. Ask me anything!, he says to us; hence, the Genie… After a few asanas to sooth the body after the long trek, I drop dead onto the mattress. It’s been 24 hours since I’ve eaten, and thankfully my food poisoning hasn’t interfered with my trip. But apparently, the hunger is interfering with my thinking processes. As I’m developing a migraine, Hortario starts freaking out, assuring me that I have altitude sickness. My self-righteousness doesn’t give him the benefit of a doubt, and I’m killing the pain with medication and a bit of food. To help my headache, The Genie pulls out some magic fragrant ointment out of his bag and tells me to rub it on my temples. Something reminded me of Master and Margarita. At this point, I’m drifting into sleep, faintly catching the sounds of swamiji’s and Hortario’s voices.

»August 10th – Chendanwari to the Cave

5:30 am. Cold winter-like morning... I smell of last night’s food, but there is no running water, so I just have to enjoy this aroma of cumin on my skin. My butt is sore from horse-riding…I peak my head out of the tent to brush my teeth and get instantly surrounded by a couple of fellas wanting a picture. Now I know what it’s like to be a movie-star. I’m tired and cold, caught in the worst of moods, so I lash out at them with an aggressive no. Shiva is all-encompassing, right? The compassion AND the anger. Ramesh says sages get angry. Right, my excuses… Or perhaps not.

We’re only about half-way to the cave. The question re-emerges: why am I doing this? Ahmed meets us with the horse, and we venture out in the mountains again – with the view, the question disappears. I know Hortario’s back must be killing him, but he is the official hero of this journey. Carrying his own load, and putting up my little BS and complaints. He offloads a few kilos into my bag, but continues with a perseverance of a die-hard yogi. The altitude is felt in all of its magnificence, and with the breath-taking views, also delivering breath-stealing hardship for trekking. The chest feels compressed, but the heart inside leads is forward. During one of the descends, I can no longer tolerate the horse-riding, and continue on foot, after a heavy-duty bitching session, remembering my mom’s mantra that a change in activity is rest in and of itself. We must have passed a good half-dozen of these stop-over points, where volunteers eagerly feed the yatri’s and provide medical services. As we are getting a bit more used to the trek, the 2nd day seems more merciful. We stop 6 km from the cave to re-charge with food and rest, meeting an older couple, both in their 70’s, who have lived in the States more than half their lives. I’m stunned by their stamina. There is also an official from the volunteer organization that created the official Yatra Web site, and even provided e-commerce (well, almost) capability for paying the pilgrimage registration with a credit card. A whopping 10 rupees (20 cents), which at the end of the day doesn’t get charged, but it’s a way to get people to register. We stay to chat for a while, but Ahmed is anxious to get going – he wants to return to Pahalgram that day.

Mysteriously, Karan and Swamiji pop up near us every now and then. We are not trying to synch our journeys, but their presence is always near – protective, caring.

Shiva definitely knew what he was doing, picking a spot where no (sane) living being would want to venture. Another couple of hours up an incline so steep, it’s better not to look, but just trust the horse to get you there. And finally, in the late afternoon, The Vision is on the horizon at the end of the valley – the glimpse of the Amarnath cave. I realize that none of the photographs I had seen come close to conveying not just the grandeur, but the sheer size of it… Through a slippery glacier, tired, yet happy and with flutters in my stomach, I’m entering the cave tent-town. Like Henry IV into Paris. As if that’s something to be proud of 8-). I arrive first by horse, Hortario is following by foot a bit later. In town, I see some familiar faces from Chendanwari. Ha! These are the photo fellas who got the bitchy Liz earlier that morning. “where is mr.?”, they inquire. And as they see Hortario getting close, they enthusiastically run up to fetch him. Clearly, unlike us yogis, they have no ego to dissolve.

