| THE MUDRA LADY |
Stevan Orescan
She called herself Tara, mother of the universe and the active force of compassion, the goddess
that ferries us across the ocean of samsara, who liberates us from the wheel of suffering, from
sickness, old age, life and death.
I was visiting friends near the big stupa in Boudha, the neighborhood in Kathmandu that is home to
the Tibetan monastic community and the many expats and students of Buddhist dharma.
On the third floor apartment overlooking the ancient stupa a steady stream of pilgrims, monks and
lay people circumambulated around it, and as prayer flags snapped in the evening breeze they could
be heard mumbling in their beads, spinning prayer wheels and chanting OM MANI PADME
HUM, Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus, the mantra that embodies the compassion and blessings of all
the past Buddha’s and bodhisattvas, and the commonest mystic formula in Lamaism and Tibetan
Buddhism, for its utterance brings knowledge, prosperity, happiness and an end to the cycle of
continuous rebirths, as well as a direct line to paradise
Sitting on the sofa in the living room, drinking tea and nonchalantly flipping through an unpublished
manuscript on Tibetan Buddhism I picked up from the table, I found myself completely
overwhelmed by the beauty of the language and the fine razor sharp brilliance of the prose and
depth of understanding the writer had of the subject. Needless to say after living in Asia for close to
thirty years and after reading and listening to literally hundreds of teachers and holy men and women
I do not impress easily. But this time I was flabbergasted, so much so that tears started flowing and
I found it difficult to breathe normally. Wow!
Who wrote this I exclaimed after regaining my composure, who is this woman, I asked? (as there
were several pictures of a beautifully mysterious and etheric looking woman within its pages), I am
totally blown away by the writers understanding and poetic erudition of her subject and have never
read anything quite like it.
“Would you like to meet her,” Katya, my Hungarian friend asked? “She lives nearby and I can give
her a call.”
An hour later myself and three lady friends trudged through the dark alleys and streets that snaked
their way through and around the large monastery compound until we came to a classical Nepalese
house titled Le Hermitage nestled in a grove of trees behind a high wall. Ringing the outer bell we
were let in by a servant girl and directed to the rickety stairs of a small cottage in the rear. Climbing
the stairs we knocked on the door and after a moment it was opened with a dramatic flourish by a
gorgeous woman dressed in an outfit of such dazzling splendor that it would not been out of place in
a Puccini opera or from a scene in a Bolshoi ballet. Pezalasta! She exclaimed, waving us in.
She wore a tall crown-like hat of a heavy rich fabric, an elaborate gown to match, was heavily
made up, and swathed in holy beads and silk scarves from head to toe. She bade us enter her
parlor, Chinese red with wall to ceiling mirrors and bookcases, and strewn with cushions and a low
table, and once seated proceeded to serve us tea and little cakes. As we sipped and nibbled, Tara,
as she had introduced herself, started to expound on Buddhist dharma with such depth that I sat
there with my mouth open for three hours and didn’t utter a peep, nor did my three friends; no
boredom, no fidgeting, just sat there like kittle kids listening to the world mother giving us the
secrets of the universe. Occasionally a shy giggle came forth between teachings. It was an awesome
experience for I felt that I was sitting in the presence of a living master, one who understood and
could articulate the teachings, the innermost essence of the nature of mind, the ancient and direct
stream of wisdom that encompasses the foundation of all the Buddhist teachings.
We left late that night. At the door she looked deeply into my eyes and said, “You may come
back.” The next evening, fumbling along the dark road being led by nose and instinct I found her
place again. After entering the second time I stayed for almost four months, returning to my own
place only to change clothes and recoup my senses.
II
Tara was from Rostov, mother a former chanteuse torch singer, father a Georgian mafia don. She
had a seventeen year old daughter, a lead singer in a heavy metal punk rock band in Moscow;
black clothes, lipstick and nails, with the usual
chains and Doc Martin boots, name of Yana. She had lived in Spain for about twelve years, was
married to an Israeli for a short time, studied contemporary and interpretive dance, lived in a New
Age spiritual community and had operated a massage school business with a dozen or so
employees. She had a Spanish passport under another name, an Israeli passport under her married
name, and two Russian passports, one expired, the other fake. Her Nepalese visa had expired
about a year before I met her and she was penniless. Enter her savior, the rich American.
Tara considered herself the Buddha. “I am the Buddha,” she told me. “Yes, yes,” I replied, “You
are a Buddha, I am a Buddha, we are all Buddha’s.” “No, you don’t understand, I am The
Buddha, born in Russia and reincarnated in a female form this lifetime. I am fully enlightened,” she
said and showed me a picture of herself taken by some itinerate photographer in Bodh Gaya with a
halo in back of her head, proof that a cosmic hand had descended and touched her, rendering her
pure and fully enlightened. Well, India and Nepal has many such folks wandering around
proclaiming their divinity and who was I to argue. Many of us who have experimented with
entheogens-God manifesting substances-have had these experience, and blasts of cosmic
consciousness and other such epiphanies are not uncommon in this age when many scientists and
philosophers have come to believe that our concepts of God have been genetically hardwired into
our brain, that God is “in here” rather than “out there.” After all, psychedelic substances have been
used since the dawn of history to stimulate religious experiences and such practices still continue in
many part of the world.
