Art Rosengarten

Himachal Pradesh, N. India
October 17, 1989

The background fugue of rumbling turbines had ceased. Om mani padme om. They had been droning non-stop over half the earth's time zones like bad refrigeration-by plane vis-à-vis San Francisco to Frankfort, and then on to New Delhi; they droned by sleeper train from Old Delhi to the verdant hills of Kashmir/Jammu, first Himalayan state of India; they shook, rattled, and droned by chartered bus for the eight hour excursion into the magnificent mountain state of Himachal Pradesh, situated in the splendid heart of the western Himalayas. Now, mercifully, all droning of modern engines had suddenly ceased to exist. It was nirvana. The stillness of the cool sun-filled morning was a raga of pure silence.

The adventure had actually begun the week prior as thirty of us set out from the San Francisco International Terminal. A mixed bag of Bay Area grad students and professionals--dressed-down religion professors, cultural anthropologists, and transpersonal psychology types like myself-- plus the usual fare of meditation junkies, tough dharma feminists, and sundry Eastern spiritual seekers. We had all signed on for a two-month pilgrimage devoted to the study of Mountain Goddess cults of Northern India and Tibet sponsored by the California Institute Of Integral Studies. Besides daily classes and meditation instruction from an impressive faculty of Asian philosophy scholars, a full itinerary of day trips to ancient sacred temples and points of interest was also prearranged for our convenience, including what promised to be a highpoint of the trip: a private audience in several weeks with His Holiness, The Dalai Lama at his McLeod Gang residence in Upper Dharamsala, only an hour's drive away. His Holiness, ironically, was himself currently in California to be honored as the 1989 recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. Small world.

We were simply pleased, ecstatic in fact, to finally be able to sit back and breath mindfully like the American dharma students we aspired to become; passage through India had been exotic but draining. If Indira International Airport in Delhi now seemed weeks ago when it was only days, then San Francisco International was but a fleeting memory of the other universe we once inhabited. It's remarkable how quickly one forgets the other side, which vanishes from memory like a dream after each awakening.

Our final destination was the small Himalayan village of Taragarh. In contrast to the travel lows of previous days--most notably the unforgettable Old Delhi Station (a dark, soot-filled, endless maze of underground tunnels, butter lamps, tea stands, and sleeping untouchables, known for the occasional random nail bomb explosion and generally saturated with the lower smells of death, distinctly reminiscent of Hell); by comparison, the exalted presence of Taragarh was like the mythical mountain kingdom of Shambhala-believed, by Tibetan legend, to be the only pure land which exists on earth. It was indeed a higher octave of consciousness one senses instantly, like going to bed exhausted in Hoboken and waking up refreshed in the Garden of Eden.

Within India itself, one sees the difference of two worlds in the dogs. Indian dogs (barking weasels really) fend for themselves on alley scraps, rodents, and the squalor of the street or village. They are mangy, gnat-infested, and nearly feral like their canine brothers and sisters throughout much of The Third World. On the other hand, in the small Tibetan enclaves of Northern India the dogs are calm, friendly, well-fed, and Scoobyesque, and one even contemplates whether they are endowed with some canine form of Buddha nature, or so it appeared in their midst.

The Palace of Taragarh

As our private tour bus slowly entered the stately iron gates of our temporary new home--The Palace Motel--summer residence of the Maharaj and Hindu Royal Family of Kashmir, I could have pinched myself from the elation, but this was no dream in the conventional sense. The Palace was situated on a 15 acre forested estate surrounded by tea gardens in the Kangra valley, one of the most scenic and unexplored areas of Himachal Pradesh. Located at a modest seven thousand feet, Taragarh was at the base of the Dhauladhar mountains offering a magnificent view of the snow capped peaks. Fortunate connections in Bay Area "spiritual circles" had secured this lofty perch for us to assemble a temporary "school" of sorts, whose mission it was to encounter the mystically-fabled "Goddess of The Mountain." But yes, this was also very much a dream as well, though in no way should this fact diminish its living emanation, as in the Eastern view all phenomenal existence, even the home in which one dwells, is ultimately no different than a phantom state or dream born of Mind.

