Babadham Prison Blues

Three weeks ago I set forth from Bodhgaya, following my Spirit's call to engage in the Hindu Pilgrimage called Babadham. I left Bodhgaya dressed in orange, the color of Shiva, and carried only a small handbag will a sheet of plastic to sleep on, a couple of cloths, a small journal, flashlight, some incense and matches. I went barefoot, according to the rules of Babadham. I felt a bit naked, yet free with so little. I felt nervous, excited, and hopeful.

Some friends in Sikkim had told me of Babadham and invited me to join them a week earlier. I hoped to find them. The few days before, I spent buying my orange clothes and gaining some insight from locals about what to expect.

I took a train from Gaya to Sultanganj. I nervously entered the station 10 minutes late, fearful I had missed my train. Luckily it was late... unfortunately, four hours late! I waited nervously on the platform. Relatively few locals speak English in Bihar. I hoped I was on the right platform. I was soon motioned to sit down with a group of orange clad pilgrims... guys in their 20s from Gaya. One of them gruffly accosted me about my piercings and hair style... "why?" I didn't feel comfortable, and was waiting for a chance to escape, when another guy in the group sat down and had a more gentle demeanor. He asked the usual: where are you from? your name? ... and also about my journey to Babadham. I felt more comfortable and kind of decided that these guys were probably ok, just not very polished. It can be hard to tell across cultures sometimes.

Finally the train came, and I lost my accomplices in the boarding process. I wasn't sure if I was on the right car, but the other passengers said to sit down anyway. No one ever checked the ticket, and the car was packed, over packed for the number of seats. A middle aged teacher who knew some English talked a little with me and introduced me to a train engineer who was on his way home to Sultanganj. It was comforting to know he would make sure I got off at the correct stop.

It was a long grueling train ride... only five hours... but I was anxious to get to Sultanganj and find my friends from Gangtok. Instead of arriving at 5:20pm, the train arrived at 9:30pm... well after dark. Sultanganj was alive and busy with activity in it's narrow streets. The train engineer pointed me to a dharamsala (rest house)... which I decided I would check out after I walked around town and looked for my friends.

I was the only white man. I felt very vulnerable. I managed to walk up and down the main street with little harrassment. I couldn't find my friends. Then I ran into the nice pilgrim from Gaya, who said they had looked for me on the train. I walked through town with him. This time I was getting alot of harrassment. Shopkeepers grabbing my arm to get me in their shops. We stopped for tea, and I was surrounded by 20 curious onlookers. The police came and beat them away with switches. I went with my friend to the train platform where his friends were camped out. They planned to start their pilgrimage in a few hours (like 2am), but advised me not to. My friend motioned me away and before I knew it introduced me to the police. He had decided that it was not safe for me and asked them to watch me. It was both comforting and a bit aggravating. I was soon put into a guest house that would cost 300rs... a big chunk of my budget for the journey. I thought the manager quoted me 150 rs for a meal... but luckily it was 15 rs. Unluckily, the rice was not cooked fully. A man who seemed big in town had led me from the police to this guest house. It was about 1 am when I went to my dingy room. The town clammored away outside, bustling with incoming pilgrims. I managed to sleep a few hours and awoke early and was ready to search for my friends. I went downstairs to find that I was locked in... the big sliding steel door (like a garage door) locked down. I was frustrated. It was daylight. I wanted my freedom. I returned upstairs and stared out the balcony, hoping to glimpse my friends from Gangtok. No luck. Eventually, the hotel opened up. I went out, looking for my friends, with no success.

I bought my kanwar (a stick you put across the shoulder and suspend bottles of holy Gange water from). The "mayor" had told me he could get me one for I think 900 rs.... I got mine for 60rs. It was wrapped in brightly colored foil paper, like wrapping paper, adorned with tinsil, and plastic tridents and incense holders. I declined offers from salesboys roaming the streets wiht bells, whistles, and plastic flowers to accessorize the kanwar.

