THE ONES WHO NEED A MIRACLE


Or, as I also wanted to call it: The Ones Who Won’t Make It

This will be short, and hopefully not too disturbing, but in meeting them, even though their outcomes are unlikely to be good, I wanted to acknowledge that they where met, recognized, and cared for, for at least a brief moment in their lives. Many others like them exist, and their stories will never be told. Let these few offer a small representation of the many whose lives pass on, unnoticed.

SURYA

I didn’t know what to call him, and their names usually come easily to me. But he appeared one day, out of the blue, as so many do. It was not far from where I stay, where another white dog lived, same size and same age. The first dog had the unusual characteristic of one brown eye, and one blue eye. His face was pure white, and the icy blue eye gave him a startling, ghostly quality. He was stunning. Although he belonged to someone and had a family, he was painfully thin, and painfully shy. I couldn’t get close to him, to try to start a relationship, and start deworming treatments, and whatever else he needed. Every time I approached, he would dart away, in complete fear. This was a high traffic area; the danger of his jumping into an oncoming vehicle was very real. So, I had to leave it, and if he was one of the ones I could not touch, so be it.

“Ghost” continued this way, shy, and darting, recoiling at even the slightest eye contact. He always looked scared and somewhat lost. Physically he was painfully thin and malnourished, and I didn’t know how long he could go on this way. When Surya showed up, the pups were close to six months at this time. Surya was full of confidence, physical strength, with an ease of character and friendliness. He had all the desirable traits Ghost seemed to lack; he was one of the finest dogs I had ever met. He roamed the neighborhood, not quarrelling with any other dog, one of those dogs who is accepted by the others, and poses no threat. And the first dog, Ghost, now took on a new role and soon a new form, as his companion, and shadow.

They had to be brothers, and somehow Surya had managed to find him. The change in Ghost’s character at the inclusion of Surya in his life was dramatic. He became more confident, friendly, started to put on weight, and blossomed. The two were inseparable. It was clear to me that Ghost’s problem had been at least partly emotional; he had been at a loss without his connection to this other dog. We often fail to recognize the strength of the bonds these creatures share, but this could not be missed. Ghost transformed and thrived, immediately, at the inclusion of Surya in his life.

Where there was one, now there were two; Surya always in the lead, and Ghost following close by, finally leaving the self imposed confines of his limited turf. Tails up, tongues lolling from their mouths, they were no nuisance to anyone; just two happy dogs that greeted the neighborhood and their world with their joy.

Things went on this way for months. Surya, in addition to finding his brother, had found the chicken shop not so far away, and the two could feast on leftover chicken parts, and thrive.

As for me, it was time for a visa run, and I had to leave India until I could get a new visa.

A few days before leaving, I found Surya, in the chai shop he and his brother had adopted, a painfully thin shadow of his former self, wasting away, the cause unknown. Even while I was there, little could be done. He was in great pain, with little appetite, and losing his ability to walk. No labs, no hospitals, no caretakers …. What could be done? I was watching him disintegrate in front of me. This was more the outcome I had anticipated for his brother, Ghost. I have seen many pups like Ghost, who cannot thrive, waste away, until one day they are simply no longer seen. But Surya? I was shocked to see him like this. The dogs were fully-grown now, and in beautiful health. What had happened? Had the beautiful Surya, somehow traded places, and perhaps fate, with his brother? I doubt he will be alive when I return.

The bonds of brotherhood between them were amazing. Surya had clearly been doing well wherever he had come from, but still had the longing to find his brother and companion. He found him, and his presence changed Ghost from a weak, scared and malnourished dog into a mirror image of himself. Ghost had become a dog of health, confidence, and happiness. Surya gave him strength, and life. Was there a price? Was it now it was Surya’s turn to decline? Had he given his brother a chance to work out his time in this life, and had he willingly sacrificed himself? We don’t know. But Ghost continues to thrive, now roaming the streets on his own, not as friendly and confident as his brother, but close. Surya lies in pain, barely able to walk, deteriorating in his physical body.

This dog was a beauty, unlike most that I have seen. In the Buddhist beliefs, one can make a choice at the point of full enlightenment to stop the final merge into nirvana, making a choice to remain as a Bodhisattva; one who will delay full enlightenment until every sentient being is relieved of their sorrows and their sufferings.

