Monastery of standing monks india. The most beautiful and mysterious Indian temples. Through suffering to the freedom of the soul, or How to approach God, standing still
excitedly reading "shantaram" .. today I read a story about "standing monks" - very curious .. I ran home and immediately went to the Internet .. but I didn’t find anything about them = (((and not even a picture ... here is a piece from the book:
[Standing monks vowed not to sit or lie down once in the rest of their lives. They stood day and night, all the time. Standing they ate, standing sent natural needs. They stood up and prayed and sang. They even slept standing up, hung on straps that kept them upright, at the same time preventing them from falling.
After five or ten years of continuous standing, their legs began to swell. Blood moved with difficulty through tired vessels, muscles thickened. The legs swelled to an incredible size, lost all shape and became covered with varicose ulcers. The toes barely perceptibly protruded from the swollen elephant feet. And then the legs began to grow thinner and thinner, until only bones remained, covered with a thin film of skin with translucent dried veins, reminiscent of an ant trail.
The pain they experienced every minute was excruciating. With each pressure on the foot, sharp needles pierced the entire leg. Because of this incessant torture, the monks could not stand still and now and then shifted from foot to foot, swaying in their slow dance, which hypnotized the viewer in the same way as the caster's hands, weaving a lulling melody on a flute, act on a cobra.
Some of the Standing Monks took their vows at sixteen or seventeen years of age, driven by a calling that motivates others to become priests, rabbis, or imams. Many rejected the world at an older age, considering it only as a preparation for death, one of the steps of eternal reincarnation. Many monks were businessmen in the past, mercilessly sweeping away everything and everyone in their path in pursuit of pleasure, benefits, and power. There were also devout people among them who changed several faiths, increasingly toughening their sacrifices, until they eventually joined the sect of the Standing Monks.
There were also criminals in the monastery - thieves, murderers, members of the mafia and even their heads - who sought to atone for their sins with endless torment and find peace of mind.
The censer was a narrow passage between two brick buildings behind the temple. On the territory belonging to the temple there were gardens, galleries and sleeping quarters, fenced off from the outside world, where only those who had taken a monastic vow were allowed. The den had a roof of iron sheets, the floor was paved with stone slabs. The monks entered through a door at the far end of the corridor, and everyone else through a metal gate from the street side.
Visitors who came here from all over the country and belonged to different walks of life lined up along the walls. Of course, everyone was standing - it was not supposed to sit down in the presence of the Standing Monks. Near the entrance from the street, over an open gutter, a faucet was arranged where one could drink water or spit. The monks went from person to person, from one group to another, preparing hashish in earthen chillums and smoking with the visitors.
The faces of the monks literally radiated suffering. Sooner or later, each of them, having gone through continuous long-term torments, began to find sacred bliss in them. The light born of torment shone from the eyes of the Standing Monks, and I have never met a person whose faces shone like their hard-won smiles.
In addition, they were always drugged to the limit and, being in the world of their unearthly dreams, they had an extremely majestic appearance. They drank nothing but Kashmiri hashish, the best variety in the world, made from hemp grown at the foothills of the Himalayas in Kashmir. The monks smoked it all their lives, day and night. ]
Asceticism is a way of life in which a person undergoes any restrictions of his own free will. This is usually accompanied by a renunciation of human pleasures in the material world. Ascetics refuse food, sleep, sexual pleasures, alcohol and much more. Their belief, which they adhere to, says that the whole world is an illusion, and enjoying it, a person forgets the essence of his existence, moving further and further away from the divine. In order to achieve spiritual enlightenment and become closer to God, one must throw off everything superfluous from oneself, get rid of material attachments. And only then will a person comprehend the Truth.
The cult of asceticism in the religions of the world
Religions all over the world practice asceticism in their faith. Not even a religion, but its followers. After all, as "true believers" say, renunciation of life's pleasures is the greatest happiness that God can give them. This is how their whole life goes. In self-discipline, suffering and self-flagellation.
It is present in the lives of both ordinary believers and "official" followers of the faith. For example, in Islam, ascetics are called Zuhd Zuhd or zahids, that is, those who completely limited themselves in human pleasures and dedicated their lives to God.
In Christianity, asceticism is a special technique for achieving the spiritual through the exercises of self-discipline and restrictions. Christian ascetics spend their lives in prayer and fasting, observing vows of obedience and piety.
A vow is a kind of expression of the will of the ascetic, who expresses the imposition of obligations on himself in order to overcome difficulties, acquire divine recognition, or for other purposes. It can be imposed for a certain time or for a lifetime.
But for the most part, the vow, unfortunately, is a means of exposing one's ascetic persona for show, so that as possible more people learned that a person is silent, stopped eating, sleeping, or something else stopped doing, or, on the contrary, began to perform any ritual actions every day and every day for the sake of a great goal or because of the injustice that took place in the world, for God's sake. Most of them, not counting hermit monks, simply want to draw attention to themselves or to some actual problem by their actions.
