In(Dhyana)

Seven more months passed. Apparently, the number for Divinity is 7 in Europe, 8 in China and 9 in India.

Back in April, the big panic about The Pandemy escalated and I got to Kalimath, at the foothills of Kedar Shiva Pita Paramatma, happy to stay in the mountains until December, when I thought I’d be travelling back to Europe. But there is no rest for the wicked, because they get bored.

I stopped writing and I started sadhana – asanas, pranayam, meditations, ‘know thyself’ kind of stuff and walking, climbing, swimming and music playing. Despite the disadvantages of carrying large, heavy things on overcrowded sleeper trains for dozens of hours and thousands of kms, it’s been years since I’ve been around India with a few bansuri, drums, harmonicas and harps, ektaras and other sitars. Narayan, Narayan. The people were going mad with fear, stress, anger and frustration but they have always been mad, I swear. ‘Corona’ has given confidence and freedom of speech/manifestation to all the idiots on the planet, and they are by far the majority. What to do? Go to Kathmandu, the old saddhu saying goes, but do you know the borders are closed? Can’t go to Kathmandu, or Colombo, but with a little ojas you can travel spectacularly and absurdly this mad circus that is the indian subcontinent during corona.

There were two months of merging fully with Kalimath, Kali Sheela. Rucch Mahadev, the stone lingam that erupted from one of the high altitude Ganga Jis. Guptakashi, the third secret Kashi. Kala Bhairav is everywhere, Kali’s shri yantra, the bheej asura stone covered in ‘blood’, the deep and large dhuni burning since Treta Yug and further, Tungnath and Rudrnath and Ansuya Devi and Govind Ghat and darshan of Tapovan and Badrinath and Kedarnath. Kriya Mahavatar Babaji Nagaraj’s stomping ground. Every place on the planet is the stomping ground of the never born astral being of the Original Personality, Govinda. Adi Purush. Atma Paramatma. Brahm Parabrahm.

Bansuri is a revelation, get yourself a flute this Kristmas and play it. Your lungs will create a space for all your subconscious images to take shape and dance before you.

The village people were all getting vaccinated for free in mass gatherings held in the local rural hospital and school, both closed ‘because of corona’. Ignorance kills much more people than this mild, dubious virus (0.06% of world population corona deaths in 2 years. Even the smallest government is deadlier than that). Modi said bansuri for corona, very healthy for lungs. The villagers were asking me to play but almost never tried playing themselves… Because most humans are underdeveloped and lack autonomy. They tend to think collectively as a family, a community, a nation, a race. Whatever generally happens, they’ll go for it. They won’t be creative, they won’t think for themselves. We know this.

India is cheap and is not cheap. India is everything and also nothing. You can get things for 1 rupia, which would qualify as the cheapest thing on the planet, and also there are many things priced at European standards. Expensive. There are so many classes, rules and unspoken divisions… The illusion is complex and obvious, one can look and see Mahamaya as if one is on mind-opening drugs. Money is the imaginary substratum of human activity and endeavour. Most people live and die worshipping money.

În Kerala, în monsoon, ploaia începe ca un fulger și se sparge în cer, ca un balon. Durează câte un minut, timp în care totul se inundă. Ai o jumătate de oră să te storci, pământul bea cât poate și vine din nou. Jai Mata Di.

India mă spală de prostie, de păcate, de sentimentul de vină. Primul om cu care am vorbit când am aterizat a fost un băiat chinez din Wuhan, care era disperat căci nimeni nu îi înțelegea disperarea. Era începutul și acum este sfârșitul?

Aveam un prieten musulman care ținea în Delhi, Paharganj un birou de aranjat călătorii. La începutul primei carantine, acum 20 de luni de zile, a avut probleme și haite de hinduși pro-guvern i-au ars biroul. S-a mutat înapoi în Kashmir. În perioada de la începutul panicii, comunitățile de musulmani au fost învinovățite de împrăștierea coronei prin ale lor congregații religioaso-islamice ce nu s-au oprit de frica niciunui virus sau niciunei legi, căci Allah nu fuge nici de Dracul.

