Just as I am beginning to become disenchanted with everything including my personal meditation practice, I have a pleasant surprise. Sahaja is going to Kottagiri for a spiritual camp. Since I originally had the idea of spending the summer in the mountains there, I ask if I can go along. Sahaja is quite agreeable. Soon we are loaded in the ashram car and bound for the cooler climes of a hill station. The car is an old Renault, which I label the “silver streak,” since they have spray-painted it shiny silver.

The Nilgiris, Blue Mountains, are an extensive range of mountains in southwest India, rising to 9,500 feet. Although the British had most of their hill stations in the Himalayas, they had several summer retreats in the south too. After a long, hot journey across the plains, once we start ascending the foothills the temperature starts to dip. En route I find it definitely pays to travel with a swami. We are invited to several villages in which I’m sure no white face has ever entered.

The country folk of south India love to dance; for many, it is a part of their worship. They dance ecstatically as if possessed by a god, in an attempt to actually invite the god to come down, take over, and dance through them. In one village we visit, the women give a performance, then all of us join in. In another place, we dance down a long road from one village to another, drums beating all the way. I just love the dancing because I’ve always thought we modern Americans don’t sing and dance enough, just to have fun, like the pioneer’s barn dances. So my Tamil vocabulary begins with the two phrases: “Let’s dance” and “Let’s sing.”

In a larger village, arrangements have been made for lunch. We all line up in long rows with their banana leaf placed on the ground in front of us. Then huge pots are carried down the lines to serve everyone. The food is typical of this area: a stew of potatoes, kidney beans, and yellow pumpkin served over plain white rice: all carbohydrate, little protein, with no green or raw vegetables.

These are all self-sufficient agricultural communities. Although I assume that the men build the houses, however, the women do all the other work—in the home and in the fields. The only implement they have to work the fields is a short-handled hoe. At least once a year, the men have the duty of taking any excess harvest to the nearest city to sell in order to buy any supplies that the villagers cannot produce.

In one village, part of the entertainment for the swami is a group of six women singing a ballad recounting their hard life. It goes something like: Even when we work hard to produce the crops to have money to buy some chain, the men come home empty-handed, saying the chain was too expensive. Since the money was so little, they just spent it on having a spirited time.

The men protest to the swami that it is not true, but the women stand their ground. Of course, I miss the details due to my lack of Tamil. The inhabitants here believe themselves to be immigrants from the Bangalore area whose ancestors fled here several hundred years ago to escape Moslem oppression. However, I notice that all the complainants are wearing gold earrings and nose rings—never less than 18-karat. The jewelry is a unique style, the nose ornament is like a sun disk about the size of a dime with a semi-precious stone in the center.


When we finally arrive in Kottagiri, I find it is not quite what I expected. Unfortunately, because of the tea plantations, Kottagiri is not what it used to be. Chinese tea was introduced into Britain in the 17th century and quickly became a favored beverage. When the supply diminished due to failing trade with China, the British turned to India, forming the Committee of Tea Culture in Calcutta in 1834. Wild tea plants, a variety of the Camellia genus, were found in the northeast region of India. However, the flavor was not as pronounced as the Chinese variety. Finally, in 1842, Chinese seed was obtained for a planting in Darjeeling, which produced a highly successful crop.

Then the government turned to Assam, one of the most beautiful areas in the world—my appraisal is based on the number of wild orchids growing there—and ordered it cleared for tea. In 1854 the Assam Clearance Act gave away up to 3,000 acres of prime land to any European planter who promised to cultivate tea for export to England. At that time, there was only one large tea plantation in British India, but 20 years later, the number of estates had grown to 300. Three hundred estates of 3,000 acres indicates how fast Assam was cleared of its primeval forests.

That’s the difference in tea and coffee plantations. Coffee likes gentle shade so all the largest trees are preserved to make a canopy over the crop. However, tea requires lots of sun, so the natural landscape is laid bare. After Assam was devastated, the planters moved here to the Blue Mountains, finding Kottagiri a prime spot for tea plantations. Since I find very few patches of native trees here, I figure it’s just as well my plans for spending the summer here fell through. Neither do I see any evidence of the Kotta tribe; Kotta-giri meaning "mountain of the Kottas."

One afternoon at tea time, I drop by to meet the Singhs with whom I had communicated by letter from Pondicherry, so they will know me as Usha’s friend. A gracious gray-haired lady greets me at the door. After I introduce myself, she invites me in. While we are sitting and chatting, mostly my giving her the news of Usha, Mr. Singh enters the room.