In such a form of faith as Buddhism, the ascetic way of life is generally the norm, and all kinds of restrictions are only welcomed, but not flaunted. Buddhist monks, like the Buddha, renounce many of the joys of human life, because they can enjoy simple things and see beauty in everything. Therefore, they do not need any material goods of the human world.
Followers of Hinduism compare their lives with suffering, which are given completely to the will of the Gods. This type faith is based on the truth of the rebirth of the soul, reincarnation. Hindus say that no matter how difficult and difficult life God gives, the next one will be better. However, their suffering is not limited to forced ones. Adherents of various sects and offshoots from the main religious teachings achieve incredible pains and bodily exhaustion in their austerities.
Through suffering to the freedom of the soul, or How to approach God, standing still
Some ascetics experience inhuman torment in order to achieve enlightenment. The most debilitating practice of self-torture in the world is to constantly be in a standing position. Having made this vow, people no longer have the opportunity to sit or lie down. And through this position they reach the divine essence.
Such people are called standing monks. In India, this sect began its birth and found a greater response.
standing monks
There are few followers of such an ascetic way of life - there are about a hundred of them. After all, not everyone will be able to cross the pain in order to know the spiritual component of the world. And not everyone wants to. There are more standing monks in India than anywhere else in the world. This is reflected in the predominance of the mentality of the majority of the Indian population, which is accustomed to all sorts of restrictions.
The "achievements" of false monks who torture themselves on the streets of Indian cities for the sake of money, as well as the spiritual practices of Tibetan gurus, which provide for a hermitic lifestyle, are nothing compared to the painful experiences of standing monks. India is the most suitable place for those people who have decided to renounce their lives and embark on the spiritual path of enlightenment by joining the ascetics of any faith.
"Practice" of standing monks
Monks who have decided to take a vow of constant standing are forced to stay in the vrikasana position all the time, becoming part of it. They eat, drink, cope with their vital needs only while standing. They even sleep on their feet, tying themselves so that they cannot fall.
In the future, due to constant tension, the legs swell, elephantiasis begins to develop. Then the reverse process begins. The legs lose weight so much that all the veins on them are visible, and the bones clearly appear behind the thinnest layer of skin. From unrelenting tension, chronic pain arises, and a person experiences constant torment. In order not to feel this, the monks are pumped from foot to foot, becoming like an eternally swinging pendulum. This doesn't make the pain go away, but their swaying image instills a really strange feeling.
In India, standing monks are allowed to release some tension by bending one leg up to the pelvis and tying it in that position. Also, some of them build themselves a makeshift hanging palm rest in order to lean on it and thereby transfer the center of gravity from feet to hands. And more sophisticated monks hold their hand up, also for enlightenment.
Painful enlightenment
People of different circles, classes and ages join the sect of the standing monks of India. The younger generation, having read religious books and inspired by the examples of the ascetics of the previous generation, become monks in order to achieve enlightenment. For older people, this is like preparing for death, cleansing their karma and soul.
You can become a standing monk with any type of faith. Experiencing constant excruciating pain, they perceive everything else as unimportant. Ascetics begin to feel divine pleasure in this. Their eyes begin to see clearly, the soul becomes bright and pure. They gain spiritual peace.
Temple
The world's only temple of standing monks is located in India, on the outskirts of the city of Mumbai. Few people know of his whereabouts and few can stand such a sight. The standing monks of India of different ages and nationalities find their peace in this place. There they eat, sleep and constantly smoke hashish in order to somehow drown out this debilitating pain. The temple is their home for the rest of their lives.
Four years after the beginning of their penance, standing monks acquire the status of Hareshwari and can return to their lives. But so far not a single monk has renounced his path.
Varanasia
The train arrived in Varanasi by noon. Until that time, we looked out the window at Indian landscapes and pictures of peaceful rural life. Peasant morning in India begins with the most mundane procedures, such as brushing your teeth and sorry toilet.
When our man goes to the toilet, he takes a cigarette, a newspaper with him and calmly does all his business there. The illiteracy of a separate layer of Indian society and the absence of a toilet as a structure in principle do not allow him to touch civilization so tightly, so he takes a toothbrush, a bottle of water and goes to the embankment, where he sits in an eagle pose with his pants down, brushes his teeth and looks to the trains. And tourists with open mouths and unbrushed teeth look at him from the train. Numerous agents have already met us on the platform, offering to put us in a good inexpensive hotel. Having a voucher in hand for hotel accommodation, we did not need their services, but to convince the Indian that you do not need his services is impossible in my opinion, he will still leave, considering himself deceived, as we are after shopping in an Indian store. Therefore, tired of sending Mowglis spinning under our feet, we turned to the tourist office at the station to solve problems with tickets.
The return ticket, which was purchased for us by Merrigo-Travel from Delhi, has been bothering me for a long time with its low cost. After riding the train, we realized what the reason was. Taking advantage of our ignorance, the “respectable” company saved its expenses by buying us practically the cheapest ticket of the so-called “sleeping class” on a passenger train, and not on an express train, where travel is much more comfortable. Contacting the tourist office at the station for a replacement, we were told that there were no tickets for the date we needed. Spat, decided to postpone for later.
