Before gardening in the coolest hours of the day, both morning and late afternoon before the trip, which meant that I was hardly meditating. Upon our return, I switched to emphasizing meditating daily, so now I am hardly gardening. Although I loved the sunshine, fresh air and exercise, it seems this schedule is more in line with my personal goals. Since no one appreciates my gardening efforts anyway, it’s not as though I am contributing anything to the cause.

I am reading Thomas Merton’s Ascent to Truth, a guide to meditation, which I found in Sahaja’s library. Through it, I have been reminded of my desire to have a real spiritual guide, someone capable of sitting with me and giving me some personal guidance like “you are stuck at such level because of such and such,” or “try this, it could be your next step.” Spiritual seekers have found such people in the past, and I assume they still exist. However, with the monsoon and heat, it’s really not feasible to travel now. So in the meantime, I will remain peacefully with my own practice, so I can conserve what little energy I have.

After my daily meditation, I wonder what I am going to do today. It is written that the Indian sages repose in their Divine Nature, never needing to act or avoid acting. Since I cannot rest in my Divine Nature due to certain innate inadequacies, I will have to act. This is how Merton put it—we are not chasing objects for their sake or for the happiness they give us. We are chasing for the passion of the chase to keep ourselves occupied, so we don’t have to feel the pain of admitting how inadequate we are at contemplation.

Just to challenge my resolve to meditate, horrendous noises are erupting through my open windows from dawn to dusk. The laborers are doing double-time to have everything ready for a spiritual camp. The huts will hold the fifty some-odd people who will arrive in less than two weeks. I look for my ear plugs and find that the mice have chewed them to bits.

While I am questioning my spiritual life, my encounter with the rural life is continuing uninterrupted. Mice had a big party in my hut while I was in Kottagiri. Mouse droppings and pee, a stain impossible to remove, are on several items of clothing, since there are no drawers or cabinets in which to hide them. Their favorite game now is chewing through the strings that hold my mosquito net up, so that it flops on my face in the middle of the night. They quickly find the nuts stashed in my nylon shopping bag. When I come into my room after dark, I can catch one—sometimes two—by quickly zipping up the bag. Then I tote it over to the entrance gate to release. I do not know how many there are, maybe the same ones find their way back here, but it soon becomes obvious that this game could go on forever.

Suddenly, we have electricity, so I can at least turn a light on when I hear a critter. The ashram had been wired for power months before I arrived. However, to get the connection here, a bribe to the local official was necessary. Sahaja was holding out, standing on his religious rights, but I think he finally capitulated to the powers that be and paid. This means that I can get up and have a cup of tea using my heating coil first thing in the morning. Otherwise, it has little consequence for me since I still do my studying and proof-reading during the day, and let my eyes rest at night.


One day when I am walking across the extensive grounds, I hear a voice behind me calling, “Amma, Amma.” I could not imagine that anyone would be calling me “Mother,” so I do not even turn to see who is being summoned. You can imagine my surprise when the elderly carpenter crosses over to confront me with his palms together in the traditional salutation of respect, repeating “Amma” again to my face.

When I recover slightly from the shock, enough to smile, I ask him, “Are you okay?” Although he will not understand my words, I think he may sense my sentiment. He demonstrates his plight by making a terrible, hacking cough and pointing to his chest. Obviously, he is asking for my help. I touch his forehead to discern that he does have a fever.

“Randhi [come],” I motion for him to follow me. As we go over to my hut, I am puzzling, why in the world did he come to me for help? I have had no contact with this elderly man who does odd jobs around the place. Then I remember that a week ago I gave Jagdish a homeopathic remedy when he had a bad fall. The carpenter must have found out. I do not fail to note that he came to me for homeopathy instead of the Nature Cure route.

