Читать книгу: «Kashi», страница 4

She took her glass and looked at him. “It´s set then.”

He had not said a word, but he nodded barely visible.

While she put her glass back down on the table, she rose. She was wearing jeans and a silk shirt in turquoise. Her straight hair looked strong and shiny. She was very slim, yet not skinny. She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a card.

“Here is my address in Varanasi. I will be back home next week. Meet me there."

She was ready to leave.

“Varanasi?”

“Yes, I live in India. If you want a change, this is the perfect place to begin.” She smiled broadly turned around and left.

He remained in a catatonic state of immobility, his body frozen, just like his mind. Only his eyes were able to move around the bar-like hotel lobby. People were talking, drinking, but he could not hear their voices. It was a remarkable scene, like in an old silent movie. Countless actions happened simultaneously around him and he sat on the sofa in the back, witnessing everything totally detached. The waiter approached his table with a glass on his tray.

“Mrs. Garin ordered another drink for you, Sir!" He pronounced her name in a French way and it sounded beautiful. Paul had never thought about the origin of her name.

“Do you know Mrs. Garin", Paul asked the waiter.

“Yes, Sir. She is always our guest when she is in Berlin."

“She stays here at the hotel?”

“She has checked out earlier.” The waiter nodded and left him with his gin tonic, the strange immobility and the expanding experience of detachment.

Her suggestion was crazy. He would not go to Varanasi for sure. Next week was Christmas week. He had to return to New York, because his son wanted to visit him after the holidays, and he had to work on the Shakespeare soundtrack. He was not free to go anywhere at anytime. He had too many responsibilities and obligations. When he sat in the hotel lobby, Karen Garin´s idea seemed so off reality to him that he did not even have to think about it.

He sat at the same place until long after midnight. Another drink helped him to relax again, but there was a subtle tension that the alcohol could not dissolve.

His room was cold and empty. He went right to bed, trying not to think of the amazing events this day had had for him. He quickly fell asleep, easily drifting into the deeper levels of the subconscious mind. He still felt detached and aware when he entered the astral realm where dreams originate. Paul saw himself moving in a landscape that was new to his dream-world. It appeared old, ancient almost, or timeless. He sat on the barren sandbank of a huge river, looking at a city with medieval appearance that spread along the slowly flowing stream. He felt totally relaxed and wondered why. Paul knew, that he was dreaming, and he remembered everything that had happened in the waking state within the past hours. The dream-city was fully alive, he could see people moving along the river and into many tiny alleys that seemed to lead into a labyrinth of small streets, deeper into the heart of the fascinating town. Bells were ringing and the mooing of cows was blown across the waters. Next to him, crows were picking puffed rice greedily, battling for the largest pieces. He took a cracker out of his jacket, broke it into pieces and held one piece in his right hand, softly wooing the crows. They looked at him intelligently, gently waving their heads, not sure if they could trust him. He laughed. “They don´t trust me like I do not trust Karen”, he thought. One crow seemed curious and hopped forward to check him out. He kept very quiet and did not move. The crow came closer and really dared to fly on his outstretched arm. It looked at him once more and took the piece of cookie speedily from his hand. Then it flew off, but the next crow approached him immediately, being more courageous than the forerunner. The crows flew off when a bark with an elderly man approached the sandbank. The oarsman had just reached the shore, when Paul got up, held the wooden vessel and climbed into it. The old man smiled softly, strongly rowing back toward the other side, where he had just come from.

“I am glad, you have decided to come", the stranger said to Paul. "I am the spiritual elder brother of Karen and she is your spiritual sister. She has great knowledge of the human soul and the deepest secrets of music. For us, music is not so much an art, but a science, a spiritual science that can lead one to realize the Self."

The man rowed firmly while he spoke and the bark moved quickly forward. They had already reached the middle of the river and came closer and closer to the monumental buildings in shades of red and sandstone color on the other side. Paul looked back towards the sandbank. Only then he realized that the city, he was looking at, had to be Varanasi, the place where Karen Garin had just invited him to.

