An Excerpt from a travel article entitled "The Roof of Heaven" contained in my book of travel essays entitled "Journeys With Soul: Encounters and Cures That Came True".
THE ORACLE SPEAKS: Journey Thru Ladakh in Northern India
by John Herlihy
On another day, not far from the shadow of the Hemis monastery, we visited an oracle inhabiting a small rustic house by the river. We had to leave the Jeep and driver behind to make our way over hills and rocky crags down toward the edge of the swift moving, muddy river. The turbulent waters of the Indus were not inviting even if its name was mythical; but the courtyard enclosure in front of the small mud and yellow brick house was warm and inviting. In this desolate setting, with the sound of rushing waters invading the background of my expectant mind, we sat under a verdant tree that graciously spread its shade over us against the relentless mountain sun. A monk sat with us draped in deep red robes, head shaven, of course, and looking ascetic and boyish at the same time. While chatting with my guide about what to expect from the oracle and giving me some background and guidance, the monk suddenly spoke up. “What a magnificent river,” he said. “You speak English,” I replied, surprised to learn of this monk’s linguistic ability and delighted to have the opportunity of speaking with him. “The Pakistanis call it ‘the father of rivers’ while the Tibetans call it ‘the Lion River’.” “I can see why,” I replied and the monk smiled. “Where does it originate,” I asked and he told me that it flowed down from the glaciers of Tibet, across Ladakh and the Kashmir and over into Pakistan whence it flows in a southerly direction the entire length of Pakistan to merge into the Arabian Sea in the vicinity of the port city of Karachi.
While I was hoping to gain some insight into the kind of man he was and the kind of routine he might lead in his life as a monk, I quickly noted that he didn’t say much about himself and I, for my part, was too reserved to ask directly what being a monk meant to him as we do in the Western style. He did mention the long history of Buddhism in Ladakh, having been brought over from Tibet in the early history of the spread of the religion. While we were talking, an old woman came out of the house dressed in a long black tunic with a red plaid belt holding it together. She had a sprightly air and a deeply lined, darkly tanned and incredibly strong face. She made a couple of comments to the various people around, as though she were looking for something of no consequence. The guide leaned over and whispered in my ear: “That’s the oracle.” Indeed, I thought, I never would have guessed. She looked like someone’s grandmother rummaging around the dust of the courtyard. Closer scrutiny, however, revealed a deeper mystery embe dded within the folds of her ancient, parchment face. She had a thick patch of dark black hair pulled back from her forehead and dressed as a single pony tail that resembled a thick rope. Her toothless grin was endearing; but somehow belied the potential energy and strength that I was beginning to observe in her every gesture and movement. There was promise here of something much deeper than somebody’s grandmother searching for an infant.
After she disappeared within the stone cottage, numbers of people arrived, many of them foreigners who came to attend the oracular session gripping their digital cameras, and replete with all kinds of electronic equipment such as videos hanging down from their necks to capture this rarefied moment in time. Soon, we were all ushered within one of the rooms of the house that resembled some kind of religious shrine, with images of the Buddha on the walls, various mandala paintings with their striking workmanship and hidden messages reaching out to those that gaze upon them. The place smelt of earth and overripe fruit and incense as we all sat cross-legged and expectant on the floor in front of the shrine. The old women I had seen earlier, the oracle, came into the room and knelt down on a carpet in front of a small shrine equipped with the bells, oils, clappers and shawls that she would need in the execution of this ceremony. This was not the same women I had observed earlier in the courtyard. She was now bedecked with colorful traditional garments and an elaborate headdress whose every tassel and peak contained some hidden meaning that I was not privy to; but it didn’t matter because it was the effect that mattered. This was now a presence to be reckoned with. When the oracle speaks, people listen.