Ce am învățat astăzi despre caste, copii? Prima scânteie de conștientizare a castelor a apărut în săptămânile de haos și violență instituționalizată ce au precedat Prima Mare Carantină. Atunci am trecut din Varanasi (Uttar Pradesh) în Pushkar (Rajasthan), din Pushkar în Coimbatore (Tamil Nadu), din Coimbatore în Kanyakumari (Tamil Nadu), din Kanyakumari prin Chennai (Tamil Nadu) spre Varanasi (Uttar Pradesh), direct în Haridwar și Rishikesh (Uttar Pradesh and Uttarakhand border). În următoarele luni am ajuns în Uttarkashi și Gangotri (Uttarakhand). Între timp am avut onoarea de a experimenta Odisha, câteva călătorii masive prin Andhra Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Karnataka, Kerala și desigur Tamil Nadu.
Gypsies din Pushkar. Rroma sau Rromani nu sunt termeni recunoscuți sau înțeleși de cineva, ‘țigan’ de asemenea nu există. Numele tribului se numește Kalbeliaya, sunt numeroase triburi cu numeroase nume. Practic, în afara sistemului, gypsies au fost primii neatinși, mai de neatins decât neatinșii. Poate mercenari, poate convertiți islamului (căci înainte de Mohamed sanatan dharma era, da?), cu siguranță artiști și meșteri căci asta se întâmplă cu Omul la nevoie –  iese arta din El/Ea. Atât de jos au fost că au ieșit pe partea cealaltă (telefonul mi-a corectat cu ‘celestă’) și au devenit pirați, nici nu se mai pun la socoteala civică și se închină Soarelui și Vântului. Preistorie totală.
Nu înțelegeam bine cum stă treaba, gândeam că segregarea se petrece pe baza banilor, credeam că sărăcia îi face de neatins și până una alta așa este dar și dacă printr-un miracol vreun individ intră în bogăție, tot necurat rămâne. Măcar dacă era vorba de bani, acest concept prin care hârtii printate de o instituție guvernamentală înseamnă mâncare apă libertate putere… Măcar suferința era doar parțial imaginară dar peste ingredientul ‘bani’ adaugă ‘castă’ și outputul va fi India contemporană. For ‘culture’ check back later. Cultura veche s-a uitat și acum am intrat în analfabetism, trebuie să o luăm de la început cu educație de bază.
Asemănător precum, chit că ești o fată dintr-o familie middle class, că ai fost sau ești la universitate, ești sau vei fi căsătorită,  tot te închid într-o cameră, te hrănesc cu alte farfurii și nu ți se adresează când ești în perioada ‘murdară’ a ciclului. Femeia este percepută ca un suflet inferior oricum, sau să fie corp inferior? Discrepanța bărbat-femeie există în toate momentele vieții și este copleșitoare, dar nu atât de mult precum s-ar putea imagina căci și bărbatul este inferior, în India. Ființa umană a fost devalorificată total, întreg, comprehensiv. Începând din fragedă copilărie ambele sexe sunt abuzate fizic și metafizic în numele ‘culturii noastre indiene’, aka ‘sanatan dharma’. The timeless law of the universe is being quoted as reason for beatings, screamings, rapes, ignorance to the point of return to bestiality etc etc. India e o scenă dintr-un film horror și nu vorbesc de Himalayas, Veliangiri, Gokarna sau miile de temple și arhitecturi, vorbesc de toate orașele mici și mari, obscure sau faimoase din Uttar Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Odisha, Haryana, Kerala, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu și tot restul regatului. Aum Namah Shivaya. 2 miliarde 250 milioane de oameni. Treaba cu familiile ‘moderne’ de hinduși brahmini care își separă fetele și femeile în timpul ciclului lunar e atât de normalizată încât a devenit un ritual în viața zilnică. ‘Copiii’ de 25-30 ani sunt căsătoriți de părinți, pentru bani și emigrări – imigrări, nu într-o familie sau două dar în toate familiile. ‘Copiii’ plâng că nu vor să fie vânduți, apoi cooperează și se conformează : ‘dharma’. Cuvinte mari precum karma dharma și tot repertoriul sanskrit sunt folosite constant, în conversații, în titlul tuturor magazinelor, în numele tuturor oamenilor. Hare Krishna supermarket, Goloka hotels, Jagadambe industries. Nimeni nu-și mai amintește niciun înțeles al niciunei mantre. Oricum nimeni nu iese din casă decât în grupuri mari, familiale sau prietenești, și nu interacționează cu nimeni și nimic ce nu cunosc deja. Sentimentul de curiozitate a dispărut, a fost înăbușit de frică și prostie.  Multe ritualuri brutale și primitive, mai mici sau mai mari, mai ieftine sau mai scumpe. Totul se plătește și banii probabil că ajung la politicieni, căci sunt MULȚI politicieni și multă politică. Postere cu porci umani, grași și vulgari, sunt lipite peste tot, cu sutele, acoperind nu doar case și magazine dar și temple și mari clădiri guvernamentale. Se întâmplă petreceri și procesiuni iar vorba străzii este că aceștia sunt oameni buni și puternici ce vor salva plebea. Stalin este numele guvernatorul statului Tamil Nadu, iar politica lor este non-existentă în practică și comunistă în discurs. Openly communist, se auto intitulează comuniști și împotriva lui Modi. Este Modi The Saviour?! Hahahahahahaha. Pe bune! Ironic, absurd și amuzant, mai ales brahminii și alții un pic bogăței care vor și ei practică asemenea ritualuri, căci își permit să dea liber femeii pentru 4-5 zile pe lună și, în general, să folosească o grămadă de bani pentru a-și cumpăra frustrare și dezamăgire. Săracii nu prea, și înțeleg și anatomie și istorie mai bine, din nevoie. Cei dintâi vor fi cei din urmă și cei din urmă, primii. Bine ai zis-o, Iisus, adresându-te maselor de leproși. Cei din mijloc rămân în mijloc, precum clasele mijlocii din societatea vestică. Vașnica luptă a egoului primordial se dă între cap și fund. Am gândit acestea și altele într-o casă în Tiruvannamalai, Tamil Nadu. Dorm pe podea lângă o toaletă care miroase puternic a urină. Vine din pământ. Nu există pat. Dorm pe o podea de gresie rece, pătura-cârpă de mătase groasă s-a mototolit și a scăpat de sub mine în timpul nopții. Mi-e frig dar asta nu e nimic comparabil cu mirosul care mă trezește la fiecare câteva ore, testez ridicol pătura să văd dacă de acolo vine dar nu, vine de la toaleta dezafectată. Bine, mâine o spălăm, e aproape dimineață și scandalul primordial începe. În curând cineva va bate un copil și copilul va plânge câteva ore, căci la etaj locuiește o familie Tamil. Am întrebat, e normal să bați copiii în India, toți părinții își bat copiii. On the second floor and the rooftop lived a Tamil family, a few women including a pregnant one, a few men and a few children. The children scream all day, they beat the boy in scenes that last for hours a few times a day, every day. The boy whines and shouts, in Tamil, ‘you don’t have a good life, you are not a good person’. Children know something, but they soon forget. These kids were between 3 years and 7 years, they were dressed and treated like horror movie dolls, with heavy bracelets at both feet, prince and princess costumes and they are petted, massaged, pulled and pushed, hit, lifted up, screamed at, kissed and hugged by all the stupid fat women and drunk and greasy men living around. Apart from screaming and beating, sexual abuse undoubtedly also happens. All day, every day for the rest of your life. Nobody even thinks freedom or dignity exist. The adults are grotesque and you want to hate them and save the kids, but the adults were these kids 30 years ago and 30 years from now the kids will be the adults. Don’t call the police, it’s very dangerous. My advice to humanity, save the children now and cut the losses. Let’s forgive ourselves and start again.