“Oh, this must be Maggie. You have arrived.”

“No, this is Nancy, Usha’s friend.”

“Well, we have been expecting Maggie. She’ll stay for the summer,” Mr. Singh comments.

“I honestly did not know that Maggie was coming here. She must have made those plans after I left Pondy.” Just after, I mumble under my breath, remembering Usha’s phone call informing me that the Singh’s place was taken. Of course Maggie never shows up, so the Singhs are left without rental income that summer.

Mr. Singh is a charming, dignified gentleman who had worked as a manager of a factory in Ooty. As he is going to drive over there tomorrow, he asks me if I would like to accompany him. Of course, I’d love to check out this famous hill-station of the British, which is at 7,500 feet. I’ve already found out why the British headed for the hills during the hot season, I have to sleep in my down sleeping bag every night. However, the daytime temps are quite pleasant.

So early the next morning, we head out, winding through the hills. Mr. Singh has lived in this area for some time and is quite informed about the tribals, the Todas, around Ooty. Since they were the residence of the highest altitudes, they had huts, similar in shape to the Navajo Indian hogan, that had to be entered by a 6-foot tunnel, designed to keep out the cold and wind. He reports that many of them are going to regular schools now, choosing to live off a job instead of the land.

After he has a short meeting, we have lunch at the executive dining room of the company he retired from. Afterward, he is ready to return home. I am eager to see the botanical garden and ask him to drop me off there. Although I thought he understood that I am going to spend the night here, he appears quite puzzled. He tries to talk me out of it, for his mindset does not include a single woman spending the night alone in a hotel. However, he eventually complies with my wishes.

The botanical garden is lovely. The British had such a fascination with tropical plants; they were digging up, cataloging and shipping plants all over the Empire. I stroll around through rhododendrons, roses and a pond filled with water lilies. Then I sit in a shady grove surrounded by fuchsias, prepared to watch the birds for hours. Unfortunately, there is an interruption in my peaceful nook. A gaggle of young Indian men descend upon me. I am beginning to notice a particular phenomenon. Young men, about 18 to 20 years of age, roam about, seemingly, with the sole purpose of being obnoxious. A foreigner becomes prime prey for their pestering game. However, I am always dismayed to discover that if you meet one of them in a one on one encounter, they are the kindest, most helpful, kids you’ll ever find.

Since I’ve enjoyed a couple of hours in the garden, I decide it’s time to arrange for my over-night accommodations anyway. I pick a non-British spot to spend the night, the Fernhill Palace, which was the summer home of the Maharajah of Mysore. However, it is not entirely correct to call it non-British, as by the time this building was constructed everything was built in imitation of the conquerors. There’s carpet on the floors, heavy dark velvet drapes, with the staff and servers still decked in the uniforms existent in 1947, the end of the prince’s sovereignty. The princes were able to keep their private holdings, like this summer retreat, but in the 1970’s, in the role of Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi used her power to cut off their monthly stipend that the Government was under contract to pay them. Therefore, some of the princes have been forced to sell property or to open their second homes to the public to raise income.

After a hassle over the rate, the manager finally agrees to charge me the price given in my tour book. He first tries to justify the high price by saying it is the high-season. I don’t buy it. “But I’m the only person in the whole place” is my reply. He makes it up to me later by giving me a tour of all the rooms, including the Maharaja’s bedroom, which goes for a premium price. Happily, I settle into a lovely little room with a wall of windows that overlook a lovely garden.

What was an elegant ballroom is now the dining room, huge and formal with a ceiling two stories high. I have no idea what the ballroom was used for in the Maharaja’s day. Indians dance to invite the deities, not to entice a partner—those arrangements are made by Mom and Dad. When Indira Gandhi made a state visit to Washington, D.C., President Johnson made the faux pas of asking her to dance at a reception given in her honor. She politely refused with the comment that her countrymen would not have understood. Not have understood? If they had not have stoned her, it would have been a supreme test of the Indian passivity. As we saw during independence in 1947, although Indians can tolerate any treatment from foreigners, they are capable of attacking each other unmercifully.

