My Boat Is Called Surrender

Sharma and I continued to meet for our early morning trips to the Sangam. He started to treat me with a newfound respect. No longer would he try to enlighten me with his stories. Now, he would ask me questions on various subjects. On many such trips, local Trees for Life volunteers would go along, and Sharma would tell them about me with great affection.

One morning on the boat, an elderly friend confessed that even though he had lived all his life in Allahabad, he had never had the courage to take a dip in the Ganges or take a boat ride. He was deathly afraid of water. He had come this time, he said, because he knew nothing would happen to him since Mr. Mathur was with him. 

Sharma started to laugh out loud. “How mistaken you are, Sir, about these people of God,” he said. “Once, a holy man was traveling on a boat when a storm came up. The boat filled with water and was in danger of capsizing. Everyone rushed to empty the boat of water, except for this holy man, who started to put water back in the boat with his bare hands. When the storm finally subsided and the drenched and exhausted people sat down, this man started to take the remaining water out of the boat with his hands. One person quizzed him about his strange actions. The saint replied, “During the storm, God wanted the water in the boat, so I was fulfilling his wish. Now he does not want any water in the boat, so I am taking it out.”

Sharma could not stop laughing as he said, “Shrimanji (honored Sir), if you were drowning, everyone would try to help you, except Mr. Mathur, who would be trying to put you under!”

*****

Some years later, on another boat ride down the Yamuna River, Sharma announced, “Time for you to be initiated.” The statement came out of the blue, without any preparation or background. He was looking straight at me. 

“The message has arrived several times, and that is why I am approaching you. I have also talked with others, and they agree.”

I had a vague idea of what he was talking about, as well as the message and people. But I did not say anything. I just smiled. The matter was dropped. 

The smile on my face was forced, and for me that was a sign of how far I had come. Ordinarily, I would have aggressively debated the need for any initiation—of all things, not religion, and especially not the one into which I was born. That was taken for granted; my birthright. I was proud that I was able to keep that hostility in check.

But there was also an air of smugness in my smile.

I was remembering two past initiations. One, when I was four years old and was initiated on the banks of a sacred lake in Kashmir. I have few memories of that ritual, only that my head was shaved clean and my hair immersed in the waters as a thanksgiving by my parents. It was a pleasant experience.

The other memory was of an initiation during my two years of sickness in the early 1980s. It was as if that initiation took place in a dream, or rather, a trance-like state. I was at some distant place. It was dark and I could not see. But because of muted sounds and vague outlines that merged in darkness, I could tell that there were other people present. I was aware that even though I could not see others, they could see me. 

Someone was instructing me, but it was in a foreign language, and I could not comprehend anything. I felt no need to understand. The sounds were melodious, chant-like, soothing. A sense of assurance and safety permeated the air. I was handed something, which seemed like a scroll. I felt these people were postmen, and I was being initiated as a postman.

I was led to a body of water. I was on the shore of a small river. Soon we came to a small boat. Without hesitation, I stepped on board. I felt as if I had been on it before. I was ready, even though I did not know for what.

I heard a stern voice telling me the boat was called “Surrender.” This sound was sharp and piercing. Someone handed me two oars. Confidently, I put those oars in iron rings on the sides of the boat. It was a familiar act. I was an oarsman. The same stern voice told me that the oars were “Thankfulness” and “Forgiveness.” 

I looked up to where the sound was coming from. There was nothing—no people, no sounds and no shore. Gentle light seemed to be intermingling with the darkness. It was a beautiful sight. The boat was now floating, bobbing up and down on waves. It seemed like a large body of water with no end in sight. I knew my task was to cross this vast sea of water without knowing where I was going.

I have no idea when or where this initiation took place, or if it was a figment of my imagination, yet I have strong memories of that event. People have appeared in my dreams who I believe were part of the group. Others I have met in flesh and blood who I feel were part of the gathering that day, even though I could not see them. I am sure the initiation took place in some part of my vast, unfathomable reality.

*****

Later that week, after recalling these memories, I went to see my friend, Dr. Sinha. He started to tell me stories of how he had been initiated in various traditions and how he had gained from each and every one.

I had not brought up the subject, but was not surprised that he did. Sinha had the knack for knowing what was on my mind, and he would start answering a question without it being asked. In his stories, he covered the point that everyone holds a different piece of the puzzle. 

“We need to be open to all traditions,” I remarked at one point. 

“One needs to experience,” Sinha stressed. “You cannot just experience it from the outside. You have to enter into the house. That takes self-assurance and confidence.”

I spent the entire evening with Sinha, without ever mentioning Sharma’s invitation for initiation.

The next morning when I saw Sharma, I told him that I was ready for the initiation. A pronounced smile instantly lit his face, and he promised to organize it on the forthcoming Monday morning—an auspicious day.

The feeling that I had already been initiated was the reason for my smugness when we journeyed down the Yamuna River that beautiful morning. It was also something I did not believe I had the permission to tell anyone, including Sharma.

*****

On Sunday I fasted, and early Monday morning I reached Mankameshwar Temple an hour or so before the appointed time. Sharma reached there at the appointed time, and we both waited for priests whom he had especially retained to come and perform the initiation service.

The four priests showed up in their formal ceremonial clothes. The priests represented the four directions—north, south, east and west—and they took their respective seats, sitting cross-legged around the Shivalingam statue. It took the priests a few short moments to set up all the formal arrangements, including incense and a fire near the center. Then, without any notice, they broke out in chanting as they performed the rituals of a Havan (fire purification ritual). 

As the person to be initiated, I was expecting to be formally invited to be seated for initiation. The priests were not even aware who I was. I felt slighted. I decided to disassociate myself and, since I was there, to be just an observer. I stood there, resting my back on one of the temple’s pillars.

Soon I started to experience continuous waves of vibrations in my body. It was as if I were connected to an electrical source at the top of my head, and electricity was flowing down through my body.

My eyes started to close involuntarily, and my back, which was resting on the pillar, started to straighten up. To hold my balance, I stretched my legs out a little farther and stood erect. My body was literally vibrating. I did not want that flow to be disrupted. The pace of the chanting increased in speed and volume and with it the intensity of the vibrations. 

I could feel that the vibrations were coming from somewhere beyond my understanding and were being received by the Shivalingam statue, and from there the vibrations were being transferred to me. It was as if the source and the Shivalingam and I were in alignment. It was all one and the same. 

I could feel the warmth of tears flowing down my cheeks, and my hands were folded in awe and worship as I kept repeating, “I believe, I believe, I believe.”

It was not an intellectual belief or a dogma that was being reconfirmed. It was something much, much deeper. As the mantras were being recited, the Shivalingam became a channel to connect me with something beyond myself. It was as if I were no longer alone.

I felt that I was not chanting those words, it was the vibration itself. 

“Is our universe vibrating with this chant?” … my intellect took over, and I opened my eyes for a brief moment.

Pilgrims were coming and going, busy with their own worship, and hardly anyone was paying attention to us. Sharma was looking at me intently, smiling. 

The instant the chanting was completed, the vibrations stopped.

Sharma congratulated me for being initiated and introduced me to the priests as they were ready to leave. I gave them an offering and bowed reverentially.

As I bowed, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was bowing to Hindu priests with reverence. I had been born a Hindu, but I had just experienced Hinduism, and I was in awe. The rituals that I had held in disdain were real. They were not mere hocus-pocus, ancient superstitions for the illiterate and poor, as I had thought.

I had become a believer.