“And like any other spiritual science, the science of music is the science of pure love!”, he spoke in a soft adjuratory voice.

Paul experienced a strong sensation of energy in his entire body, but most of all in his chest. The boatman´s words had a direct effect on Paul´s inner state. This man was so special, so alive, so gentle, so benevolent. He did not show any sign of the aloofness, that made it so difficult for Paul to trust Karen Garin.

“It can purify the mind and the heart and lead to the ultimate realization. But – and I am sure Karen told you so – at first the purification process can be very painful. Many hidden sufferings will emerge from the subconscious mind, many unknown secrets that the psyche has locked into the dark room of repression. Acknowledging that what the psyche did not want to accept, leads to a liberation of life-energy and an opening of consciousness, which is indescribable.”

The boat had reached a small wooden pier. The man tied his boat to the rotten woods and climbed out sportively. Paul followed him curiously. They reached a small hut made of bamboo sticks and canvas at the end of the ramshackle quay. Blankets and cushions were draped on the ground of the tent and Paul spotted a sitar in the back. The boatman got on his knees and crawled into the far back of the little hut. He took the sitar and brought it to Paul.

“She is yours now, Paul. Take good care of her. This is the instrument, which will liberate your soul.”

Suddenly, Paul held his cello in his hands and passed it to the old man who in turn handed the sitar over to him. “From now on, you cannot follow your ego anymore, your worldly desires. You can only follow your soul, which will lead you to the soul of music. In the end you will discover that both are one! Inshallah, brother. Go with God now. You are safe, trust me and learn to trust Karen”

Paul woke up feeling calm and deeply relaxed. His mind was at peace, and he wished this state would never pass. He could not remember, if he had ever felt as serene, as safe and secure before. He was bright awake at three o´clock in the morning, got up, put on a warm sweater and took his computer back to bed. He needed to know if the place he had just seen in his dream really existed. The dream had been so realistic and authentic, very vivid and touching. It almost felt like he had traveled to that place, rather than dreamed of it.

He quickly found images of Varanasi, the old city along the Ganges, the broad and slowly flowing river, the wide sandy bank on the other shore. It looked exactly the way he had dreamed it. The feeling of calmness grew when he flipped through the images of the ancient Indian town that showed the same ochre, red and orange colors that had dominated his dream images. He recognized several houses he had seen in his dream and the wooden rowing boats looked exactly like that of boatman. Paul tried to remember if he had ever seen pictures of Varanasi before, but he did not have a clue. And even if he had seen the town in the north-western India in the past, he still would never have been able to describe it as accurately and detailed as he had experienced it in the dream. This distinction was important. Paul began to see a meaningful message in his dream – a call to follow Karen Garin´s invitation to India.

Strong fear captured Paul, a fear so existentially threatening, that he did not find a better response than flight. He got dressed carelessly, put on his coat and cap and ran down the staircase, out of the hotel into the dark and empty streets of early morning Berlin. He did not care where he ran, he just wanted to get away, knowing that his action was futile and yet not being able to stop. In his mind images of Karen Garin, sitars, the boatman and Varanasi mixed in an endless stream of images that he could not stop willingly.

It was five in the morning now, and he began to feel exhausted from the long aimless walk. “Berlin”, he thought desperately, “what have you got in store for me?” But to his own surprise, he did not wish, he had never come to Berlin. It was good to be here, and it was right, he felt. He slowed down his exhausting pace and began to perceive the outer world again. The apartments were still dark. People slept undisturbed, he thought jealously. “Why am I so much afraid”, he asked himself. “What is so frightening in my experience, that I need to run from it? I don´t want to change”, he thought again. “I don´t want my life to change.”

He had had a strong resistance to change since early childhood. He had been five when his family had moved to a new neighborhood in Boston. Paul had refused to go outside for more than a month. Only when school had started he had agreed to go, but not because he had given in. This is why his divorce was so painful for him, too. Paul had thought he would be with his family forever. The possibility of change did not occur to him, and when it was impossible to avoid, it felt like a devastating defeat. "You can not run away anymore", his inner voice told him. "This change is – more than any other change before – the most important one in your life. If you allow it, it will set you free!"

