Greetings, friends…..

Good morning (California time). It looks like spring may finally be breaking through. Has it been a long winter everywhere????

Well, I haven’t ‘blogged’ in a while. (That’s another one of these modern words, like ‘googled.’) Somehow, between parenting, working, and practicing music, many other important things on my daily ‘to-do’ list seem to fall by the wayside: caring for my aching bones, 12 step meetings, eating, WRITING! And then I wonder, does anyone read this stuff, does any one actually care what I write….. But I know those are the thoughts that dig deep old holes in my psyche for me to get stuck in, perhaps never to re-emerge…

So……..

The “Bhakti Movement” in the US these days is kind of strange to me. Wonderful, but also, weird. Wonderful because more and more people are experiencing the incredibly passionate joy of singing God’s names; and weird because, as Americans, we seem to feel the need to make it ‘special,’ and make ourselves ‘special’, and use Madison-Avenue type names to label and increase our ‘special-ness.’ We throw around words like ‘bhakti,’ ‘bhava’ and ‘ecstacy’ as if they are ice cream flavors or new types of kombucha. But in India, where all this stuff come from, these words denote deep spiritual states, attained by only a few very lucky and very devoted souls who then become inspirations for the rest of us. When we in the west get together for an evening of Kirtan everyone is so eager to ‘get off,’ to have a super high euphoric experience, kind of like a rock concert…. This is fine, I suppose, but it’s just sooooo different from what we experience in a small temple in North India, where the devotees feel like they’ve been chanting for lifetimes and lifetimes, oblivious to the highs and lows, riding the waves of emotion and mood, resting in deep longing and fulfillment and surrender, awaiting God’s mercy. Is ‘Bhakti’ just a ‘high?’ A cool, blissed-out experience? The great ‘bhaktas’ (devotees) of old all write of an immense love and an even greater dependence on their beloved’s response. “My Lord, I’ve done nothing to deserve your embrace, but please come to me anyway!!!” Oh well. Maybe I’m just an old curmudgeon, too hard on myself and thus too hard on everyone else…

Here’s a true story of ‘Bhakti’…… (I probably have many details of this story incorrect, and I thought I would do some research before writing it. But instead I’m just diving in. Please forgive any historical or theological errors.)

In a dusty desert village in West Bengal, in the 15th century, sat an old but still very active little temple to the Goddess. Day in and day out, for hundreds of years, the poor villagers had been prostrating themselves there to ask for better harvests, more sons, and more money; in other words, relief from their suffering. To some the Goddess responded, but to most She remained mute. As in all Hindu temples of that time, a young Brahmin (someone from the highest, priestly, caste) was engaged to officiate the prayers and offerings, and to distribute ‘prasad’ (consecrated food). Chandidas, as he was called, was deeply committed to his tasks, yet he was confused by what he perceived as the Mother’s callous ignoring of Her children’s requests. “Are you really there?” he would ask the statue. “Please, please show me that you are hearing my words!”… But there was no response.

One day, as Chandidas was preparing the ‘aarti’ (offering) lights, he heard a brushing sound coming from the other side of the worship hall. Turning around, Chandidas was struck by what felt like a lightening bolt to his soul. Was it the Goddess, herself? Well, that’s been the big question for over five hundred years. Because quietly working in the corner, partially veiled, was Rami, a young woman from the village, an ‘untouchable’ (the lowest caste), sweeping the temple floors. Chandidas gasped and whispered “Radha.” Rami lowered her almond eyes saying ‘Govinda, my Lord.”

And thus began one of the most remarkable love affairs in history. Chandidas, who had never written a single line of poetry in his life, began to record his romance with Rami with an incredible outpouring of songs of the love of Radha and Krishna; songs of ecstacy, songs of anguish, in the first person voices of both God and Goddess. Perhaps Rami wrote the songs with him, for the voice of Radha emerged even stronger and more clearly than did the voice of Govinda. Of this we’ll never know.

