And The Heart Is Mine. Petrus Faller
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not even through ceaseless meditation. I wept incessantly. My companion was slowly becoming uneasy, in spite of all his years of meditation practice, as my grief would not end. Just as before, when I was overeating and throwing up, I was now addicted to endless meditation in order to somehow master my existence, in order not to have to feel this basic knowledge of death. Other people could anaesthetize this unconscious notion with career, money, women, men, by having retirement insurance and fire insurance, and other kind of insurances. I didn’t have to have these illusions.
I had never referred to the Eastern spiritual paths as such, because I never knew exactly what spirituality is or what a path is, and because I had never cared to think about these things, but obviously they also had no real solution at hand. Some dissatisfaction and unrest, some pleading prayers, and an endless battle always remained. Why should I still stay here?
The following day we spontaneously terminated our meditation retreat. I had already decided to return to Germany as fast as possible. Halfway back to civilization we again stopped at the bank of a river, which flowed into the Narmada River somewhere down the mountain in the valley. This was our last day in the mountains. We would have to go through enormous effort to reach this magical secluded spot, radiating fairytale-like beauty and stillness, once again. The river was still very narrow at this spot, high up in the mountains, and we had to circumvent big boulders eroded to roundness. The water flowed in absolute silence and serenity through the jungle. The night descended. The full moon slowly rose up in the sky, reflected in the water. Bit by bit the reflection of the moon approached the shore where I was sitting. My body was totally exhausted from the exertion of the hike. Upon arrival I had just let myself fall onto the rock and lay motionless for a long time. I was finished.
Now I was sitting next to the fire, my companion had already gone to sleep. The moon was shining huge and bright and seemed to express more truth then my entire ruminating. My whole dilemma had revealed itself again just a few hours earlier when we visited a place that didn’t seem of this world. It was alongside a lake, which lay in front of a huge cliff wall. Below the cliff there was an old village of the Gond-Baba, who had built their houses right in front of the Stone Age caves. Right at the waterline there was a huge fire. Dusk was falling, and the people gathered around the fire. We were climbing down into the ravine along a narrow path hewn into the cliff where Shiva had visibly manifested himself in the rock. Yogis and ascetics were sitting in the cliff niches on narrow projections. Laughing, they called out words to us, made jokes and gave us incense, ash and Prasad. The path took us deeper into the canyon. At the end of our path a space opened up, completely adorned with flowers, incense and candles. In front of Shiva and Parvati were standing, united in a dance, shrouded in the deep blue atmosphere of a natural cave. Everything seemed to be alive and vibrating. I sat down in the midst of the evident devotion and reverence of this place and the dance of consciousness and energy.
How did consciousness and energy fit together? How could I embrace this world and be happy at the same time? Why were there always two? How could one ever accept the death of the beloved?
I received no answer despite this incredible fullness and the breath-taking otherworldly atmosphere. In my opinion the ancient peoples of this earth had also not found any useful solutions.
The slowly gliding river in front of me didn’t seem to move. I again looked at the full round disc of the moon reflected in the water at my feet and simultaneously at the sky. Who was reflecting whom?
I didn’t want to be an ascetic, hostile to the body. I didn’t want to have to chasten myself, just to find the truth, only to somehow be able to endure all of this. The lunar disc came closer and closer and seemed to laugh as the water rippled in waves on the shore. Fucking questions! I smiled back at the moon and lay down to sleep, totally exhausted.
The next morning we packed our few belongings together for the last time. I forgot and left my little bells, which I had always worn on my feet in the jungle because of the snakes, between the rocks. A very peculiar man had invited us to a breakfast. He lived near the river, and I was very much looking forward to it. Already from a distance we could see him in front of his house. He had his feet up, was sitting on his veranda dressed in a military combat uniform and greeted us politely. My meditation companion had told me earlier that we were about to meet a tantric guru, and supposedly he was able to perform all kinds of supernatural things in the river. This man was also looking after the people in the village, he found work for them, and was making sure that the village was kept clean and that the kids went to school. Just now there was a group of villagers gathered around the television set watching an Indian soap of the Mahabharata(9). While he was having a conversation with us, ever smiling, and repeatedly encouraging us to eat, he chanted mantras incessantly between the words: ‘Ram, Ram, Ram, Sita-Ram’. The entire time he was rocking back and forth on his chair and he told us that during the war with Pakistan he had to kill a lot of people. This was the most ‘unholy of appearances’ that I had ever encountered in India, and for some reason it felt good to me. I felt his bright love, his respect and his truthful interest and compassion as I had never previously felt with any other human being. His eyes were glowing like headlights. While he laughed about our meditation practice, he simultaneously praised it, and as we were leaving he gave us the advice to find a guru if we wanted to avoid spending many more lifetimes in meditation. We also laughed and left the place highly delighted.
We took the next bus down to Bhopal. There we went our separate ways. My meditation friend went to Orissa on the Indian East Coast, and I was never to see him again. I took the train to Delhi in order to fly back to Germany with the next possible airplane. Three days later I landed in Frankfurt airport. It was spring, 1988, and I was twenty-three years old.
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