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.