Is this the case with Surya? Had he come to rescue his brother from a fate which he had now taken on in his place? We will never fully know; it remains a part of our not understanding the world and the mystery of how and why it works. Mystery rules much of our daily lives. Can a Bodhisatva return in the form of a dog? I think there are many Buddhists who would say “NO.” Well, why not? It is the ego, which makes us feel so unique, and so superior. A certain degree of ego is necessary to physical survival, but when it separates us from the rest of creation and being, does it perhaps serve only as a distortion of the mirror of totality and unity that is around us.

Surya, I finally had a name for you, as I write this, Surya, the Sun. Bodhisattva or mere Beautiful Being of Light and Love, shine on Surya, in your new form, whatever and wherever that may be.

Prem.











HARIDWAR DOG


Mange seems to be a real issue in Haridwar these days for the dogs.

I had started going to Haridwar for the Kumbh Mela once or twice a week. The Kumbh Mela is called the world’s largest spiritual gathering. Yogis, Babas, holy men and women come from all parts of India and Nepal for this auspicious occasion and gathering which occurs every twelve years… except that there are four locations, so it’s actually every three years, but never mind, this is India, and what’s a few years?

Having just missed the last Kumbh that was three years ago, I was quite keen on experiencing this one. This one, after all, was a “Maha” Kumbh, the Big One, that occurs only in twelve years time … since time immemorial, they [like to] say. So, start-up date, January 14th, I went. Days of planning were required; after all, his was the “Maha” Kumbh … maybe as many as 200 million people to prepare for [so they like to say]. Roads were blocked between Rishikesh, and Haridwar, and one had to position oneself logistically, and prepare oneself mentally and physically for the trip, and the gathering. It is said the crowds are so massive, that people lose family members in these crowds. Ailing parents and grandparents, impoverished “extra” girl children, “lost”, never to be seen again, the crowds so massive.

For months, we had seen the pitching of miles of tents to hold the pilgrims, the police, and the “holy ones” and their followers. Special bridges had been built in Haridwar and Rishikesh to help the masses cross the Ganges, and wooden corrals were constructed to direct the crowds and keep them from forming a mad rush and crush into the holy town of Haridwar.

Early in the morning, pre-dawn, I went. Prepared for the walk, the crowds, and the emanation of so much “sahkti” that one could be bowelled over from the sheer intensity of the energy and power of the vibration, I set out with great determination and preparation for the state of awe.

I arrived, just as the sun was about to rise. Perfect … and there I was, pretty much alone, except for a few other foreigners, foreign reporters, and lots of military police. And there we were, looking at one another, a bit puzzled and bemused. “Uh, any Baba’s?”




Not so many. This is India, after all, and things are not always what they seem. I made my way around, and made it back to Rishikesh after giving it a reasonable search, pretty early in the day. Sat down for a cup of chai, and read that morning’s newspaper. Page two, with even a photo, a full story on how the crowds had gathered to watch the town of Haridwar fill with the saffron colors of the sadhus’ robes …. “Huh?”

But I was there … how could I miss that? Which city of Haridwar were they talking about? Upon closer examination, the photo was not actually from Haridwar, but from Allahabad, the site of the last Kumbh (three years ago). And to make it in time for that mornings press, the story would have had to been written the previous night …. India; things are not always what they seem, never mind a little distortion. A good story is a good story, after all.

Anyway, I digress. What I did find was lots of dogs with serious cases of mange, and it was rampant. The dogs looked well fed enough, on the whole, but the miseries of the skin condition were running wild. Usually prepared with a small stock of medicines ever in my bag, I was able to medicate at least twenty or so, while looking for the Holy Ones and receive their blessings with darshan.

The Kumbh was to continue for the next few months, with many auspicious bathing days, and opportunities to see the saints. The next big day was the 26th, when thousands of Naga Babas were to descend upon the town of Haridwar. Nagas, the naked ones, who never left the Himalayas, who never left their caves, their seclusion, their meditation, their tapas and their austerities, except to take a dip in the holy Ganges on these astrologically auspicious days, and add their shakti to the purifying power of the Ganges. Not only would the karma of the one taking the bath in the Ganges be cleansed on these special days, but also the karmas of generations of past and future family members. If you know anything about my family … this was a “must.” It was worth a second try.