Meanwhile, there was another voice that began to scream and howl. The power structure of the village, the political and ‘spiritual’ elders, had become enraged at this blasphemous affront to the caste system, in the heart of the very temple itself. A Brahmin and an untouchable having an illicit affair!!! And cloaking it in the language of scripture!!! An outrage beyond compare!!! The two lovers were ordered to stop seeing each other. Rami was of course fired from her job at the temple and thrown back into her life of poverty and Chandidas’ every step was watched by the unblinking eyes of the town bosses. But did this diminish the path of true love? Not one bit. In fact, as they were forced to meet in more and more secrecy, the songs of Chandidas took on an even more mystical hue, invoking as they did the illicit, mysterious nature of Radha and Krishna’s divine love. But in a small town in 15th century India, secrets could not be kept for very long. Soon, Rami was banished and Chandidas was thrown into prison. Demanded to deny his love, Chandidas simple bowed his head and proclaimed the eternal reality of ‘Radha Ramana Hari.’ Tears streaking the dust and dirt of his face, the young Brahmin fell to the prison floor chanting the glories of the divine couple: “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.” What difference was there for him between his love and passion for Rami and the ‘Rasa Lila’ (divine play) of Radha and Krishna? Nothing could stop the river of love flowing from Chandidas’ very soul. And so, in the ultimate act of fear, the village elders tortured Chandidas, finally tying his limbs to four horses and tearing his youthful body apart. As his soul departed his agonized body, the villagers could heard the words: “Hare Krishna…. My Rami, My Radha!”…..

Today, centuries later, the love songs of Chandidas are still sung reverently and, yes, ecstatically, by the villagers, Bauls, and devotees of West Bengal. Praising the divine lovers, falling at the feet of the divine lovers and identifying with the undying passion of the divine lovers….. With tears of longing to feel just a drop of what Chandidas must have felt. To have just the tiniest taste of true ‘Bhakti’, true love…… I’ve seen with my own eyes these mystic Bauls singing Chandidas’ songs, dressed in patchwork robes, begging the Lord for just one crumb, pounding out rhythms on a small drum or even just a wooden table, plucking a one stringed ektara, and remembering one of the great heroes of love, Chandidas, and his beloved, Rami.

“I COURTED PRETTY POLLY THAT LIVE LONG NIGHT
AND LEFT HER NEXT MORNING BEFORE IT WAS LIGHT

PRETTY POLLY PRETTY POLLY COME GO ALONG WITH ME
BEFORE WE GET MARRIED SOME PLEASURE TO SEE

I LED HER OVER HILLS AND VALLEYS SO DEEP
UNTIL PRETTY POLLY SHE COMMENCED TO WEEP

OH WILLY OH WILLY I’M AFRAID OF YOUR WAYS
I’M AFRAID YOU WILL LEAD MY POOR BODY ASTRAY

PRETTY POLLY PRETTY POLLY YOUR GUESS IS ABOUT RIGHT
I DUG ON YOUR GRAVE TWO THIRDS OF LAST NIGHT”

About two months ago my oldest friend, Charlie Burnham, a very well known and respected jazz violinist, called me up and asked me if I wanted to record a CD of old-timey hillbilly music. This might seem to be coming totally out of left field, but Charlie’s known me for a long time and knows of my deep love for Appalachian music and antiquated, pre-bluegrass styles of banjo playing.

(Old-timey banjo has popped up here and there on many of my CDs, but always somewhat disguised and cloaked in Indian-ness or psychedelia. But, really, I’d have to say that hillbilly music was my first real love….. Before Jimi or the Beatles. Before Ali Akbar Khan or the Bauls of Bengal. Before going to India in 1970. Actually, I should add for the sake of history (hmmm…. whatever that is…) that it was Charlie who paid for our first trip to India where we met our Guru, Neem Karoli Baba. So we go back pretty far together.)

