Diwali

By Allan  
For Hindus, Christmas, Chanukah, New Years, and the Fourth of July are melded together into a 7-day celebration at the end of October. Diwali, known as the festival of lights, signifies the emergence from darkness into light. This light signifies health, knowledge, prosperity, and fulfillment. Indian families celebrate by lighting candles, hanging garlands of fresh flowers and brightly colored tapestries, colorful lights, and baking treats. However, the brightest and loudest of the festivities comes in the form of fireworks. Like the absence of traffic rules, there is also an absence of rules governing fireworks. Any person, any age, can light off fireworks anywhere. And they do.

I practically ducked under the table at the Tibetan Yak Restaurant when a mini-bomb went off at my backside. With my ears ringing off the hook, I looked around to see if I was the only one that thought the Chinese were attempting to assassinate the Dalai Lama. Behind me was a group of teenage Indian boys laughing, jumping around, and celebrating. This was my initiation to Diwali. As we continued eating they continued blasting. The blasts and bursts of light in the small alley was so intense that I couldn’t finish dinner. Every time I brought the thenthuk noodle-filled fork to my mouth, I heard another boom. Dinner was over.

Walking back to our guest house was like dodging land-mines. Children were throwing fireworks in every direction. Some exploded at our feet, others just missed our heads. We made it back to our room in record time. From our terrace we watched blasts of light throughout the valley. We contemplated going back into the war zone. The safety of our room was obviously appealing. Without much hesitation, I grabbed my camera, stuffed toilet paper into my ears and we made our way back to the center of town. We protected ourselves from the small children, who I’m pretty sure were trying to kill us, and I did my best to take some photos (hoping that my face and camera would be spared). The main square was a fireworks-free-for-all. As bottle rockets and cherry bombs were going off everywhere, people were laughing, screaming, covering their ears and running in every possible direction, and often into one another. Even a group of Buddhist monks were taking part in the madness. While walking back to our room an Indian man stopped us to tell us how he loves watching the fireworks but that they are very dangerous. He’d barely finished with his thought when a bottle rocket crashed into the storefront behind us, leaving me and Nicole thankful that neither of us were on fire. Even so, we decided it was time to call it a night.


by Nicole
I’m not big on fireworks. But it wasn’t until the so-called festival of lights--Diwali, celebrated widely among Hindus--that I came to realize how incredibly not big on fireworks I am.

Seen from afar, they are beautiful, magical, even mystical at times. Thrown in your very near vicinity by a clearly nonprofessional firework operator--namely an Indian child--and they are cause for you to run for your life through a war-like zone! Lights from police cars, ambulances, fireworks gone astray, deafening noises and cries from children who have, in all likelihood, lost appendages or eyes or both. Yep, I’m not too big on fireworks.

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Surrender to Surrendering

By Nicole   Superficially and in its weakest and most negative state, surrendering is a pitifully white, ripped flag. It waves in the desperate wind of misfortune after a battle in which no offense could be mustered. The protective gear is thick and encumbering, so as to be completely obstructive. It makes us bulky and blind. We fail to see all we could, and fail to perceive all that we might see. Imagination is nearly impossible, and thus, we dare not imagine all we are missing. We miss all we could experience, all we could be, and all we already are. In this battle, our defenses defeat ourselves. And we are held captive by our own device.

Tears welled in my eyes and I bowed as His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama walked past me at the conclusion of his first teaching. Perhaps I was not bowing for the same reasons that the Tibetan Buddhists to either side of me were. I presume some bowed to him because he is the link of the lives and experiences of the 13 Dalai Lamas who came before him, and in whose spirit he continues to inhabit. Others bowed to him in search of guidance through, and knowledge of, the Dharma, the spiritual teachings which can lead to the path of enlightenment. Perhaps others bowed to him as the political leader of the Tibetan government in exile, struggling for a Tibet independent of China and Chinese autocratic rule. And still others bowed to him because he represents freedom, democracy, an alternative to oppression, and nonviolent resistance in the likes of Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I can’t say exactly why I bowed, except that the Tibetan Buddhists to either side of me did. And anyway, the reason for my tears are perhaps a more interesting consideration.

Occasionally--and particularly stunningly--surrendering occurs even when no battle has taken place, when no one has been conquered. Sometimes surrendering exists in a recognition: that the hierarchy of conqueror and conquered is false. And essentially, that we are too.