Just before I arrived, the brahmachari who tends the cows got a nasty cut on his hand. The swami and swaminis were so elated that it healed so fast because of Nature Cure—eight days of fasting. At the time, I questioned them if this was a feasible modality for the villagers who can hardly afford to miss a day’s work. Little wonder the carpenter has come to me; he is trying to escape the fasting for eight days! He seems to be okay when I see him two days later. Afterwards, he shows no sign of recognition, as if we had never met. I will eventually come to understand that this modesty is a sign of respect.


During my regular trips back to Bangalore to stay at the Bhavan, I met a nice young man who had recently taken his CPA exams. Since Sahaja is looking for an accountant for the school and Nature Cure Center, I suggest the young man to him. When Sunil comes out for an interview, he has to sleep in the school office without a bed or mosquito net. When asked how he slept the next morning, he mentions the mosquitoes. Swamini Atheetha replies, “Oh, we don’t bother about these things—after all we are in an ashram.”

Every one of the swamis and swaminis have a sleeping net, including her, so her statement was a bit off-putting. Not one to keep quiet in the face of abject falsehood, I pipe in, “He’s here to apply for the accountant job, not to be a swami.”

There have been several such incidents; I am on the verge of making a negative judgment about the whole crew. These were not the type of ideas I had in mind when I said I wanted to experience the world from another mindset!

The young man did take the job, but arranged to rent a house in the near-by village, modestly furnished, for 300 rupees a month. He tells me the village has many empty houses because the owners are working in the city, saving their village homes for retirement.

Although he seemed very reserved at the Bhavan, somehow in this new setting, he has found himself and turned into an expert on any and all projects. I see him one day showing the boy who waters the trees how to do it properly. He is explaining, if they were to build a dike in a circle around trunks, the water would stay around the tree, instead of running down the road. As he demonstrates, a group of onlookers gathers. However, the lesson is broken up when the swamini in charge of agriculture comes out to inform him that this is the only time the boy has to water; further, if he is disturbed he will not be able to complete his work. It is really a stitch seeing an Indian trying to tell another how to do things nicely—and he got just as far as I have.

Before the camp convened, a nice gentleman arrived for a two week retreat. He is a regular guest, but evidently he does not participate in meditation, for the morning bell remains silent. Since he is really the only one on the premises who speaks English, on a couple of mornings he joins me for my morning walk. We pass some villagers; as usual, I give them a quick hello and pass. However, Mr. RamaSwami understands their Tamil. “They are talking about the ashram having a bus and a TV.”

“How could they know? The bus just arrived yesterday, and the TV is inside a building.”

“Oh, they’ll know everything that happens. A couple of the workers at the ashram are local folk from the village.”

“I see.”

“Sure, they keep up with what’s going on. They resent that the school is being built to bus in paying students from Hosur [the nearest town]. And none of them will ever be able to use the Nature Cure center.”

“I see their point, yet I’m not sure they would want to use the school or the center, if it were available to them. In general, I’ve heard the Tamil villager is not particularly open to change.”

“Yes, but we should give them the opportunity.”

“I just can’t say. I do not know Sahaja’s motives. I understood when he was in Coimbature he had a school for the local children, probably a trade school. I just don’t understand why he has changed so much.”

One morning on the outskirts of a neat village of less than 100 residents, we encounter a friendly, young man working in the fields. He strikes up a conversation with Mr. RamaSwami. Of course, he knows we are from the ashram. “Those swamis just want to make money, so they can enjoy themselves,” was his succinct analysis of the situation.

He goes on to tell us that he had been studying chemistry in the university in Bangalore. However, the family funds ran out when his older brother lost his job in a motorcycle factory. Frankly, he appears quite dejected that he now has to be home taking care of the family land. I encourage him to visit the Gandhi Village when they get it started. He will learn a lot of natural farming techniques, as well as be able to take advantage of their seed bank.