It was decided. He would go to India. He had to give it a try. What could he lose? One sentence of last night's dream echoed in Paul´s mind: “From now on, you cannot follow your ego anymore, your worldly desires. You can only follow your soul, which will lead you to the soul of music.” And – truly – for the first time in his life, Paul felt, that he followed the real needs of his soul, searching for openness, curiosity, growth, and evolvement. He left the worldly path and stepped on the spiritual road of growing inner awareness without knowing where he was heading.

Paul walked into the Indian embassy to apply for a tourist visa before midday. When he picked it up in the afternoon, his flight to Delhi was already booked for next Monday. Paul had decided not to return to New York before. He only had to make a few important phone calls, first of all with his son. Sean took the change of plans more coolly than Paul had expected.

“Don´t worry, Dad. My friend David invited me to his house in San Diego. He lives right on the beach, and we can go surfing anytime. Mom said you would be too disappointed if I don´t go to see you in New York, but honestly Dad, New York is terrible in winter. I am not too keen on skating in Central Park. Next time you should come to California."

Paul laughed, feeling assuaged. “You are absolutely right, son. I will come as soon as I am back from India.”

“What are you up to there anyways?” Sean wanted to know.

“I have no idea!”

“No concert, no composition for Bollywood?”

“No. This is a private trip. I have been invited by a sitar player.”

“Wow. A private trip. Have a good time, Dad. And see you in L.A.!

“See you, Sean. Love you!”

“Love you too, Dad.”

1 Chapter Three

Varanasi

On her way to Rahmanji, Karen was totally lost in her thoughts. She did not have eyes for the crowd that she passed when she walked quickly through the narrow alleys of Varanasi. Nor did she have the mindfulness to notice the typical feeling that arose in her today like any other day when she came by the crematory. She was rethinking her trip to Europe and the experiences that it had had for her and the other members of her orchestra. They had seen so many places and met so many people, but her thoughts kept returning to one encounter only: the meeting with Paul Madden. There was a deep sorrow in her, when she thought of him, a strong feeling of compassion. His life appeared fulfilled and happy, even privileged when regarded with the eyes of the world. Paul was talented, famous, rich… But he was also lonely, disoriented, unknowing, unconscious. He had lost himself in the world and its affairs, its ambitions, and necessities. The more success he had had in the worldly game, the more he had failed in the spiritual field of life. He had lost consciousness and love if he had ever possessed them. His life was out of balance. Karen tried to see when the scale had tilted, but she was unable to perceive anything. All she could see with the inner eye was his current state of mind and heart, his numbness, and devastation and his strong craving to be seen, to be recognized.

This cool December afternoon she entered her teacher's house silently. She loved everything in his house, objects, and people, and she knew that she was equally loved. "Why is it so difficult to teach this love", she asked herself. "And why is love for so many people so hard to find?" The house was calm and seemed empty. Karen went out on the balcony and took her seat on her small carpet. Rahmanji´s sitar was leaning against the wall and even though he was not here physically, she clearly perceived his mental presence. It was for a reason, that today he was not out here waiting for her. He did nothing without a purpose, none of his actions were meaningless. And because she knew that her teacher was always teaching her something, she was very aware of everything that she perceived with the outer and the inner eye. His sitar on the wall, his empty seat, a white flag softly blowing in the wind, the smell of sandalwood, jasmine and Nag Champa incense, birds singing in the distance, a merchant advertising his goods with a piercing voice. Her thoughts of Paul Madden, that kept running in the background of her mind, the sentiment of love, that had arisen in her, when she had entered this house, her widely opened heart and the gratefulness she felt for the spiritual blessings she had received.