“It’s in our hands,” passionately concluded the young Tibetan activist as he ended the discussion. “Be the Dalai Lama’s soldier. Fight for him.” His words have stayed with me just as his conviction has. Most of us can’t know what fighting for a homeland means. Most of us can’t imagine existing in exile, against our will. I’ve heard a lot about these things. The Tibetan refugees that we’ve been volunteering with have been incredibly open about their narrow escapes from Tibet into Nepal and then into India, where they are granted refugee status. They traverse the impossible altitude range of the Himalayas, often in the harshest part of winter, walking only at night and hiding during the day in an effort to evade Chinese soldiers. Many leave their parents and other family members behind, because they are “too old,” “too young,” or simply because they couldn’t fathom leaving Tibet behind with the knowledge that returning is extremely dangerous and in most cases, a near impossibility. Many leave behind a nomadic lifestyle where they herd Yak in the high Himalayas, isolated from most of the world but subject to repression from the Chinese. Most Tibetans have told me that they come to India not for safety, security, or to be freed from religious persecution, but because, “I wanted to see His Holiness,” or “for the Dalai Lama, of course.”

The walls of most of the restaurants and shops owned by Tibetans here in Dharamsala are plastered with “Free Tibet” posters, Tibet flags, messages written in Tibetan, dates and times for activist meetings, urgings to boycott Chinese goods, and posters detailing Chinese oppression and atrocities committed against the Tibetan people. I have yet to meet a Tibetan who has not said that he or she hopes to one day return to Tibet.


Still, the majority of the youngest generation of Tibetans know of Tibet only through their parents’ oral histories and through the story of its struggle as a people trying to unite under one flag and one land. Most of them will likely never set foot in Tibet. These children’s children will be even further removed from Tibet and likely, from its struggle. And soon, the struggle will be less about their land, but about protecting their language and culture--the very fundamental aspects of their identity as a people. But still, today and in this small little northern Indian town, I have found that creativity, inspiration and love are fostered and thrive. They continue on as Tibetans, as Buddhists, and as freedom fighters.


Thus, an explanation of the tears is complicated. It’s incredibly disturbing to realize that the 14th Dalai Lama is likely to be the last Tibetan leader who actually ruled in Tibet, and possibly even one of the last to have vivid memories of Tibet. Similarly, I truly respect and appreciate that no level of political strife is cause for a weakening of Tibetan Buddhist’s convictions to work toward and gain Buddhahood. But I know the tears weren’t for the Dalai Lama and I don’t even think they were for the refugees exactly, despite feeling very connected to them. I think the tears were for something larger, something less physical.

I think I cried for a movement which parallels so many other movements, in so many other places around the world. I cried for the knowledge that we may not be the same, but we are equal. For the perception that though I can’t truly understand their struggles exactly, I embrace the need for the preservation of the very threads of a culture and the seeds of their identity. For the need to be freed from captivity in all senses. The inherent need for freedom and the quest to find that freedom, both internally, externally as well as physically and spiritually. And in this deep sense, we are perhaps not as different as we lead ourselves to believe.


And so incredibly rarely, there are those cases when surrendering is achieving a perception where we exist not in the self, but of the universe. And purpose is not sought because it is known, inherent even. Where affection for other shines to light our communal path. And we don’t just love, we are love. It’s here that surrendering is an acknowledgment of something in which we are not central, but yet our central pieces, and our collective peace, exist eternally.

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"Local" Indians

By Allan
Prior to leaving for India, I spent many hours obsessing about downloading and uploading a variety of my favorite music to my iPhone and external hard drive. These gadgets, along with my Netbook and iTunes meant that I could have all the music I would want for eight months. Fitting these small pieces of technology into my backpack was not difficult, but what I really wanted to bring with me was a drum. In lieu of having my own drum, I really hoped that I’d meet some Indian musicians who would show me the ways of India music, especially tablas.

While pondering the idea of spending the night in an abandoned stone shelter, Philipp (our German friend), spoke of a craving for pizza. Gwen (the Frenchman) and I couldn’t argue, so we found ourselves at Jimmy’s Italian Restaurant after our ‘lost-in-the-Himalayan-mountains-for-8-hours’-hike. After my chicken sausage pizza (I’m pretty sure it wasn’t actually chicken), I noticed that some Indians were dutifully carrying in large black boxes (speaker cabinets!), and putting them on the stage near our table. Wondering what kind of band it was, I asked one of the guys what they were going to play. I was disappointed by his answer--American rock. I come all the way to India to be immersed in another culture and I end up eating tasteless pizza at an Italian restaurant while listening to hacked covers of American pop songs.