"The Palace," as we called it, was replete with a dozen Indian servants and cooks, showcasing long hallways of wooden floors and walls adorned with authentic Bengali tiger skins; it had a tastefully decorated private library with contemporary paintings of the local artist Sobha Singh, and many family photographs of the Maharaj's wife, the Maharani Tara Devi, and her son Dr. Karan Singh, the famed Indian diplomat born the Crown Prince and only son of the Maharaj of Kashmir. There was a large kitchen and elegant banquet room where meals were semi-formally served on schedule.

Unfortunately for me, the thrice daily-fare of rice and dahl soon grew oppressive and in time, I would learn to hike up to Tashi Jong, the neighboring Tibetan Monastary, where in the late afternoon delectable yak momos and banana lassis could be purchased for several rupees in the local enclave, tasting to my American palate something like a beef burrito chased with an Orange Julius. Marc, my Jewish Buddhist inventor friend and colleague, equally unthrilled by the monotonous menu, had presciently socked some five pounds of dark Swiss chocolate into his backpack, and generously supplemented our redundant lunches with a small but thick one inch square.

Two well-cushioned sitting rooms that adjoined the banquet hall were ideal for midday black tea, biscuits, and lively discussion. "Padre," as we called the Ven. George Churinoff, a former M.I.T. physicist turned Gelupa monk for the past thirty years, preferred to lead his 6 a.m. Green Tara Meditations in this cozy setting for any who cared to join him. Not a morning person by nature, but meaning no disrespect, I managed to practice my guru transmissions with "The Mother of All The Buddhas," about three times per week, figuring if necessary I could always squeeze in a short nap during the Changing Roles Of Modern Indian Women Seminar, an elective offered Tuesdays and Thursdays before afternoon tea.

Upstairs were our private quarters, perhaps fifteen double rooms, with adjoining baths (where a fresh bucket of boiling water kindly awaited us for each morning's sponge bath). I quickly hooked up with Arjun, a dark and wiry Freudian psychologist from Redwood City (oddly, the only among us of Indian descent), after having previously shared a berth with him on the sleeper from Delhi to Jammu. Deborah, a thin attractive Zen therapist from Sonoma, and Janet, a tall and humorous lesbian from Berkeley, took the room opposite, and quickly became part of our late night revelries, gossip, and conversation.

Outside, the luxurious gardens and grounds of the Palace were peaceful and lush with exotic beauty. Snow-capped mountains in the distance could be spied through the mighty trees and shrubs that surrounded the perimeters, and a beautifully shaded lawn area became the reserved classroom site of our daily workshops in a circle of lawn chairs. The climate was indeed heavenly in mid-October, soft blue skies, impressive cloud formations in the distance, and perfect mid-70's mountain air. We were told there was even a small private Shiva temple on the property, used in the summer by the Royal Family, and now made available for our own purposes.

Hardly bad for a single, 39 year old Tabugian therapist, I thought, even though the Tabugian model as such was merely incubating in its infancy state. The new group was friendly enough, and I anticipated many extraordinary things would come of this. There were some attractive and interesting people I hoped to get to know deeply, the majority my own age and mostly female, and a handful of world-class scholars and spiritual teachers were assembled to be our guides. I had come to India seeking for the mystical, but was packed for the magical. Two months of supplies (in one suitcase and backpack) amounted to the barest of modern essentials: one jacket and three sets of loose-fitting clothes, hiking boots, running shoes, rayon underwear, lots of socks, malaria medicine, antibiotics, one snakebite kit (which I had no interest in opening), two tubes of sunblock and insect repellent, a few empty journals, camera and lots of film, 6 pens, a Krishnamurti paperback, some lucky talisman of a personal nature, and of course, two decks of cards.