We spent our days in front of her computer designing an elaborate website that she had been
working on for over a year; one hundred pages, each with several pictures of herself in various
costumes and poses and each with this extraordinary text I had been privy to in the beginning. She
was indeed a master; eccentric, brilliant, with maybe a touch of divine madness that so many great
teachers have been afflicted with. An exercise in megalomania a friend commented after viewing her
website. She worked at it 12-14 hours a day, constantly smoking big Russian style joints of hashish
mixed with cheap tobacco, seldom eating, a little coffee milk her servant would bring into her work
station, a few biscuits, an occasional plate of rice.
She had a connection to the different monasteries and lamas in the neighborhood, all of whom had a
high regard for her gifts, though much to her annoyance were not able to proclaim her a living
Buddha or tulku. However, they called her whenever ceremonial performances or other special
festivities were about to happen and she would hurriedly dress in her elaborate finery-all of which
she made herself-and rush off to do her unique dance routine and mudras, the sacred postures of
the Buddha’s and bodhisattvas that incorporate the mystic attitudes of fingers and hand gestures
used as meditation and ceremonial aids. During those performances of spiritual theatre she would
be invited to sit next to the high lamas in a seat of honor, would perform a mudra dance or, in a
state of mental fixity or Samadhi, stand for hours in a complicated pose to the accompaniment of
cymbals and long horns as monks pranced about in fierce costumes warding off evil spirits inimical
to the dharma. Young monks were always
dropping by her cottage to sit at her feet and listen to her wisdom and bring her small gifts in typical
guru-chela fashion, which she sorely needed. She talked about taking me to Russia one day to do a
tour of the “Golden Necklace” or “Golden Circle,” the string of monasteries and orthodox churches
that circle Moscow where she could do her performance for the monks as she had done previously
in Red Square to an astounded audience. An acquaintance of a friend, a Russian psychiatrist who
had heard about her on a visit to Kathmandu, said she was well known throughout Moscow and
environs and was referred to as “the Mudra” lady.
Her small house was a temple in the Tibetan fashion, evocative of high lama’s quarters with wafting
incense, painted images of the Tibetan iconography on the walls, statuary and rich fabrics covering
tables, chairs and pillows. A set of beautiful Russian icons adorned her alter along with images of
the twenty-one Tara’s and the Buddha. The bookcases overflowed with esoteric tomes on
philosophy and Buddhism, as well as fashion design spilling onto the floor, and large bolts of cloth
were stacked on shelves and standing upright in a corner. Her bed, a futon on the floor, was
covered with a leopard skin. Her small kitchen, off the main room, contained two empty
refrigerators and a tabletop gas range that she, or her servant, unpaid for many months, hardly ever
used.
Her workroom, the main focus of her energy when not giving darshan, dispensing wisdom or
entertaining guests was filled to overflowing with three professional sewing machines, and more
bolts of expensive cloth that she would cut up into very small pieces and resew into her unusual and
distinctive-high Russian fashion- gowns that she sold to wealthy tourists whenever the opportunity
arose, and two large circular racks to contain them. Her desk, squeezed into the corner next to a
window, contained a computer and two laptops with printer, scanner, various accessories, and
hundreds of CDs and books stacked up and overflowing onto the sewing machines, two small
tables and floor. A small basket next to the computer held tobacco, a slab of blond hashish, a
couple of small temple balls, and rolling papers.
III
Tara had overstayed her visa by about ten months, a very serious affair in Nepal, and a good deal
of money and energy was expended in attempting to get this problem straightened out. Her
legitimate Russian passport with her Nepalese entry visa had expired, and her mother had gone to
the Russian embassy in Moscow, paid some baksheesh, gave them a picture, signed Tara’s name
and sent her the new passport minus the required exit and entry stamps. When I asked her what
she wanted to do with the rest of her life she replied that she wanted to teach, give darshan and
open her school somewhere in the mountains of India, utilizing her website to attract international
students.
My usual routine for the last 5-6 years had been to live in Nepal 5 months, 6 months in India and a
month in the U.S. for doctor visits, and to see my children with the long range plan in settle in
Almora, a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas where I would lease a house and
concentrate on finishing a couple of books I had been working on. If she wished to accompany me
it might be an opportunity to start up her school on a small scale while she set the groundwork for
the larger operation she had in mind. The idea appealed to her so we set about making plans to get
her out of Nepal and across the border to India, first to Banaras where I usually live, and where my
things were, and then to Almora where friends had been scouting for the right house for me.
We paid off her di-di, the servant girl she had had for the duration of her stay, cleared her bill with
the web master who had launched her website, had her teeth repaired, and
contacted Peanut Butter Larry, an old American expat and brilliant University of Chicago dropout
who dealt in fake visa stamps and other paper products much in need in that part of the world. An
old hippie from the sixties who made peanut butter for the tourists to support himself until he found
that forging was easier and more lucrative.
