The Seeker by Karan Bajaj Read Free Book Online

bridge inches above the river. The river bank was lined with debris: bricks, concrete, truck tires, engine parts, and tree branches.
    “A cloud burst here five months ago,” said the man. “Seven days of nonstop rain. People, houses, trucks, all taken by the river. Some people haven’t even been found yet.”
    The roaring, angry river below them was so close Max could touch it. Any moment now, the river could rise and drown them like it had drowned hundreds of others. Or the weak bridge could break. How fragile this body, this life was. The jeep lurched. Max held on tight, feeling a renewed sense of purpose for his journey. They crossed the bridge.
    A twenty-foot tall iron statue of an Indian god with long, matted hair, sculpted muscles, and a trident in his hand stood incongruously on the riverside.
    “Pilot Baba’s ashram,” said the man, pointing to a cluster of white houses scattered next to the statue. “If you want, you can stay here until the winter ends.”
    “Is he a guru?”
    “Everyone is a guru in India,” said the man witheringly. “Pilot Baba was just a regular pilot in the Indian Air Force. His helicopter crashed here and he had some sort of spiritual realization—perhaps that there is more money to be made in this racket than in flying planes. So he became a guru.”
    Max laughed. “How did he find disciples?”
    “No shortage of foreigners touring exotic India,” he said. “Pilot Baba teaches that man loses his ego during orgasm so there is plenty of sex here. Westerners love it. Spiritual McDonald’s.”
    As if on cue, a dreadlocked white guy in just a T-shirt and shorts emerged from one of the houses. He shut his eyes and spread out his arms melodramatically in the frigid air. Max’s face went hot with embarrassment. Was there really no difference between him and these eighteen-year-old hippies? He strengthened his resolve to keep pushing forward until he found a real guru.
    “Do you want to get off here?” asked the man, slowing down his jeep.
    “I’ll pass,” said Max. “There is a man further up in Bhojbasa I want to visit.”
    “The roads are closed beyond Bhatwari,” said the man.
    “I’ll take my chances,” said Max.
    They took a steep turn and the statue and houses disappeared from view.
    Max’s companion raised his index finger. “One percent maximum,” he said. “Only one percent of these yogis at most are genuine and most of them live way on the top of the mountains where you are going. Out here and below in Rishikesh, searching for God has become a joke.”
    Max nodded. “A man with human flesh in his hands offered to be my guru this morning,” he said.
    “Covered in ash? Near a cremation pyre?”
    “Yes, exactly,” he said.
    “An
Aghori Baba
. They eat animal carcasses and human remains to show their love for even the most repulsive of God’s creations,” said the man. “They look scary but are pretty harmless.”
    “And the men with painted faces and red marks?”
    “Lord Shiva’s devotees,” said the man. “If I smoked as much hashish as them, even I’d see God everywhere.”
    So many teachers, so many belief systems, yet none inspired confidence. Why wasn’t the path to the most fundamental of human quests clearer?
    “What do you believe in?” said Max.
    The man adjusted his ponytail. “My father was a priest in a temple here,” he said. “I believed in Lord Krishna, his God, until my father got buried in a landslide while conducting a puja, a worship ceremony for the Lord. After that, I left the Himalayas to work in Delhi. Now I come back only to visit my crazy family. Man is far more reliable than God. He rewards you with a paycheck instead of a landslide when you work for him.”
    The jeep’s floor shook with a loud clunk. Max held on to his seat tightly. The man changed the gear nonchalantly and the jeep resumed its smooth motion. They took a turn into a flat valley. In the distance, a colossal tower of ice arose high above the mist,