Câteodată pe podea se zbat un fel de viermi-serpi mici cât un deget, se zbat și încearcă să între în piele; sunt veninoși. Totul este veninos aici – apa este veninoasă dar în moderație. În orașe, aerul este veninos. Cel mai otrăvitor element este cel uman. Oamenii speriați, needucați și neevoluați sunt veninoși și o mare parte din populația Indiei intră în aceste categorii. Proști, răi și suferinzi sunt majoritatea, Sfinte Sisoe. Capitala statului Tamil Nadu este Chennai, unde St Thomas Basilica există, pe malul oceanului, și acolo a pus Toma cortul când a venit din Israel în India să explice cu Christos. Străzile sunt împânzite de boschetari în diverse stagii de degradare, femei și bărbați. Se spală, urinează și defechează, mănâncă, sângerează, dorm și mor pe străzi. Am văzut oameni morți. Văd sute de animale moarte, muribunde, suferinde. Am văzut oameni cu diaree de sânge, în mijlocul zilei, în stradă. Întreb care e treaba, ‘moolam’ – se întâmplă, de la căldură (e iarnă și sunt 30 de grade. Vara sunt 50 de grade). Se pare că e o chestie comună, sunt postere cu moolam, am învățat să le citesc. Învăț Tamil pentru a putea supraviețui, căci acești oameni sunt tari de cap și ego și vorbesc doar Tamil, cea mai veche, complexă și matematică limbă de pe planetă. Nu engleză franceză germană spaniolă, nu Hindi, nu nimic. Nu vorbesc nici Tamil corect, desigur, căci nu prea știu gramatică și nici prea au nici vocabular, așa că au regresat într-un fel de limbă pur orală și foarte intonată, cu ultima vocală prelungită la infinit: ‘aaaaaaaaa’. Nu vorbesc alte limbi și nici nu vor să audă de ele, nu vor să audă de alți oameni, să vorbească cu ei, să le încerce mâncarea sau cultura, nu vor să audă de altă muzică sau artă, nu nu nu. Cultura karnatică (telefonul îmi corectează ‘cârnați’) e cea mai bună, aici-ne-am-născut-de-aici-nu-ne-mișcăm, nici măcar în imaginație – deși ne uităm la Netflix non-Indian.
Care este treabă mea în tot acest spectacol? De ce nu? Eu vreau să explic cu yoga, despre unitatea primordială, despre mintea colectivă și despre adevăr și fericire. Oamenii aceștia au nevoie de ajutor și noi toți avem nevoie de interacțiune și comunicare. Ca să înotăm trebuie să intrăm în apă. Aceasta este rolul meu, acum, aici.