A Nepalese equipment dealer made up six, large zippered bags in various colors for her gowns and
other finery, and we started to make arrangements for the transportation of her things to India. At
the same time I made contact with the redoubtable Mr. Singh, a trusted travel agent who would
make arrangements for domestic plane tickets to the border for her,
Baksheesh for the Nepalese border guards, baksheesh for the Indian Immigration, and rail tickets
for the Indian train to Banaras for her and a limited amount of her luggage. This upset her somewhat
since she had a lot of things she wanted to take but not only was it not practical with the Maoists
controlling the roads at the time but it was beyond my means to send a couple thousand pounds of
cargo to our final destination, and she was simply going to have to store her books, sewing
machines and other heavy items until we got settled. This she clearly did not want to do in spite of
our many conversations about attachment and the ephemerality or illusion of “stuff.” I was going to
fly to Banaras and would meet the train when she arrived with the baggage she would be taking.
She would wear one of her monkly designer robes and appeared oblivious to any danger this
adventure might entail, announcing that her holiness would get her through any problems that might
arise. Mr Singh would accompany her across the border, make the necessary payments, take her
by taxi to the train station and travel to the first stop with her before getting off and returning to
Kathmandu.
She started to pack, put up ads around the stupa and on various neighborhood bulletin boards and
reluctantly sold a lot of her kitchen things. At the same time, and even more reluctantly, she made
inquires about storage facilities. When I suggested that this might be a good time to get rid of her
junk and unnecessary accumulations she exclaimed that it was all necessary and nothing was junk!
The website, her main concentrated effort the last year was finally launched, and she was now
ready to start a new life in the Indian Himalayas where her dream of starting her own
school/ashram/temple with herself as the presiding guru would be realized. I left for Banaras with
the foreboding feeling that there would be problems and she might not make it and when she didn’t
show up as scheduled, I must admit, I was somewhat relieved, for she had gotten very difficult
toward the end as well as quite expensive and I could see that it would not be an easy relationship if
carried to its logical conclusion. I emailed here several times but received no answer and shortly
thereafter went to Almora for a vacation with my children, then returned to the U.S. for awhile.
About eight months Later I returned to Kathmandu, went to her old house but her landlord told me
that she had moved, was still in the area but knew not where, obviously keeping a low profile
because of her visa status.
In spite of the fact that the local children threw rocks and laughed at the crazy “Ruska,” when she
walked down the muddy road in her silken gowns and distinctively tall headgear, and in spite of the
fact that she was an inveterate ganja smoker, she was not crazy in the clinical sense. Though she
smoked from morning till night it seemed to have no negative effect on her, on her energy level, her
clarity and focus and mind set, and indeed, like her doppelganger, the Russian occultist Madam
Blavatsky who smoked hashish and opium constantly, it seemed to open her up and spur her on to
greater creative heights. The Secret Doctrine and Isis Unveiled, two works of astounding erudition
were both written under the influence and Tara’s book is an awesome piece of writing as well.
We had an ayahuasca session together. “It will have no effect,” she stated as we sat on cushions in
her small red mirrored temple, incense burning, soft sitar music in the background. Whereas I
quickly sprawled out and left the planet and went on fantastic inner voyages with the ancient plant
teachers whose total control I was under, she sat with folded legs, straight as an arrow and one-
pointed as the Buddha. It reminded me of the Ram Das story when Neem Karoli Baba gobbled the
whole bottle of Ram Das’ LSD and didn’t feel a thing, indicating of course that he was already so
high he couldn’t get any higher. I don’t know if that was Tara’s case but from all outward
appearances it had no negative effect; no purging, no anxiety, no freak out or hellish visions, just
one-pointed calmness and equanimity…. emptiness. And of course, that, in and of itself, could have
been the effect
This is a remarkable woman, I thought; talented, brilliant, an eccentric no doubt, and with a touch of
divine madness as most of us are who spend years wandering Asia in search of wisdom,
understanding and ourselves. But is she The Buddha returned in female form? The Maitreya? The
Buddha to come? We might find her on a number of pages in the DSM IV but most of us would be
there as well. So when I heard she was in jail for murder my first thought was that her dharma, her
true nature, was being tested; the universe was throwing down the gauntlet. “Are you the Buddha?”
it asks, “Now is the time to prove it,’’ The jail experience will be her cave, her bodhi tree, the test
of her true nature, her authenticity and intrinsic radiance that all Buddha’s shine forth with regardless
of their circumstances. Jail is a hard taskmaster anywhere in the world but a Nepalese or Indian jail
is a brutal and inhuman experience, especially for a foreign woman.