Anyway, we were on the phone talking about this possible project and I said: “Uh, well, sounds cool, but, well, uh, who’s gonna pay for it?” Charlie quickly replied, as if it was totally obvious: “Our godson, of course! He’s starting a record company. Sub Ek records.” You see, by a strange twist of love and fate, we both have the same godson, Mbira Isaiah Ram Klein, known simply as Bira, who, aside from being a sweet, lovely young guy, is a self-taught musical genius. But a businessman? Well, that’s another story……

So we talked, we emailed, we conferenced, we texted, all the ways of communicating these days, and realized that we had no idea what we were doing but that we should get together and do it anyway. For me, the preparation was a gas. I dug into my collection of old-timey music, my Dock Boggs and Roscoe Holcomb records, pulled out my banjo and practiced a bunch of great old songs. Forgot about the harmonium for a minute and found my heart in songs of love, death, murder, and religion. Songs that had been sung for a very long time. Perhaps not as long as ‘Shri Ram Jaya Ram Jaya Jaya Ram,’ but still quite a while.

And last week Charlie, Mbira, myself and, of course, my buddy Ben Leinbach went into the studio to start tracking.

Did we make an album? No. But we made a start and, most importantly, had a wonderful, extremely funny and loving time together. My oldest friend, my main musical partner, and my GROWNUP godson! Spending an afternoon laughing, singing, praying, attempting to be productive and not really caring about the results; how could we go wrong? Will this CD be completed and released? Well, actually I have absolutely no idea. Maybe, maybe not. I sort of don’t really care. But when Charlie calls me up to plan another session, you know I’ll be there!

What a deep relief it was to hear those sounds and smell those smells once again. Bells, chants, heart-rending cries of “Radhe Radhe,” incense, sacred fires, cow dung burning…… I was back in my holy Vrindavan again; the land of Radha and Krishna; the ‘dham’ (pilgrimage place) where I first met my Guru, Neem Karoli Baba.

It was the mid-90’s and my heart was feeling parched. Thirsty for some sweetness, some balm, some bhav. Life in the west had been heavy for me. Though from the outside looking in all seemed wonderful, my insides were hurting and needed a good dose of divine comfort that I hadn’t been able to find back home. So it was back to India for me and I was inwardly rejoicing as the rickshaw brought me close to my Guru’s ashram.

But on stepping into that abode of peace I was instantly accosted by my old friend Dinesh, one of the helpers at the temple. “Jai Gopal, you must come!!! One of our temple staff has died and we need help with the body!” Fresh off the plane and it was dead bodies already…. “He’s died of tuberculosis and we have no one to help prepare the funeral pyre and carry the body to the Yamuna for cremation. And we need to borrow your ‘Sweez knife’ (Swiss Army Knife) to cut the ropes.” Oy Vey! What could I say?

So we ran to the Ramakrishna Mission Hospital where I watched as the remains of a little old guy were washed and wrapped in fabrics, flowers and oils. “Chant!” I was ordered, so I began singing “Sri Ram Jaya Ram Jaya Jaya Ram” over and over again. Finally ready, the body was lifted on to a kind of wooden pallet and we began our walk through town to the river banks. “Ram Nam Satya Hai!” “God’s name is the only truth!” We repeated these words as we paraded through the streets of Vrindavan. People came out of their homes and shops to pranam to us and I felt honored to be part of an ancient ceremony. Until the ant appeared, creeping from underneath the covers of that eternally sleeping body! And crawled down the bamboo stick that was resting on my shoulder! And gently stepped on to my skin! And not-so-gently bit me!!! OH NO! My paranoid, neurotic, Jewish inner child screamed, knowing without doubt that I would be next in line for this suddenly not-so-wonderful ritual. (Well, since I’m sitting here many years later writing down this story I guess we can surmise that I was safe and didn’t die from tuberculosis……)

Anyway, we finally arrived at the sandy shores of Mother Yamuna, one of the great holy rivers of North India. The very same waters where little Gopala played with the cowherd boys and girls; where He conquered the demon Kaliya, wildly dancing upon his serpentine head; where He bathed under the gentle midnight moon with His beloved Srimati Radharani. But while the others were either prostrating and praying or building the funeral pyre, I sat sweating and fretting about my bug bitten shoulder and impending doom.

Ok, let’s get back to the real story now.