One of the best things to see at this time of heavy floods all over the south is the flooded graveyards. The headstones barely visible over the water. Uuu, what will happen when the water will recede?

Chronology is a hard master. Yatra is a metaphysical journey. Although it follows time and space to some degree, it also has dimensions beyond time, space and logic.

Almora, hotels will not take me, not even the fancy expensive ones that charge thousands per night. Nobody is vaccinated, we have never worn a mask, I have no visa. Friends are the juice of life and the sangha of the earth. We’re sitting with Billie the young cat, despondently smoking a few chillums of holy Himalayan Kali prashad at the entrance to Sri Sri 1008 Haidakhan Wale Baba’s ashram. It’s 11pm and over, we are calm, what is the point of life? What can happen apart from what happens? An old guard let us inside to sleep for few hours until Brahma muhurta, when he’ll open the door. We sleep on the ground, under blue Shiva Nataraj dancing his mad Tandav, the cosmic dance of destruction and reconstruction. Undoubtedly the best sleeping arrangements available in the whole jagat. Chai and polite conversation are offered in the morning by the nearby shop owner, who has travelled to Europe and misses foreigners.

There are significant differences between north and south and everything in between. At the end of times the fragmentation will be great and eventually every one will be a (sinking) island. It started with language and so, nowadays most people don’t speak any other language then the one they were originally programmed with. But let’s not digress, yet. Down from the mountains for… Yatra, literally. The north is much less populated than the south.