The charge was murdering her di-di, her servant girl, the young woman that had been with her for
more than a year; not only murdering her but cutting up her body into many pieces and burying her
in the forest in some kind of nylon bag. The body was cut up beyond recognition and the girl was
gone so the local authorities assumed Tara was the culprit; maybe she owed the girl her wages,
there was an argument and the mad Russian woman killed her, then chopped her up and put in one
of the zippered nylon bags she had, buried her in the forest and then attempted to get away, but
was caught at the border by the quick thinking of the Immigration Police. In the eyes of the law she
was already a criminal for immigration violations, forged visa and passport, little money, a fishy
story and then the claim of being an enlightened master to top it off just proves that she was some
kind of deranged mad woman capable of anything. The papers said they thought she had an
accomplice, a Svengali type that the neighbors saw hanging around for several days before the
reported incident.
But off course she didn’t do it and I knew for sure, in my bones, that she was innocent. How was I
to prove that? How was I to get her out of the horrible Dili Jail and across the border to India were
she would be safe to pursue her innocence from the safety of comfortable quarters and a good
lawyer? I must talk to my good friend Jonathan who always throws light on these complicated
matters of life and death. I also knew that here in Asia cash is king; there’s no miracle that a fat
wad of rupees can’t accomplish.
IV
It was fairly simple; getting the money proved more difficult than bribing the guards. The Tibetan
underground bank is an institution of great repute in Nepal; cash on your signature, personal check,
gold, silver, antiques, etc., but I had never done business with them before and needed a sponsor
who would agree to have his legs broken in lieu of mine if the debt wasn’t honored. For that my
friend Andrew, a Brit, who used to run money for them back and forth to Hong Kong, came to my
rescue. Five guards, poor village boys that didn’t make more than twenty-five dollars a month,
having a thousand dollars in new U.S. greenbacks waved under their noses, was an offer they
couldn’t refuse. We walked out of Dili Jail, Kathmandu’s top security lock-up, without a hitch, and
were soon speeding off into the night and on our way to Seongi, the small, isolated, mountain village
where my old friend Jonathan lived.
About 4 hours later the taxi driver dropped us off on the outskirts where we hired a tonga, a horse
drawn carriage, to take us up the mountain where Jonathan’s old temple complex, Vajra House, is
located; a large, ancient, handmade complex of buildings surrounded by high, thick walls and a
twenty-five foot bamboo forest, and made from mud bricks, straw, cow shit and rice husks. Hand
carved scenes from the Ramayana and other Hindu religious themes adorn the massive beams
throughout the main house while his main room looks out onto overflowing greenery and bright
blasts of vivid colors from the many exotic flowers that have thrived under his thumb. Here my
friend lives amid his books and
lush gardens, delving into the esoteric wisdom, potions and magic of the alchemist. He is scholar,
writer, psychologist, botanist, student of the dharma, and had worked for many years as an expert
in the field of anti-trafficking, or the buying, smuggling, and selling of young Nepalese village girls to
the brothels of Calcutta and Saudi Arabia.
Though now retired from active participation Jonathan keeps abreast of Nepal’s social issues and
knows many in local law enforcement, and whom to pay when necessary. He is small and wiry,
bald on top with long side hair and scrawny beard, granny glasses hanging on his nose, and usually
wears long Mandarin type robes when not in the public eye. On those rare occasions when he does
goes out and about he tends toward anonymity, poor professor attire, which he finds more
advantageous when gliding through the difficult social and legal terrain of this conservative country
steeped in complex tradition. At one time he had been advisor to the late king Birenda on various
cross-border and foreign national problems so we looked forward to his advice and help.
Tara was exhausted from the months in prison, the tension of the escape and the long taxi ride.
Sound asleep on the big bed in the guest cottage, she slept for 20 hours.
Jonathan arranges assistance for our problem. Should we go as unobtrusively as possible or go with
flair? There was something to be said for both ways. Finally we decide on the middle way,
Buddhist fashion. We will go as humble pilgrims, in costume, but have at the ready enough cash to
buy our way out. The next morning an SUV arrived at the compound with a big, tough looking Sikh
driver with a big smile and a pink turban who emanated power and confidence. It took us the better
part of the day to get to the Indian border. It was a tense scene as we approached the Nepal exit
gate; lots of guns and suspiciousness. Kalsa Baba, our smiling driver, took care of the formalities
and the baksheesh, we crossed over without incident and then had to go through the same scene
with the Indians. But the Indians were very jolly about the whole thing until the phone rang in their
shack and the sergeant returned with a different attitude, demanded money, said we were rich
undesirables. Kalsa gave them some but it wasn’t enough, more they demanded, but finally we just
got in the car and left, barreling down the road with them screaming, and firing off their guns.
Maybe they fired in the air since nothing hit the car but we would have to be extra mindful now
since there would probably an alert put out to the police.
We finally made it to our destination in India, a small Himalayan village known for its beauty and
hospitality, and home to wide variety of interesting foreigners, many wearing the robes of the
pilgrim-mendicant-monk; serious scholars, sadhus, deep thinkers, a few bums, a few from the
school of utter confusion but all aspects of the One that brought us here . Tara’s school has begun
and we shall hear more from her in the future….
that ferries us across the ocean of samsara, who liberates us from the wheel of suffering, from
sickness, old age, life and death.