I sat and watched as the fire was set and the body of this old man was consumed by the hungry flames. My japa beads were turning: “Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram.” The transience of material life revealed itself to me as what was once human became smoke and ash. Fears of my own mortality quieted down in the mantra’s rhythm and a tiny taste of eternity penetrated the core of my being. “Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram…..” In the West we are so protected from death, and as a result we can never really make friends with it until he’s pounding down our door, gripping the reaper in his long, icy fingers. But in India life and death live side by side, hand in hand, and there is a greater peace surrounding the passages we all must cross in our endless journey through time. Many yogis spend years watching the bodies being consigned to flames in the burning ghats on the shores of Mother Ganga, the holy Ganges river. When the truth of time and existence fully dawns within them they are then ready to truly enter the path of Bhakti, or devotion and surrender to the Lord of Mercy and His divine beloved.

Thus was I meditating that sunny afternoon in Vrindavan, when suddenly a thunderous sound shook me from my reverie. There in the distance, framed by a tornado of dust and sand, was a herd of cows galloping right toward where I was seated. Cow bells clanging, footsteps pounding; I was about to be trampled! What a day this was turning out to be…. But as the final moment approached and I leaped to my feet in desperation, the cows simply stopped running and formed a circle around the smoldering pyre. Softly lowing, plaintively mooing, these cows positioned themselves in what looked like a protective ring around the burning body. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” I turned to see Dinesh watching this bizarre phenomenon. “Yes, it is,” I said. “What’s going on?” Dinesh then explained to me that this man was a very shy person who worked at the ashram taking care of the cows. He had no friends or family but gave all of his love and attention to milking, brushing, and feeding the cows, especially the little calves who were born in the ashram farm. No one was ever able to engage him in much conversation but he could often be seen chatting with his babies or with their mommies as he gathered milk for the older ashramites. What was he saying to them, his bovine confidants? We’ll never know. “But what we do know,” continued Dinesh, “is that his friends the cows have come to say goodbye…” There were tears in Dinesh’s eyes as he told me this, and I, in turn, choked up as well. How little we actually know about life, about love. A seemingly unknown, unloved old guy, surrounded by hundreds of his closest intimate associates as the flames consumed the last remnants of his earthly life…

I didn’t know this man, but I’ve thought of him many times over the years. My son, Ezra Gopal, loves to hear this story and at first didn’t believe that it was true, that I hadn’t just made it up. But I thank this nameless, faceless guy for teaching me about love, and that the truth can’t always be easily seen from the outside; and I pray that I will be surrounded by as much love and caring as he was as I embark on my life’s final journey……..

Ram Nam Satya Hai!!!

Several years ago I was sitting in the courtyard of my guru’s ashram in a small North Indian village, taking the sun, drinking chai, and watching a family of monkeys dance and fight around a few bags of rice. Bells were ringing in the distance and the sweet smells of marigolds and incense were mingling with the pungent aromas of spicy Indian food. The chilly mist of morning was slowly dissolving into the languid afternoon warmth. I found myself smiling at the futile efforts of the ashram manager shaking his stick at the persistent family of monkeys. Could he remove the monkeys, or would he have to move that delicious Basmati rice? Hmmmm……

This beautiful temple to Hanuman has always reawakened a deep river of emotion in me as it’s the place where I first met my guru, Neem Karoli Baba, and where the course of my life was radically changed. Whenever I visit here I find myself in tears, sometimes crying from overwhelming love, but more often crying out of loneliness and longing. However, on this day, listening to the old women endlessly chanting “Hare Krishna,” I was drifting in a cloud of contentment.

Sitting next to me was my chai partner, a very old and perpetually smiling devotee known simply as ‘Papa,’ a man who had been with Maharajji since the 1940’s. Papa’s leathery, toothless face always seemed to shine, even with his declining health, and his eyes held the gleam of one fixed on the divine, one who frequently received visions and visitations from his long deceased guru. Suddenly Papa turned towards me, his face uncharacteristically severe, and told me in his tremulous voice to go into what used to be Maharajji’s bedroom and sing eleven Hanuman Chaleesas. The Hanuman Chaleesa is a 40 verse prayer to the monkey god, “The Remover of Suffering” that was very loved by Maharajji. I, as usual, was feeling lazy and so I was bit reluctant. After all, I was already in a pretty good mood. Why spoil it with what I perceived as ‘effortful sadhana?’ But Papa pushed me, saying rather forcefully: “It’s the very least we can do! It’s the very least we can do! He who has given us everything……..What can we give back to him? Just our songs and our gratitude…….”