Things are inevitably getting personal in this Indian society. There is no space for self inquiry or activities dedicated to Self, in general. How ironic, the culture that came out with Aham Brahmasmi and Soham Shivoham is now obsessed with money, profession, who is everyone, where are they from and what’s their role. My role is dodgy at best because it is impossible to describe. ‘My role is beyond description and so are all our roles, we exist to exist’ is an unacceptable argument so I am playing many roles to satisfy the confused, fearful, lost, judgemental, ignorant, panicked and hysterical public. I’m not exaggerating. One walks the streets of big cities and some shout ‘wear a mask’, others scream ‘auto’ and drive into you, some ask where have you come from, some beg while others are too sick to lift hand. In Coimbatore I passed a dead ‘baba’, a skinny homeless dressed in orange lungi. On a daily walk you may stop and check the pulse and breathing of many street dwellers of whom there are hundreds, in different states of sickness, disarray, hunger and misery.

Mahavarat Babaji is an astral being, time and space don’t really bind his experience as they do ours, deluded mortals. There are energy points eternally connected to Shiva Mahadev and Vishnu Narayan. After all, who decided ‘countries’ and disunity on the one planet that Earth is? What I’m trying to say, this is not ‘India’. India is a social experiment gone astray, it went into the grotesque and the absurd. This is the Himalayan plateau, or this is the great green horn of the Asian subcontinent, or this is the delta of the great Ganga river etc etc.
The mountains are so subtle. Every atom is a little more charged than usual so you can swear a stone has more aura than some people. The peaks are so far and tall and unreachable, there is no ‘peak’, they are many, and yet they look compressed, like a dream or castles in the clouds. For posterity, Kali Shila, Ruch Mahadev, Tungnath, Guptakashi, Gopeshwar, Joshimath, Ansuya Devi Mandir, babaji’s waterfall cave at the foothills of Rudrnath. Temples were mostly closed, the vaccination drive was a main focus during these times. The government forgot all of its duties that it wasn’t taking care of anyway and started bullying people into saving the world by getting vaccinated. But we are in pain, we are angry and stupid and poor!

Haridwar, the portal to the lower Himalayas. The city of a thousand colourful foot bridges over Ganga Ji… I like travelling India and despite overstaying visa, I think it’s fine. I thought: ‘if evil Corona did so much harm, can’t it be used for good, also? In this case, my own personal good. I’ll use corona as an argument not to leave India’. So far, so good, it’s like a game without winning or losing. From point 0 Kali starts yatra to meet… Mahavatar Babaji, but what is that? Humanity? What are we? I is open. We are nothing. Try, disidentify with what you think you know and under stand what you think you disagree with…
Rath Yatra in Jaganath, Puri, Odisha, în July 2021.