I found a place to eat. They had no menu, but said rice and vegetables were 25 rs. Then they brought me vegetables and chapati's and sweets. When I went to pay, they said it was 60rs. Damn cheaters! I didn't like this town. I went back to my room, showered, and prepared to leave. I went to find my crystal pendulum that I had had for 9 years, and discovered it had fallen out from my wallet. I had hoped to use it to divine where and how to find my friends. I lay on the bed and cried for 10 minutes. I wanted my friends. I knew I would be ok and meet people and everything would be fine. But I had intended this to be an easy and fun experience with my friends from Sikkim. I had my fears as well. The manager came to see me, and filled my water bottle. I wondered if he had heard me crying.

I walked out into the unknown, knowing I had to move. My friends likely arrived yesterday as well, and there was nothing to do but hope I would see them on the way. I had surmised the general direction of the Ganges... they holy river where to fill my water bottles. I walked through the town, hoping to see my friends. I followed pilgrims whose bottles were empty... figuring that would lead me the right way.

I got to the river and a Hindu Priest latched onto me. I tried to ignore him. To my good fortune, a young pilgrim from Uttar Pradesch came along and said "Come with me!" His English and energy were good, so I tagged along. He took me with his group of six friends into the river, where we met a priest sitting on a wooden platform. Like a greenhorn, I started to fill my water bottles. Then I was told I had to bathe in the river first. I looked forlorn. The water was filthy. I was wearing my money belt and neck wallet. My valuables were in plastic, but I still wondered if they would take submersion. And I also wanted to make sure I bathed the "proper" way for this Hindu ritual. My friends pushed me onwards, and I went over a few feet and submerged myself quickly. I prayed the germs away, and hoped I didn't get any water in my mouth. Apparently that was good enough. I went back to the platform where we gathered around the priest. I had to dump my water out... since I was not "clean" when I filled my bottles before. And I refilled them, in my now "clean" state.

The priest gave us rice and flowers to hold and we repeated after him the names of Hindu gods and some invocations I couldn't understand. We put some rice and flowers in our Gange water. My friend saw my drinking water bottle and said I had to dump it out and replace it with Ganges water for drinking! I was flabbergasted at the thought of drinking this dirty river water. He was insistent. So I finally dumped my bottle (500ml). I nervously asked him if I needed to do the same with my 2 liter bottle, and luckily he said no. Then there were words between the guys and the priest and finally the guys said I had to say what I wanted to donate to the priest. They said it could be any amount of money. I had been warned in Bodhgaya that it should only cost 10-20rs. The amount of 31 rs came to my head. And that is what I gave. We then paraded around the priest shouting "Bal Bam", and took off with our blessed water. The idea is to carry it barefoot to the holy temples and pour the water on the Lingams in the temples.

As we left, my friend said they were not happy with the priest and his work. It turns out he had wanted to charge me 5000rs! Sometimes I wonder why anyone thinks India is spiritual at all! I told my friend I thought that we were blessed anyway regardless of the Priest. I find it a bit discpicable when any religion puts a middle man between the individual and God... especially when the middle man makes power and profit from it.

It turns out my new friends planned to make the 105 km pilgrimage in 3 days. I later learned that this is the most usual itinerary for Indians of the plains. Sikkimese and Nepali's usually plan 6 days. My friends from Gangtok had said they would take 8 or 9 days. The longer time suited me. I figure I would just go a few kilometers the first day and gradually toughen my feet.

As we trod along the streets, my feet felt the heat of the late morning sun. It was scorching. Probably around 90 deg F. My friends told me to walk in the dirt along the side of the pavement wherever possible. We made our way through town at a pace that was a bit fast for me, but I was enjoying my escorts. I figured I would part with them after a few km.

After and hour or a bit more, we finally stopped for some food. Rice and vegetables and dahl. Not the best. But cheap. I was ready for the break. I have suburban white boy feet. Most of my barefoot experience is walking across the carpeted bedroom to the shower. Maybe a few yards on a well groomed lawn. Some painful excursions into a lake or river to swim. I put my feet up. We rested a bit after the meal. Then had a pee break. Then we had to "bathe"... because of the holy water we were carrying, we had to be clean whenever we picked it up. So after eating or smoking, it was requisite to wash the hands, and any kind of toilet activity meant washing the whole body.

Now this is India, so "washing the whole body" meant pouring water over the head, with a bit of pretend scrubbing, aiming some water at the private parts, and especially washing the feet. This was done fully clothed, either with a bucket, or in many places open showers were set up.