The band consisted of a bass, electric guitar, acoustic guitar, and drum machine. As soon as I saw the ancient, wrapped-in-plastic drum pad, I figured my ears were about to suffer. The previous night had been spent at a Tibetan movie premier with a Tibetan band as the opening act. I was excited to hear Tibetan music (you would think that they would play Tibetan music at a Tibetan movie premier), but instead found myself listening to heavy metal (at least they sang in Tibetan, I guess). They didn’t lack talent, but seeing Tibetans dressed like hipsters in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and rocking out on power chords was a little confusing, perhaps even disturbing. Either way, the experience caused some reservation about seeing another local band.

My technological curiosity won out, of course, and it didn’t take me long to start asking the band questions about their equipment. If you have ever known anyone in a band you know how they can blabber on for hours about their equipment. The fact is that most musicians are ‘gear heads’, and an Indian musician is no exception. After some discussion of the drum machine, I mentioned that I play a little. Immediately, Vishal explained that the drummer couldn’t make it and that I had to play! I explained that I didn’t know how to play the drum machine and that I wouldn’t know the songs anyway. His disappointment did not persuade me to potentially embarrass myself with the drum machine. He graciously conceded, “okay, no problem, no problem.” Though I might have preferred non-Western music, I must admit that the first set was a pretty good mixture of Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Metallica, and other classic rock bands.

At set break Vishal came to our table. He had noticed Nicole singing (very spiritedly) along to many of their songs and wanted her to come up and sing one. After a small discussion it was decided that she would take the lead on ‘Hey Jude,’ provided they had all the lyrics written down for her. Of course, Vishal said it was “No problem, no problem!” (Anyone who has been to India knows that when an Indian says “no problem” it usually means “don’t worry, it’ll work out.” If you plan on traveling to India just take note that usually there IS a problem, but it ALWAYS works out.) Finally, Nicole is summoned to the stage, which she does happily with a smile, her signature tye-die scarf, and a load of confidence. The band starts to play as Nicole positions herself center stage with the mic. A look of confusion emerges as the band starts to play ‘Wonder Wall’ by Oasis, and not the previously agreed upon ‘Hey Jude.” Remember “no problem!?” Luckily the audience gave Nicole some help with the lyrics but still, if I had been on stage I would have been red as a fire truck. Not my Nicole. She danced and giggled throughout the song, received the applause of the audience very gracefully, and was ready to sing another song when it was over. Turning to the band (I faintly heard her through the microphone) she requested ‘Hey Jude,’ and this time it was “no problem.” And with the start of this song, Nicole was instantly thrust into local celebrity-dom. (You know you are a local celebrity when more than one person stops you on the street to thank you for the excellent show the night before.)


Not long after, Vishal made it clear that it was my turn. (What an act to follow, by the way!) My polite refusal was obviously lost in translation, and before I knew it, I was on stage. “Just one song, you know Nirvana?” Vishal smiled. It turned out not to actually be Nirvana but it was still a great time. The audience was into it, but I was still a little nervous. What happened to Nirvana?


Post set, I agreed to come to Vishal’s studio the next day to play a little more. He wanted help tuning his new drumset. He picked me up with his motorcycle and we began weaving through cars, dodging people and cows, while cruising down a steep, unpaved and very potholed road. We were, of course, without helmets. I’ve survived Delhi, seen a dead body being carried down a trail that I was going up, and have navigated a good amount of Indian bureaucracy, but at this moment--while riding on the back of an Indian motorcycle--I questioned my mortality. I didn’t so much mind the constant honking, weaving, diesel fumes, or other crazy drivers, but the complete lack of traffic rules is somewhat concerning. There is no such thing as stopping at intersections, and if a bus is headed your way, you’d better speed the hell up.

The large two room studio was nicer than expected and stocked with gear. Before we began our music, I was served the customary cup of chai. After 1 hour the drums were tuned. Vishal played a couple of sloppy beats and then I played. Over the next 4 hours I taught Vishal basic drum rudiment exercises, simple rock and funk beats, and independence exercises. One of the other band members prepared a delicious mutton and curry dish for lunch. After playing a few songs with the entire band, it was time for my ride back home.