A question formed in her mind. How can love best be taught? And suddenly the thinking and questioning part of her mind fell silent and a door to a wider, deeper space of consciousness opened within her. The silence was filled with energy, with a strong potential of manifesting countless thought-forms. But now the absence of inner form was dominant and with it a strong release and a deep relaxation. She allowed this state of consciousness to strengthen and deepen, a state of being beyond the person, beyond any sense of self. Here, she lost any sense of time, any notion of identity, of need and want. It was like a state of forgetting. Consciousness was beyond the mind, and whoever identified with it, was able to let go of any troubling situation brought about by controversial thinking. And yet, this state was so subtle, so little tangible, as elusive as gas, that one could not reach or keep it willingly. It vanished after a timeless while on its own accord. Karen witnessed the arising of a new thought, the manifestation of a novel mental form. “The loveless heart has to burn passionately for something to be re-inflamed, thus all desires are transformed.”

She opened her eyes. Rahmanji sat in front of her smiling broadly and kindly. She put the right hand on her heart and bowed her head slightly, overwhelmed by her gratefulness and her love for this man.

“Trust love, my dear. It has led you to where you are now, and it has the power to lead everybody else to the same state of being. We are not allowed to interfere with the workings of Gods love.”

“I know, Rahmanji. I know, but my urge to help, to awaken, to guide out of the darkness is so strong.” Her smile mirrored her sense of helplessness.

“The need to help is just like any desire, my dear. Born of ignorance and illusion.”

He took his sitar without tuning it and started to play because music was his language, his media of teaching. Words were not able to convey the subtle messages Rahmanji was able to impart. Karen immediately grasped, that his play was drawing a multi-layered picture of the human experience of love. He started with a description of infatuation which turned into a strong attraction and, when nurtured by mutual opening and trust, into emotional love. But emotional love, affection, was not all the human experience of love contained. There was a deeper level to it that first called for purification of the self and surrender to the energy of love to be experienced. At this point, there was a shift in experience from dualistic to unitary, from secular to spiritual. And this shift in consciousness meant a total change, an irreversible transformation of the entire personality. Rahmanji reminded his student of her own path from limited desire to the full experience of love. He also showed her the path Paul Madden could walk, if he would come to Varanasi and if he was able and willing to surrender to the energy that awaited him. Rahmanji´s play faded into the acoustical void. Karen pulled her own instrument closer and started to play, inspired by the echoing vibrations she still felt in her body after Rahmanji´s imposing play. Her description of love´s facets started with a shy, timid aspect before it altered into delightful recognition. Karen noticed Rahmanji´s smile when he heard this. He nodded with the same delight that her play tried to express. But then she attempted to explain her worries and doubts. After the first experience of love and its recognition, not everybody was able to trust this energy and surrender to its flow. Many selves reacted defensively and shrunk back. She feared the ego's defenses, because they had the strength to oppose the power of love. Her play expressed the full intensity of her fear. She had met many people, who were not able to overcome this state of defensive self-protection, and every time she had experienced this, it was like a shock, a deep, unbearable pain, that she did not want to experience again.

Once more Rahmanji smiled. Karen expected that he would grasp his instrument to answer her question. But instead, he looked at her and said: "I am aware of your fear, Karen, and I am glad, that you also know of it. And like always, when we have to face our fears, we find ourselves at a crossroads. We can confront them, learn our lesson and make a new experience. Or we fail to learn our lesson and will have to face it again until we are finally able to move on. You are more than a student today, Karen. You have become a teacher, but you can only lead your own students to full realization of the Self if you grow over the fear of human defenses. And as much as Paul Madden needs you to walk the path of self-inquiry and self-realization, as much you need him to become a fully empowered spiritual guide. You have to learn to trust yourself and your abilities!”

Her heart contracted before it jumped, once, twice and then beat much too fast. Rahmanji was absolutely right. This was her personal chance to grow. He noticed her nervousness and patted her hand. “We have accomplished many lessons and passed many tests together, Karen. This challenge will be mastered, too!”

She trusted her teacher absolutely, but this time she felt a strong negative tendency in her thoughts and feelings. Pain overcame her and she was not sure if it was her own suffering or that of Paul Madden.