She then proceeded to chant the ritual Buddhist sutras in Sanskrit with a strong, unwavering high-pitched voice that seemed to pierce the air like a knife. There was no doubting the power and efficacy of these ritual intonations whose reverberations filled the room and undoubtedly moved deep down into the bodies and minds of many of the people there, including myself. I believe in the power of prayer and incantation whatever the particular religious form it may take. In my own case, I have experienced the power of Quranic recitation, when through reading the words and verses a powerful energy is established, first within the body through vibration and resonance, then in the mind through the meaning of the words, and finally down into the very soul of the individual in order to shower the total entity with the higher consciousness and blessing that the sacred texts and ritual ceremony convey. This incredible chanting continued for some time, accompanied systematically with the ringing of a bell with the left hand and the use of a clapper in the right. I have knelt or sat cross-legged for hours on end and chanted Quranic scripture, so I was able to realize the effort and concentration such a discipline required of the woman.
At the end of a lengthy session of chanting, the oracle was ready to receive the petitions of the people. The room was crowded, but suddenly a local Ladakh peasant moved through the crowd and knelt down before the oracle. I later learned that he was complaining of some kind of stomach ailment. I saw the oracle open his tunic and massage his stomach for a time while applying some medicated oils. Whispered remarks could be heard, but I had no idea what was being said. He eventually stood up looking relieved and return back into the anonymity of the crowd. All the while, some of the Westerners were moving about taking pictures, angling for a better video shot, tripping over the people sitting around the room. I questioned the wisdom of this effort, thinking that they were capturing perhaps a moment in time; but were somehow actually missing the true experience of the moment in their frantic effort to seize it forever on celluloid.
Finally, there was a rustle of limbs and a modest, attractive looking middle-aged European woman with shot-cropped hair approached the oracle with a local guide as translator. A hushed silence fell across the room. At first, the women thanked the oracle for listening to her troubles through the voice of the translator; then she began to relate the story of the loss of her 25 year old son several years ago. He had had an unexpected car accident and was suddenly gone from this world, to where she did not know. This afflicted soul began to sob heavily and I saw her shoulders shaking in heavy convulsions. A deeper silence covered the room as I felt my own emotions rise to the surface subliminally through this women’s tragic loss of her son. Without hesitation, the oracle made extensive comments in the local Ladakh language, and through the translator we together with the afflicted mother were all able to learn what the oracle said. She told her that there was a time for tears, for they can be a blessed and purifying gift of the higher powers, but that the time had now passed and further tears would merely be a human indulgence detrimental to her spiritual health and well being. It was time to move on because her son was safe and where he should be. “Where was that?” came the timid question; but the oracle simply replied that it was enough for her to know and experience and enough for us to respect the individual destiny of others. Finally, the oracle advised the woman to move beyond the sorrow and suffering and perform good works and reach out to others with compassion and love. This is what her son would appreciate and this is what would temper a broken heart. Of course, this seemed to be the message that came to me through the crowded room and as a result of the translation. I felt uplifted by the experience and hoped that the woman who had lost her son had begun to find him again through the knowledge that he still existed within the fold of his own unique destiny, somewhere, sometime, but not of this world.
I finally summoned the courage to rise from the floor and seek the advice of the oracle, although I am reluctant to make a public display of myself, much less give voice to my innermost thoughts. Still, this was a rare and unique occasion that I didn’t want to let pass by. With a nod to my guide, we rose and knelt in front of this ancient presence. I whispered my comment into the ear of the guide. When my guide translated my words into the Ladakhi language, I detected a faint smile cross her lips, as though a cool breeze had passed us by: “What should I be doing in my life that I am not doing?” I do not like to air my troubles in public, thinking that they have a natural life cycle and will eventually pass on their own. However, I was interested in finding out what more could be done in order to fulfill my destiny here on earth. I could see her rhythmic breathing as she gathered her words: “You can never do enough of what you should be doing. Seek within yourself . . . reach out to others . . . stay on the path. You will find your true destination.” The oracle had spoken. We both receded back into the shadows and soon thereafter took our leave of the cottage. Her advice had the quality of an iridescent flame, ephemeral and burning with light.
THE ORACLE SPEAKS: Journey Thru Ladakh in Northern India
