Try a sample of my work below. There are also plenty of spoken word pieces on my YouTube channel. 

I

 

I saw an Aghori today, one of those sadhus who live on

cremation grounds, often naked and smeared in the deceased’s

ashes. He was boldly striding naked down a busy street, with his

dreadlocks and matted beard framing his fierce eyes. The only

thing he held was a human skull, which he used as a bowl, and

he was carrying it like a fucking handbag. He stopped to get a

light for his beedi (Indian rolled leaf cigarette) where I eat my

lunchtime thali.

 

Thali is the staple diet here - rice, dhal, chapati, and vegetables

served on a metal plate. It costs about 50p at a street stall, and

you can have seconds free of charge. After getting his light, he

set off again. People here tend to be scared of Naga babas, and I

admit they’re very much a force of nature.

 

Is his thinking much different to the Naga babas of the millennia

before Christ? Is our thinking any better or worse than your

average Athenian or Roman citizen of those periods?

During the height of the first lockdown, I spotted a regular (fully

clothed) baba on my way to the shops during the window of

time we had to go out and get essentials. The dust rose in little

twisters in the burning heat.

 

Like most people of his ilk, I assumed that he would gladly

accept some money, even if he didn’t ask for it. I had seen him

squatting comfortably on his haunches in the same spot several

times, always with the same inscrutable look. I approached him,

reaching for my wallet, and was about to extract some cash

when our eyes met.

 

He gave me a look that said many things instantly, the way they

can in India. It said something instantaneously and with clarity.

It was along the lines of “thank you, but I live without money or

possessions. I wander or stay, as is my wont. I smoke ganja and

praise Shiva by chanting his name. Thus is the nature of my life.

Pass on, my fellow traveller; your need is greater than mine”.

I put my wallet away, smiled, and moved on, feeling that

somehow he knew much more about this life than I did. Apart

from the slight change in the line of his gaze to look at me,

he remained unmoved and sat serenely surveying the world

around him long after I had passed.

 

II

 

I sit and wonder as I sip my chai (sweet milky Indian tea) at

my favourite roadside chai stall. It’s a good place for reflection.

Nearby, music booms out from behind the tinted windows of an

SUV, and beside it sits a semi-naked old man staring out from his

broken-down hut. Behind his shack, far down at the bottom of

the wooded slope, I can see where Ram Jhula bridge crosses the

mighty Ganges.

 

My attention is often caught by the men who live here by the

side of the road. They, for me, are the actual ancient and spiritual

India is alive and well in the 21st century.

 

Each man lives alone under a tarpaulin, held up by bits of wood.

These bachelor pads are very narrow, offering a sleeping area

about the width of a person. They run parallel to the road, set

back by one or two feet. The front of these abodes is often totally

open.

 

The men wake, smoke, eat and sleep in full view of the traffic.

The more lavish affairs feature a couple of cooking pots and a

little fire pit. Typically, an old calendar featuring a Hindu deity

is pinned up for decoration. These guys primarily worship the

Indian god Shiva and smoke chillums (clay pipes) filled with

hashish. This is the life of a baba.

 

The tree-lined slopes behind the shacks make this perfect for

the outdoorsy type. Water is fetched from the public water taps

dotted along the road; there’s no electricity. Cooked food can be

eaten at the big Ashrams (religious

communes) nearby for those who need it. Are babas what’s left

of the magic of Rishikesh and India in general? Do babas shit

in the woods? For the most part, they wear an expression of

creased wisdom, worthy of Gandalf after a few pipes. Anyone

who lives in this kind of fashion is deemed a baba. Of course,

some are crazy, and some are criminals and thieves. All in all,

quite a motley crew.

 

A genuine sadhu’s lifestyle (and often their way of thinking)

is reminiscent of the ancient Greek Cynics philosophers who

initially wandered around with not much more than a cloak

and staff. The Indian version has a couple of lungis (patterned

cotton wraps for the lower half of the body), a blanket or two, a

tiffin box (a metal container for food) and a chillum as the sum

of their possessions.

 

Sadhus are good old honest India. In fact, the very same

Gymnosophists (as the Greeks called them) that Alexander the

Great came across when he popped over here a few thousand

years back. Gymnosophist means naked philosopher and naked

some of them are. You would call some wandering ascetics. A

few made it as far as Egypt in Alexander’s time. There must have

been cross-pollination between the schools of philosophy.

In contrast, living out a philosophic creed died a millennia ago

in the West; it’s just part and parcel of everyday life here by the

roadside. They will belong to a particular sect if they genuinely

qualify as real sadhus. They only get together in groups at the

religious Kumbh Mela festival (the largest gathering of people

 

 

on the planet) or the holy Maha Shivaratri festival in Bañares

(Varanasi). The middle classes don’t like them because they say

they are all thieves and dangerous criminals on the run. In

reality, they deem babas lazy parasites.

