My next stop is Hampi, a wonderful historical site from the Vijayanagar Empire. I was there in 1979, en route from Bombay to Kerala. At that time, someone had told me that the great Kanchi Sankaracharya, one of India’s most respected spiritual teachers, was here on a pada yatra, pilgrimage on foot. In fact, I was able to meet the Acharya (teacher) when he camped in Hampi. Everyone thought he was in his last days then, but he lived another twenty years. He lived to be over one hundred years old.

However, the event that remained in my mind from that trip to Hampi was the night I spent at a Jain ashram. There I encountered a Jain woman saint and several nuns. Although I know very little about Jainism, these four women appeared to be living an authentic spiritual life. Hampi is rural India personified, so I will be in a spiritual and rural environment to further my observances, as well as continue with my daily meditation. It’s a perfect time to return there now because Hampi is quite convenient to Bangalore. After I drop a packet of editing in the mail “speed-post,” I head for the site of India’s last indigenous empire.

Because of a five-hour wait for a bus to make a 30-minute ride, I arrive at Hampi about 2:00 p.m. Yesterday I arrived late in Hospet late in the afternoon so I spent the night. I conjectured that I could catch an early bus to be able to arrive at the ashram conveniently at an early hour. However, no early bus was available. No one seemed to know when the buses come or go, they just waited without complaint.

About noon, I lunched on a couple of bananas and a packet of biscuits; the usual fare found at a bus station. Actually, one bus arrived about 11:00 a.m. bound for Hampi, but it was so crowded that I would have had to ride on the roof. A kind gentleman advised me that another bus would be coming soon and it should not be so crowded. But it was as it should not be. Taking pity on me, a couple of experienced locals pushed me on the 1:00 p.m. bus. Away I went, standing with my suitcase between my legs.

S lowly, I huff and puff, following the dirt road up a rocky hill with the sun burning down on the back of my neck. The ashram must be just around the curve. No, not this one, there’s another incline and another curve up ahead, I sigh. As I struggle around the next bend, I am confronted with a landscape of stone buildings, like army barracks. “Hello, hello,” I call out, but I receive no reply. Then I realize they are all deserted. Not a single person is to be seen—all remains silent and empty. Using my suitcase for a seat, I rest for a moment. Then gathering my last bit of energy, I haul it over to store under an open stairway, so that I can go on ahead to investigate.

I continue up the hill and around another curve. I see absolutely nothing familiar. Yet this must be the place, for the directions I received to the Jain ashram were precise. Besides, it is the only ashram on this side of the road; I remember that much from my previous visit. At last, I approach a large iron gate with a prominent arch overhead. I spot one small boy in the courtyard, but he does not reply to my question. However, upon seeing me, he takes off; to find someone, I suppose. Meanwhile, I turn back to retrieve my suitcase, not realizing that it is totally safe.

Prakash comes running after me. His English is limited, but adequate for the occasion. “Hello. . . Hello.”

“Is this where the Jain Mataji lives?”I inquire.

“Yes.”

“I met her here in 1979, but the place has really changed, I don’t recognize anything.”

The many buildings have turned the lovely hillside into a concrete jungle. To make matters worse, all the left-over building materials have been dumped along the roadside in ugly heaps of rubble. I stumble over some loose bricks as we turn to retrieve my suitcase.

“No management,” Prakash declares, with the typical whirling of the hand, the gesture of the south Indians that means “no, nothing.”

Surely, I have witnessed a portent of things to come. In my travels, I have found that life in an ashram is as distinct as the personalities of the preceptor of the ashram. This one will be no exception.

After we lug my suitcase up the hill and back into the courtyard, Prakash leads me down a long cool passageway. There I find the Mataji sitting on an Indian bed with two large dogs by her side. I explain to her, and the small group sitting around her, that I had stayed here over night in 1979.

At that time, the Mataji had given me a real boost in a meditation. She had asked me to repeat a mantra with her that created something like a vortex, which I felt as I was about to disappear into. But I held back because I did not want to miss the one and only bus out of Hampi that day, or I would have missed my connecting bus and train. I will not attempt to justify that decision. I am sure there was also an issue of lack of trust, since I had just met her.

Obviously, I remembered the encounter and wanted to check her out. However, she was not the only influence that urged me to come back to this place. When I was here before, I met three wandering Jain nuns. They were exceptional women in every respect. They were just beginning a pilgrimage across south India, begging their food, and staying in chaudris, or temple shelters. They had invited me to join them. I was quite interested in doing so, but the time just was not right for me. Again, I now hoped to meet these three nuns, or learn something about them.
The Mataji does not recall my previous visit, but everyone agrees that she must be the same Mataji I had met here before. I explain to her that I have been staying in different ashrams, usually for one month, so that I am able to settle into the ashram routine and meditation practice. She agrees (through a translator) that it would be fine for me to stay here for one month.