I was visiting friends near the big stupa in Boudha, the neighborhood in Kathmandu that is home to
the Tibetan monastic community and the many expats and students of Buddhist dharma.
On the third floor apartment overlooking the ancient stupa a steady stream of pilgrims, monks and
lay people circumambulated around it, and as prayer flags snapped in the evening breeze they could
be heard mumbling in their beads, spinning prayer wheels and chanting OM MANI PADME
HUM, Hail to the Jewel in the Lotus, the mantra that embodies the compassion and blessings of all
the past Buddha’s and bodhisattvas, and the commonest mystic formula in Lamaism and Tibetan
Buddhism, for its utterance brings knowledge, prosperity, happiness and an end to the cycle of
continuous rebirths, as well as a direct line to paradise
Sitting on the sofa in the living room, drinking tea and nonchalantly flipping through an unpublished
manuscript on Tibetan Buddhism I picked up from the table, I found myself completely
overwhelmed by the beauty of the language and the fine razor sharp brilliance of the prose and
depth of understanding the writer had of the subject. Needless to say after living in Asia for close to
thirty years and after reading and listening to literally hundreds of teachers and holy men and women
I do not impress easily. But this time I was flabbergasted, so much so that tears started flowing and
I found it difficult to breathe normally. Wow!
Who wrote this I exclaimed after regaining my composure, who is this woman, I asked? (as there
were several pictures of a beautifully mysterious and etheric looking woman within its pages), I am
totally blown away by the writers understanding and poetic erudition of her subject and have never
read anything quite like it.
“Would you like to meet her,” Katya, my Hungarian friend asked? “She lives nearby and I can give
her a call.”
An hour later myself and three lady friends trudged through the dark alleys and streets that snaked
their way through and around the large monastery compound until we came to a classical Nepalese
house titled Le Hermitage nestled in a grove of trees behind a high wall. Ringing the outer bell we
were let in by a servant girl and directed to the rickety stairs of a small cottage in the rear. Climbing
the stairs we knocked on the door and after a moment it was opened with a dramatic flourish by a
gorgeous woman dressed in an outfit of such dazzling splendor that it would not been out of place in
a Puccini opera or from a scene in a Bolshoi ballet. Pezalasta! She exclaimed, waving us in.
She wore a tall crown-like hat of a heavy rich fabric, an elaborate gown to match, was heavily
made up, and swathed in holy beads and silk scarves from head to toe. She bade us enter her
parlor, Chinese red with wall to ceiling mirrors and bookcases, and strewn with cushions and a low
table, and once seated proceeded to serve us tea and little cakes. As we sipped and nibbled, Tara,
as she had introduced herself, started to expound on Buddhist dharma with such depth that I sat
there with my mouth open for three hours and didn’t utter a peep, nor did my three friends; no
boredom, no fidgeting, just sat there like kittle kids listening to the world mother giving us the
secrets of the universe. Occasionally a shy giggle came forth between teachings. It was an awesome
experience for I felt that I was sitting in the presence of a living master, one who understood and
could articulate the teachings, the innermost essence of the nature of mind, the ancient and direct
stream of wisdom that encompasses the foundation of all the Buddhist teachings.
We left late that night. At the door she looked deeply into my eyes and said, “You may come
back.” The next evening, fumbling along the dark road being led by nose and instinct I found her
place again. After entering the second time I stayed for almost four months, returning to my own
place only to change clothes and recoup my senses.
II
Tara was from Rostov, mother a former chanteuse torch singer, father a Georgian mafia don. She
had a seventeen year old daughter, a lead singer in a heavy metal punk rock band in Moscow;
black clothes, lipstick and nails, with the usual
chains and Doc Martin boots, name of Yana. She had lived in Spain for about twelve years, was
married to an Israeli for a short time, studied contemporary and interpretive dance, lived in a New
Age spiritual community and had operated a massage school business with a dozen or so
employees. She had a Spanish passport under another name, an Israeli passport under her married
name, and two Russian passports, one expired, the other fake. Her Nepalese visa had expired
about a year before I met her and she was penniless. Enter her savior, the rich American.
Tara considered herself the Buddha. “I am the Buddha,” she told me. “Yes, yes,” I replied, “You
are a Buddha, I am a Buddha, we are all Buddha’s.” “No, you don’t understand, I am The
Buddha, born in Russia and reincarnated in a female form this lifetime. I am fully enlightened,” she
said and showed me a picture of herself taken by some itinerate photographer in Bodh Gaya with a
halo in back of her head, proof that a cosmic hand had descended and touched her, rendering her
pure and fully enlightened. Well, India and Nepal has many such folks wandering around
proclaiming their divinity and who was I to argue. Many of us who have experimented with
entheogens-God manifesting substances-have had these experience, and blasts of cosmic
consciousness and other such epiphanies are not uncommon in this age when many scientists and
philosophers have come to believe that our concepts of God have been genetically hardwired into
our brain, that God is “in here” rather than “out there.” After all, psychedelic substances have been
used since the dawn of history to stimulate religious experiences and such practices still continue in
many part of the world.
