Volume 2, Track 2
Living with a fine Indian family in Baroda, India, on a colorful street known as Racecourse Road, I saw a wide variety of life pass beneath my window, which had no glass in it. Camels went by at any hour, and there were great numbers of homeless people visible, some curled up in blankets in the warm weather of Gujarat province, and others standing around doing absolutely nothing.
When I realized many were starving, I wanted to do something, anything to help, but my friend Kaushik said to me, “Do you know what that man over there would do if you gave him two rupees?” I was very short of money at that time. “He’d spend 10 annas for some food, and with the rest, he’d go to a movie.” I’d often had small, brown-eyed begging children following me, chanting “bakshish, cabba, bakshish.”
One student had explained to me that I should be careful that some cute little fellow didn’t slip my trouser pocket. If I gave something to one the others would take it away from him, or I would be expected to keep on giving to him and his family every day. Some of the begging children had had fingers cut off or some other mutilation by their parents so they would be more pitiful and more able to beg. Indians are able to bear such suffering because of the strong sense of karma, but this does not come easily to a Westerner.
Of particular interest to me was the action of the monkeys who were everywhere. “I tell you, they are as good as men,” said my host, Kaushik. I noticed they tried to put on my hat and often picked up my red umbrella. “What will they do with it?” I asked. “Why, open it the way they have seen you do,” was the answer. “But always remember that if you see a monkey grinning, he is angry.”
This explanation was very helpful to me much later in the Himalayan foothills, when wandering around one day near the banks of the Ganges, I came on what appeared to be a convention of monkeys. They all faced one monkey who sat on a rock in the front. I didn’t know if he was on trial or he was the leader, addressing them. Interested, I walked closer and then noticed that they had all turned toward me and seemed to be grinning in my direction. Suddenly, I remembered what Kaushik had said, and made haste to get out of there before the troop, angry at being interrupted, decided to start biting me.
Monkeys have played a big part in Indian mythology. The monkey god Hanuman is spoken highly of in the Ramayana and is known in other lands such as Bali and Japan. Two stories about them might be of interest.
It was my good friend Kaushik who told me the first. A man who sold hats was carrying his large supply from one village to another. It was a very hot day, so he sat down under a tree to have a short nap. When he awoke, much to his consternation, he saw monkeys perched in the trees around him, wearing almost all his hats. “I am ruined,” he exclaimed, despairing of ever getting them back. Then he remembered that monkeys would imitate everything you do.
Accordingly, he took his own hat off, and in an apparent fit of anger, dashed it several times to the ground. Each of the monkeys then dashed his hat to the ground, and the delighted salesman was able to quickly walk around and collect his inventory.
Just outside the town of Laksham Jhula in the mountains where so many yogis have lived, I came across an unusual sight. There is a long bridge crossing the Ganges at that point, almost 200 feet above the river. On the shore around the bridge were crowded more holy men than I had ever seen together before. They were staring in great amusement at a little drama being acted out at the entrance to the bridge, enjoying the leela, the play of the Lord in quiet observation. (I have been told that some great souls come back as long lead trees to quietly watch this Leela in deep, felt peace.)
A mother monkey carrying a tiny baby at her breast had been set upon by a pack of wild dogs. She had just managed to evade them by climbing a cable to the bridge when a very noisy male monkey charged her remonstrating madly, as though she didn’t have enough trouble. Leaving the tiny baby swinging on the cable (he would have been torn to bits by the angry job dogs if he had fallen), the female began to argue with the attacking male, and apparently was quite persuasive, as he quickly quieted down.
Then they put into effect a plan they had evidently worked out, fainting in first one direction and then the other, the male, with perfect timing, suddenly dashed away from the bridge, closely followed by the yelping dogs. As soon as he had distracted them, the mother scampered in the other direction, the baby, clinging to her chest. Betrayed, the dogs turned and chased her, but she just managed to reach a small house and quickly climbed to the roof. Then, not content to escape, she leaned down from the roof, just out of the reach of the leaping dogs, and proceeded to throw things at them, which is typical behavior for monkeys, who can be very tantalizing.
The yogis, amused by this turn of events, were smiling broadly at the play of the Lord — all except my friend, Maharaj, who had been standing quietly, facing the opposite direction all the time, heedless of the drama. “What are you doing?” I asked him. “Just enjoying the sunshine,” was his quiet reply. Now that is vairagya, real dispassion.
To listen to Justin reading Spiritual Stories of the East, click here.