There were tears in Papa’s eyes as he said this to me so, to please my old friend and not get on the business end of his razor sharp tongue, I quickly grabbed my harmonium and went into Maharajji’s room to sing.

As soon as I entered the room I felt a change come over me. Perhaps it was the elaborate display of flowers on what used to be Maharajji’s bed, or the softly flickering oil lamps, or the wafting incense, or the huge photo of Baba gazing deep into my soul. But as I was singing, my voice bouncing off the whitewashed clay walls, I began to imagine the embodiment of love lying there, simply enjoying…. I had been in the habit of doing my ‘spiritual practices’ for myself, my own salvation, my ‘enlightenment,’ sometimes even my sanity. But now I found myself singing as an offering of thanks, as an expression of the deepest gratitude for a love and grace given totally without condition. Singing just to bring joy to He who is the source of all joy…. And my heart began to open in a way it had never opened before.

Papa gave me something that afternoon which is still growing inside of me. Although I forget way more often than I remember, I try to say thank you to God and to my guru every day, not just the fun and easy days, but really every day. Thank you for my life, my breath, my love, my challenges, my suffering, my happiness. For sure this is so much easier said than done, but when I can remember to offer my songs, my work, my heart, as a gift, without expecting or demanding anything in return, I can rest for just a moment in the sweet ocean of peace. And it seems there’s always more to be thankful about….

Ah, India… The land of dreams, exaggerations, unbelievable stories and mythological figures; where the line between the ‘spirit’ world and the ‘real’ world is very thin, indeed; where monkeys and elephants are Gods, and cows are the Great Mother; where the lilting song of a bamboo flute is the signal for a dip into divine ecstasy; where Lord Hanuman himself sneaks into your room and steals your fruit; where clanging bells endlessly announce the rising and setting of the sun; where God-like men and women walk the same dirt paths and drink chai from the same cracked cups as we do; where 250 year old ‘sadhus’ with long winding dreadlocks periodically rejuvenate their bodies through herbs and rituals and vow never to touch their feet upon the Earth.

Wait a minute! Two hundred and fifty years old? Never touch the Earth? That’s going a bit far, don’t you think?

Thus begins the story of the Baba in the stilt house.

I was traveling in India sometime in the mid ’70s, still floating in that cloud-like euphoria of semi-youth, searching for a deeper connection with my Guru, who had left his body in 1973. I had spent an amazing winter in West Bengal with the Bauls (see my earlier blogs), visited some breathtaking but slightly scary Tantric shrines out in the desert (picture a pile of carefully stacked, freshly oiled human skulls. Yikes!); and bathed in the ocean of pure essence in Sri Ramakrishna’s bedroom on the outskirts of Calcutta. But summer was approaching and Bengal was just getting way too hot. And the bedbugs were getting bigger and bigger and bigger!!!

It was time to go north and settle down for a while in my Guru’s ashram in the holy town of Vrindavan, where 5000 years ago Lord Krishna danced with the Gopis, a dance that still continues to this day.