My friends and I continued on the road again. Their pace was fast. I was struggling a bit to keep up. I figured I would stop soon. Suddenly, one of them realized they had forgotten their bag at their hotel. This was a dilemma because on the pilgrimage, one was never supposed to go backwards with their water. They stopped to discuss it. After a few minutes, I said I would start walking and they would catch up with me and my slower pace.

I trudged along, enjoying the road. Out of town, now, I enjoyed the surrounding landscape of rice paddies and farm fields. The land was flat. Some coconut groves were scattered here and there. I came upon a police post, and tried to ask if they had seen any Sikkimese pilgrims. They didn't understand. I decided to wait for my new friends for translation. I waited and waited. Finally, a pilgrim came along who spoke English. He tried to ask the police. They weren't helpful. Then he said if I came with him, he would make an announcement at a rest house. He and another middle aged man from West Bengal were travelling with a group of 80 people. We waited out a monsoon downpour in a thatched tea stall that threatened to blow away. I continued on with them, struggling to keep up. My feet were failing.

I was so desperate to find my friends from Sikkim, that I struggled beyond my capacity in hopes that the promised announcment would help me find my friends. Here I made a critical mistake. This group of 80 was on the 3 day plan... so that meant 40 km the first day. I kept up until their lunch spot. They had a bus and a group of cooks who made a lunch camp. I met a sadhu from Varanasi who was in their group, as well as others. They fed me. Then encouraged me to nap with them in their camp. I met the group leader and he invited me to join their group. My feet were already spoiled, but I decided to join them. This decision cost me alot.

After resting through the heat of the day, we embarked again on our walk. The group leader was a character. Probably 50 years old, with a big belly, he like to dance. We would stop for tea every hour or two. He would dance like a belly dancer. He was the center of the show. Some of the othe men would join him. If it were in the US, I would think they were gay. But this is India, and the men are different.

By now my feet were blistered. I complained. The leader said, I needed more "Bol Bum"... the chant of the pilgrim... the prayer to Shiva. As the pilgrims walk, they chant this, often as a call between the leader and the rest of the group. It is a mantra, a prayer. Often you can tell someone is in pain, and they are using the chant to keep themselves going. Then the leader rubbed some balm... like Tiger Balm... a heating balm on my feet. I wasn't sure that that was the best thing for blisters... like they need more heat!

We moved on like this into the evening. I struggled and struggled, often falling behind. The young Sadhu would sometimes wait for me. Several times I almost gave up on keeping up with them. At one point I was about to give up, barely hobbling along, when a middle aged woman pilgrim came along side me and looked into my eyes. "Bol Bum" she said. "Bol Bum", I replied. "Bol-a Bum" she said. "Bol-a Bum", I replied. She chanted in a sweet melody, and I continued to answer. The chant lifted me up and carried me along. This is some of the great magic of Babadham... the comraderie... the sharing of the group. The acknowledgement of the hardship and the prayer for each other to carry on... "you can do it", "i am here with you brother/sister", "god, shiva, is here with you"... Bol Bum!!!

This woman lifted me up so, and helped me transcend my pained feet so much, that I nearly passed right by my sadhu friends at one of the tea stalls where they were resting!

One of the W.Bengal group, a very dark skinned middle aged man, who spoke little English, and was very even in temperment... became my "partner". He held my hand helping me limp to a tea stand when we stopped. He watched out for me. I followed him and his bright yellow "Hawian style" shirt in the dark. Finally we got to their evening camp. I plopped down on the ground in exhaustion. A drank a liter of more of water as it was offered glass by glass. Soon dinner was served. About 30 people sat on the tarp, eating rice and vegetables and dahl. Then they got up and the next group was served.

My next term of imprisonment began.

A man who spoke a bit of English took me under his wing. He took me to a foot doctor where my feet were swabbed in iodine and bandaged. That helped a lot. But it felt futile walking around the dirt and sometimes mud. I just wanted to lay down. But there was entertainment!