Local farmer trashing rice

As Mr. RamaSwami and I converse from one subject to another, we hit on a couple of interesting tidbits. First, a personal note: Mr. RamaSwami’s family is from the Salem area. Seeking employment during the British Empire era, his father had moved to Burma to work for a British bank. His salary, sent home monthly, supported a joint family: his wife and children, plus a brother and his wife and an unmarried sister. When Burma became involved in World War II, the checks quit coming. From Salem, a tiny town in the middle of Tamil Nadu, his family tried to make inquiries about the father. However, they never got any assistance in finding him. To this day, they have no idea what happened to him.

On another subject, he informs me that he has Indian friends in U.S. have told him that he can go there to live. In only a short time, he can become eligible for Social Security, then return to India and receive checks. To put it mildly, I am surprised. Instead of over-reacting and stating my opinion as I normally would, I feign idle curiosity and ask him a few pointed questions. Does he specifically know anyone who has done so? Is there a possibility that the Indians in U.S. are trying to take advantage of their fellow compatriot? In other words, how would he live once he got to America?

I do keep my mouth shut about two cases I know of in which wealthy Indians are taking advantage of U.S. Social Security, so I remain ambivalent. However, I warn him that he should be cautious in attempting any such scam. After assuring me he’s not interested anyway, he makes a point to give me some financial advice: “Whatever you do, do not let that swami get his hands on your money. You will be stuck here.”


Everyone is getting ready for the camp, but there is an advantage. Sahaja told me that he will be “revising” the texts that will be given by the swaminis. First thing on the appointed morning, I go over to the meditation hall, prepared to begin study of one of the traditional Sanskrit texts. When I enter, he has not started yet, so I take a moment to explain to him the difference in the British and American word “revise.” To us, what he means is that he will be “reviewing” the texts. As it turns out, the classes are to be in Tamil, so, for me, it doesn’t matter whether he is revising or reviewing.

A few days later, the buildings are ready and the participants begin to arrive. I only attend the morning meditation, so I am in my room the remainder of the time. I am looking forward to the peace and quiet. Not yet... Many people arrived in cars, bringing with them drivers who are not interested in spiritual classes. The shade of the cherry tree beside my hut is a handy place for them to gather, chat, and play their radios.

Continually, I am fascinated by my attempt to look at the world from a different mind set. How would the world appear if I had entirely different ideas about it? However, I suspect I shall remain stuck in my concept that we have to treat others equally and fairly. I don’t think I’m going to get past this typically American hang-up.

A young woman came back with us from Kottagiri to be in charge of the kitchen, the store room and the ordering of food, particularly during the camp. I am surprised to note that Parvati speaks a decent level of English. Because of her English, Sahaja promised her a teaching position in the school when it opens in September. Two weeks into her stay, it becomes apparent that she falls into the exploited group. Her first responsibility is to get the large store room organized. Her exact words are “if you could see the condition of the grains and beans, you would run away from here and never return.” When the camp begins, she is in the kitchen from before sunup until past sundown. She confides in me that the swaminis seem to be making it very difficult for her.

In Kottagiri, Poppy, the cook at the retreat center, had warned her not to come. Poppy was a local woman with a delightful face that I will always remember. She had found her place in life as the cook at the local ashram where we stayed. She lived totally from her sense of self; I can assure you she tolerated no crap from any man.

“That swami is a jungly fellow,” were her exact words to Parvati. When she tells me of Poppy’s words, I am puzzled. Poppy was hardly the type to bother with others, much less criticize them—and a swami at that. No one criticizes a swami. We wonder what Poppy knows that we do not.

Since Nature Cure a la Sahaja emphasizes raw food, we have at least one selection each meal. I help several women chop the raw vegetables each day for the fifty participants. Raw banana stalk, available from the garden, is my favorite; I love it. However, the stalks have to be young and tender to be edible. We also eat banana flowers; Usha had cooked several great dishes with them too. They require careful preparation because the tough, bitter stamen has to be removed from each flower.

To encourage the eating of raw foods, which is totally adverse to the Indian diet, one afternoon Sahaja gives the participants a demonstration of preparing raw vegetable salads. As he finishes, he turns to me and informs everyone that he will be going to America with his raw foods.