As I am rearranging myself to sit more comfortably on the floor, I put my hand on her iron bed to steady myself. One of the dogs growls ferociously and the other immediately joins in the fray.
“Don’t touch!” chimes a female voice. I do not know if she is referring to the Mataji, the dogs, or, surely not, the bed, but I sure kept my hand to myself after that.

Ordinarily the Mataji closes her doors right after lunch for her afternoon rest, but today she has guests from Gujurat. After ten minutes, everyone adjourns to their quarters for a rest. As we are leaving, Jyothi, a charming young woman, introduces herself. She shows me to the ladies’ hostel, hands me a straw mat, and tells to pick a spot on the stone floor. As permanent residents, Jyothi and Lakshmi, an elderly woman, have one side of the room, while I join the two Gujurati guests on the other end. The hostel is one huge room with ample windows, giving plenty of light and fresh air.

I never need an alarm clock, for Lakshmi is awake and banging stainless steel utensils before sunrise. There may be some method in her madness, but it continues to amaze me that the utensils are not scarred. Although she washes her dishes after each meal, they are all rewashed in this ritual to start the day afresh. She has to hand-carry buckets of water from an outside faucet for the dish washing and to fill her large water pots for the day’s cooking. The loud banging of the door fills in the gaps between the pot banging. She attacks the duty with a vengeance that leaves one in awe of her stamina at sixty-five years of age. By 6:00 a.m. that task is over and she starts sweeping the floor with the same fervor.

Even with the noise of the pans and doors, plus the hardness of the stone floor (fortunately, I brought my thinsulite backpacking pad with me), I still have to give my body a nudge to get it to vacate its warm spot and to start moving. First, I plug in the heating coil to boil water for tea. By the time I have finished in the bathroom, the tea is steeped. While sipping the black, bitter liquid, I quickly dress and run a comb through my wet hair. I land in the meditation cave sometime between 5:45 and 6:15 a.m.

This cave was the meditation place of Mataji’s guru. She had her living quarters built right up beside it, so you have to walk down a hallway beside the cave to get to Mataji’s room. The cave is warm, usually quiet and peaceful. Except any time I get into a half-way tranquil state, the hallway doors slam, which gives my nerves a real grating. The entrance doors stick in such a way that one has to be pushed and the other pulled to open them properly. I figured out this combination on the second day, but others who have been here for years remain content to beat the doors like hell to get them open. On the other hand, I have at least five mosquitoes circling and dive-bombing me at any given moment. There goes the peace I thought I was experiencing, I have to smile. The Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree for weeks in this same India—how did he ever do it?

Each morning, I sit on my little carpet square until the Mataji comes in about 7:00 a.m. I figure I may not be achieving anything sitting quietly in meditation, but at least I am not contributing to the chaos of world for this one hour of the day. Others, including Jyothi and Lakshmi, arrive to join the Mataji as she performs the ritual worship of the marble statue of her guru and the little marble idol of Chandra Prabhu, the eighth sage of the Jain lineage. In temples in the South, the idol is often black, representing the dark, mysterious, inconceivable. Here the idols are of white marble, which is common in the North. The ones here are of men, not gods. To allay any misunderstanding, I follow the everyone with palms together as we pay respect to each statue. Then everyone gets on the floor to bow to Chandra Prabhu. I am really working on changing my mindset about all the Indian bowing. The Indians bow reverently to anything—everything. How many have even bowed and touched my feet?

Yet, it is quite an ego crusher for me to bow to a piece of stone. It’s the attitude that counts, I remind myself. Everyone bows here; even saints bow right down to the ground. When I bow, I reverently bow to that unfathomable mystery that pervades the universe, and to that same mystery within myself. If I had known this Jain saint, I am sure that I would comprehend that he deserved this symbol of respect.

After the ceremony, everyone troops over to the temple for another service. This temple also has been constructed within the past ten years. The Jains, along with the Hindus, have adopted the disarming practice of ringing a bell in the worship service, long and loud. It is intended to get the attention of the deity. I conjecture it would frighten off any deity. Anyway, it certainly would wake up any sleepy-headed worshipers, so it does serve a purpose. Truly, this temple bell is the biggest—and the loudest—in the country. They have achieved the ultimate. I do not know why religious people have to be so competitive about such things—the highest steeple, the largest altar, the loudest bell. Anyway, I am sure it will take my nervous system hours to recuperate. After the first morning, I do not return to the temple, and no one mentions it. Each morning, I head in that direction, following dear crippled Jyothi, as she limps and half-sprints to keep up with Mataji. At the fork in the path, I head over to the ladies’ hostel to get myself organized for the day.

After the temple service, everyone reconvenes in the kitchen, just across from the ladies’ hostel, for breakfast. I always linger afterward to feed the little sparrows bits of cooked cereal I have saved for them. This is my true vocationdfeeding birds. However, I have been informed that there is no money in it. Nevertheless, I do note that the birds have not bought into the “by the sweat of your brow” system.