Life in Vrindavan in the 1970s was quite idyllic, at times even heavenly. There were no cars and very little construction and every other house was a sacred temple. Medieval India. The songs and prayers that emanated from each little ‘mandir’ blended in the ethers becoming a kind of symphonic masterpiece of mantra; the sound of 1008 hearts being ripped open in desperate longing and ecstasy. Every day I would wander around, listening to Kirtan, sometimes joining in, drinking chai, eating milk sweets and napping. I wasn’t in the habit of going to see gurus at that time. I had my Baba Neem Karoli, I had my path; other ‘darshans’ and instructions were a distraction to me. I was sustained simply by the kirtans of this deeply sanctified place. But I did keep hearing about this ‘sadhu’ named Deoria Baba, who, according to the legends, was hundreds of years old and was a practitioner of the ancient and very secret Kaya Kalpa rejuvenation techniques of Ayurveda. Every hundred years or so he walked into the river and emerged a while later as a young man! I was told that he lived in simple bamboo stilt houses and never came down to touch the earth. He would instruct his disciples from about ten feet up, his long dreadlocks dangling over the wooden railing. After seeing a picture of this Baba, I was quite intrigued. He looked like some kind of super thin aboriginal ape-man with eyes that pierced the veils of personality and separateness; like someone from outer space. And he was said to be one of the great ‘siddhas’ of modern times. All this was very interesting to me, but most appealing of all was the fact that Deoria Baba highly revered my Guru, Neem Karoli Baba, and took any and all of Maharajji’s devotees under his wing.

Well, it just so happened that Deoria Baba was camped quite near Vrindavan that spring, on the other side of the Yamuna river. So some friends and I decided to embark on a pilgrimage.

Finding a boatman that hot, steamy day was a daunting task. Usually they swarmed the banks of the river looking for customers but somehow the shore was completely empty on this occasion. So we waited and waited, humming kittens and rock & roll songs under our breath all the while wondering what this renowned sadhu would say to us, disciples of another guru. Finally a boat appeared and we piled on. The Yamuna crossing isn’t a long journey in terms of time or miles, but there is a breath of transcendence and peace that seems to hover over the surface of the waters. Crossing the river, and even more so, bathing in it, are deeply transformative events, as Yamuna Devi blesses each and every one who takes the time to ask for Her grace. So as I disembarked on the other shore I had already entered into a kind of altered state. The pastel colors were sharper, the sand felt softer on my bare feet, the wind was so gentle in my long hippy hair… A short walk brought us up to a bamboo gate and a few sadhus lounging in the mid day sun. They asked us who we were and where we had come from, told us to wait and disappeared inside the ‘ashram.’ Time slowed. Silence descended. I could clearly here the beating of my heart and the internal repetition of my mantra. Suddenly the sadhus came running back, yelling at us: “Come, come, Baba wants to see you NOW!” We were ushered across a stretch of sand to a rather strange sight. There, crouched on a rickety old platform, propped up on stilts of sticks and branches, about ten or fifteen feet in the air, was a very old man, Father Time himself, his hand raised up in blessing. “You come from Baba Neem Karoli? Ashirbad, Ashirbad, Ashirbad (blessings, blessings, blessings). Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya!!!!! Ashirbad, Ashirbad.” He had us repeat that ancient mantra to Lord Vishnu over and over again, while his disciples piled fruits and sweets on us which I put in the front shirttails of my long handloomed ‘kurta.’ The atmosphere became completely other-worldly. I couldn’t feel my legs, my feet, my body. Chanting “Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya” the ground beneath me seemed to float, as this strange old man completely readjusted my molecules. Waves of energy streamed from his open hand. Then, just as suddenly, he said “Jao!”, GO, just like Maharajji used to do, like an Indian would speak to the neighborhood dog begging at the lunch table for scraps. I stood up, lost my balance, dropped all of my fruits and sweets, stooped to pick them up, dropped them again and noticed a very funny twinkle in Deoria Baba’s eyes. How familiar he looked. And then he was gone, disappearing into the dark recesses of his space-ship-esque bamboo hut.

So that’s the story of the Baba in the stilt house. Not much of a story, really. But when I reflect on the blessings that I’ve received over my life I can’t help but feel amazed and grateful. What did I do to deserve the ‘ashirbad’ of a prehistoric God-man? Not much! But still those blessings came. And I believe that they’re still coming. As long as I can stay just slightly open, just slightly quiet for a few teensy little moments, God’s ever-present grace can always be felt…

PS. This is an excerpt from “By His Grace”. By Dada Mukherji, a long term devotee of Neem Karoli Baba.

