backpack. Some pointed and grabbed at their friends to mutter something inaudible, yet clearly directed at me, this strange figure in their land. One man called out, “Namaste Baba,
attiti deva bhava.” While I could sense the good intention in the cry and saw his wave and smile, at this point I knew only that the first part was a greeting of respect. It was much later that I was to discover the meaning of attiti deva bhava. I waved back, shouted, “Namaste”,
in return, shouldered my unwieldy backpack, gripped my walking staff, glanced at the temple and silently asked the Hindu god of the temple to take good care of me, and then began walking. It was hot, noisy, dusty, and
uncomfortable. Garishly decorated trucks, three-wheel cabs, cars, bullock drays piled high with grass or sugar cane, myriads of small motorbikes, and thousands upon thousands of people walking all added to the billowing cloud that lifted from the road and clogged mouth, nose, eyes, ears, and lungs. A thick layer of a foul mix of cow and bullock poo, dirt, and diesel exhaust fumes blanketed everything, including me. Men tramped amidst this in grubby
dungarees, labouring at one thing or another. Women dressed in brightly coloured saris stared at me in wonder until the moment I looked their way, when they immediately averted their eyes, muttered, shrugged amongst themselves, and continued on their way, heads piled with cloth, food, grass, or sticks of wood. After around two hours of steady
walking and coughing at the dust, I began to relax into the steady motion of walking that I had known in Australia, New Zealand, and Fiji. Almost as soon as this change occurred in me, Indian men began to engage with me, calling out in greeting. Motorcycle riders waved while pillion passengers twisted and gawked as they disappeared into the dusty distance. Inwardly (and perhaps outwardly) I smiled and instantly one motorcycle rider stopped and began to speak to me with that magical sing-song English that is particular to Indians. He asked me what I was doing, called me Baba, smiled a lot, listened carefully to my explanation that I walked for balance, peace, and freedom then said to me, “you must be coming with me to my brother-in-law’s shop in front of the hospital. You will be very welcome.” I had to take the time to explain
that I was dedicated to walking rather than clambering on his motorbike, but promised that I would walk the half hour or so and stop by when I noticed the front gate of the hospital.
When I arrived I could have been royalty – between young university students touching my feet and declaring my yogihood and blessing me with Baba and Attiti Deva Bhava and my new friend insisting that I shake hands with all his friends and his shop-owning brother-in- law. The delay in getting there had meant I had been promoted as a white Aussie sadhu or ‘wandering holy man’ and was an instant local hero. This was a long way from threat, risk, danger, and theft. My Indian pilgrimage had truly begun. It is impossible to portray exactly
what India is like in a short article. If you can picture these things, perhaps it will help: smiling, white-toothed, dark- skinned children playing beside the road in exposed sewage drains; a farming family cooking me a late dinner from scratch, sharing their sleeping space and mosquito net simply because I had no other roof, the man of the house taking me proudly on a tour of every temple in the local region; beggar children laughing and cajoling for a few rupees in reward; dead bodies burning on massive piles of wood beside India’s holiest of rivers in Kashi, the holy city of Shiva; holy men and sadhus blessing me with dots of red and yellow ochre on my forehead; bells tolling in Hindu temples competing with Muslim prayers echoing through thousand year old streets; dirt, dust, and smoke so thick that the sun is never more than an eerie orange ball in a brown-stained sky; people, people, and
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