I went this time with my friend Kosta, a Rishikesh regular for many years, and a man who had the assurance of his own Naga Baba in Rishikesh, that this was “it.” The really Big Day, and the “real” start of the Kumbh Mela; forget that nonsense of the 14th as the start date. So we went, again, early morning, half asleep, ready to march the long road, blocked to all vehicular traffic. We arrived pre-dawn. A few more people this time, some of the same foreign photographers as before, and there we were, with all the military police. Lights were now strung over Harki Puri, and the site was beautiful. The Ganges ran strong and swift, … and quite empty.

We walked the town of Haridwar, the streets deserted, and the trafficked blocked. To prepare for the masses, Haridwar officials had closed the streets to all traffic, except pedestrian. We walked the streets of Old Haridwar, enchanted by the sights and the silence. Even the dogs were still asleep. I saw temples, shrines, ashrams and dharamshalas I could never notice before, with the crowds usually being so deep one can only walk the streets with safety in mind. One normally walks Haridwar as one does most Indian cities, as an obstacle course, focusing only on avoiding a collision with the frenetic flow of motorbikes, rickshaws, autos, and bicycles; all on their own path. Sightseeing is usually out of the question; but this was magic, and a darshan of its own.

Later in the day, a parade went on, but the beauty that day was in the stillness of the morning, and in the darshan of the Ganga, and in the rest of the sleeping dogs, at peace with the world and in their own dreams.

Unhurriedly, at a pace all its own, the Kumbh eventually came into full swing, with many saying when asked why the tents were all empty, “Why would they be filled? The Kumbh Mela starts after March 15.” And after march 15th passed, the date then became one in April …
Yeah, Ok … So why did Haridwar, the newspapers, the web sites say it started in mid-January?

Never, mind, this is India; and what’s a few months in time?






There were more parades, more bathing days, and slowly, slowly, more people coming. I would go, not so often, at first, and always prepared with lots of medication for the dogs. The regular Babas around Maya Devi Ashram started calling me “Dog Woman.” Some would be a bit more polite and say Dog Walli, or Dog Doctor. The Babas from Rishikesh already recognized me, and would nod their heads and say, yes, that’s the Dog Woman, not sure if they should acknowledge an acquaintance with me or not.






One of the first dogs I treated for a mild case of mange was a Babas dog in the Juna Akhara camp. He was a young, and minor Baba, but a delight, and my entre into many tents and camps that I would never had gotten into without his guidance and invitation. Now at least some of the Babas of Juna Akhara know the power of ivermectin, and its efficacy over mange. Some of them praise me, some shrug their shoulders, and some laugh … and it’s all good.






The camps can be intense, with a world and a vocabulary, and energy all its own. One does not have to go far to get a break. The shops and restaurants outside of Maya Devi ashram are largely unaffected by the Kumbh, and it’s business as usual. A few hundred meters outside the camp looking for some respite, I saw him, and gasped. I had come from Naga Babas with no clothes, ashes covering their bare skin, dread locks flowing four feet on the ground, pierced penises, endless chillum pipes passed around, drums, horns, and mantras, but I was not prepared for this.

I saw a rather large size dog, with dark grey leathery skin but no hair, and a horrible red jaw and lips, exposing where he should have had teeth, but now only had a bleeding, angry ravaged open wound instead of a proper jaw. An accident? I don’t know. A stick to the face, knocking out his teeth? I don’t know. A medical condition; again, I don’t know. Just an awful sight, with flies landing on his open sores. I didn’t know what to do. I ended up giving him antibiotics, and mange medication. He could eat, and seemed not to be too troubled by his condition. Strangely accepting it, or just numbed by his own condition, I don’t know.

I didn’t see him again for some days. But when I did see him again, somehow, he looked a bit better. The jaw looked better, the bleeding had stopped, and it seemed to be finding its own way to mend. And his hair was actually growing back a bit. I repeated the mange medication, and gave him some more food. In buying his food, the shopkeeper started advising me on what he likes to eat! A small miracle, I thought. I had found the one shopkeeper who had taken an interest in him. I asked him if he would continue antibiotics for him on a regular basis, showed him how to administer the pills, and he said “yes.”

I thought the dog had a chance. I had felt guilty at first about feeding him, and medicating him, and then having to leave him. Is it fair to give him hope, when I can’t follow up with anything? Are these the times it is better to leave it, and let this pain and this path take its course?