“Deoria Baba, himself a great saint, comes to Allahabad every year during the Magh Mela or the Kumbha Mela. A few years back he was here and some of his devotees who are well-known to us came to our house for satsang. They said that the night before they had been sitting around Deoria on the sand and someone came who said that he used to go to Neem Karoli Baba, but he is not there anymore, so he cannot go. Deoria Baba actually shouted at him, “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? CAN SUCH A SAINT GO ANYWHERE? HE HAS DONE SUCH TRICKS MANY TIMES BEFORE! HE IS ALIVE, AND HE ALWAYS WILL BE ALIVE!”

“The mirror of the sky
Reflects my soul.
Oh Baul of the road,
Oh Baul my heart,
What keeps me tied to the corner of the room,
What keeps me tied?”

- Composed by Nabani Das Baul, borrowed by me for the song, “Corner”, on my album, “Shiva Station”.

It’s kind of funny writing memoir-ish blogs when my memory is so filled with holes. In fact, sometimes I think there are more holes in my memory than actual memories. Hmmm… Am I making stuff up or did this all really happen? Luckily, my alter-ego-old-friend Ganga Dhar is writing his memories as well. We can cross reference each other since so much of our lives were spent together. But why does he remember more than me? I don’t think I took more drugs than him, but I guess I took different ones. (Oh no, that addiction blog again. Later…)

So where were we? The small Baul mela outside of Bolpur, West Bengal. The dusty, raw voiced multi-generational families crying to the Gods on that little rickety stage in the Bengali desert…

After sadly disappointing our new Baul friends with our lack of LSD, Ganga Dhar and I staggered back to our hotel, deeply moved from the experience of seeing these mystical madmen in action. With their long black hair and patchwork clothes and melodies that could crumble the padlocked gates of heaven we were very simply blown away. Upon reaching our hotel we feasted deeply on the house specialty, Aloo Posta, or potatoes cooked in opium poppies. (Mmmm, I sure did love those potatoes. In fact, I began ordering them for breakfast, lunch and dinner.) But somehow or another it was time to make a move. This Baul music seemed to resonate the very core of our beings and set us on fire. We knew we had to get closer to the source.

First we needed a place to settle, other than a hotel. We were directed to a little house out in the desert, by the side of a dry river bed, that belonged to an eccentric Indian artist in self-imposed exile and his somewhat batty Austrian wife. It was called “Studio Bulbul”, named after his daughter who had recently passed away. The artist, Kirin Sinha, was almost blind from cataracts and had been working in concrete, a medium that he could feel in the most visceral way with his hands blistered and burning. I’m not sure if this was some kind of penance or divine inspiration but Kirin was an amazing artist, with hundreds of canvases scattered around everywhere. His paintings looked like the work of a God-intoxicated Hindu Vincent Van Gogh. Luckily Kirin still had his ears, but in some ways he was madder than a hatter; divinely mad that is, filled with visions of the Gods and Goddesses. He used to tell us about his meetings with divine beings. “You can always tell a God or a saint in disguise” he would whisper, “Their feet are several inches off the ground!” Kirin was very impressed and excited to find some young kindred spirits in Ganga Dhar and I, and he took it upon himself to find us a Baul teacher and translate the songs for us. Thus we met Baidyanath Das Baul, one of the great souls and inspirations of my life.

Baidyanath Das was a young man at that time, fully living the Baul life, wondering, singing, dancing, begging. He had a stunningly beautiful wife who was, of course, also a Baul, but he spent most of his time on the move. Somehow Kirin was able to convince him to come to our home three times a week and give us lessons for a small fee. Baidyanath Das would walk in singing “Jay Guru, Jay Guru!!!!”, and sit down and play any instrument within his reach. In fact sometimes that instrument would be the kitchen table or peanut butter jar; the entire world was his instrument as his cry soared to the outer spheres. Baidyanath Das spoke absolutely no English and we had no knowledge whatsoever of Bengali, but the flow of feelings and communication seemed to come effortlessly. He would sing, we would repeat. He would play and we would attempt to imitate. Dotar, gubgubbi, kanjira, kartals, the basic Baul orchestra. Our teacher seemed to be a master of them all. But what most deeply remains in my mind are the memories of him singing quietly, the deep pathos, the ineffable longing in his voice. The quaver, the high notes at the top of his register, the lump in his throat as tears bubbled to the surface. Baidyanath Das was one of my greatest teachers as he led me into the world of passionate devotion through song. “Sing!”, he seemed to be saying, “Sing and break down the walls, destroy the shackles that bind you, discover the ‘Man of the Heart’!” I was still quite a shy singer at that time in my life. Instruments always came easy to me, but singing, well, that was another story. Baidyanath Das jump started the process of transforming me into a ‘singer’. Like all the Bauls we met, he didn’t seem to care at all about singing in tune. In fact it seemed almost to be a stylistic ideosyncrasy to sing beyond one’s range, regardless of one’s ability to hit those super high notes. And yet the musicality was almost always breathtaking.

