Chapter Six

- Pillow Book entry, late summer

When I slip into the role of a pilgrim the terrain changes. Markets and crowds fall to the wayside. Rivers, confluences, peaks and caves in the Himalayas are my destinations. I wear pilgrim's dress: long chuba, long-sleeve collarless, cuff-less, button-less blouse that covers my hands if I don't roll it up, crystal mala, rosary, around my left wrist. I carry pechas, Tibetan rice paper manuscripts, and translations I'm working on. I paint pilgrim's art, draw maps of pilgrimage itineraries, once borrow a camera to photograph shrines along the way.

Many Hindu and Tibetan saints and deities live or once lived in caves. When Shiva is not consumed with his fiery dance of destruction, he might be meditating in a cave in the Himalayas, seated on a deerskin mat, clothed only in a loin cloth. Many wandering Shaivites emulate the ascetic aspect of Lord Shiva. They bathe in pure glacial streams and carry a minimum of possessions: a water pot which converts to a cooking pot, tongs to tend the fire, a walking staff or Shiva trident and coarse rudraksha beads strung into a mala. These yogis let their hair grow long like Shiva's matted dreadlocks. They smoke ganja as their worship.

Although I associate caves with the feminine, and feel that caves are natural shrines for goddesses like Athena in Athens and Tara in the Himalayas, there are few Tibetan or Hindu myths that tell of women ascetics or yoginis who inhabit the caves I visit. In my mind they exist, but their stories are not as well-known.

In Rishikesh, a holy city on the banks of the Ganges near the watershed, many contemporary male yogis and female yoginis live in caves. Some caves are conveniently remodeled. The ascetics add gates and doors with locks to safeguard privacy and possessions. Other caves are fully furnished. Beds, chairs and rugs make the interiors cozy. Such conversions, however, seem to contradict the essence of austerity, the primary goal of ascetic cave dwellers.

I admire the ascetics who live alone outside of these religious enclaves. Milarepa was a yogi who lived in a number of caves in the Himalayas. After many years of stoic hardships and intense Buddhist practices he attained an enlightened state of mind. He was a fanatic; he ate boiled nettle soup and lived in isolation for years. I admire his diligence and discipline. I can't emulate his extreme asceticism, but I identify with his rugged individualism. Milarepa is also a famous poet. All Tibetans know the Jetsun Kha Bum, the One Hundred Thousand Songs, he composed, each one rich with melodic and spiritual passion.

I receive teachings from a lama who lives near the Nepalese border and knows many of Milarepa's songs by heart. When I ask he sings for me, his voice lyrical and lilting, the opposite from the sonorous baritone chants emanating from the temple. He raises his right hand behind his ear, a characteristic mudra, ritual hand gesture, of Jetsun Mila, and opens his heart to song. He teaches me this prayer:

When I visit a monastery in Lahaul, a two day trek over the Rhotang pass outside of Manali in the Kulu Valley, Milarepa is there with me, sitting on my shoulder, looking through me to the walls of the monastery where frescoes illustrate famous scenes from his life. There is the scene where his guru commands him to build an impossibly complex structure. After toiling laboriously to complete the task his guru makes him tear it down and rebuild it. Not once but again and again to demonstrate non-attachment. Another scene depicts Milarepa practicing black magic before he converts to Buddhism. His skin often appears greenish from his nettle soup diet.

The more I read about Milarepa and his arduous cave practices, the more I want to meditate in a cave. My rationale is: enlightenment comes to one who meditates alone. The Buddha gained enlightenment after meditating by himself under a tree in Bodh Gaya. Surely if I isolate myself in a cave like Milarepa and devote my entire day to meditation, important revelations will come to me.

A part of me wants to take the vows of a nun, to show the lamas, some whom I have spiritual crushes on, how sincere I am. After all giving up material comforts for the sake of a spiritual existence is easy for someone like me living and traveling as a pilgrim. Caves from Afghanistan to India, from Nepal to Bhutan, Tibet and China, once housed the strict practitioners of the Buddha's teachings. As the romanticized notion to live in a cave takes hold, I become fiercely self-competitive—only in reverse. I don't work or compete to achieve wealth and its concomitant accoutrements and distractions, but to renounce wealth and all the comforts money can buy. I temporarily leave Keith in Benares and travel as a pilgrim to Bihar state.

Revelations fire the imagination. The visionary drawings of William Blake come to mind, Nicolas Roerich's Himalayan scenes and Lama Govinda's wife, the painter Li Gotami's watercolors of Tibetan landscapes. I pack up some food, walk to Dungashari, a mountain on the outskirts of Bodh Gaya in the heart of the dry Indian plains, and climb to a rocky ledge I discovered on an earlier hike. In Bodh Gaya, Tibetans often say, miracles are not only possible, they are inevitable. The Buddha, after all, attained enlightenment under a tree located a few miles from the cave. The entire area was once a flourishing center of religious practice. Bodh Gaya is, in fact, the center of the Tibetan universe, an excellent place for meditation and practice. I'm certain I'll have a transcendental experience of some sort.

I embark on my cave retreat with high hopes. The cave is not deep. In fact, there is barely enough room to stretch out and lie down at night. The floor is not flat, but angles at odd places. A sharp rock face juts out to form a roof over the uneven ledge. I can stand up and stretch, but to get up and take a walk seems like a dramatic break from my strict meditation goal. I can't walk on the ledge, so I sit—for many, many more hours than I am accustomed to.

During meditation, I visualize a number of deities especially the goddess Tara. Earlier I study and receive the Tara initiation or empowerment which grants me the permission, so to speak, to practice her meditation. The times I meditate vary from an hour to three hours at a stretch.

My body numbs: my legs go to sleep from restricted circulation, my back aches and shoulders cramp up. Without the usual daily distractions, time drags on and on.

The hardest part of meditation—regardless of the setting—is maintaining concentration. My mind wanders constantly. In the cave, I attain some moments of absolute concentration, but mostly my mind wanders and my legs numb with pain. At one point the Hindu villagers down below me gather in a circle and beat on drums. It is impossible not to watch them. They wave red flags, cheer and sing loud songs. At first I think: they're celebrating. Maybe today is one of their numerous holy days or festivals. Then I see the red flags wave furiously and realize the slogans are political.

Here I sit, I think, away from the stress of daily life. As I struggle to meditate on abstract perfections down below villagers are expressing their political discontent by staging a communist rally. On the third day of my retreat I quit.

If I gained any insight at all, it is a sharp reminder that my body is frail, with limitless potential for aches and pains. I am reminded, also, of how much I like comfort and companionship. Physical deprivations do not necessarily aid meditation. Meditation is useful in reasonable doses. I'm ready to return: to my room in the vihara, to my to morning cup of Tibetan tea in the restaurant tent outside the monastery, to my paints and sketch pad.