When I enter the room, only one table is filled, with an elderly Indian couple. That means we have about three servers to each table. But there is one stone in the rice. I don’t know if it were originally designed like this or not, but the upstairs bar has a huge window that opens, overlooking the dining room. By some weird quirk of fate, someone is playing an American cowboy movie on the TV there. A cowboy movie in this isolated spot; no wonder the Indians stereotype America as the place where they have tall buildings and shoot each other. The shooting of pistols is blasting down over the dining room. Now I have tolerated a lot of noise since my arrival in India, but just at this very moment, I reach my limit. It seems that I tolerate foreign noises better than those of my countrymen.

I get up, go to the manager’s desk, and register a complaint. With a smile plastered over my face and in a soft voice (honestly), I explain that I am in this beautiful spot to have a lovely dinner; therefore, I am not interested in having the evening ruined by a stupid blaring American cowboy movie. He doesn’t get the point. He really tries, but he just can’t understand why I am not happy. Finally, I switch methods; I tell him what I want. I would like to hear some lovely classical music. Now, I don’t say Indian classical music, for I assume that is all that is available. He assures me he will have the movie volume turned down, look for a tape recorder, and try to find a tape of music. I thank him with dignity and grace, and return to my table.

Five minutes pass; the movie volume is lowered. That’s progress. Then the manager waves to me that he has found some music. I hold my breath. Suddenly I’m sure that all the young man will have is hard rock. But the gods are with me; it turns out to be wonderful classical harpsichord music. Although I’ve rarely had opportunities to listen to it, the sharp sounds of the harpsichord always strike some emotional note in me. With my eyes moist, I drift through dinner, savoring every bite, while hardly tasting it either. In this decadent setting, the strains carry me away to a time far away, long forgotten. By the time I finish eating, the other two diners have left, so I have the whole place to myself. I just get up and start to dance with the music. There’s one big corner with no furniture, so I twirl toward it. I become a butterfly, a bird, a diva; I soar in delight with the music. White eye-balls glisten in the dark corner nearest the kitchen—the whole staff is out watching the white lady dance. At least for a moment, I lose my shyness of being in front of an audience. I don’t miss a beat: “It’s a beautiful moment in my beautiful life.”


After two weeks in Kottagiri, including four days on the road, we return to Talli to prepare for an up-coming spiritual camp. Both going and returning, we spend the night in Salem in the home of a delightful couple. The wife is a very intelligent lady, a doctor, who runs a nursing home, which actually is a type of hospital here. The husband is quite interested in homeopathy, so we exchange notes on that subject. Also, extremely informed on Indian politics and economics, he keeps us laughing with the latest jokes about politics in India. Here’s a couple of examples:

A contractor placed a bid for construction of a dam. Just to get the contract, he had to pay 15% to the top official, then 12% to the second, then l0% to the third in command. When the fourth official appeared and asked for another 10%, the contractor balked: “Look, there is no way I can build that dam at a price less than 50% of the bid. I certainly want to make a profit myself.”

“Why, that’s no problem. Why would you waste your time in building a dam? No one will ever check whether you built it or not,” was the official reply.

Another one: An official needed some extra income to get his daughter married. One of his cohorts suggested that he milk the system by putting in an application to have the local lake filled in.

“But what lake? There’s no lake here,” questioned the official.

“That’s just the point,” the clerk replied. He went on to explain that the official who had previously held the top position also had needed money for his daughter’s wedding. Therefore, he had requisitioned central government for funds to dig a lake for drought relief, and then spent the money on the wedding. Since the lake never existed, it would be quite easy to remove. “Now, the drought is over, you can requisition funds to fill it in.”

His favorites are political, but here’s another one I’ve heard several times: When President Kennedy visited Delhi, he rebuked Prime Minister Nehru for the hygiene in Delhi. There’s a man taking a leak on every corner, he observed. Nehru stuffed his embarrassment, until he went to visit U.S. While there, he was ever alert trying to spot someone pissing in the streets. He had no luck until he was just ready to leave. Fortunately, Kennedy had accompanied him to the airport.

Nehru pointed to the tarmac, “Look, there’s a man out there pissing in public.” “Go get that man and bring him here,” Kennedy ordered. The officials obeyed and brought the culprit to the statesmen. Sure enough he was an Indian.


The Indians have a great capacity to laugh at themselves. When I think about it, I can never remember one ever becoming defensive, not even when I make my little cynical remarks, such as “is that Indian time or is that American time,” when arranging a meeting. Surely their wonderful sense of humor has been another factor that has saved their culture from the ravages of time--and foreigners.