So Baidyanath Das taught us many songs and Kirin translated them into English, vicariously enjoying our journey. And gradually our home became ‘Baul Central’, a place where every night a different group of wanderers would come to sing, dance and eat. Some of these Bauls were very simple and lovely souls, while others made me nervously aware of my hidden passport and money. But all of them sang and, with bells coiled around their ankles, danced. And, at least for moments, they all seemed to be transported to other realms and universes. Ganga Dhar and I learned from them all; absorbing, drinking in their wondrous music, laughing and jamming along. I’ll never forget one time when a young Baul, who’s name escapes me, took me on a long train journey with him and his compatriots, to sing and dance and hopefully make a few pennies on the way. As we played and sang our crazy mixed up Bengali/English songs, the jaws of the travelers seemed to drop off their faces in shock. Who was this white skinned Baul? What was he singing? I think for a while I even forgot who I was, so lost was I in the music and the deep current of bliss…

Well, as all things come to an end, so did our time in Bengal. The spring was giving way to the summer, the temperature was rising and the bugs were getting bigger and bigger and BIGGER. But one last adventure awaited. Baidyanath Das came by one sizzling afternoon and ordered us to pack a lunch and follow him. A dusty hike in the sun and a seemingly endless bumpy bus ride took us to yet another small and funky little village Baul celebration. We watched and drank in the music and then were invited/ordered on to the stage to sing. OH NO!!!!!!! However, there was no way for us to refuse, so Ganga Dhar and I proceeded to climb up and just do our best, trying to move past our inhibitions and let the passions of our hearts take flight. Thankfully we have no recordings of that moment, but, as was so often the case in India, we were met with such kindness and appreciation by the rustic audience of villagers and Bauls. They simply loved us SO much. The very next thing we knew, standing next to us on stage was Purna Das Baul, one of the elders and certainly the most world-renowned of their community. Indeed, it was Purna Das himself who had made that strange appearance on Bob Dylan’s album cover years before! With a flourish and a bow and perhaps a soft chuckle, this great Baul ambassador of bliss proceeded to pronounce Ganga Dhar and I “The First International Bauls!” I barely noticed the scattered applause as my heart went into wild celebration. Was this a dream? A culmination/continuation of past lives? To this day I don’t really know why this happened, but I do know that it was a life changing moment, a moment that is still living and breathing within me.

That was certainly many ages ago, but I continue to absorb and digest the musical lessons I learned at that time in my life. I’m still practicing the instruments, melodies and rhythms. For a long period of time the ‘dotar,’ a miniature Sarode and a staple instrument of the Bauls, became a sort of trademark for my music. And the spiritual lessons, the devotional aspiration/inspiration, the passion to break down the prison walls of our souls through song, are forever deeply imbedded into my molecules. “Jay Guru! Jay Guru!”

A brief footnote:

Although I never heard this from the Bauls themselves while I was in India, many say that the original Bauls were none other than Shri Caitanya Mahaprabhu and his great companion Prabhu Nityananda, who wandered across North India singing the praises of Radharani and Her beloved Lord Krishna, initiating the entire universe into the mysteries of Bhakti and the glories of singing the holy names. It is believed that Caitanya Mahaprabhu was an avatar or incarnation not just of Krishna, but of Radha AND Krishna together, in their eternal dance of love.