At the entrance to us again glued agents. In the parking lot of motor rickshaws, there was a long column of free scooters, or rather, it was not even a column, but several rows of vehicles closely pressed to each other. For us, a rickshaw on duty was torn out of this mass, in the process of pulling out, bargaining took place. Hearing that we were heading to the India Hotel, another agent persuaded us to abandon this idea and go to his very good and cheap hotel. But the roaring tuk-tuk was already picking up speed, we rushed through the streets packed with an insane amount of motorcycles and rickshaws, motorcycles, scooters, bicycles, there were practically no cars. Everyone was driving, tightly clinging to each other, sometimes it seemed that you could throw the steering wheel, all the same there was nowhere to go, the turbulent stream would still take out where it was necessary. Having dived under the bridge, our vehicle jumped out closer to the outskirts, the traffic here was much less, the road was more spacious and the speed was correspondingly higher. Our hotel soon showed up. A large, modern building, a very nice interior, the faces at the reception were quite nasty and somehow dissatisfied. They settled us in a spacious room with a good interior. The hotel was really quite high class, as promised to us in Delhi. But everything was spoiled by the local centralized air conditioning system, two barred holes were made in the wall, each about a meter long and fifteen centimeters high. So, air was sucked into one of these holes, and icy air was blown out from the other directed just into the bed with a hum. In general, a system that terribly gets on your nerves with a constant buzz and on your health with icy air constantly blowing on you. The demands to turn off this idiotic system did not lead to anything, since the whole hotel was cooled like that and no one was going to turn it off for us. In the end, we solved this problem by simply plugging the hole with icy air, morning newspapers slipped under the door. We must pay tribute to the fact that linen and towels were changed here every day, for very clean and white.
Soon we received a phone call. Somehow we figured out that we were worried about the partner of the Delhi tour operator, Mr. Nandu. He sent a car for us to chat with us in his office. Out of curiosity, we decided to take a ride. The white Ambassador sent for us took us around the corner, where a very modest office was located. Quite young, but well-fed, which clearly meant increased well-being, Nandu cordially met us at the doorstep, gave us tea and began to offer his services, an excursion program around Varanasi and the surrounding area. After carefully listening to his program and winding up what we need to see, we politely refused his services, thanked for the reception and promised to contact us if we decide. By the way, this is a very good policy for those who do not know what you can see, go to any tour company, they will immediately sign the whole program for you, later visiting all these sights on your own, so to speak, you will see that it is somewhat cheaper, sometimes it is several times cheaper .
Since it was still light outside, we decided to go to the Ganges. The first rickshaw that came along offered to take us back and forth for 90 rupees. By the way, this is another minus of the hotel, it is far from the Ganges and the center, quite a lot of money is spent on travel. All the rickshaws who later took us to the Ganges always invited us to wait for an hour or two for free, the main thing for them was to get guaranteed passengers, but we basically agreed to go only one way.
The road to the Ganges, more precisely to the main "ghat" - steps descending directly into the river, passed through the central part of the city, eyes were corroded by smoke and smog, a dense veil lying over the city. I don’t know, many write about the smell of “barbecue”, from the corpses constantly burned on the shore, ordinary smoke corroded our eyes. Soon, our rickshaw stopped, announcing that it was impossible to go further, in the evening the passage along the main street was closed and we would have to walk a couple of quarters (and a couple of kilometers), but he would be waiting for us here for two hours. We moved down the street crowded with bicycles and rickshaws, past shops and shopkeepers, who, by the way, rather sluggishly invited us to their place, and in some places limited themselves to the on-duty “Helu-yu!”
Having somehow reached the “ghat”, where along the railing dividing the steps into two parts and apparently installed so that they hold on to them during the descent, numerous saints, wretched and ordinary beggars were sitting, all with special equipment. stainless steel bowls that they pounded on the stone steps and held out in your direction. The sun had already set, and on the platform, next to the steps, a daily ritual of farewell to Ganga was taking place, something like wishing her a good night. On five small wooden platforms, handsome tall youths in the costumes of priests stood, and to the sounds of a small orchestra of noise makers and wailers, under bell ringing, performed the ritual waving either small smoke bombs or oil lamps in the form of a fruit slide with a handle filled with small smoky lamps. Numerous tourists settled around, in pre-prepared places, zealously praying pilgrims and curious people like us wandering around.
Having seen enough of the process, we feel that it would be nice to have a bite to eat.
We make our way through the crowded streets to the crossroads, where "our" rickshaw is waiting for us. Already half a block away, he noticed us and actively gesticulated, indicating his presence, and, probably, driving away all sorts of encroachments from competitors. And now we are rushing through the atmosphere of the "country of Varanasia" corroding the eyes and nose. From a conversation with a travel agent, we learned that the standard program for tourists includes a morning boat trip along the Ganges combined with a meeting of the dawn. Therefore, an agreement was made with our rickshaw for a morning trip to the Ganges at 5.30.