 

The pandemic didn’t affect the babas much as they already

lived in a kind of post-apocalyptic world anyhow. There were

programmes, both public and private, to provide food, as the

ashrams that often feed them were all temporarily forced to

close.

 

The government even offered rice to people in general who had

no food. It is not something you usually get from the hands-off

approach of Indian governments towards welfare. There is even

an extensive programme to feed needy children one hot meal at

lunchtime.

 

Strictly speaking, the baba sare different; they’re not necessarily

outcasts who have been left behind. It’s all a question of

perspective. Have we cast them off, or have they cast us off?

With these fellows, some have actually chosen this path. And

sometimes, it really is a life of renunciation in pursuit of Moksha

(enlightenment or Nirvana). For some, the goal is evading the

law.

 

Housing upgrades are available in shacks made from wood and

more extensive tarpaulins, and this time with just enough room

to stand and swing a cat. These homes usually also have a

closed front and will be lived in by a family. All you have to

do is source the materials and build them yourself. Any disused

area big enough that stays unused long enough will become a

shantytown. A little micro-society will spring up.

 

The forested hillsides around Rishikesh are steep, and it’s illegal

to cut down trees, as the Forestry Commission owns much of

the surrounding countryside. With clear flat areas at a premium,

people make homes under, over or in between existing

dwellings or shops. Riddled with little ashrams, it looks timeless

to me in the moist heat of the late evening.

 

As I was thinking all this up on a walk back to my guesthouse, it

began to rain, and for the first time since I was a child, I didn’t

mind being out in it. I had been walking in the rain for a while

before it dawned on me that I was really enjoying it.

With no electric devices on me and wearing only shorts, a T-

shirt, and flip-flops, it meant I wasn’t bothered about getting

wet. The rain cooled the humid air, but it was still warm, so it felt

rather pleasant.

 

The longer I’m here, the more I’m starting to realise the stark

simplicity of India. In summer, you get hot; in the winter, cold

and during the monsoon, wet. All of them in the extreme.

 

III

 

The following day, I tried to give 10 rupees to a sadhu sitting

near the chai stall, but he declined and offered me a go on

his chillumi instead. When I refused the offer, he took hold of my

10 rupees, waved it a little uncomprehendingly, and muttered,

“ah, paper money”. It felt like money wasn’t exactly a priority

in his mind at that moment. Unfortunately, I soon realised that

he is one of the stone-cold crazy babas, who are outcasts even

amongst social lepers: a sadhu who has clearly lost his marbles.

Shortly afterwards, he was vigorously moved on by the chai

wallah at the roadside chai stall.

 

This particular chai stall is a small cart, and in front, some

planks of wood on loose bricks act as a seating area. A trusty tarp

stretched over a bit of shelter to the left is where the chai wallah

sleeps.

 

There’s generally no pavement in India; it’s just a bit of dirt next

to the road. Strange as it may sound, I’m at my happiest sitting

at one of these chai places by the side of the road. Here, you

will find some of the most down-to-earth genuine people on the

planet. They are usually of that indeterminate age of those who

live outdoors. They’re seemingly in a slightly off-kilter timeline

with that of the modern world.

 

It’s a joy to sit here at night in the summer, without an electric

light in view, the owner a little tipsy on his evening tipple

alongside wandering sadhus who are passing through on their

pilgrimages.

 

On returning to my guesthouse, the gentle and smiley Indian

man staying on the ground floor beckoned me and, with eyes

gleaming, said, “I wish you to come to my village”. He lives in a

neighbouring state and would love to have me as his house guest

“free of cost, of course”.

 

I let him know how touched and honoured I was. We had only

ever said hello to each other before, but he was leaving that night

and thought he’d ask me along. It’s far from the first time I’ve

been asked this sort of thing, and I genuinely think people don’t

expect me to say yes.

 

I graciously turned him down as I didn’t want to end up stuck

in some remote area for an extended period with no way to get

back. I know what he means when he says a small village; they

are like the kind you have in medieval fairytales.

 

This is terrific, but they also feature the bits left out of the

stories. These include the family sharing an outdoor squat toilet

or merely shitting in the fields. The electric supply would be

somewhere between sporadic and none at all. But the man’s

offer was a beautiful warm, kind-hearted gesture from one

gentle, open heart to… well, I can’t say another, yet, but I’m

working on it. Whatever you would call that experience is one of

the reasons I came to India.