I was glad I had brought several Tarot decks, no matter their reputed Western Renaissance origins, if only to see how the magic would be affected in this rare company and at these rarified altitudes. Wisely, I had packed not only a commonplace deck of Waite miniatures, but also a rare collector's set of 22 Oswald Wirth Majors, impeccably rich in color with 19th century Marseille-style symbol conventions and French Titles; they were given to me years earlier by an antique dealer and old friend named Richard from New Jersey. I had only used them previously for especially arcane and lofty occasions. Encountering the Himalayan Mountain Goddess, I mused, must qualify. I sensed that they too, my precious tarots, would gain in merit from her radiant presence.

A Bad Omen On Opening Day

I quickly dropped my bags on my bed, changed into a pair of shorts and sandals, and headed excitedly down the long tiger-skinned hallways and through the front entrance to the Palace gardens-it was free time to play on opening day. I put a music tape in my headset and set out to explore. Some forty minutes later, I was approaching the aforementioned Siva temple that stood off by a remote end of the twenty-acre property, facing the distant pine forests in the background above. One arrived there naturally, like all roads leading to Rome, as it marked the end of several footpaths through the splendid orchards behind the estate, and intuitively seemed to call one to it.

Wild parrots could be heard singing from the huge sycamore trees nestled around the hidden, overgrown grove that surrounded it. It is said that devotees of the Hindu God Siva, cosmic dancer and divine Lord of Destruction, worship not so much his many names and forms, as his over-riding dynamism or "cosmic stream of fleeting evolutions" which continually produce and extinguish individual existences. Mountains and valleys, life/death, hope/despair etc. were merely the daily food this Hindu Deity devoured for breakfast and spit out for lunch. My kind of God, I thought, especially now.

Outside the small temple garden, straddling a low red brick wall, were congregated some ten or twelve casually dressed, busily chatting "individual existences" from Northern California, meandering this holy ground like sacred cows on unpaved village streets. About a third of our entire entourage was there, some five men and seven women-- joking, gyrating, trading stories in the intoxicating air. Some wore their bright and exotic Indian designs freshly gobbled up in the bazaars of New Delhi. The American banter, to me at least, seemed strangely out of place for this secluded corner of the Universe, which was as alien and far away from home as we West Coast "gringos" were ourselves.

As I was late on the scene, my arrival to the temple pleasantries went hardly noticed and I sort of slipped in to the gathering. However, there was now tension in my belly. Despite the bright spirits of my peers, I felt like a dark cloud covering the peaceful skies of a summer picnic. As fate would have it, I had minutes earlier been "volunteered" for the rather unfamiliar role of bearer of bad news. Bad news? Like what? Not even I had a clue, for my given task was merely that of "messenger courier"-like the innocent server of a bad subpoena.

While casing the Palace grounds, wide-eyed and naturally intoxicated, I had stumbled upon a small gathering of core faculty and retreat organizers convening outside the portico of the Main Estate of The Palace. Judging from their grumbling and intensity as I walked by, I knew something unexpected was up. Their mood was clearly out of synch with the mountainous aura that framed this otherwise blissful setting. I, of course, was plugged into my Sony Walkman and filled head-to-toe with the throbbing syncopation of sky and music; I vividly recall at that moment listening to a very haunting new Dylan ballad from his just released "Oh Mercy" album, entitled "Ring Them Bells." Little did I imagine that it would be my signature song for the events that were about to unfold.

John, the retreat's leader, motioned me over to the small powwow and then in a hushed but definite tone asked (ordered) that I quickly round people up for an "important announcement" on the Palace lawn in fifteen minutes. "Make sure everybody's there, Art," he said unambiguously. He gave no further instructions or information. I was unsettled, to the say the least, but responded without hesitation. All would be revealed soon enough, I reasoned, as I made my way down the orchard path to the Shiva temple.