Haridwar on the first morning it opened since Khumb. July 2021, four months of lockdown. There’s a train to Bubaneshwar, Odisha, and in 40 hours we arrive, at Brahma Muhurta (2-3AM). The drunk auto driver explains that Puri has been closed for many months. Nobody goes in, few come out, the place is empty. But Jaganath is there, on his yearly Rath Yatra, and we can travel incognito the 20-30 kms, during the deep darkness of the early hours, for a couple thousand rupias.
The Jaganath idol in Puri Jaganath temple is said to house the actual physical heart of Lord Krishna. Juggernaut, the unstoppable metaphysical force, nath (god) of jagat (universe), lord of the universe. He’s unfinished, symmetrical and made of wood. Two great eyes, no feet and no hands. He’s accompanied by bigger brother, Balaji, and little sister, Subhadra. Jaganath is Parabrahma, he’s Mahavishnu and he is Bhairav! Public processions of the precious idol that rarely leaves the temple happen yearly during Rath Yatra and after going back inside, Vishnu goes to sleep for a couple of months, until autumn Navaratri. Krishna, who lived during Dwarpa Yug (Mahabharata) said he’d spend Kali Yug as Jaganath in Puri and return as Kalki, the last avatar of Vishnu who is said to come on a crow at the end of the world (yes, the Apocalypse). Kalki’s apparition is supposed to happen in a nearby ancient temple. The whole area is charged and entire Odisha is mystical, no doubt, and mostly wild and unpopulated. Bhubaneshwar is an ancient temple city. Konark has the very famous sun temple that you might have seen on Discovery.
We drive into Puri at dawn. The tuktuk leaves us at the city gates and the many police booths are asleep or too numb to ask anything. It’s raining, we are bare foot, with a Billie on the leash and very happy to be here. Jai Jagannath! We pass the temple and reach the ocean at the end of the road, to wash off two days and 1600 kms of journey.
Chaitanya and Nityananda are dancing on the shore. Everything is closed, many wooden carts and stalls covered in blue plastic sheets. The streets are empty and life exists just under the surface – if you stand for a few minutes anywhere, people will appear from behind doors and fences and they’ll open up full shops, provision stores, khada workshops, chai stalls. It’s like a jumping jack flash that pops in and out at the push of a button.
In Puri the temple sometimes gave us food, Jagannath prasad. For two days at the end of the rath yatra the temple and its adjacent streets closed down, Jagannath circled the mandir in its greatly colourful sculpted wood waggon and then went inside. Jaganath’s favourite food is available, sweet paneer called Chhena Poda and for thirst, fresh coconut water from big green coconuts. The streets are boiling hot from the strong, relentless sun and the burning pain of walking barefoot brings many revelations. Blisters grow and pop on the boiling skin. One day when there wasn’t a soul around and the police was stationed in booths at every 500m, as if the war had started. It’s pouring down and the streets are flooded with boiling rain water. They ask me where am I going? I’m going to see Lord Jagannath. It’s closed! I have no shoes and no visa, we’re all wet and it’s such a funny scene with the SWAT team from the Inquisition times asking me… Anything, any question would have been funny. Where am I going? We’re on the coast of the bay of Bengal in a tiny hamlet, surrounded by jungles, with only two big roads leading outside, west, through the jungles. Where do you think I’m going? I’m going back, to the ocean, as long as the eye can see industrial beach, clean and empty. The waters are very strong here, there’s not even fishing going on, nothing to stop the mighty tides. It’s raining, afternoon, dark grey sea and dark grey sky. The waves are magnificent and walking into the waters up to your waist, you’ll lose balance and barely hold yourself from being toppled over and sucked into the Depths.
After some weeks we go from Puri, through Konark to Bubaneshwar. For a pretty large sum an auto drives us on the oceanside highway. It’s surreal, sea on the right, jungle on the left, empty Indian road – it hasn’t been empty since inception. Corona has been such a successful apocalypse and it’s all imaginary – mind over matter. I’m not saying ‘corona virus’ is imaginary, but the panic and the measures are. We are 7 billion 750 million people on the planet and in two years of corona, 5 million 200 thousands people died. That’s 0,06% of the total world population over a few years, that’s not a Pandemy…
Police offers to open the Konark Sun Temple side gates for a bribe – too much. There are pooja, idol, clothes, memorabilia, coconut water, chai stalls. We get Kali Mooligai prasad (locally grown ganja) from a chai wallah; we are there for an hour, maybe, and the army is looking over us. We are the only ‘tourists’, Indian or otherwise. The temple is made of stone, round,looks like a stone circle from the prehistorically digital times. It’s minutely carved in red limestone and white marble. Elephants are prevalent. It overlooks the Ocean. Aquaducts spiral in and out.

Lockdown is a ridiculous thing. Police are bastards, they are aggresive, egotistical and uneducated, by formation. I’ve tried Messianic tricks of the Mind to find the positive value of the police and I have concluded that it is an outdated appendix. Prakriti. We must evolve out of it. There no other final destination than Realisation, because the untruth is not infinite. One can maze lost through it forever and ever and after that the Truth always is. The ultimate reality. Parabrahma or Jagannath, if you will.
I was reading the Aquarian Gospel of Jesus Christ. During his missing years (circa 16-30yo), Christ went to Puri 40 Rath Yatra and told pujaris they are worshipping an empty idol, the lord of the universe is not in there but in the enlightened heart of the realised human. Mahat Atma, Mahatma. You are that.

You CAN be that, let’s not get carried away because we are failing miserably at everything. The world is a tragedy. The collective Mind is an infected pool of ignorance. The individual is a Traumatised Retard. Aum Namah Shivaya.