We rent a tent, right near Swamiji and the family with the plan the visit to the cave shortly thereafter. Since most of them slept the night before, now is when real chillin’ starts. Nina, Karan’s mom, has the most contagious laugh, which she’s ready to burst into any second. So all of us are in the family tent, with Swamiji as the center figure. Putaparthi has moved to Amarnath. It’s show time! Ask me anything, he says. Any question! He reads our minds, offers advice on yoga asana, talks about his vow of brahmacharya, and advises us to find one teacher to whom we can completely surrender. He seems to know Ramesh, of whom he speaks as someone who can turn any woman’s mind to his benefit. Hmm… Something is fishy about this brahmacharya business – he’s sooo… sooo… sensuous and glamorous. He frees his hair that cascades down his red robe as a fountain of black silk, all the way to the waist.… Then hands a comb to Nina and enjoys every stroke as she’s brushing through this satin darkness.

This scene reminds me that I haven’t showered in a couple of days, so I wish for amnesia, because running water is no where to be found. Instead, by the river running through this tent-town, the “hot water wallahs” are heating buckets of cold river water with coal, and selling them to men (there is no woman bathing in sight) as bucket baths. So, there it is, right smack in the middle of everything, is a bunch of naked fellas washing the dirt off their bodies. Not noticing any women participating in this kamasutric display, I inquire if there is a similar set-up for the females. The wallahs smirk and point to a flimsy construction of four bamboo poles stuck in the ground, with ripped plastic wrapped around them – there is your bath ROOM. While trusting Hortario to ward off the potential onlookers, I decide that this type of a “shower” would happen only over my dead body. My dirty dead body that is. In desperation, the engineering side of my brain kicks in, so I ask one of the wallahs to bring me the hot water bucket right into the tent, where I lift the plastic floor-lining, transforming our habitat into a compact Turkish hamam. There is first time for everything; it was my turn to shock the Kashmiris. I have yet to find out how the Indian women bathed in Amarnath, but I might have set a precedent for women bathing there period.

Santosh, Karan’s father is sent to accompany us to the 1st visit to the cave. The trials of shaivist faith continue all the way to the shine – the close proximity of the cave is an optical illusion. To get there, it’s another kilometer through a slippery ice path, and when you think you’re there at the mouth of the cave, a long staircase to climb.

When we get to the cave in the early evening, the puja is already over, and the military, who is running the show around here, is getting ready to close up for the night. Miraculously, Santosh leads us inside; he leaves me wondering if it’s thanks to the doings of our dear Swamiji. At the entrance to the cave, we are asked to remove our shoes. We step onto the freezing marble, and the next half hour turns into an exercise of disassociation from the body. Exhausted, cold, and barefoot is when you are truly ready, with the space in mind created for the magnificence of this cave. The thick sound of ohm fills the ears, as Shiva is working through you, planting the seeds the will grow long after you leave Amarnath. There is the Shrine, with an already-melted stalagmite of Shiva’s great lingham, a trishul – his trident, 3 statues, each one dedicated to a deity – Shiv, Parvati, and Ganesha, and the sacred Water of Immortality, dripping through the creases of the rocks. We get our first taste of this vastness, knowing we’ll be back tomorrow for the “full program”. Something shifted in me inside the cave, and I walk out with a buzz inside.

The previous night’s entertainment program spills over into this evening, and the Genie & Co. magically appear in our tent. Swamiji had promised us to come over and read our minds, so here he is - and something tells me he’s having as much fun with it as we are. He refuses both the French wine and the Kashmiri “cigarette” that Kulla, from whom we are renting the tent, has rolled for us, but alongside, he’s savoring the delicious dark chocolate from the States. I’m watching swamiji and wondering if like a woman he’s sublimating his brahamacharya with chocolate. Like any “power”, when you actually observe it, it falls somewhere between mundane and unbelievable. I have doubts that swamiji can read our thoughts, word by word, but his perception is beyond keen. After a while, he points all my questions back to me, assuring that I already know the answers. In most cases, I would write this off to charlatanism, but I think he’s onto something…

»August 11th – Day in Amarnath

 

In the early morning, we re-unite with Swamiji and the family and form a procession up to the cave. ‘Jai Bole’, we are greeted by the fellow yatris along the way. I can tell swamiji is excited; he’s in his element. While climbing up to the cave, he’s watchful of everyone around, making sure that Nina, who’s having a hard time with the stairs, is catching up. I’m mentally preparing myself for a physical disassociation from my feet, anticipating an hour or so on the freezing marble floor.

