Pilgrimage to Sarnath, Bodh Gaya
In 1992, I travel to India. I start out with a group but soon venture off on my own. I want to experience the country in the most direct way possible and especially, the Buddhist sites.
I arrive in Sarnath, the site of the first turning of the wheel, the setting of Shakyamuni’s first teaching. Almost instantly, I am struck by a feeling of profound belonging, of recognition, of being strangely at home in this country, 12,000 miles from my place of birth. Something tells me my destiny is linked to this location. A guide from the Maha Bodhi Society named Nehru takes me around the deer park, shows me the Ashoka Pillar. The main stupa has me captivated. It is not colorful or picturesque like the ones in Kathmandu. It has no eyes on it. It is not artfully constructed, like the ones in Burma or Thailand. If there is a single quality to describe this stupa, it is weight. It is gravity. It is the sense of the inevitability of knowledge. It is the most solid form I have ever seen.
Little girls repeatedly badger me to buy carrot slices to feed the deer. At this time, at dusk, few deer are to be found. I am informed that the Theravadin monks from Sri Lanka chant at seven in the evening, and pray there at five in the morning. I sit with them as they chant in Pali, bathed in the rhythms of their melodic tones. If there is a single instrument they remind me of, it is the triangle. Many of them are young, and their voices are nasal and high. The chant is profoundly soothing. It seems to come from a place way beyond their frail bodies. It seems to bubble up from the very ground I am sitting on, and extend far beyond the parameters of this sacred site.
That night, I am not sure if I will rise at five. I have not been getting much sleep. I set the alarm. This night, I have the richest dreams I have had in India. I see a sage with a bright round face smile lovingly at me. He beams at me and says one word, “Go!” The alarm goes off.
My decision has been made. I quickly dress, but cannot get out. The door to exit the hotel is bolted from the other side. I linger in the courtyard. A dog I have befriended leaps all over me. I return to my room and go back to sleep.
I return several more times to hear the monks chant. Every time I circumambulate the stupa, souvenir hawkers and beggars badger me. It is uncomfortable. As a Buddhist, I know that giving is the most noble of perfections, yet as a pilgrim, I find their presence a constant source of irritation.
I travel to Bodh Gaya. The road is arduous. The driver has two flat tires. A trip which is supposed to take four and a half hours takes eight. I must practice patience. I arrive at night fall. Today is completely shot. I sleep this night in a Tibetan monastery, delight in the novelty of a mirrorless room. I am spontaneously released from the burden of having to scrutinize my appearance. I am suddenly free in a way I could never have imagined.
I go to the main temple, the lotus pond, sit under the Bodhi Tree. I watch as Sri Lankan monks leave prayer flags, pray, reverently touch the crown of their heads to the bark. I am moved.
I view the other temples. The Bhutanese is the most beautiful I have seen in India. The sapphire skies and aquamarine seas explode with vibrancy. A three-dimensional landscape emerges from every inch of wall. There are frescos of Avalokiteshvara, trees, birds, rivers emerging from every conceivable direction. On the ceiling are mandalas. It is like being in another realm.
I return to the Bodhi tree, but the gate around it is locked. I am filled with a sweet kind of ache, a desperate longing to touch the bark again, to sit under its branches once more but I am not given the chance. I sit outside the gate and allow myself to drink in the full weight of this longing, to let the sadness flower into the greater sadness of all beings. Perhaps this very hunger is the essence of this pilgrimage. I have traveled 12,000 miles for this moment. It is to feel the purity of this longing that I have come. It is the sincerity of this yearning, not the luck I reap that is important. One last time, I visit the lotuses, walk the path Shakyamuni crossed, his steps marked by footprints in the stones.
I travel to Varanasi. It is crowded, labyrinthian, chaotic.
Throughout the trip, I have felt a constant longing to connect, to surrender, to dissolve into transcendence. But I am met with a never-ending chain of obstacles; sickness, beggars, Orwellian Indian officials, con artists, men with sleazy objectives. It is all beginning to wear me down. Anxiety floods. I haven’t slept. I arrive late at night, then am at the ghats for sunrise. I am filled with pain, exhaustion. Tears come.
I return to Sarnath. I go to hear the monks chant. Instantly I am at ease. Serenity is restored. The head monk approaches. “I have seen you here many times. You have been in Sarnath a long time. Come tomorrow at five.” I tell him the hotel is locked at that time. He suggests that I ask the manager ahead of time to leave the door unlocked. I do, and he complies. I rise at five, go to the temple. The monk approaches. It is my last day in Sarnath. He invites me up to the altar, shows me a bust and photo of Angarika Dharmapala, the founder of the Maha Bodhi Society. He takes me behind the brass Buddha on the altar, shows me a stupa. It contains Shakyamuni’s ashes. He lets me touch it. I have ginger tea with him and a Tibetan monk.
He hands me a stick of incense and has me light it and place it on the altar. As I have been suffering from digestive distress, I pray for my health to be restored so that I may achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all sentient beings, and I pray for all beings to enjoy health and wellbeing. He says, “The next time you come to Sarnath, stay at my house.”
I rise, walk around The Deer Park one last time. It is stunning. The sun has come up and the light is exquisite. I am alone. It is still too early for the beggars. Deer scamper about. I see peacocks, crows. A quiet exuberance has taken over. The day has begun.