We went to the hotel restaurant for dinner. As it turned out, only prices were at a high level, and the quality of service and food turned out to be very moderate. The waiters walked around with a view of the maharajas who had been dethroned yesterday, and the dream of potatoes ended with something fried in oil and more reminiscent of a lollipop in texture. And somehow dulling the feeling of hunger, we went to the room, where we were met by the hum of the "air conditioner" and the flow of icy air directed in the face.
Along the Ganges
We jumped at five in the morning, it was time to rush through the city to the Ganges, cruise on a boat along the coast and meet the sunrise. We jumped out into the street at dawn, the gates were locked, we were about to climb over, but a vigilant guard appeared, with a pretty sleepy face in a uniform cap and smiling knowingly let us go free. There were already several rickshaws in front of the hotel ready to take us to the end of the world at any price. But we, like decent people, were waiting for “ours”, with whom we agreed the day before. Time flew by, and the darkness began to dissipate. Realizing that yesterday's rickshaw probably overslept his happiness, we take the nearest one, which vilely begins to squander the price, in the end, the victory turned out to be ours, and now we are already roaring through the deserted streets of the morning Varanasi, on a tuk-tuk. He brought us almost to the river itself, where we were immediately embraced by a large tribe of boatmen. Tearing apart, they announced simply insane prices from 700 rupees per boat, right there, “only for us”, they made global discounts. Having kicked off a dozen of the most stubborn intermediaries, they found the owner of the boat directly and began to bargain with him, it seems that 200 rupees were charged from both of us. And on the shore, the seating of individual tourists and entire groups in boats, boats, boats has already begun. Crooked bamboos with plywood nailed to them, which served as oars, had already crashed into the water and the hushed tourists, to the music rushing from the shore, began to move. The huge sloop looked especially cool, where several Buddhist monks in orange togas sat “at the head”, and the rest of the places were occupied by Japanese aunts, hushed from awareness of the moment and society.
We got a small double boat with a fairly large, full of energy "captain", it was easy for him to row, so without much strain he drove us along the standard route, first downstream, along numerous desert "ghats", on which, in some places , in small groups, pilgrims and local residents gathered for a morning bath, combined with the usual washing and brushing their teeth. Someone, having already fulfilled a religious duty, was erased. The motley, colorful tourist flotilla moved slowly towards the distant electric crematorium, where it made a turn and even more slowly climbed up to Manikarnika, the most popular cremation site. Floating boats-shops scurried around, where the owner of the store sat on the oars, and his young children demonstrated their goods, under the motto "where will you go from an Indian boat." As our boatman immediately explained to us, slowly plopping with oars, ending the mortal even in an electric crematorium is not at all prestigious, although it is very cheap 300 rupees, but you will not have a guarantee for a worthy rebirth or even exit from the wheel of samsara, unlike the classical process cremation with a pre-calculated amount of wood, right on the river bank. The price of this type of cremation is already more than 2,000 rupees, but the sanctity of the process is no longer in doubt, and the leisurely waters of the Ganges regularly carry away the ashes of the cremated. Sufficiently large heaps of ash rose on the shore, our boatman said that for a symbolic price of 30 rupees, you can buy a little of this very valuable, healing and holy product. It is with such ashes that Indian ascetics are smeared, or as they are called here.
The entire shore from the side of Varanasi, solid ghats, stone steps leading into the water. In some places, small platforms rise, in the morning local saints sit on them, with detached faces. Pilgrims flounder in the river, at first they pray, throw offerings into the water, do several ritual ablutions, someone just splashes water in their faces, and someone plunges headlong, after which the on-duty washing begins under the gunpoint of hundreds of photos and video cameras of the tourist armies outnumbered dozens of times. In principle, none of the bathers object to such close attention, the only thing is, when we swim closer to the crematorium, the boatman warns that it is impossible to take pictures and protesting screams begin to be heard from the shore. But how can you stop tourists ...
The collectively observed dawn of the sun looked like a manifestation due to the dim haze of the orange disk. Softly painting tall buildings along the coast, revealing and emphasizing colors invisible during the day due to the blinding sun and harsh shadows. The city looks absolutely fabulous. Almost an hour's walk comes to an end, people pour out onto the shore. Numerous barbers settled right on the stone steps, spreading their bags and laying out tools passed down from generation to generation, fled to catch those who wanted to shave and cut their hair. The caught clients, right there on the bag, will be cut with a mandatory head massage, carefully shaved, for shaving, by the way, the collected water from the Ganges is used right there.
The entire bank of the river is covered with silt and covered with garbage, mainly the remains of wreaths and paper plates on which small offerings are sent along the river, with a burning candle in the middle. The water turned out to be quite clean and transparent, well, within reasonable limits, like the Sea of Azov in Taganrog in August. Natasha even wet her hands, I did not dare. Unfortunately, we did not meet unburned corpses, and judging by the ashes on the shore, everything burns there .. if anything remains, these are pieces of bamboo sticks to which the corpse is tightly tied. Elderly people, in India, shrink incredibly, very often you can see some incredibly tiny grandparents, they are so thin that it’s just right to hang a “flammable” tag on them, it seems that they are ready to catch fire from a small spark. Cows and dogs roam right here along the shore and stone steps, leaving traces of life here and there.