Now, approaching my new friends, I felt like some new age Vedic Page of Wands, adorned as I was, in my natty orange and red Kulu cap (something like a fez), Forty-Niner T-shirt, beige shorts and Sony Walkman strapped around my neck; Bob Dylan was now droning in my ears and out my eyes like an old Himalayan prophet. The words from the song carried an odd biblical flavor, though somehow blending perfectly with these distinctly Indian surroundings:

Ring them bells ye heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world on its side
And time is running backwards
And so is the bride.

It was I who was running backwards, ringing them bells from the sanctuaries cross the Kangra valleys and streams. But little did I know that the world was indeed "on its side." Now in full view, I cleared my voice and raised my arms to speak:
Ah--excuse me everyone, I need to make an announcement! (I repeated it twice). May I have everyone's attention please..

Deborah and Marc, who had been busy in conversation at first smiled as I entered, but obviously could read from my body language that I was not there to gaggle, and helped to gather others around me very quickly. I continued, now with a hint of authority in my voice:

John has just asked me to round people up immediately. He wants us all to return to the lawn area right away. (Pause) I know it sounds strange, but I think something significant has happened, though I was not told any of the details…John seemed pretty upset, as did George and Joanna.. He wants to have an emergency meeting on the lawn in ten minutes and we should all head over there now.

It was not so much the words, but the incongruity of my own voice with the surroundings, which struck that moment so starkly. Vedic Page of Wands indeed. Now everyone looked puzzled, and a bitrattled. The timing was all wrong. If this was Delhi, we would have expected it. Things always seemed to malfunction there. But this was our Shambhala, we had only arrived hours earlier, and we were eagerly awaiting the opening ceremonies scheduled to begin in just a few hours, after dinner. "Give me a break," I heard one goddess-seeker snipe, "this is a spiritually-protected space, right?" Though I didn't say so, these were my sentiments too.

Regardless, we all immediately scurried out the Shiva Temple garden and on through the engaging dirt paths of exotic vines and luscious bushes, perhaps a ten minute jaunt, arriving at the designated lawn area in the requested time. The fifteen or twenty others of our group too were arriving at the large semi-circle of lawn chairs set out on the manicured grass in a horseshoe. Even the Indian staff and Palace servants now huddled to the side, while John and Padre were still commiserating at center stage with their backs turned. Padre held a portable radio up to his ears and was listening intently. Thoughts and emotions, I sensed, were running amok like the bonfires inside the hellish abyss of Old Delhi Train Station.

A stream of images surged my active imagination as I sat and observed the troubled scene. Had news of another major political assassination, I wondered, ala the awful Gandhi tragedies, come down the wires? It was only a week before the contentious '89 National Elections, and this passionate land of 800 million was notorious for lots of hot stuff when elections rolled around... No, I thought, maybe it was about the retreat itself? Some change in itinerary perhaps? I wondered whether next week's meeting with The Dalai Lama in neighboring Dharamsala, had been canceled? A great disappointment if true, but surely we could find other interesting things to do on that day? No need to spoil the party.

After all, there were many wonderfully strange and interesting Hindu and Buddhist temples and villages to explore in the area, we were in splendid company with perfect surroundings and provisions, and according to Johanna, we were officially invited to join the monks at Tashi Jong in morning chanting and meditation. How cool was that? Then another thought occurred which gave me some pause: had someone in the group taken seriously ill? That might be a real problem, especially given how far away we were to modern medical services-at least two long days of heavy travel down mountain. No doubt, there were all kinds of infectious diseases freely available to Western tourists of the sub-continent. Maybe someone... But no, there was no time left to prefigure it. The whole group now was congregating on the lawn, as the strange mystery of the first day at the Palace would now be revealed. What we soon learned, however, was indeed far stranger and more troubling than anything we had imagined.

[To Be Continued In My Next Column]