Hanging out with the ‘locals’ made me realize that the very concept of ‘locals‘ exists more as an idealized notion held by ‘nonlocals‘ than as an actual entity. Most Indians are equipped with mobile phones, praise Barack Obama after learning you are from the USA, watch TV shows from around the world, and have at least a basic ability to speak English (and many speak very well). I was hoping for traditional India, but got something more in tune with India Americana. The irony of India is that there is always something to be learned, but it is never the lesson you expect. India is “no problem, no problem” as long as you are open.

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On Being Lost, On Considering Survival, On Coming Home

By Nicole
Motioning toward his right, the French guy proclaimed, “I sink zis is zee path!” I cocked my head to look and saw no breaks in the continuous brush. Unconvinced but hopeful, I looked toward Allan, waiting for his internal compass to steady. After a brief pause, he said, “I’m not so sure.”
The memory of a Discovery Channel show, “Survive!” cleared my mind of useless clutter. Though it’d been years since I’d seen it, its captivating nature had kept me up until 3AM and few, if any, of its numerous survival techniques had been lost on me. After all, “a little preparation and the ability to stay calm is all that stands between you and survival,” or so the show purported. Prepared to lead our group, consisting of Allan, myself, our new French friend and our new German friend, to a glorious safety, I carefully reviewed the invaluable lessons learned.
Shit, I thought. Though a quality program it had been--every dramatization was like its own miniseries!--the focus had been on how to survive in climates far colder and at much lower altitudes than our current situation found us.
Shit, I reiterated internally. We’re lost in the Himalayas!
The three guys looked rather calm considering my revelation, so I thought it best to keep a cool exterior myself. Meanwhile, I damned each one of them for having chosen to take a different way down than we had up--namely the way without an obvious trail because, “it’ll be great!” and “that guy said the views will be so much better!”
“That guy” probably knew the way down.
The journey up had taken us five hours, so I figured the way down would be about the same, since the increased speed enjoyed due to the decline would be obviously counterbalanced by the time added due to being lost. I looked to the sun to calculate the amount of time that it planned on lighting our way but in the mountains its position can be deceiving and it was. So I asked Allan what time it was.
“2:30PM,” he said, after looking at his iPhone. (And for those wondering, the GPS function is basically useless, but yes, we were carrying an iPhone.)
I heard the guys start to discuss the frightening possibility of having to spend the night stating, “I have matches” and “we can definitely build a fire.”
Shelter and heat are good and well, but the rhythmic rumblings of my stomach indicated a more emergent need. I opted to eat Gwen, the French guy, first. I reasoned that my gender (being distinct from that of the rest of the group) would give me an automatic pass. And anyway, all Gwen’s years of eating delicious French croissants should be put to sound purpose!
Before I could further orchestrate the logistics of my next meal, I started to feel a burning sensation on my left calf, then my right shoulder, and then on both ankles. “What the hell?” I said.
“It’s nestle,” said Philip, the German guy. “We have this all over Germany. It’s not poisonous, but it’ll burn for a while.”
“Yes, ve have zis in France, as vell,” Gwen remarked.
I am neither sure what exactly Nestle is nor how it’s spelled, because I very well might have misunderstood due to differing accents. But imagine a pricker bush who has, against all convention, fallen in love with a beautiful worker bee. Their sweet-as-honey-passion soon tires, but only after their Nestle offspring has been born, and with it, a most formidable invasive species. Anyway, it hurts, like hell.
We came down over a large boulder to find that there was still no verifiable path. Instead, we found Nestle, and a lot of it. Our international powers combined, we decided we must forge our own path and essentially, conquer the Nestle. (How Western of us all, right?) So with the tiniest of tiny scissors from a Swiss Army knife, Allan began to slowly--it was truly painfully slow, both due to the speed at which it occurred, and also the resultant pain which we still were essentially helpless to avoid--snip away at the Nestle bushes, which stood both higher and wider than each of use (except perhaps, for the Frenchman, but I have already discussed his extraordinary size and presence).
Allan, with both the steadiness of a highly skilled neurosurgeon and the vengeance and might of a ruthless warrior snipped and snipped and snipped. Meanwhile, Gwen, always optimistic and animated, cheered him on, “Zat’s it! Zat’s it.”
Reminded of a quote I read shortly before coming to India about how (to paraphrase and inadequately reference) when traveling, one learns more about the person they travel with than about the place in which the traveling occurs (Special Topics in Calamity Physics), I thought, Al is really good at snipping Nestle. And the note to self which followed: he’s a keeper.
And shortly thereafter, we emerged from the brambles of nestle, into what I imagined to be the promise land, which was actually an eerily desolate settlement of shelters for herders. Idyllic, yes. Useful in this particular instance, no.
And with the irony that seems to be a recurrent theme on this trip, I saw a small sign with English lettering: Wellcome!
And welcome to you as well!
Just past the pseudovillage, my wish was granted, only instead of finding just one path, there were an overwhelming number of paths, leading in every direction possible.
This moment prompted a vow (after all, literary flair must be generated in some way!) Never, I vowed, never again will I watch the Discovery Channel or any of its subsidiaries--a gesture of symbolic opposition to the inadequate and grossly incomplete survival shows presented through their programming. Feeling righteous, I scanned my environment. The view prompted in me an overwhelming, if unusual, peace. The notion of control, as illusory as my heightened sense of self, tumbled like a rock down the mountain, hitting larger rocks on its way down, and even breaking into smaller pieces. My expression must have exhibited some combination of calm and inquiry, and I felt Allan’s hand on my shoulder. “We’re not lost,” he said.
“No, we’re not lost,” I agreed.
And just as I prepared to metaphorically extend my hand to make amends with this Lostness, I heard Philip say something excitedly.
“What?” I asked.
“Goats,” he said. “I see goats.”
Sometimes goats mean milk, other times meat. This time, it meant something much more satiating: a herder!
With a predictable hop in our step, we moved through the long line of goats. I considered kissing a few but my soon-to-be-vet-student sister has frightened me with tales of zoonotic diseases, so I kind of curtsied instead. Strange, I know, but my thoughts of self-grandeur almost always involve me as a famous ballet dancer, save the disfigured feet and propensity for eating disorders.
After zigzagging through a fair number of goats, we found their shepard. How poetic!
We inquired about “the way” and named the village from which we departed; though we did so (by necessity) in English, an obvious disadvantage for this old Tibetan man.
With hands which bore a quality of leather and a testament to the nomadic lifestyle of yesteryear that continues to guide him along his own path, he motioned in a general direction and said, “Down, down.”
Vague though the directions might have been, they were affirmation of our journey--one that has been taken by so many others, in much more desperate circumstances. In that moment, I felt love for that shepard.
And so, we made our great descent and eventually made our way to the waterfall with which we were all familiar. It just sort of happened. We just sort of made our way back, because in India, there’s no such thing as the wrong way, per se. There’s just a series of alternate routes. And finally, we made it ‘home.’