The moment we enter the cave, it’s clear that Swamiji is in the “in” circle; he starts working the room, a spiritual butterfly of some sort and a figure of authority. I see him chatting with the soldiers, receiving gifts, giving away cash… In the next moment, someone brings me a pair of wooden clogs to save my feet, then someone else is looking over our stuff while we are inside the cave. Good hiking boots can easily be stolen, leaving you to test your faith to Shiva not only to the cave, but from it as well. Barefoot trekking in the Kashmiri Himalayas… maybe next trip I’ll be up for that austerity. This is just the beginning of the royal treatment we are getting… We are now invited inside the shrine, next to the trishul and the remains of the stalagmite. I look around and realize that no one is getting this privilege besides us. Perhaps, this is where the transmission of the secret of immortality or sometimes interchangeably referred to as creation, takes place. Thanks, Swamiji ;-) Our foreheads are marked with a dot of red paint, which starts dripping down our faces akin to the blood that it’s supposed to represent. ‘Jai Bole Nath’, or ‘Bam Bam Bole’, I hear from everywhere…

Legend has it that while Shiva recounted to Parvati the secret of creation in the cave, unknown to him, a pair of mating doves eavesdropped on this conversation and having learned the secret, are reborn again and again, and have made the cave their eternal abode. Whether it was the effect of the freezing cold, the altitude, or the chillum from the night before, we saw 2 birds sitting high up on the side of the mountain.

We decide to bask in Shiva's glory for a bit longer and stay in the tent camp until the next morning. It’s a beautifully-slow day, with nowhere to trek, nothing to accomplish but to wallow around in this shaivist spirit. Another hamam bath inside the tent… We go outside and notice that this tent camp is quickly dissolving. As the Yatra is ending in one week, and then it’s a ghost town, a party that lasts a couple of months a year, Hindu Burning Man. And along with the camp, dear Swamiji disappears as well. They leave Amarnath before I have a chance to say goodbye. Some ships are only meant to pass, but what a beautiful passing it was.

»August 12th – The Way Back

This is our last day here; time to descend. We choose a different return route – to Baltal- much shorter, yet a bit more challenging, down some reeeeally steeeeep hills. Coming down, it’s not so bad. We hire another pony with porter for the invalid Lizzie, who still has bruises from the horse ride to the cave. I let the horse carry my luggage, rather than myself. Since there is no pressure to get anywhere, we take our time and frequent breaks. On one of them, we end up next to two sahdus who are resting on a stone – orange robes, long beards, trishuls (trident – 3-pronged weapon, representing 3 gunas: sattvas, rajas, and tamas), a moment of rest in a perpetual journey through sacred India. Sadhus are nothing like the curious householders whom me meet along the way, and for whom we at this point have recorded an “intro tape” – I’m from X, I do X, we are here to X - just press a button on request. To give the tape a bit of provocative fun, I start telling folks I’m Hortario’s daughter; let him wiggle his way through this. But these old men could care less… So we each exchange what we have in abundance – spirulina bars and chillum. No need to explain who had what. So here is the moment of sacred bonding; I know I must be dreaming, sitting here amidst the Himalayas, near a sacred Shiva cave, watching my mind travel out to galaxies with some holy men. No, I must have just fallen asleep at my desk at work, resting from laboratory beaker procurement.

We hear the last of Jai Bole’s as we reach Baltal – in just over four hours from the starting point. With the arduousness of the journey uphill and the experience in the cave, the descend seems almost anti-climactic…