Christo remembers… and says, “India has always remained in my heart and is forever my spiritual home.”
A stroll down MG Road in the 1970s was a psychedelic adventure, a whirlpool of character, colour, sound and smell. The rickshaws, crazy buzzing hornets, in and out of every vacant space, ducking and weaving around strolling shoppers, beggars, cows, and bullock carts.
Cloth shops and tailors hung brightly-coloured silk and satin saris, or hand-spun khadi waistcoats, outside their premises where we eager sannyasins rushed to buy our orange robes and lungis. Inside, neatly stacked rolls of material were displayed on shelves behind large cutting tables on which oversized scissors lay.
Outside, in neighbouring Fashion Street, tailors squatted behind old Singer sewing machines ready to make alterations or complete new orders, instantly whipping out measuring tapes at the approach of a customer. Everybody had their favourite tailor – such skilful reliable craftsmen. Every premise large or small also had its own Ganesha or Krishna statue from which the sweet aroma of incense hovered and floated, accompanying one past flower shops where marigolds and jasmine garlands added their own unique fragrances.
Pune was also blessed with many fine medical facilities and clinics, with a choice of traditional Ayurvedic or allopathic practitioners. On one side of MG Road was a homoeopathic clinic, and almost exactly opposite on the other side was a popular Western-trained doctor’s surgery.
Perhaps because of the unfamiliar assault on my sweat glands ‘Hoo! Hooing!’ every morning in Dynamic, I had developed a boil under my right arm shortly after I arrived at the Ashram. Naturally, being the ‘alternative’ kind of person I was, I hastily took myself to the homoeopathic clinic on the right side of the Road. There a very friendly doctor examined my arm, assured me there was no problem, and gave me a week’s supply of little white pills. Five or six Dynamics later the boil had not gone but had in fact grown, so I returned to my homeopathic friend who reassured me all was well and gave me another two-weeks supply of rather larger white pills. Another 10 days or so, with my arm now really hurting, and feeling feverish, I returned to the clinic and berated him: ‘Hey Baba! It’s growing and I am feeling sick! What’s happening?’ He didn’t offer any explanation or more pills, but sat me down and calmly said words I could never have imagined:
‘Don’t be worried. It is only the body, your atman is clear!’
…And with this assurance as to the state of my spiritual health, sent me off… straight across the road to the allopathic clinic on the other side, where I was given a course of antibiotics, which cleared the boil up in 3 days. Surely only in India can one find a doctor who will tell his patient ‘It’s only the body!’, so deeply is spirituality embedded in every aspect of Indian society.
There were also many original colourful characters who inhabited MG Road, especially among the beggar community, a unique tribe whose condition both shocked and stirred the consciences of many of the foreigners. We all had our own specially-chosen beggar (although it was hard to know who exactly had chosen who). They always seemed to have an unerring sense of one’s arrival at a particular destination.
Mine was one of the happiest persons I have ever known. He had severe leprosy. I can see him now, a large black bandana around his head, with his wife pulling him along on a small cart. There was no disguising the disfigurement which covered his body, but he could still hail you from the other side of the road with the widest toothless grin and the brightest smile. Even when I was in a hurry after greeting him and parting with a few coins I always felt a surge of gratitude for the exchange.
In 1981, returning to India from the West after an absence of 6 years, on one of my first trips back to MG Road, to my surprise, l again met my beggar – who greeted me, sans wife, with the same big grin and hearty call, somehow managing with what was left of his wasted limbs to slowly propel his cart in my direction. In the interim he had learned a little more English. He seemed uninterested in the money I offered him but with great enthusiasm interrogated me on where I had been and what was life like in America. This may have been the last time I saw him. I wish now I had learned his name and more about his family and his circumstances.
The elephant lady, poor soul, who had the most ghastly disfigured face and a huge protruding nose which gave her this unfortunate name, was another frequent presence, begging on MG Road. On one occasion I witnessed a beautiful young female sannyasin fling her arms around her and hold her in a tight embrace, both of them in floods of tears. Deeply moved, I wondered at the girl’s compassion.
On another occasion, approaching my favourite MG Road chai shop, I was witness to another ‘only in India’ experience: a rickshaw drew up and my attention was drawn like a magnet to the young man who dismounted. There was nothing outstanding in his appearance. He was dressed simply and was of average build. However, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful silent presence. Others seemed to notice too and stopped to look. He entered the shop, seated himself and was served in the normal way by the cafe owner. As I followed inside, I noticed that normal chatter in the chai shop had ground to a halt. The whole premise was in near silence except for the occasional tinkle of a teaspoon on cup or saucer. A few minutes passed and the young man got up, paid, and left as silently as he had entered. It took a few moments more for the chatter to resume and for the cafe to regain its normal character. Who was this unknown Buddha? I never found out. Can one imagine such a thing happening in London or New York? He would surely have passed unnoticed.
…Although I said farewell to MG Road many years ago, India has always remained in my heart and is forever my spiritual home. Om Shanti Shanti.
India is not just geography or history. It is not only a nation, a country, a mere piece of land. It is something more. It is a metaphor, poetry, something invisible but very tangible. It is vibrating with certain energy fields which no other country can claim.
For almost ten thousand years, thousands of people have reached to the ultimate explosion of consciousness. Their vibration is still alive, their impact is in the very air; you just need a certain perceptivity to receive the invisible that surrounds this strange land.
Osho, The Osho Upanishad, Ch 21
Photo thanks to Swami Guru, reproduced with permission
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