Sarnath
Returning from the river, we decided to visit Buddhist center Sarnath. Since it was far enough away, we were persuaded to take a car and now we are already on the white Ambassador, making our way through the crooked streets of the "country of Varanasia", it is difficult to imagine that the city is more than 3000 years old, only temples are really ancient here, well, maybe a few buildings on the shore , but in general the town was constantly built and rebuilt. Small houses of irregular shape, something is constantly being added or built on to them, slightly whitewashed with gray lime and again the mortar is being stirred and another room without windows is being molded from terrible crooked bricks, handicraft production. Windows in India are a different story. Windows are a completely unpopular thing here. Most buildings do not have this architectural extravagance at all, which serves only to heat the dwelling with direct sunlight and the penetration of nocturnal insects. The first floor is almost always used as a small or large shop, in extreme cases, a workshop, and more often both. People are swarming everywhere, everything is in business, someone sews, someone repairs, most of course trades. In the city center, shops are beginning to displace residents from the second floors, turning into large "super shops" because the assortment of goods is still designed for its buyer. For tourists only souvenirs.
They say that Sarnath is a separate town, but somehow we didn’t notice this, it seemed to us that we just moved to another area. First we visited a Buddhist temple, looked at a huge Banyan tree, a relative of the tree under which the Indian prince Gautava Shakyamuni gained enlightenment. An altar has now been built around the tree, people are sitting and praying. We did not interfere with people, looked with one eye and moved on. The tree is like a tree, quite big and old, but we have seen more. At the time of our visit, a Buddhist rally was taking place in the temple park, two hundred people in white clothes with enlightened faces were photographed with their teacher. A little further there was a small zoo, where for a nominal fee, 10 or 20 or even 4 rupees, you could take a walk and see several aviaries with birds, several ponds with duckweed small crocodiles and several cages with parrots, which, in principle, are already fly anywhere. At the far end of the park, a small group of Indian pre-school children were entertaining themselves by frightening the smallest grubby girl. She ran away with a roar to her mother working nearby, but the thirst for communication overcame and she returned to the team, so that after a couple of minutes she would run back with a terrible roar. Seeing us as a new target for entertainment for the purpose of enrichment, they gathered in a crowd nearby and held out their hands asking for money, pens or something else, the former victim immediately joined the team, putting out her pen. So we walked to the very exit with this white-toothed, black-eyed, cheerful and very noisy retinue.
To the left of the park was the world-famous Buddhist stupa. The entrance to it and to the ruins of the temple was already for more solid money. Natasha refused to go look at the remnants of the foundation protruding from the ground. And I went to photograph the remains of brickwork dug out by Indian archaeologists. Immediately, behind the mound, restoration work was in full swing, the foundations were being actively built on, in some places walls had already appeared. Probably if you are in Sarnath in five years, at this place you can find a very ancient Buddhist temple with a very high price of admission. Nevertheless, this place is a great shrine for Buddhists around the world, it was here that the Buddha gave his first sermon. In several, apparently especially revered places, traces of worship were visible in the form of thin plates of gold leaf glued to the walls. The smoked base of a giant 35-meter stupa, in some places covered with carvings, was also covered with golden spots; it was installed exactly in the place where the sermon was read. Pilgrims use natural gold leaf by simply placing the plate directly on the stones and smoothing it with the palm of their hand. Despite the holiness of this place, and a large number of pilgrims, the thickness and vastness of the gold layer is very small, either very rarely anyone has the opportunity to leave such a mark, or local workers clear the area for new donations. Somewhere I read about a huge rock in Myanmar, also covered with the same petals of gold, they say it is almost all gold, apparently either they have more Buddhists or fewer workers. Unfortunately, almost all images, more than 100, from Sarnath were lost due to technical reasons.
The heat was already unbelievable and, following the example of the locals, we hid in a hotel room and gave ourselves a small “quiet hour”, cooling down in an air-conditioned room. After 16 hours, the ambient temperature dropped to a reasonable limit and we, on a cycle rickshaw that persuaded us, went to the Ganges. It is the Ganges, for this river is in Indian mythology female. The driver we came across is small, but wiry, despite the considerable weight of Russian tourists, he pedaled rather quickly, and when he got into a traffic jam at the entrance to the river, which was usual at that time, he rammed the wagons trudging ahead. Usually, cycle rickshaws, having previously agreed on the price for which they are ready to transport you, during the journey begin to show with their whole appearance how difficult this very “cycle rickshaw” work is, and you are the exploiter of the working Indian people, forced for a penny, practically dragging your burly body on yourself, while they puff and groan. But the most important thing is that no one remembers the feelings of the rider, the fact is that the bench on which you have to sit is only 15 centimeters wide, and it is tilted so that you immediately start to slide down it, and it’s not very designed for European seats.
You have to hold on and hold each other with all your might so as not to slide down and fall out of the cart when the front wheel is vigorously stuck into the rear axle of the same apparatus, and another impatient citizen is stuck into you from behind, carrying six children from school or an entire Indian family of four five. We've always wondered how they fit. When the trip was finally completed, we left the shaky gibberish with relief, gave a little more than the promised price, and, satisfied with each other, parted in different directions.