Two days on the train, passing the great Vijaya Wada junction of Andhra Pradesh, and we are in Chennai, the capital of Tamil Nadu. It sounds like going into the dark beyonds and it feels like it, too. Tamil Nadu: Madurai, Kanyakumari, Rameshwaram, Kodaikanal, Manavanoor and the surrounding hillse of Magic Mushrooms fame, Bangalore and Coimbatore, Mysore, Pondicherry, Trichy, Tiruvannamalai, all these are Tamil cities.
Tamil is the name and Nadu means country. The language is said to be the oldest in the world, an older variant of Sanskrit. Tamil alphabet is spread in three categories, vowels and two types of consonants, maybe 52 or 56 letters. The sound of letter is connected to its shape, like hieroglips, so one can deduce how words are glued together by the shape of the sound they make. Words are very long and conglomerate of smaller words and grammatic conventions. Every preposition has a mark, a sign. There is a lot of logic involved and it is a meditating language, one must speak it slowly and consciously. Ancient Tamil and modern, street Tamil are two different beasts.
Both Tamil Nadu and Kerala are corrupted by politics and politicians, whose faces cover most buildings with hundreds of flags and posters. It feels like national holiday or election everyday and the main characters are Stalin, governor of Tamil Nadu, and his popular and deceased father.
This is Tamil Nadu. There are cities built around hilltops from where dozen waterfalls spring. On the hills grow magic mushrooms. Fruit and vegetables are abundant, the only water is coconut water. In Kerala, God’s own country, all is covered by moist, fluorescent green moss. Trees drip with psychedelic creepers, there are vultures and eagles (Garuda) peacocks and parrots, kingfishers, swan, kormorans, seagulls and pigeons and crows. The capital is Kochi and at the tip is Fort Kochi, the navy and the port.
There are great rivers shaping the landscape on their way to extinction. Cauvery! Yes, let’s save the rivers and Nature. All garbage is thrown in the rivers, the water is barely flowing, clogged with plastics and human refuse. Yanai Malai, the elephant hill of Madurai, has old Jain caves and sculptures inbedded into it, and oases of water that is too gelatinous to touch.
Around Coimbatore the villages and Nature are at their cleanest. There are crops, farmers live during season in tree houses to protect themselves from the small elephants coming out of the hill jungles at night. This is Kal Bhairav territory, Jaggi Vasudev Sadguru has bought some land and he’s consecrating Mahakal on it. Jai Bhairav. Time is not here, a field of trishuls, time moves in the sky and gives us darshan of Ganesh, the eternal elephant (yanai in Tamil). Time is shade.

Chennai… The city of homelessness, disease and despair. The city of Doubting Thomas. Mahavatar Babaji. The ocean. Overcrowded hospitals and even more dying ‘patients’ moaning their days away in the hot streets. Abusive police, lack of respect or dignity. Human rights are a wishy-washy Western idiocy, India is different, they say. Corona free shots in the streets. What is Corona? Was it? Is the vaccine poisonous? Have THEY organised all this, or is it just karma dharma in the middle of one of Brahma’s blinks? Some think it’ll save the world, there are posters saying Be a Hero, Get Vaccinated. Babas did it to ease physical life in this day and age, we are not the body nor the mind, discover you are the universe and dissolve the little I in the AUM, and vaccinate if there’s no other way to gain entrance to Kedarnath. ‘There aren’t enough vaccines, chemtrails and poisons in the universe to control a consciousness that is expanding, awakening, ascending and returning to source’.

An indian train crossing from south india to north india over 2 days is a microcosmic experience of discovery of Everything. It is about people, about infrastructures, about the geopolitical and cultural setting, it is about human nature and about the Self, of course. The feeling of decency and safety wafts elegantly through first class air conditioned compartments. We are all well behaved, slightly educated, there will be no mutiny here. The children don’t scream, no one is hitting anyone else, some laptops are opened, it’s peaceful and quiet with murmurs of media coming from here and there. A few are even leafing through books. And yet, the screaming violent masses hitting each other and pissing in the corners are but a few (dozen, these trains are veeery long) compartments away. The mutiny has started already, it simply hasn’t reached us yet. Just don’t look outside, at the occasional mountainous piles of garbage.