Allan's addendum: The GPS on the phone does work. But it does not offer turn by turn directions in the Himalayas. Below is a map of part of the hike.

View Triund in a larger map

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Burning in India

India is a place to burn. Mostly I mean this in a metaphorical sense, though it was the physical interpretation that sent us searching for a clinic today. For 2 or 3 days now, peeing (an activity which has become increasingly frequent and annoying due to the nonexistence of public restrooms) has caused an intense burning sensation radiating up my urethra, bouncing to and fro in my bladder, and ultimately threatening to extend its stay by venturing into my ureters in hopes of reaching its Zion: the kidneys. I ruled out Voodoo pretty quickly (although I'm keeping my eye on Allan!) but figured a definitive (and clinical) diagnosis was likely warranted. The Tibetan Delek Hospital--considered one of the best in the state--is conveniently located only 20 minutes away by foot. And with my threshold for pain decreasing with each step (a veritable earthquake to my urinary tract), I was happy to traverse the rocky path, dodge the occasional monk, then goat, then cow (not to mention that which the latter left behind) to ultimately arrive at the hospital. After walking through a maze of wards--TB most notably (we, probably with futility, held our breaths), until we found ourselves seated in a small waiting room outside "Doctor Consultation Room 1." With just enough time for Allan to say "I'd better come in with you," a beautiful (and pregnant!) Tibetan woman motioned us to enter the office. After a brief assessment, the physician (who I pressumed to have studied or travelled in the West based on the Keen shoes he donned on his feet [shoes always give a person away!]) handed me a tiny vile in which I might contain the bacterial beast within. We're spoiled with our 6 inch diameter sterile cups in the US, by which I mean to say I peed all over my fingers as I was squatting over the Eastern style toilet in the dimly lit bathroom. I wish you could have seen the huge smile on my face at that precise moment! I wish anyone could have!
Next we were off to the lab, but only after paying the quickly accruing bill--$1USD for the urine analysis. An hour later, we were again sitting in the doctor's office, this time with my results in hand. The doctor noted the high level of WBCs and wrote a script. $3USD and just a few moments later, we left with a week's worth of Cipro for both of us.

