Oh Calcutta I - November 1985

Auto Rickshaws -Calcutta

Tiljala Street Scene

“The older I get, the more I remember things that never actually happened.” – Mark Twain.

(This is the first of a multipart series on my spiritual journey to India in November 1985)-Daktari!

As our pilot, Nigel, dangles the Dunlops, we commence our descent into Calcutta’s Dum Dum Airport (a.k.a. Chandra Bose International). “Just call me Dum-Dum,” works for me.

It’s my first and only trip to India. I pick Calcutta (a.k.a. Kolkata) not because it was the jewel of the British East India Company, nor because it is the home of Mother Theresa, but because my Guru – Prabhat Ranjan Sarkar a.ka. Shri Shri Anandamurti - has his ashram there. (His devotees refer to him as 'Baba' or father, for short.) I was initiated into the Ananda Marga cult in 1970. After 15 years of Tantra yoga, meditation and exercise, it’s time to meet the Man. How exciting!

My spouse, Rena, is not so thrilled. It is the first time I have traveled away from home by myself. I’m away for just one week plus travel time. She stays at home with Ali, age 8, and Dan, just turned six.

As the tyres touch the tarmac, I think to myself, “India at last- the Raj, land of Kipling and Tagore. Rikki-tikki-Tavi. Mongeese versus cobras.” Actually the first conflict is not mongoose vs. cobra but me versus the customs agents. The bounders are trying to confiscate my Swiss army knife! I explain to the mufti clad minion of the Indian Security Forces that when I was a boy, my Dad, a colonel in the Swiss army, passed away from cancer. At the funeral my Mom gave me Dad’s knife and it is my most precious possession. All lies of course, but the Gurkha is a sucker for regimental sentimentalism and I get to keep the knife.

Is it Satyagraha – truthfulness? The answer is no. With the first steps on my spiritual journey, I’m already telling lies! But at least I won’t be defenceless in case one of Calcutta’s naga cobras does attack.

I am quite defenseless, however, against the attack of three local baggage wallahs who confiscate my luggage outside the terminal and escort me to their auto-rickshaw, a three-wheeled motor vehicle without doors or seatbelts. I shower the baggage wallahs with rupees as the auto-rickshaw chugs forward, farting small cloudlets of black smoke. We’re off to Kolkata!

“Where to sahib?” inquires my Bengali rickshaw wallah.
“Tiljala,” I assert firmly.
Tiljala is a suburb of Kolkata, mostly poor and working class. This is not where Baba's Ashram is located. The visitors dorm and Ananda Marga operational headquarters is in Tiljala. The driver is dubious dropping me off but responds to more rupees. I enter the compound and dump my backpack in the mens’ dorm.

In the neighborhood, cows and children roam freely amid open sewers, burning garbage and shacks made of flattened food tins. The monsoon has ended leaving gazillions of puddles and their attendant hordes of marauding mosquitos. Nobody promised that achieving personal contact with one’s guru would not involve suffering.

I spend one mosquito-filled night at A.M. Central. The whine of the mosquitos and the swats of other disciples are interupted at about 1 AM by a blood-curdling scream. A European devotee attempts to enlighten his surroundings by reaching for what he thinks is a light cord. Unfortunately, Ananda Marga H.Q. is a work in progress, and the light has yet to be installed. He grabs a live wire at 220 volts. Talk about a spiritual jolt! I dress the burned fingers with some salve from my emergency kit.

The next day I pack up my things after morning meditation and move my mosquito swollen corporeal self to the Hotel Bliss.

Daktari.