“He will hate me one day!” she heard her own voice predict clearly and absolutely certain.

“If that is the case, you will know how to react in the appropriate manner!” Rahmanji got up to interrupt her negative chain of thoughts. This was not the time to discuss what might happen in the near or far future. “Come, my dear. We will go to see the evening aarti today.”

He took her instrument and leaned it against the wall next to his. Then he grasped a shawl from one of the chairs on the balcony, gave it to her and started to descend the staircase directly down to the Ganges. His boat was tied to a small wooden pier. He jumped into it fleet-footed like a young boy, reached out for her hand and pulled her into the vessel. She fought to balance her weight to avoid falling. Rahmanji´s laughter infected her. Daylight had just begun to fade. The sun sank slowly below the horizon dipping everything into a softer, warmer tone of color. Rahmanji untied the boat and began to row easily and strongly. Karen sat back in the rear of the boat and relaxed.

“It´s been a long time, since we did this, Rahmanji.”

“Yes, it has, Karen. We have not worshiped Mother Ganga for a very long time.”

She dipped her hand into the lukewarm water, while her teacher rowed upstream. The sun fell quickly at this time of the year and the air cooled down almost immediately. Karen pulled the woolen shawl closer around her shoulders, shivering slightly. They just passed the burning ghat and she could see the flames of several cremations rising high and higher. The river was crowded with boats. Most of them carried tourists to the evening event at Dashashwamedh Ghat. Many of them stopped at the cremation ground and people shot photos and videos. Countless candles floated by as an offering to the divine nature of the river. Karen followed some of them with her eyes on their slow and silent way with the river current. All of a sudden Rahmanji began to sing "Om Jaya Gange Mata", a traditional song for Ganga Aarti. His full baritone was amazingly precise. He hit the notes with absolute ease. Karen joined in and was immediately overwhelmed by an energy of bliss that seemed to originate from nowhere. It filled her heart and emptied her mind from fears and worries, desires and hopes. She was bathed in this blissful energy and sang in tune with her teacher lightheartedly. When they reached their destination at Dashashwamedh Ghat, Karen tied the boat to another vessel that was waiting to see the evening ritual like many others. The aarti was about to start. Karen watched the young priests prepare their ceremony items mindfully. The conch shell horns were blown for the first time. Rahmanji bowed forward and whispered into Karen's ear: "Remember that Ganga is the water of the pure causal ocean, which flows through heaven and hell until it descends onto earth and purifies it. All of us have to experience these four realms before we can realize our true nature."

Rahmanji´s message was meaningful and important. Karen knew that she would never forget his words spoken in tune with the sound of the conch horns.

They triggered vivid memories; memories of their first encounter. He was a well-known sitar player at that time more than thirty-five years ago. Her family had just moved from Geneva to Delhi and she still fought the decision vehemently. Her parents had promised her that she would love India and her new school, but after six months she still had not found any close friends. She hated the restricted life, she had been forced into. In Switzerland, she had spent most of the day after school outside, in the garden, on the street, with other children or alone. In India the foreigners´ children could not play on the streets, they had to spend a long day in school and lived in secured ghettos. Her brother was too little to disagree and revolt, but Karen had a strong will and showed her opposition. That night the whole family was invited to a dinner at the Swiss embassy, where her father worked. At first, she did not want to come, but her parents persuaded her to join. She went with an angry and sad heart, feeling totally overrun by any of her parent's decisions. There were several other children, who tried to catch Karen´s attention, but she was stubborn and did not leave her mother's hand making frightening faces to them until they gave up. Finally, Rahmanji and his son entered the stiff atmosphere of the official dinner ceremony and what she saw and heard changed her totally. She was only seven at that time, but she was stunned by the music, totally enveloped by it, touched at the core of her being. She had never seen nor heard anything as beautiful as this, and she was totally convinced that she knew this Indian man, who was playing this wonderful music. When he bowed silently and modestly after the concert, she let go of her mother's hand, picked a flower from one of the opulent bouquets next to her and ran up to him kissed him on his cheek and offered him the flower. He took the flower smiling gently and hugged her warm-heartedly.