“But Sahaja, Americans eat salads already. It’s the Indians who eat only cooked food.” Why do I always fall into the trap of interjecting some simple logic? No sooner have the words fallen from my lips do I know that I should have remained silent.

“But my method is much better.”

“You add grated coconut, which has gotten a lot of bad press for its cholesterol. And the Americans will never go for those green chilies that you put in.”

“They are just for taste.”

“Not for the American taste. Anyway, they are not considered healthy. The homeopathic doctor in Bangalore told me that no one should eat green chilies.”

“Well, we could eliminate the chilies and the coconut, I suppose.”

I wanted to say, “Then you would just have the salads that we eat anyway,” but I knew it would fall on deaf ears. This is not a place to interject logic. The Greeks may have gotten their esoteric logic from the sages of Bharata, but I am becoming more and more convinced that logic in practical matters is surely a development unique to the West.


On the last day of the retreat, several people plan an entertaining program, including several skits. Parvati gets a couple of the camp participants to help her with one and solicits me to help with costumes. The crux of it is an imitation of Swamini Atheetha and Sahaja—all in Tamil, so I do not really know what is going on. However, it is obvious that both the swamis do not like the spoof. Afterwards, I ask Parvati what she said that made them so mad, but she insists that she does not know. The only English-speaking couple agrees with her that the skit was just in fun.

Parvati and I decide that we have outlived our usefulness at the ashram, or vice versa. I will not even have to worry about Jagdish’s fate. He has moved to Hosur to live with a young couple who came to the camp. He will be a carpenter’s apprentice in their furniture shop. So Parvati and I plan our escape. Tomorrow all the camp participants will depart, so we can leave quietly the following day without making any spectacle.

It’s late, but I go out for a long, moonlit stroll. The storm clouds are so thin the reflected moonlight shines through them to cast a haze over the leaves in the banana grove. The dark waters of the lake glisten in the background. Reminiscing over the past month, I smile as I acknowledge that I have certainly experienced rural India. And I was expecting more. I was really counting on having a daily group meditation and classes on the traditional texts. A real issue is that I feel isolated from the wonderful spiritual traditions, sages, and holy places that abound here. I may as well be back in San Francisco. Maybe it’s just that there is no singing and dancing here! Meditation, study, service project, singing and dancing—that’s what I wanted.

A cool breeze blows across my face. I feel at peace in this quiet beauty. Although at times I have felt distraught because of certain situations, nature has never let me down. It’s been a thread to bring me back to center again and again. I sigh as I take in the vitality from the beauty of the starlit sky. Mentally, I bid this place adieu.

First thing in the morning, Parvati goes to the office to tell Sahaja that she will be leaving. He doesn’t question her, and just says, “That’s fine.” He knows she does not have any money, nor does he offer her a single paisa (penny) for her transportation home or the three weeks of work from 12 to 16 hours a day. “Top pay” must be subject to his interpretation. Then she leaves her small bag with me and goes out to the highway and over to the village to find a taxi to send over to pick up me and my baggage.

When the taxi arrives at my cottage, I start to load one of my three suitcases into it. At just that moment, Sahaja happens to be strolling down the lane. Seeing the taxi, he comes over to investigate.

“What’s going on here?”

“I’m heading out. I was going to come by your office to tell you good-bye.”

“No, you stay. What difference does it make to you if there is a little lovemaking going on here?”

Fortunately, I am bending over to close my bag because I am sure a confounded look crosses my face. The phase quickly passes as I realize: that one comment sure explains a lot.

“Look, I don’t care what any of you do. However, it’s obvious this is not the place for me. Everything I do is 180 degrees out of phase with the way you guys want things.”

“How did you know?”

“Your reactions are quite obvious.”

The driver helps me load the last, and biggest, suitcase, then we drive over the nearby village to pickup Parvati and head back to the city.

Home         Next Chapter        Previous Chapter      Glossary