On the bank of the river, preparations for the evening ceremony were already in full swing. Platforms with the necessary attributes were installed, bells were hung, chairs and benches were placed for tourists and pilgrims. People were arriving from all directions. I especially remember the girls, either from Spain, or from Greece, in impossible ethnic outfits, with the same hairstyles. I still managed to capture one in the photo, near the bead merchants, which were sold here in huge quantities, although it cannot be said that it was cheap. The sun was setting rapidly, unlike the Indians who were not in a hurry. But then piercing music sounded, drums crackled and young men came out on the platform for the corresponding ceremony and began to perform the action, waving various personal belongings, panicles from elephant tails, smoking lamps and smoking chandeliers.
Since everything takes not five or ten minutes, but much more, we, having admired the procedure of wishing the Ganges a good night, stepped aside and sat down on the steps that seemed clean in the dark. After some time, a company of Indian guys showed up next to us, in ceremonial national sheets instead of trousers and shirts almost to the knees. Ordinary, simple boys, not a word in English, but they wanted to communicate terribly, so they began to interrogate us in Hindi, and we answered them in Russian. In general, we talked for about twenty minutes, they treated us to "Sar", and we kind of gave away sweets. A little about Sar. In every most seedy shop, where, in principle, there may be nothing, or rather nothing but hanging ribbons resembling disposable shampoo or condoms, on which “Sir” is written. All this is sold by the piece, it is used quite specifically, the bag is torn, inside there are small granules that need to be filled under the lip. It really tastes like cologne or the same shampoo. What this gives the Indians, we can only speculate, probably discourages appetite and thirst, and since the packaging says that it contains something like nicotine, it may be a little intoxicating. And they chew all the time, betel or pan, tobacco, Sar. There is a betel merchant on every corner, right before your eyes, he takes out a green leaf from a basin of water, smears it with special lime, puts spices, pieces of nutmeg and something else, each merchant has his own, family recipe, folds in a cunning way, and a satisfied customer immediately puts a compact bag in his mouth. Presented to us a bag of Saar, we honestly tried on the tongue, then carefully spat out because the muck is creepy.
We did not wait for the end of the ceremony, we went to look for an auto rickshaw and go home. Since traffic was blocked for motorized vehicles in the evening, we had to walk along the illuminated benches for almost a couple of kilometers to the intersection where probably fifty tuk-tuks had already gathered. On the way we buy something to eat. We agree for 40 rupees with a driver and under the crash of the engine we “rush” along the crowded, smoke-covered streets, by the way, we are already used to this smog, although it still hurts our eyes a little. It's time to go to the hotel, drink the 100 grams of whiskey on duty and sleep. Tomorrow we will go to the temples. Around town.
Since morning we have been dealing with the problem of railway tickets. We walked to the office of the local tour agent Nandu we know. We arrived a little early and had to wait a bit. First of all, after opening the office, he smoked with flavored sticks at the altar with numerous gods, then he took care of us. After drinking tea, mutual compliments and walking around us like a cat around sour cream, we came to the following decision. Instead of wandering around the smoky Varanasi for another day, we will be taken to the city of "three rivers" Allahabad. Our ticket to Bombay will be returned and two others will be purchased! We will go first to the city of Bhopal and from there to Mumbai (the modern name of Bombay). Tickets will be in a reserved seat with air conditioning. They immediately resolved the issue of exchanging money, if the rate at the hotel was 43.00 rupees per dollar, they changed it to us as 44.75, which was profitable, although illegal. By the way, local money changers often show you a little trick by tearing a 100 bucks bill in front of you, and then they observe your reaction and demonstrate its integrity.
Having decided on the further route and getting rid of the "headache", we set off to inspect the city's attractions. After a long haggling with a motor rickshaw who harassed our bodies, we drive around the city with the aim of visiting the Golden Temple and the Temple of the Monkeys. First of all, this scooter went to the gas station. Often, our cabbies started their journey from a gas station, only having got a client, they could be sure that they could buy a couple of liters of gasoline and a glass of oil. At the gas station, a couple of local boys aged 10-12 stuck to us, and they didn’t even ask, but point-blank regarded us as outlandish white monkeys, bulging their eyes and opening their mouths. The local tanker considered this behavior unworthy of the Indian people and shot a couple of them from a slipper removed immediately, which put them to flight. And we rushed on freshly refueled vehicles to our temples. Soon, having finished wagging along the narrow streets with poor asphalt, we stopped near some reservoir with bright green, stagnant water, a temple painted dark burgundy towered on the shore. Pointing his finger at it, our charioteer claimed that it was “Golden Temple! Golden Temple! I'm reading a guidebook. Exactly. This standing pond is called Gyan Vapi - the Pond of Knowledge, the waters of this pond are considered very healing, the sick and healthy, covered with ulcers, rush to bathe here, atone for sins, often they rush to drink this water for infants and not very babies.