We spent our days in front of her computer designing an elaborate website that she had been
working on for over a year; one hundred pages, each with several pictures of herself in various
costumes and poses and each with this extraordinary text I had been privy to in the beginning. She
was indeed a master; eccentric, brilliant, with maybe a touch of divine madness that so many great
teachers have been afflicted with. An exercise in megalomania a friend commented after viewing her
website. She worked at it 12-14 hours a day, constantly smoking big Russian style joints of hashish
mixed with cheap tobacco, seldom eating, a little coffee milk her servant would bring into her work
station, a few biscuits, an occasional plate of rice.
She had a connection to the different monasteries and lamas in the neighborhood, all of whom had a
high regard for her gifts, though much to her annoyance were not able to proclaim her a living
Buddha or tulku. However, they called her whenever ceremonial performances or other special
festivities were about to happen and she would hurriedly dress in her elaborate finery-all of which
she made herself-and rush off to do her unique dance routine and mudras, the sacred postures of
the Buddha’s and bodhisattvas that incorporate the mystic attitudes of fingers and hand gestures
used as meditation and ceremonial aids. During those performances of spiritual theatre she would
be invited to sit next to the high lamas in a seat of honor, would perform a mudra dance or, in a
state of mental fixity or Samadhi, stand for hours in a complicated pose to the accompaniment of
cymbals and long horns as monks pranced about in fierce costumes warding off evil spirits inimical
to the dharma. Young monks were always
dropping by her cottage to sit at her feet and listen to her wisdom and bring her small gifts in typical
guru-chela fashion, which she sorely needed. She talked about taking me to Russia one day to do a
tour of the “Golden Necklace” or “Golden Circle,” the string of monasteries and orthodox churches
that circle Moscow where she could do her performance for the monks as she had done previously
in Red Square to an astounded audience. An acquaintance of a friend, a Russian psychiatrist who
had heard about her on a visit to Kathmandu, said she was well known throughout Moscow and
environs and was referred to as “the Mudra” lady.
Her small house was a temple in the Tibetan fashion, evocative of high lama’s quarters with wafting
incense, painted images of the Tibetan iconography on the walls, statuary and rich fabrics covering
tables, chairs and pillows. A set of beautiful Russian icons adorned her alter along with images of
the twenty-one Tara’s and the Buddha. The bookcases overflowed with esoteric tomes on
philosophy and Buddhism, as well as fashion design spilling onto the floor, and large bolts of cloth
were stacked on shelves and standing upright in a corner. Her bed, a futon on the floor, was
covered with a leopard skin. Her small kitchen, off the main room, contained two empty
refrigerators and a tabletop gas range that she, or her servant, unpaid for many months, hardly ever
used.
Her workroom, the main focus of her energy when not giving darshan, dispensing wisdom or
entertaining guests was filled to overflowing with three professional sewing machines, and more
bolts of expensive cloth that she would cut up into very small pieces and resew into her unusual and
distinctive-high Russian fashion- gowns that she sold to wealthy tourists whenever the opportunity
arose, and two large circular racks to contain them. Her desk, squeezed into the corner next to a
window, contained a computer and two laptops with printer, scanner, various accessories, and
hundreds of CDs and books stacked up and overflowing onto the sewing machines, two small
tables and floor. A small basket next to the computer held tobacco, a slab of blond hashish, a
couple of small temple balls, and rolling papers.
III
Tara had overstayed her visa by about ten months, a very serious affair in Nepal, and a good deal
of money and energy was expended in attempting to get this problem straightened out. Her
legitimate Russian passport with her Nepalese entry visa had expired, and her mother had gone to
the Russian embassy in Moscow, paid some baksheesh, gave them a picture, signed Tara’s name
and sent her the new passport minus the required exit and entry stamps. When I asked her what
she wanted to do with the rest of her life she replied that she wanted to teach, give darshan and
open her school somewhere in the mountains of India, utilizing her website to attract international
students.
My usual routine for the last 5-6 years had been to live in Nepal 5 months, 6 months in India and a
month in the U.S. for doctor visits, and to see my children with the long range plan in settle in
Almora, a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas where I would lease a house and
concentrate on finishing a couple of books I had been working on. If she wished to accompany me
it might be an opportunity to start up her school on a small scale while she set the groundwork for
the larger operation she had in mind. The idea appealed to her so we set about making plans to get
her out of Nepal and across the border to India, first to Banaras where I usually live, and where my
things were, and then to Almora where friends had been scouting for the right house for me.
We paid off her di-di, the servant girl she had had for the duration of her stay, cleared her bill with
the web master who had launched her website, had her teeth repaired, and
contacted Peanut Butter Larry, an old American expat and brilliant University of Chicago dropout
who dealt in fake visa stamps and other paper products much in need in that part of the world. An
old hippie from the sixties who made peanut butter for the tourists to support himself until he found
that forging was easier and more lucrative.
