26th of November
I found him sitting in his small hut as the first rain in weeks softly fell outside. He was an old man, marked by the years he lived here in the wastelands of India. The ruins from ancient cultures lay all around us in the small clutch of trees where he’d built a new life. Apparently was he from Italy originally, but during travels in this region did he run out of money and settled down at the guru in the temple. They fed him and gave him a place to stay, while he taught him about Shiva and the guru life.
There was no way of telling that he was Italian more than that he spoke English with some difficulties. He looked like any other guru, with the long beard, the long hair and the colored marks on the forehead.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Ehhmmm, maybe more than 20 years.” His voice cracked and the answer was more a whisper than anything else, but he smiled against my interest. He’d been here since 1970’s to be a little bit more precise.
He’s a guru at this local temple dedicated to the god Shiva. There is a small room in the middle of the biggest house in this complex of small huts. Some small trees had found their way through the hard ground around the huts and family of ravens watched us from the tree tops. He’d been a painter when he was younger and had made a big beautiful portrait of Shiva on one of the rocks. At the entrance sat two statues of bulls, also connected symbols of the god Shiva.
It hadn’t been at all what I expected. I’d seen a wise matured man, filled with the wisdom only age can provide but energy and patience mustered by dedication. Someone I could listen to and discuss belief with. This was just an old man, barely capable of getting to his own feet and in no way capable of handling a skeptical young man as me. Sure I could have got free food and bed, but there was nothing spiritual about this place and nothing holy about this man. He was just old.
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