The brahmins who are priests right there are in a hurry to get a bribe for using water from the pond in which Shiva himself lived at a time when the nearby Vishvanatha temple was destroyed. At one time, one of the rajas donated gilded copper sheets to cover the roof and vaults of the temple, and the temple was called Golden. I have been looking for traces of gold for a long time, but, alas, people and time have stripped off all the gilding. Several copper columns support the vault above the altar, under which people crowd with offerings and prayers. Around the courtyard, under awnings, musicians sit and leisurely make rather melodic sounds, except for the crackling of drums and the constant ringing of bells. I take pictures, trying not to attract attention, although others look at me without approval. Already at home, looking at the photos, I saw a huge inscription: “Photographing is strictly prohibited!”
The next stop was the Temple of the Monkeys. We leave shoes in the Tuk-tuk and splashing through the dust we go to the yellow gate leading to the temple. Immediately we find a small monkey family, mothers with a cub under their arm, and a couple more babies longer. The head of the family, a hefty monkey, was sitting about 30 meters on a huge pile of garbage, surrounded by crows, and did not even look in our direction. The macaques here, of course, are surprisingly snickering.
The Indian woman tried to give them something, but they sniffed and were tempted to this food, they were not even going to. Natasha, however, found their weak point. And the whole company, seduced by the orange, poured out onto the path and thrusting one slice into the cheek, pulled their hairy hands for new alms. On the way to the altar, I was convincingly asked not to take anything off, but in principle there is nothing special to take off in Hindu temples, a sooty altar, piles of withered flowers and bowed, concentrated prayers. Although the brahmins in the monkey temple were very colorful, almost naked and hairy.
A little disappointed in the thousand temples of the city, there are probably even more of them, because around every corner you can find a temple the size of a shoebox, where a lopsided image of one or another god sits, in front of it something smokes in a bowl and several wreaths of flowers wither under the sun. We asked the driver to take us to the Ganges.
After a little twisting through the streets, he turned into a terribly narrow street and was soon forced to stop. Beckoning us along, he led us along a street one and a half meters wide, no more to a narrow door. A long, dark corridor ended in a "beam of light", or rather, it was clear that it went straight into the sky. Carefully stepping over the bodies of people dozing in the coolness, we reached the upper steps of one of the Ghats. By right hand the crematorium already known to us towered. Washing was in full swing downstairs.
Laundress, in India the profession is purely male, this does not mean that only men do laundry, women also do it very often. But only a man can wash large volumes, since the process itself is very peculiar. Right in the river, where the water is just above the knee, stone slabs are installed, one side of which is immersed in water, and the other protrudes a little, and linen twisted into a bundle is beaten against this slab with terrible force. If the linen is heavily soiled and “usual” methods do not help, the unfortunate rag is laid out on a stone and “bleached” with a huge club, raising columns of muddy spray above the head. But the most important thing comes later, when the linen twisted into bundles begins to dry. Pants and shirts are pinched between two woven ropes that are immediately stretched, and sheets, pillowcases and other large things are simply laid out on the steps of the ghats or just on the sand. The pillowcases dried right on the ground and turned upside down to speed up the process looked especially colorful. Carried away by photographing the erasers, I missed how from the side of the crematorium they began to notify me of the inadmissibility of shooting, in the form of screams and gestures. Intelligently depicting in response that I dreamed about them with their crematorium for 1000 years and are not at all interested as a subject of shooting, especially since almost no one burned out there, only a couple of unburned green bamboo sticks and a pile of ash between them indicated the place of the last "burial". They returned through the same narrow corridor, along which individual townspeople peacefully rested.
On the street, from behind a peeling door, a charming face peeped out. Before she came to her senses, I took a picture that I consider one of the best. A girl from Varanasi, a little grimy, in strange clothes, but with such clear eyes and a smile. I showed her the resulting portrait, which caused a storm of delight and the company of her small relatives or neighbor's children, who also had to be photographed and demonstrated the result, causing another storm of joy. Having awarded the heroes of photography with sweets, we go to the hotel.
On the way back, an auto rickshaw lured us to a large souvenir shop, but Shiva avenged us by breaking his gibberish. Paying off the unfortunate carrier, we added a little more than the agreed price, but he was clearly dissatisfied, although we had to walk a little to the hotel.
In the evening, once again, going to the Ganges, referring to the closed center, we were brought again to the same place where we had been during the day, which, by the way, we were even delighted with. A very narrow street ran parallel to the river, in some places it was enough to spread your arms and already touch the opposite walls, dark corridors led to the ghats. Moreover, there were no lanes, and they walked, turning their heads, looking at houses, small shops musical instruments, inviting to evening free concerts, jewelry shops and small cafes.
In one of these cafes, seeing numerous Europeans sitting there, we also decided to eat. From the greasy menu lying on the table, it was clear that the prices here are very low. The first problem arose when expressing a desire to wash hands. Natalya was taken to a small courtyard, where a pipe with a faucet protruded from the wall. At the next table, a group of Germans looked in bewilderment at what was brought to them, they resolutely dissociated themselves from a glass with a cloudy liquid, and they began to poke food with forks. After that, a waiter boy jumped up to us, trying to explain what we needed, he shook his head and held out a notebook, showing with all his appearance that we wrote the order ourselves, that is, the guy could not write. Deciding that this risk was not such a noble cause, we remembered the small restaurant we had noticed earlier on the main street nearby.