So again, I would not see him for some days, and my time for leaving for the visa was just around the corner. Then I saw him, and I was sickened. He had a bit of hair, but the jaw was worse, and something I had not noticed earlier, had fully erupted. He had a horrible testicular tumor, and it was huge; it had grown very quickly. It is called TVT and it is a transmissible sexual disease, and I see it a lot in the street dogs. It is highly treatable, and I have had many Rishikesh dogs treated for this. One uses a chemotherapy drug called vincrystine, available, and very inexpensive here. It is administered intravenously, for several weeks. But there was no time for my Naga Dog. I was to leave the next day. The tumor was big, starting to open, and the flies were gathering on his sores. I made frantic phone calls for help, but in the end, had to leave him. So my guilt came back, because as he looked me in the face now, he recognized me, of course, and now there was Hope. I could not fulfill that Hope, and have let him down. It will be a miracle if he is still alive when I come back. What is more likely is that I will never see him again.

So the Kumbh Mela continues, with the bathers coming for their absolution of negative karmas, for the blessings from the holy saints, for the gathering of spiritual enlightenment, and a few hundred meters away, a lonely dog, my Naga Dog, passes on, unnoticed and uncared for. My intervention had been enough to give him a degree of hope, and it was a hope I could not fulfill. I let him down, and have no good explanation for him. My Naga Dog does not understand the fabricated reality of visas and borders. It will be some sort of strange reality if he is alive when I come back. What is more likely is that I will never see him alive again; I will only see him in my memory and mind’s eye. My Naga Dog, so close to he borders of salvation, in a life of tapas and austerities all his own.










Julie


Julie dog, where do I begin? I first met Julie post-surgery. Her botched amputation had already taken place, and all the foreigners who were helping in her care were leaving one by one. The last of them, two lovely women from Finland, sought me out, hoping I could take on her post-op care. It wasn’t that Julie did not have a family, she did, and they did quite well by her and her condition that roused the sympathies of touring animal lovers. As for their actual care of Julie, in this they could not manage so very well.



Julie is a sensitive dog, and she did not take the condition of her new body very well, and the family could not manage the proper administration of medicines, enough food, or even a lead, to tie her on their veranda, rather than let her stumble onto the street where the jeeps and taxis rushed by. Her home is on this busy path, and one of the vehicles had struck her, and the injured leg required amputation. It was not done well.

I put her on a neighbor’s rooftop, as mine was as it usually is, already engaged. We gave her her medications, helped her with her walks, and gave her good food, and plenty of love and care. She came to a reasonable stage of recovery, and her family said they wanted her back. Although this surprised me, I was somewhat relieved, for taking on another dog in my somewhat precarious circumstances, was not the most practical thing to do.

I checked on her, hoping things would be all right, but they were not. Julie was losing weight, losing luster, and looking unhappy. The Finnish girls came back, and they too saw Julie somewhat temperamental, and unhappy. The family just seemed to be negligent in their care. Always friendly, always engaged with conversation about her care, and yet, she was clearly not thriving. Julie was always voracious when I came, the family complained she would eat too quickly and then up-chuck the food later on. Well, yes, feed her enough food throughout the day, and maybe she won’t have to inhale it when I come, I could not help but comment to myself.

I was sensing a bit of irritation on my part as the visits increased.

They sensed this as well, and now the reports were that Julie was eating well. She did improve, and I felt I did not have to come everyday to see her. Other visitors’ reports were that she was doing well.

A bit of time went on, I did a check on Julie, and she was horrible. Not eating, hairless, emitting an offensive odor, and depressed. The doctor had not been called, I had not been called. But the family came out, with great concern, “Mmm, Julie, not so good.”

“Julie, not so good”, I verified; “she’s going to die if nothing is done.”

IV fluids, treatment for amoebas, vitamin injections, treatment for mange and fungus, and she slowly recovered. There was never a water dish to be found for her, and she obviously had to drink the only water that was available, and that was the sewage water that runs along side their home and street.

There was only frustration in dealing with the family, but they assured me they now understood the importance of fresh water. Another tourist, who was staying nearby, took on her daily care, and again Julie recovered, and thrived.

When she left, another took her place. All seemed under control, until I did another, recent check in. Again, hairless, thin, foul smelling, and depressed. I “lost it” with the family, and vented my anger. Poor Julie curled up into a little ball, trying not to be a part of this explosion on my part.

This was all happening at the same time as my Haridwar, Naga Dog, Sparky, and countless other problems before I had to leave.