“Don´t be angry and sad, little girl", he whispered into her ear. "India will make you happy because here your destiny can be fulfilled. Your parents don´t know it, but they moved here for you. In this country, you will blossom like this beautiful flower!"

He opened his hand and showed her the fully opened bud, she had just picked for him. Immediately the suffocating grief and despair fell off of her and her heart filled with love for this man and his music, but most of all with the elixir of growth and transformation, with absolute trust.

The aarti was in full swing now. The young priests had lit their incense sticks and mutually rang their aarti bells in accord to the music played in the background. It was a stunningly synchronized choreography, where none of the actors ever lost track while wooing the goddess Ganga, a fair skinned beauty, who rides on a crocodile and carries vessels of purifying water and a water lily. After a while, the priests changed the incense for a tree-shaped brass lamp fired with camphor and the smell spread rapidly through the alleys of the city and along the banks of the sacred river. The fire was bright and Karen had to close her eyes for a moment. She could still see its clear reflection on her retina. "The loveless heart has to burn for something to be re-inflamed, thus all desires are transformed”, she remembered the sentence that had come to her mind this afternoon, when she had worried about Paul Madden and the best way of teaching love. Rahmanji had inflamed her heart with love when they had first met. She knew that this igniting spark still burned within her.

Karen felt totally one with the burning flames of the aarti lamps, which the priests waved through the air in circular movements. The fire was her and she was the fire, but she felt untouched by its heat, unstained by its destructive power. At the same time, she experienced the transforming quality of this element, which the Hindus called agni. The heat energized her. She felt elated, yet totally cool and extremely conscious. At this moment in time, the fire symbolized the transforming quality of divine love for her. The flames appeared dangerous and destructive, but this was just one way of perceiving them on the gross level of consciousness. On the subtle levels, they were a means of love to burn the ego and reveal the eternal self, which had been hidden under countless layers of false identification and self-defense.

Rahmanji watched her closely, absolutely aware of the change of consciousness and perception she went through triggered by the ritual and the holy flames. He loved her like his own daughter, maybe even stronger, because their bond had never been worldly. Thirty-eight years ago they had met for a spiritual purpose only. He had known that they would meet long before she had packed her things in Switzerland. The aarti became louder and more energetic, stronger and more vivid. Its effect on the audience's consciousness grew with ever single ring of the bells. Karen´s eyes were glowing; reflecting the bliss within her. She was an exceptional student. He was very proud of her. From the first moment they had met, she had trusted him completely; she had opened her heart to him, to the music and to the spiritual teachings fully. She did not hold anything back. He very well understood her fear of human defenses. She had never had any of these in all these years they had worked together. She had always been a free spirit, willing and ready to realize the self, waiting for the moment to see truth with her own eyes. Because her heart was so wide open any defense felt like a strong offense to her. He had protected her from this pain many times until today because for a long time she had not been aware of her strong vulnerability. But like a loving father he had had to realize that if he wanted her to grow up, to mature, to walk her own path, he had to stop protecting her and allow her to become able to handle the potentially painful field of experience alone. Just like Karen had asked herself today how to teach love to a person who had lost it completely, Rahmanji asked himself how to prepare his dear child to face the bluntness of egos that felt the need to attack to protect themselves.

The young aarti priests threw flower petals towards the sacred river Ganges now, a symbol of devotion and surrender to the goddess and the divine aspect of beauty. This was the last ritual of the ceremony and the priests left the stage quickly, almost too hastily afterward. Karen looked at Rahmanji.

“If you don´t mind, I would like to walk home, Rahmanji.”

“Do that. It´s a beautiful night. We will meet tomorrow.”

She climbed out of the boat over the next vessel. When she had reached the shore, she turned around and waved a blitheful good-bye before she vanished into the crowd that poured out of the ghat into the veins of the old town.