Restaurant Naradj, small but quite cozy. We have looked after for a long time, a modest, but very decent institution, where we had a bite to eat, tasty and inexpensive. Dinner for two came out to us 150 rupees (100 rubles).
Satisfied, we went to bed, tomorrow a trip to Allahabad awaited us.
India is probably the most "strange" and unusual country in terms of religion and traditions. I realized this as a student from the fiction of the writers G. L. Oldie, namely the series "Black Balamut" (by the way, "for a hundred years" I have not read anything new by this author). Such freedom in choosing your God and such unusual rituals and ceremonies are probably nowhere else on the planet. (In the Hindu pantheon, there are thousands of gods and you can worship any number of them)
With you, we have already considered and discussed, and were surprised
To prove your faith in higher power, Indians often deprive themselves of earthly goods. Sometimes the desire to demonstrate devotion to the gods develops in them into a mania bordering on self-mutilation. Although most likely some analogies can be found in any religions, it is still extreme forms they accept in India.
Mahant Amar Bharti Ji (Amar Bharti) lives in the Indian city of New Delhi. At first, he was no different from his compatriots: he was a successful official, got married, bought a car, built a house. gave birth to three sons... Maybe even planted a tree. That is, he did everything. according to popular wisdom, a real man should do in his life.
But one day Amar had a dream.
Photo 2.
What exactly the father of the family dreamed about, he did not tell anyone, but suddenly left his job without any explanation, left home and settled in a tent. IN all alone. However, he could not sit in a tent, and, again, without explanation, he set off to wander along the roads of India. Perhaps he was looking for a path to self-improvement, or perhaps even then he decided to devote himself to serving Shiva ... Who knows? Be that as it may, Amar wandered for three years.
Photo 3.
However, years passed, and the wanderer realized that he had not achieved his goal - and Shiva did not please anything, and it seemed that it was far from self-improvement. And then, for some completely incomprehensible to you and me, dear reader, an impulse of the soul Amar Bharti raised his right hand to the sky. It happened in 1973. I wonder if Amar guessed then. that he was no longer destined to lower his long-suffering limb?
Some sources claim that Amar Bharati was very hurt because of the wars and strife around the world, and he decided to raise his hand for the sake of peace.
Photo 4.
In Indian culture, “sadhus” are saints, yogis and ascetics who do not strive to fulfill the three goals in life according to Hinduism: to achieve dharma (duty), artha (material enrichment), kama (sensual pleasures).
One such saint is Amar Bharati Baba.
Moreover, Amar decided to imitate other religious fanatics who held their hand up in praise of Shiva. But almost no one survived such a test. Only three men are known in the world who hold their hands for 25, 13 and 7 years.
Photo 5.
Some might think it's easy. But a common person will not survive even if he holds his hand for 10 minutes. After a while, he will begin to experience excruciating muscle pain.
For the first few years, the muscles and joints ached terribly, but the ascetic got used to it. After so many years, his hand was reduced to useless skin-covered bones, with thick, spiraling nails (because no one had cut them). The hand completely atrophied and froze in an unnatural, almost vertical position.
Photo 6.
According to Amar. in this situation, he gained much more than he lost. In any case, he managed to achieve harmony with his own self. Besides, who was Amar before? An unknown official, father and husband.
Photo 7.
Despite his worldly background, sadhu Amar Bharati is highly revered during the mass pilgrimage rites of the Kumbh Mela in the city of Haridwar. Now he is famous throughout India, he has dozens of followers who idolize Amar almost the same way. like Shiva. True, to repeat his feat - to live 43 years with his hand raised up. - so far no one has succeeded. But it's not about the record!
Photo 8.
The Maha Kumbh Mela in Haridwar is one of the largest religious mass events in the world. Amar Bharati inspired and other sadhus raised their hands for peace and harmony. Some of them keep their hands up for seven, 13 and even 25 years.
Photo 9.
In an interview with sadhu Amar Bharati said that his spiritual discourse focuses on bitterness and strife in modern world, on how people destroy their neighbors, and most importantly - to live in peace and harmony.
When asked if his raised arm hurts, Amar replies that it hurt, but he's used to it. Like most ascetics, he did not want to talk about life before he made his vow.
Photo 10.
Amar Bharati explains that he is doing the same thing that many saints have done before him and that he is simply continuing the tradition. In India, this is called Urdhaman Tapasya and refers to the type of service when an ascetic dedicates part of his body to a god.
Photo 11.
Although there is no documentary evidence that Amar Bharati kept his hand raised all the time for 43 years, Indian sadhus are known to perform unusual tasks in the name of faith, such as sleeping standing up or fasting for long periods. In India, there is a saint, Prahlad Jani, who did not eat or drink anything for 70 years. His case has been verified and documented by doctors.
Photo 12.
Photo 13.
sources