Another small miracle happened, in that on my final day in Rishikesh, I went to see Julie, feed her, medicate, and someone I had recently met came by. He took great interest in Julie, and will take on her care while he is still in town. Julie, the dog of how many lives? She seems to come to the brink of death, always to be saved, temporarily. I will check on her again, when I return, and see what the future has in store for Julie’s, and my fate.

LONG TIME NO TALK TO …

Although new word entries have not been made, living and staying in India have gone on, and the care of the street animals continues, in its ever evolving, and varied forms.

At times the stories start to sound the same, and one has to make sense of it. Why the repetition, why the commonality, and what’s the point being made? But most of the time, one is so enveloped in the Now, that a re-writing of what has already passed, seems unnecessary. A new story, or a remake of an old story acted out in the present, have taken precedence over reflections of the world of past time and reactivity.

Some stories however, stick out.

Shivani, Bhavani, and Shirdi Sai Baba

June/July sees the oncoming of he Kanwarias; The orange men, as they are commonly called. They come by the thousands, each day. They clog the streets and jam the traffic with their numbers and their rambling. The summer heat is oppressive, and the body heat of an extra 100 to as much as 500,000 a day mixed with the smell of sweat, excrement, and exhaustion can be daunting. They march shoed, barefoot, and in full prostrations. In other towns I was told, they are revered as demi-gods. Men on pilgrimage from the small towns to the holy hills and temples, walking all the way. Never mind the altercations that can leave highways blocked, trains stopped, and busses overturned. Demi-gods of the lesser towns they may be, but not necessarily so in the holy city of Rishikesh, where saints outnumber commoners, but on most days, the merchants rule. Here they are seen for the most part as a nuisance. The flow of spiritual intent mixed with the juices of suppressed testosterone stop the business of the day. Shops are closed, shutters are drawn, sewers are blocked, and sales plummet for a full month and a half. Unless one sells nylon orange shorts and T-shirts, the unofficial uniform of the Kanwarias, sales are absent. Crates of 50 rs orange cloth, the color of the fire of renunciation, made in China, have made their deliveries months in advance, to satisfy the needs of the unofficial dress code of the Kanwarias.

This past year saw something else strange: the beautification of the ghats along the pilgrims path. It was too early for this window dressing to be for the Kumbh Mela that was to come later. This was clearly tied to the timing of the Shaivites march. Ghats which had been unfinished, raw, or neglected were remade, with new marble steps that were polished, decorated, and finely done. There were changing rooms, railings, and even small lawn and garden areas. Completion came just in time for the march, and the shiny new ghats were soon covered with sweat, soil, litter and the overflow of the blocked sewers. The exhausted Kanwarias would take rest here, and the street vendors would set up chai stalls, souvenir shops, flower offerings for the Ganga, and the endless bottles of plastic to be filled with Ganga jal (water). The water is carried along the path to the next holy destination (Neelkanth in this case) and offered to the deities. As with any large gathering, the full effect of the remains of human onslaught is not witnessed until after the crowds have left. But, fresh marble cleans easily, and a bit of water and full sweeping bring the new ghats back to a near pristine state. Beloved Gangaji is asked to absorb the deposits of refuse as the sweepers automatically empty the trash into her flow.

It was in one of these new ghats that I noticed an unintended consequence. The roofed changing rooms that provide shade from the sun and shelter from the rains also became a new location for a housing camp for the Babas. Bedrolls and pots and pans deliberately placed quickly claimed ownership of space, and a small group of the homeless now had a very new and very “upscale” community home. With fresh shelter, human companionship and the prospect of food and relationship, along came the dogs. The young ones, who were too weak and unimpressive to join the established packs that surrounded the new ghat, could start their own community of turf, and relationship.

RADHE, RADHE & SHIVANI

A family of orphaned pups claimed a small corner of the streets not to far away. The most beautiful was a delicate little fur ball of golden brown with a black muzzle, called Radha, the beloved of Krishna. Her beauty was such that many of the locals would pick her up by the scruff, take a quick look to determine her gender, and “Nope,” as a girl, she was immediately dropped back down. Still her beauty was such that I thought she would get enough attention and scraps of food to have as good a chance for survival as one can hope for. She had her human admirers, and they named her Radha. Somewhat overlooked due to the beauty of her sister, was Shivani. A lovely orange colored flat coat cross of a small setter, and humble street dog. Add pale, sea green eyes to a docile gentle manner, and one has a dog of sweet sensitivity, with an ethereal detachment. . But only I seemed to catch that; next to Radha’s good looks, Shivani was somewhat neglected by the local vendors. I named her Shivani, hoping that her illustrious name would open the eyes of the regular vendors, to the special beauty that she was, but it didn’t seem to work. Shivani would continually be called, in a somewhat derogatory tone, “that street dog.”