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Gangotri and Beyond

Like most of India, Rishikesh can be too hot and too crowded. The smell of cow pies is easy to handle, especially after living for an extended time in upstate New York. But the smell of the open sewer, children and sadhus’ excrement in the street mixed with heat and humidity is different. Maybe if the air wasn’t so humid the stench would drift away, but instead it sticks to you creating a film on your body that requires at least two to four showers a day. It’s true that the yoga and meditation in this place are the best, and that the rapid flowing Ganges River cleanses your soul as it makes its way out of the Himalayas towering above. Still, after some time in Rishikesh, a vacation from a vacation is needed. Why we decided that Gangotri would be a good getaway is still unclear. With our new Canadian friends, Janie and Anie, Nicole and I decided a trek to the glacier where the Ganges originates high in the Himalayas would refresh our core temperature and provide some nice scenery. The road up is one lane, partly paved, with endless switchbacks, covered in landslides, and blocked by the occasional truck that has lost its footing and rolled down the hill. We opted for the jeep (9 hours) over the bus (14 hours) thinking it would be more comfortable. With our bags lightly tied to the roof and 13 people in the jeep we were delighted to have at least one butt cheek on the seat. Several toilet breaks, lunch, some vomit out the window, and multiple near death experiences later, we arrived in Gangotri.Gangotri, surrounded by snow capped peaks, is home to the end of the road in the mountains. The hike to Tapovan and back is a three day trip into a national park. Accommodations include tents and the special of the day is rice and chocolate (all packed in). The trek is 46 kilometers roundtrip. The Indian Forest Service allows 150 visitors into the park at any one time and a permit is required. Getting the permit requires dealing with some Indian bureaucracy. We were told there were no available permits for 10 days. Luckily in India there is always baksheesh (we call this a ‘bribe’) to speed things up. Our mountain guide, Munna, took care of this for us for a nominal fee of 500 Rs. (10 USD), and in two days we were on the trail. The hike up was only dangerous in locations where a landslide of rocks and boulders had wiped out the trail bringing it down the mountain into the teal-colored Ganges below. Out of the 150 people in the park we were some of the only Westerners. Most trekkers we encountered were Indian pilgrims making their way to one of India’s most holy places. The wealthier Indians had porters (poor Indians who don’t speak English [speaking English guarantees employment as a guide]) carrying their stuff, the really wealthy Indians were rode donkeys, while the really really wealthy (or perhaps lazy) were carried up in chairs strapped to the backs of porters.

By dusk we made it to our base camp which consisted of tents covered in plastic. Our hosts served us chai and rice, which we consumed sitting on the floor of the kitchen tent, rejuvenating us for the climb the following day. The morning temperature of 35 degrees Fahrenheit was motivation for the day’s ascent to Gomukh glacier and the Tapovan meadow above it. A few people along the way told us not to go to Tapovan, because they said that crossing the glacier was too dangerous due to caved in areas (and in truth, the dead body being carried down the trail was compelling evidence). Still, others told us we must make the climb because it is too beautiful to miss. We had a guide who was willing to go all the way so we went. A glacier is a small obstacle when it leads to external vistas and an internal calm brought on by standing in the middle of a mountain range. The climb to Tapovan brought us to over 14000 feet and left me a little lightheaded and really empty of all the thoughts that had kept my brain occupied during the grueling climb.

The silent baba, a 22 year old, who lives on Tapovan and has taken a ten year vow of silence, greeted us with rice, chai, and a spot to rest at his ashram. I spent some of my time on Tapovan taking photos (over 100 in all), but the best snapshots were imprinted in my mind. Written by Allan.




Silent Baba is wearing all black.


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