The group of 80 had their own band and several singers. The music was powered by a generator, and played at full blast. So here in the middle of the countryside, after an exhausting day of walking, was a loud petrol generator droning away to power amplifiers, speakers, and bright lights. A woman sang. The Indian aestetic for music must be different than in the US. Here the quality of the singer is not apparently important, and at this and other camps I often heard the least melodic, most out of tune, "singing" I have ever heard in my life... and played and amplified a full volume!!! The woman singer sounded to me as if she had swallowed a cat and a blackboard and the cat was sliding down the blackboard with it's nails. I tried my best to smile in spite of the grating affect it had on me, and in spite of my exhaustion and pained feet. A man sang as well. He was much better suited to my taste. The same songs were sung over and over... hymns to Shiva... I would hear them repeatedly on the pilgrimage trail.

Sitting there exhausted, praying that it would be bedtime soon, I heard the singer say, "And now, Mr. USA, won't you please share a dance with us!" I grimaced. I surmised that I was the only one from the USA here. I had to get up to dance.

Dancing is taken seriously here in India. All the men know the moves of the latest Bollywood dancers. It is choreographed. It is not the hippie styple free form disco that I am used to in the USA. I often feel embarrassed by my dancing here... in the states, I usually feel good... but here I feel like an amateur. I summoned my energy and got up and did my best. I was on spotlight. George Bush's special ambassador from America. I did my best moves... well the best I could muster in a state of exhaustion and aching feet. I was flabberghasted that they would ask someone who they knew was having severe foot pain to dance. But what could I do?

I did my best to enjoy my moment of fame as Mr. USA!

I was told I would get to sleep on the stage. Instead I was placed on a wooden platform by the road. Everyone was either sleeping on these wooden platforms or on tarps on the ground. I felt vulnerable. Supposedly there were thieves about. I was told to use my hand bag as my pillow. Not that it mattered much, as there was nothing valuable in the bag. But the lights were on all night. And I was surrounded by my 80 new friends on the other sides. It was my first night of what I would learn were typical sleeping conditions.

Camp started to awake at 4am... I think some didn't really sleep... I got up at 5 am when the leader came around banging a stick on everyone's platform. The idea is that everyone gets up at 4am, has their bowel movement, takes their holy bath, and starts walking. Not being known for my regularity, this program had me nervous. Someone got me a neem stick to brush my teeth with... this is one of the ways of the pilgrim.

Pilgrims are to be celibate, not eat onions or garlic, not eat meat or eggs, etc for the month. Apparently there is something about a toothbrush or toothpaste as well. So twigs from the neem tree are sold. You chew on the end until the fibers expand, and then use like a brush.

I had seen someone with a necklace that looked like a pendulum yesterday. I was debating staying here to look for my Sikkim friends. I was pretty sure I was ahead of them. I tried to ask for a pendulum. This was a futile enquiry that dragged in everyone who thought they understood English, and a circle of 10-15 others as well. I tried to draw a picture. I tried to borrow the Sadhu's necklace. All to no avail. It can be so frustrating when language is a barrier. I didn't know whether to stay or go. I mainly wanted my friends from Sikkim. This group of 80 was attached to having me with them. They wanted to "protect" me. They wanted to be my friends. They said, "we are your friends". It was true, and yet it was not the same. My friends from Sikkim knew I was gay and were sophisticated about it. They treated me more as a peer. Here I was more put on both a pedestal, and a prisoner.

I ended up staying with the group of 80, attached to having something "known". They also had a bus and with the condition of my feet, I was allowed to ride the bus. We road through the countryside to the place where our lunch camp would be. The route of the pilgrimage is more or less lined with tea stalls, paying resthouses, and free dharamsala's either run by the government or by private donations. Much of the businesses were temporary, constructed of bamboo and thatch and plastic. Occasionally the route passed through a village. I scanned the roads for my friends from Sikkim. Along the route was a steady stream of orange clad pilgrims and their chants of Bol Bum.

The pilgrims' slang for each other is Bum. "Hey Bum!" was the way to get someone's attention. There were various adjectives as well: slow, fast, Sikkim, etc. "Dak Bums" were pilgrims that completed the 105 km route in 24 hours or less. Then often wore white, and raced through the crowds shouting "Bol Bum, Side Bum!" asking others to step aside.