In just a bit if time, Radha was clearly not doing well, physically. As a somewhat reserved dog temperamentally, she wasn’t the type who would fight for her share of the street scraps that were tossed their way, and she did not thrive. One of the chai vendors asked me why she does not eat fast, ” like the others. This was more than reserve, this was a physical condition, and Radha was declining, fast. I ended up taking her in for treatment, and it took some time, but she became well. Circumstances on the street had changed, and putting her back would bring certain peril and neglect that would again endanger her life. Although it was never my intention to “keep” her, I couldn’t put her back to that location. So for now, she stays with me.

ENTER BHAVANI

I felt guilty about leaving Shivani on the ghats on her own, but she managed to find a new friend, and the two girls bonded and became friends. Enter Bhavani. One day, as is often the case, she just showed up, not fully grown, and not a baby pup, she greeted me as if she had known me all her life. I bent down to give her some food, and she jumped in my half-lap, trying to stay in my lap and not slide down. I could not place her, in my mind or my memory, yet she greeted me as though we were long lost friends. Perhaps I helped her when she was a young pup, and did not recognize her now more grown up. They do remember us, even though help may have been only a simple feeding and a kind word in a random, single encounter. Perhaps another foreigner had helped her, and she now associated foreigners with kindness and help. Or it may be a past life recognition, or a connection of vibration, that she recognized more than I did. Anyway, this little beauty was a fine sheltie cross, with physical and behavioral similarities to a dog I had back in my home country. She was a joy to see and visiting her on what became a daily basis was a pleasure. She was not near by to me, geographically, and she and Shivani required a special trip each day in addition to my regular rounds, of animal care, but they were worth it. Their own ghat, right on the Ganges, with a small lawn area and a new group of Babas; it seemed ideal, and for a few weeks it was. I would come early each morning, as it was too hot after 10:00 to do too much walking. The two dogs, and only a few bathers from the nearby ashram, standing ankle deep in the Ganges, offering their morning prayers would greet my eyes each morning. I was thoroughly pleased, and fully expected to see them thrive.

One morning, however, I came to find Bhavani in obvious pain. This is always a scenario one has to be prepared for. These beings live on the streets, “our” streets; man made and man-ruled. Motorbikes regularly cross these crowded narrow streets at a speed that is convenient for the driver, with no regard for the safety or comfort of who else may share the road. Bike and car accidents are common. This was not an obvious bike accident, however. I tried to give her a simple physical exam as gently as I could, and it soon was obvious it was her back, or spine that was not right. There’s no proper medical facility here for animals. Period. No x-rays, no labs, no hospitals. The Dr. came, prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, the typical injection of B vitamins, and said let’s see.

A small crowd usually gathers when something out of the ordinary occurs, and a dog exam on the street fits that rule. Two young men who knew me by sight, and run a juice stall nearby, immediately offered their explanation … With their fists clenched one atop the other, and swinging their arms up and down, they repeated the word “stick; stick.” I looked at them questioningly, not really wanting to hear the rest, but they nodded their heads, “stick, stickman” and pointed to an unofficial, self-appointed security guard of the ashram. He simply stared, non-pulsed, and walked away. Yes, he had a stick. If someone does not like the presence of a dog, cow, or mule in their vicinity, the “stick” across the back is often the remedy to make their part of the street free from the unwelcome, hapless intruder. Bhavani was tiny, a slim little girl who felt light as a feather when she leapt into your lap. The pain of he stick across such a slender form had to bring shock, and terrible pain.

Confronting this man would have been inappropriate in this situation, and to help the dog, I had to make as little of a scene as possible. My first priority was to see if she could be healed. I would come daily, administer her medication, offer food, and hope a miracle would help her. Walking was difficult for her, and I would carry her from one location to another, in and out of the sun, on and off the grassy areas, and she gently accepted my help. This went on for days, with no signs of improvement. Still she ate, was kept in as minimal pain as possible, and I would continue this for as long as necessary.

