I was meandering atop a mountain ridge outside of Kathmandu, when I came upon a barren hilltop, where one ancient twisting tree stood with a small mud hut beneath it. White sandalwood smoke rolled out from the hut’s shabby door, and I heard nothing but the sharp crackling of a fire speaking in its own language.
I approached the doorway, feeling nervous and confused. I couldn’t see inside, because of the smoke now floating around my head. “Come in! Come in!” a voice said. In proper Asian style, I removed my shoes and walked into what became the most profound chapter of my life so far.
Upon entering the hut, I could see the face of my host shining through the smoke. His sparkling eyes lit his coffee colored cheeks and nose. He said, “Namaste. Me Kali Baba. You welcome. You sitting. You tea drinking? You name?” Kali Baba held a smoking pipe in his hand, and his mystical air made me feel like Alice in the den of the caterpillar, from Alice in Wonderland. I had the weird feeling that he’d been waiting for me. A sense of knowing in every cell of my body told me that meeting Kali Baba was a predestined event.
Baba, as the villagers called him, was a Hindu ascetic in his early seventies. He was a study in black: he had nearly black skin, a black robe draped like a toga, and—like a reggae star—long black dreadlocks that reached down to his toes. He was radiant and looked years, even decades, younger than his age.
I sat watching Baba while he tended his hut’s open fire with an iron poker. His presence seemed so familiar that, for the first time in my life, I considered the possibility of a past lifetime. He just had a mud hut on a hilltop … no car, no cell phone, no Internet. He sat on the same straw mat for hours, every day, yet he exuded a happiness I’d never witnessed. He had humor, warmth, and lightness in every single thing he did, and he showed me the meaning of “love thy neighbor” with his easy and willing acceptance of me—a complete stranger. I almost couldn’t believe he was human. His joy filled the room with something unseen, yet physical, like a subtle vibration I could feel on my skin, or drink straight from the air. He was content with everything under the sun, and I wanted to be like that! I knew that my life depended on figuring out his secret. He seemed to be a teacher, and I wanted to learn.
My Nepali was minimal, and no one there spoke much English, but it didn’t matter. Baba was a resourceful character and had a mastery of communicating through bits of English, body expressions, and pointing at things with his fire poker. He repeated several phrases like mantras during the many days I spent with him. My favorite phrase of his was, “No money, no tension.” I didn’t understand at first. I thought, “No money, big tension,” but Baba showed me a new way of being.
Many people from all around the Kathmandu Valley visited Kali Baba because of his renowned healing powers, his talent for telling enthralling fireside stories, and his mastery of Nepalese curries and teas. Almost every visitor would leave gifts of money, food, and holy paraphernalia such as incense, statues, and candles. Baba would return the energy to every visitor with similar gifts. He even gave to people who arrived empty-handed. He gave so much that people around him wanted to give him more, creating a beautiful, renewable cycle. Sometimes, he had to give his things away just because they took up too much space in his hut. At times, he had little or no money at all. He never stressed, and like clockwork, whatever he needed—money, food, etc.—would appear just at the right time. Never too early, and never too late. I was a fascinated witness, and I learned from his example that a genuine trust in things working out creates more ease when resources are tight.
