Aaravindha Himadra - Immortal Self: A Journey to the Himalayan Valley of the Amartya Masters

In loving memory of Master Phow,

who left his body behind in 2011 at the age of 164.

A special acknowledgment must go to Ashayrah, who worked ceaselessly in nearly every aspect of getting this book into print.

Thank you, beautiful and beloved Ashayrah, for your determined and selfless generosity.

~

CONTENTS

PREFACE

A LETTER TO THE READER

I wrote this book from memory and the notes I took while on my sojourn to the Valley of the Immortals. Initially I intended the account to be no more than a personal record of my stay there, but as time wore on my perspective changed and I decided to share it openly with the world.

It was 2006 when I left for India to begin this journey, but I waited for another six years before I fully put it into words. I have no doubt that what I have recorded here will be highly controversial for some and an affirming balm for others. I invite you to read this account on whatever level speaks to you. My interest only lies in offering the profound value of the spiritual truths within, and I invite you to allow them to open your heart and mind to what is yet possible.

The Amartya traditionthe lineage of masters written about in this bookis rarely thought of today, and whatever references you might find typically view them as an ancient legend. A few fortunate beings have known of their existence, but all who do will certainly bear the same level of intimate confidence that I have and wontunder any circumstanceexpose their whereabouts against their will. For the diligent, it may still be possible to find a few traces of their existence in shastra, or sacred scripture, and possibly through old stories that tell of them. Those who see the beauty and value contained in this book canthrough their own sincerity in searching out the truth in themselvesconnect directly with the masters without needing to physically visit them.

The Himalayas are a vastly expansive region, larger in size and far more remote in body than most major countries. An inexhaustible number of secrets are hidden in those mountains, and for a while yet will continue to stay that way.

I recommend that you read these pages slowly, particularly in the second half of the book. In so doing, the knowledge entailed within will awaken a hidden part of your own journey and possibly even inspire a few lost memories of your own spiritual past. Those who read humbly and with an open heart will clearly gain the mostand will also feel the masters of this tradition coming in secret to stir awake those sacred inner realizations you have long hungered for.

Aaravindha Himadra

INTRODUCTION

Listen with care to those delicate whispers

those fine-spun musings

that promise to turn your unsung passions to song.

Urge to life that waiting wisdom hidden inside

your humblest of feelings.

For only in earnest humility will you find that rightful setting

where your destiny can wake.

T he air was humid and heavy; the sun was blisteringly hot. A patchwork of smoky shadows and pulsing hues created a motley background behind the sweltering horde of shoppers. Beyond a spread of green lentils, red chili peppers, and open-ended rice burlaps, past a long curtain of pink, saffron, and blue saris hanging wilted in the windless heat, where the air dulled to a muted haze, a pair of supersized buses unloaded an energetic mob of Japanese tourists. The squares main exit was now gridlocked with sightseers.

I chose to follow the overflow streaming into the less congested parts of the square. Less than a block ahead, beyond a lengthy row of canopied stalls, a narrow alleyway crowned with a muddle of tattered electrical lines promised the nearest escape. Having spent my entire morning combing through an endless mix of beaded malas, music cassettes, and assorted tourist junk, a relaxed lunch in the shade of my hotel piazza seemed idyllic. That is, until one last temptation caught my eyea finely crafted Tibetan jacket. An unlikely find in a music stall stocked with drums and sitars.

Masked in a barter-readied indifference, I mulled over a possible strategy to acquire the jacket. But just as I was about to engage in the bargaining, a vague sense of being watched pulled my attention back to the crowd. It didnt take long to spot him: standing on the opposite side of the square, a tall, slender man wrapped in a single piece of purple linen had his eyes locked on me. On cue, the instant our eyes met he began walking toward me.

Here in Delhi, dressed in an American-made white shirt and blue jeans, I no doubt came off as an obvious tourist mark. I had already been approached a number of times this morning and was in no mood for another scammer working his con. I looked around. The crowd was thicka possible cover for me to slip away.

But I hesitated. There was something intriguingly different about this man. His approach was almost supernatural. As he came closer, the shoulder-tight crowd unwittingly parted, seemingly choreographed under the invisible hands of a mysterious puppeteer. Was I the only one seeing this?

A plainly carved, shoulder-high staff swung like a pendulum in perfect stride with his lanky brown legs. In a blink, his pace narrowed the gap between us, eliciting in me an annoyed feeling of being deliberately cornered. Towering above me, his head inked out the sun. Thin glimmers of light fanned through the feathery outer wisps of his dove-white hair.

Blue eyes, I thought. Not a native Indian!

A subtle appraisal passed between us. And then, as if to confide a secret, he leaned in and brought his face a bit too close, saying in a half-whisper, If youre ready and if youre willing, Ive come to guide you home!

Do I know you? I asked. Have we met?

A telltale smile spread across his face, but he said nothing. I stepped back reactively. The booths edge resisted with a sharp jab to my hip. I envisioned slipping by him, but the intrigue held me in place. There was something curiously alluring about this man: his confidence, his steady focus, and a subtle trace of something mysterious glinting in his eyes. I couldnt recall having ever met him before, but he seemed oddly familiar. And then something truly strange began to happen: the air around us changed, becoming faintly electric.

The intrigue was building. This wasnt just some chance encounter. He definitely knew me! But how? And why couldnt I remember him?

There are times in life when the hand of fate shows up unpredictably. Ive come to relish those momentstheir sudden and unanticipated entrancetoo elusive or quick for me to just brush aside or react habitually. More often than not, Ive discovered in them a heavenly genius at work. I strongly suspected that this might be one of those times.

I soon found myself caught up in a perplexing sensation that time was somehow slowing to a crawl. The spaces between my thoughts were longer than usual. I was now too fascinated to resist. I chose to let go, which immediately stirred up an almost paranormal sense of yearning, both painful and puzzlingly hopeful. It was similar to a feeling I once had as a child when returning home after a long trip away.

The strangers face started to change, becoming mystifyingly surrealdreamlike. This is happening too quickly, I thought. So quickly that I nearly lost my balance. Peering up into the black centers of his eyes made it even more surreal, producing a peculiar sense of falling into another realm.

In a snap, the environment around us fell completely silent, as if someone had just flipped a switch on the world. And then something else happened: I could see him in a new way, much differently than I had earlier. There was an extraordinary depth of goodness reflected in his face, so pure I couldnt imagine having ever doubted him!