Some days later, I saw another one of the “regulars,” a few ghats over, stumbling, back arched, legs splayed, and falling over. It was the same sight I had seen with Bhavani. My breath stopped as my stomach twisted; another one. I heard again from the locals that a man with a “stick”, “stick” had struck again. Then I was told there were others. This dog was very well known to me, and had been named Scruffy. Another scrawny pup I had thought would never make it, but with deworming and good food grew into a lovely and lively dog of the ghats. But now Scruffy’s time had come short. In a few days he was no longer to be seen. I said a prayer, and hoped that his life of pain was now finished.

Bhavani, which means Illuminating, imagining, creator, went on as the same. But she seemed to find a way to accept her physical condition, at least making herself accustomed to it in the way that it no longer predominates ones consciousness with the question of “why” … but accepts, and adjusts. So now when I came, she would eat well, give a bit of a stretch when she finished, and enjoy a light belly rub. And she started to put on a bit of weight, which was good, and she was happy to see me.

I was always as discreet as I could be in my actions with her, but of course, a foreigner on Holy Ground, tending to a dog, is a sight that is noticed. Then it came, the morning of the eruption; “You come here every morning and make a mess!” greeted me as I sat down to feed Bhavani. [No mess was ever made or left]

“You are not wanted here; this is an ashram!”

The words went on and on, in a tone of anger and a color of rage. I quietly replied, “I don’t make a mess” and moved Bhavani up the stairs on to the grassy lawn.

Then I was really in for it. Obviously spurred on by the first Mataji, a second woman starts screaming at me at the top of her lungs, and she is shaking her fist, and her stick at me. Now a crowd had formed, and I am asked to explain myself by a more sober resident of the ashram. He quietly tells me I am doing good, continue, but for now better to move on. Obviously, I move on, after having placed Bhavani in a grassy area, not right on the Ganges. Shaken, I sit to rest not too far away, but well out of sight. I wait a few minutes, and “know” I must go back. The sight is what I had been unconsciously prepared for. Bhavani is dead. She is laying only a few steps from where I had placed her, her body completely stretched out as if she had tried to run. No one from the earlier crowd is to be seen. The area is deserted, eerily quiet, with only her little body on the grass, her life force gone, and no sign of the crowd that had formed there only a few minutes earlier.

I had to turn my shock and grief into something that would turn this around. What could I do that could in any way bring relevance and peace to these kinds of situations? I searched for stories about India’s most holy saints and their views and treatment of the so-called “lesser beings”.

The most beautiful I found was the following; There are many versions of this to be found, but this is a paraphrasing of the first version I found, and the most beautiful.

There is a highly revered saint in India called Shirdi Sai Baba. He lived in the body from a date unknown, to October 15 1918. His Hindus followers call him a Hindu, and there are Muslim followers who also call him a saint. His image is seen throughout India, always with his white beard, headscarf, beatific smile, and left hand up in blessing to those who catch his gaze.

In his ashram, during lunch, a devotee sat down for her lunch in the dining hall. Food was served, and as she was about to eat, a starving, mangy dog walked through the door, and without hesitation she shared her food with him. Sated, he left, and she was about to start her meal again, when a pig wandered in, also looking for food. Again, without hesitation, she shared her lunch with him, and satisfied, he wandered out.

Later that day, in satsang, Shirdi Sai Baba called her by name. …

Thank you for the lovely meal. I am so full. Startled, she looked around, confused. She explained, I have not fed you, I have no means to feed you, I come to the ashram for what I can be given here, myself.

He questioned her:

Did you not feed that hungry dog today? Did you not feed that hungry pig?

Why yes, she replied.

When you fed them, you fed Me. The dog to which you gave the bread, is one with me. So also are other creatures; I am roaming in their forms. So abandon the sense of distinction and duality, and serve the One, as you did today.

I am present in all creation.

This had enormous resonance for me. This is my understanding of worship, and honoring the creations and the creatures in all of their manifested forms of the One. In serving, and giving, and offering what we have to those in need, in offering our heart; we are serving the One, in the best way we know how.

I found many beautiful stories of actions of kindness and care by India’s saints towards our fellow beings, and this is the one that gave me the most comfort. I had the story printed in Hindi and in English, and a few days after beautiful Bhavani’s death, it was distributed amongst the ghats, at the location of her death.

I always ask for a sign when one of my fellow beings that has been in my life has passed on. I usually get one, and it’s very clear. In the stunning circumstances of Bhavani’s death, I had forgotten to ask. I ask it now:

Bhavani, my God, are you all right?

Show me a sign.