A Nepalese equipment dealer made up six, large zippered bags in various colors for her gowns and
other finery, and we started to make arrangements for the transportation of her things to India. At
the same time I made contact with the redoubtable Mr. Singh, a trusted travel agent who would
make arrangements for domestic plane tickets to the border for her,
Baksheesh for the Nepalese border guards, baksheesh for the Indian Immigration, and rail tickets
for the Indian train to Banaras for her and a limited amount of her luggage. This upset her somewhat
since she had a lot of things she wanted to take but not only was it not practical with the Maoists
controlling the roads at the time but it was beyond my means to send a couple thousand pounds of
cargo to our final destination, and she was simply going to have to store her books, sewing
machines and other heavy items until we got settled. This she clearly did not want to do in spite of
our many conversations about attachment and the ephemerality or illusion of “stuff.” I was going to
fly to Banaras and would meet the train when she arrived with the baggage she would be taking.
She would wear one of her monkly designer robes and appeared oblivious to any danger this
adventure might entail, announcing that her holiness would get her through any problems that might
arise. Mr Singh would accompany her across the border, make the necessary payments, take her
by taxi to the train station and travel to the first stop with her before getting off and returning to
Kathmandu.
She started to pack, put up ads around the stupa and on various neighborhood bulletin boards and
reluctantly sold a lot of her kitchen things. At the same time, and even more reluctantly, she made
inquires about storage facilities. When I suggested that this might be a good time to get rid of her
junk and unnecessary accumulations she exclaimed that it was all necessary and nothing was junk!
The website, her main concentrated effort the last year was finally launched, and she was now
ready to start a new life in the Indian Himalayas where her dream of starting her own
school/ashram/temple with herself as the presiding guru would be realized. I left for Banaras with
the foreboding feeling that there would be problems and she might not make it and when she didn’t
show up as scheduled, I must admit, I was somewhat relieved, for she had gotten very difficult
toward the end as well as quite expensive and I could see that it would not be an easy relationship if
carried to its logical conclusion. I emailed here several times but received no answer and shortly
thereafter went to Almora for a vacation with my children, then returned to the U.S. for awhile.
About eight months Later I returned to Kathmandu, went to her old house but her landlord told me
that she had moved, was still in the area but knew not where, obviously keeping a low profile
because of her visa status.
In spite of the fact that the local children threw rocks and laughed at the crazy “Ruska,” when she
walked down the muddy road in her silken gowns and distinctively tall headgear, and in spite of the
fact that she was an inveterate ganja smoker, she was not crazy in the clinical sense. Though she
smoked from morning till night it seemed to have no negative effect on her, on her energy level, her
clarity and focus and mind set, and indeed, like her doppelganger, the Russian occultist Madam
Blavatsky who smoked hashish and opium constantly, it seemed to open her up and spur her on to
greater creative heights. The Secret Doctrine and Isis Unveiled, two works of astounding erudition
were both written under the influence and Tara’s book is an awesome piece of writing as well.
We had an ayahuasca session together. “It will have no effect,” she stated as we sat on cushions in
her small red mirrored temple, incense burning, soft sitar music in the background. Whereas I
quickly sprawled out and left the planet and went on fantastic inner voyages with the ancient plant
teachers whose total control I was under, she sat with folded legs, straight as an arrow and one-
pointed as the Buddha. It reminded me of the Ram Das story when Neem Karoli Baba gobbled the
whole bottle of Ram Das’ LSD and didn’t feel a thing, indicating of course that he was already so
high he couldn’t get any higher. I don’t know if that was Tara’s case but from all outward
appearances it had no negative effect; no purging, no anxiety, no freak out or hellish visions, just
one-pointed calmness and equanimity…. emptiness. And of course, that, in and of itself, could have
been the effect
This is a remarkable woman, I thought; talented, brilliant, an eccentric no doubt, and with a touch of
divine madness as most of us are who spend years wandering Asia in search of wisdom,
understanding and ourselves. But is she The Buddha returned in female form? The Maitreya? The
Buddha to come? We might find her on a number of pages in the DSM IV but most of us would be
there as well. So when I heard she was in jail for murder my first thought was that her dharma, her
true nature, was being tested; the universe was throwing down the gauntlet. “Are you the Buddha?”
it asks, “Now is the time to prove it,’’ The jail experience will be her cave, her bodhi tree, the test
of her true nature, her authenticity and intrinsic radiance that all Buddha’s shine forth with regardless
of their circumstances. Jail is a hard taskmaster anywhere in the world but a Nepalese or Indian jail
is a brutal and inhuman experience, especially for a foreign woman.
The charge was murdering her di-di, her servant girl, the young woman that had been with her for
more than a year; not only murdering her but cutting up her body into many pieces and burying her
in the forest in some kind of nylon bag. The body was cut up beyond recognition and the girl was
gone so the local authorities assumed Tara was the culprit; maybe she owed the girl her wages,
there was an argument and the mad Russian woman killed her, then chopped her up and put in one
of the zippered nylon bags she had, buried her in the forest and then attempted to get away, but
was caught at the border by the quick thinking of the Immigration Police. In the eyes of the law she
was already a criminal for immigration violations, forged visa and passport, little money, a fishy
story and then the claim of being an enlightened master to top it off just proves that she was some
kind of deranged mad woman capable of anything. The papers said they thought she had an
accomplice, a Svengali type that the neighbors saw hanging around for several days before the
reported incident.
But off course she didn’t do it and I knew for sure, in my bones, that she was innocent. How was I
to prove that? How was I to get her out of the horrible Dili Jail and across the border to India were
she would be safe to pursue her innocence from the safety of comfortable quarters and a good
lawyer? I must talk to my good friend Jonathan who always throws light on these complicated
matters of life and death. I also knew that here in Asia cash is king; there’s no miracle that a fat
wad of rupees can’t accomplish.
IV
It was fairly simple; getting the money proved more difficult than bribing the guards. The Tibetan
underground bank is an institution of great repute in Nepal; cash on your signature, personal check,
gold, silver, antiques, etc., but I had never done business with them before and needed a sponsor
who would agree to have his legs broken in lieu of mine if the debt wasn’t honored. For that my
friend Andrew, a Brit, who used to run money for them back and forth to Hong Kong, came to my
rescue. Five guards, poor village boys that didn’t make more than twenty-five dollars a month,
having a thousand dollars in new U.S. greenbacks waved under their noses, was an offer they
couldn’t refuse. We walked out of Dili Jail, Kathmandu’s top security lock-up, without a hitch, and
were soon speeding off into the night and on our way to Seongi, the small, isolated, mountain village
where my old friend Jonathan lived.
About 4 hours later the taxi driver dropped us off on the outskirts where we hired a tonga, a horse
drawn carriage, to take us up the mountain where Jonathan’s old temple complex, Vajra House, is
located; a large, ancient, handmade complex of buildings surrounded by high, thick walls and a
twenty-five foot bamboo forest, and made from mud bricks, straw, cow shit and rice husks. Hand
carved scenes from the Ramayana and other Hindu religious themes adorn the massive beams
throughout the main house while his main room looks out onto overflowing greenery and bright
blasts of vivid colors from the many exotic flowers that have thrived under his thumb. Here my
friend lives amid his books and
lush gardens, delving into the esoteric wisdom, potions and magic of the alchemist. He is scholar,
writer, psychologist, botanist, student of the dharma, and had worked for many years as an expert
in the field of anti-trafficking, or the buying, smuggling, and selling of young Nepalese village girls to
the brothels of Calcutta and Saudi Arabia.
Though now retired from active participation Jonathan keeps abreast of Nepal’s social issues and
knows many in local law enforcement, and whom to pay when necessary. He is small and wiry,
bald on top with long side hair and scrawny beard, granny glasses hanging on his nose, and usually
wears long Mandarin type robes when not in the public eye. On those rare occasions when he does
goes out and about he tends toward anonymity, poor professor attire, which he finds more
advantageous when gliding through the difficult social and legal terrain of this conservative country
steeped in complex tradition. At one time he had been advisor to the late king Birenda on various
cross-border and foreign national problems so we looked forward to his advice and help.
Tara was exhausted from the months in prison, the tension of the escape and the long taxi ride.
Sound asleep on the big bed in the guest cottage, she slept for 20 hours.
Jonathan arranges assistance for our problem. Should we go as unobtrusively as possible or go with
flair? There was something to be said for both ways. Finally we decide on the middle way,
Buddhist fashion. We will go as humble pilgrims, in costume, but have at the ready enough cash to
buy our way out. The next morning an SUV arrived at the compound with a big, tough looking Sikh
driver with a big smile and a pink turban who emanated power and confidence. It took us the better
part of the day to get to the Indian border. It was a tense scene as we approached the Nepal exit
gate; lots of guns and suspiciousness. Kalsa Baba, our smiling driver, took care of the formalities
and the baksheesh, we crossed over without incident and then had to go through the same scene
with the Indians. But the Indians were very jolly about the whole thing until the phone rang in their
shack and the sergeant returned with a different attitude, demanded money, said we were rich
undesirables. Kalsa gave them some but it wasn’t enough, more they demanded, but finally we just
got in the car and left, barreling down the road with them screaming, and firing off their guns.
Maybe they fired in the air since nothing hit the car but we would have to be extra mindful now
since there would probably an alert put out to the police.
We finally made it to our destination in India, a small Himalayan village known for its beauty and
hospitality, and home to wide variety of interesting foreigners, many wearing the robes of the
pilgrim-mendicant-monk; serious scholars, sadhus, deep thinkers, a few bums, a few from the
school of utter confusion but all aspects of the One that brought us here . Tara’s school has begun
and we shall hear more from her in the future….
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