When I finish breakfast, I grab my daypack and take off to explore the temple ruins in the vicinity. One morning I decide to take the strenuous route up and over the hill to the Hampi Bazaar, instead of going by the road. As I descend the hill in front of the temple, I am aware of the passage of time. The granite steps have been worn smooth by the many bare feet that have tread this path in the past. Pilgrims traveling from one temple to another, troupes of dancing girls who performed at the temple festivals, mercenary soldiers who guaranteed the safety of rulers. I wonder if the temple elephants tread this path or did they take the longer, easier route along the river?

At one time, shops, homes of nobles and shelters for pilgrims lined the wide road that runs down to the temple. One can only imagine the festive spectacle when the idols went out on festival days in their royal chariots. Now the buildings are a shamble of granite pillars, connected with make-shift thatched roofs.

As I wind my way to the temple bazaar, I pause to attempt to untangle the rope of an ox that has the poor fellow immobilized. It cannot even lower its head to eat. The rope is so tangled in the bushes and with itself that I am making little progress when, suddenly, its owner, who was napping nearby, rouses and yells at me. I guess he thinks I am trying to steal his animal. It would be impossible to explain to him, even if I were to speak his language. He would have no concept that I am concerned for the comfort of an animal. After all, he is sleeping on a chunk of bare granite.

At the intersection of the river road, I stop to buy bananas from a six-year old vendor. He is so small that he is sitting on the cart to be able to reach is produce. He greets his new customer with a smile and appears even happier to have the opportunity to practice his English.

“Three bananas, one rupee,” he tells me with a chirpy voice.

“I’ll take six.”

“Six,”he repeats thoughtfully.

“Yes, six. So two rupees,” I help him out.

“Yes, two rupees,” he smiles after a pause to check the calculations on his fingers.

He takes his hooked machete and slices a carefully counted six bananas off the stalk. After recounting them, he hands them to me.

“Six,” he verifies with a smile at his successful transaction.

I stick them in my shopping bag and continue toward the temple. Just down the road, the wide dirt shoulder serves as the dooryard, chicken pen, cow stall and playground for the dwellings lined along it. For the last block, a row of decent buildings, used for shops and homes, border the route to the temple. As I approach the crossroads, I spot the toothless fruit seller, but not before she spots me. She is waving at me and motioning to me to come over to her street side shop: a burlap bag and one round basket. She hands me one papaya—small and squishy ripe. Here there is a fruit in season nearly every month. Papayas and watermelon are peak in April. May brings the delicious, juicy, sweet mangoes, although you can still get some in June along with the wonderful chikku. Then in July the guavas are ready, both the pink and white varieties.

No, not today,” I start to walk away.

She gets up and gestures for me to wait. As she hobbles off the bones of her thin bottom are practically visible through her threadbare yellow sari. While I am waiting, I walk over to the nearby green coconut stand. When she comes back, I wave at her, so she will not think I have deserted her. When I return to her burlap bag, I see she has cut up the crummy papaya and is selling it by the slice to a couple of eager young boys. Then she holds up the papaya that she has fetched from her hut. I take it and give it a careful look because the skin looks strange; almost as if it has been frozen—impossible in this heat. And I am positive there is not a single refrigerator in all of Hampi.

“Pakka [good, ripe],” she implores when she notes my hesitation.

“Pakka—nai,” I express my doubt in my 12-word Hindi vocabulary. She pantomimes cutting it open to show me. I nod in agreement. It is okay, but now we both spot a big overripe bruise.

“Kitna?” I inquire, but the boys who paying for the slices have distracted her. She does not hear, or at least does not answer.

“Kitna?” prompts the tall, dark lady who is selling roasted peanuts, heaped on a burlap bag, with a rusty tin can for a measurer. She must be afraid the fruit seller will lose her customer.

I get more attention in Hampi than an ordinary foreigner. I experienced this same phenomenon on my first trip here, but now it is quite prevalent. The population here has quadrupled in the last ten years, so there are more people to react. Wherever I go, I hear, “Indira,” or “Indira—kee jay,” [hail to Indira]. The praises tell me two things: Although Indira Gandhi was quite a controversial Prime Minister, the people here must have liked her, and that I vaguely resemble her when I am in a sari. I always wear a simple unbleached cotton one; whereas she always appeared in white, since she was a widow. Also, we both are small women and have streak of gray hair. In other words, I may get a little preferential treatment from these simple, rural folk.

I finally purchase the papaya for four rupees, fair to both of us. Back at the ashram, I share it with Jyothi and the crippled cow with the dangling foot, who gets the piece with the bad spot.
Our lunch is simple fare of rice and dal, which sometimes has a morsel of a vegetable. Since we never have any fruit, I pick up bananas regularly at the Hampi market to share with Jyothi. This poor fare is why Lakshmi always cooks for herself. She gets her groceries from Hospet, so always has plenty of fruit. I would not consider cooking because of the time spent shopping and cooking and carrying buckets of water for washing dishes—there would be no time for anything else. Occasionally, I have a vegetable attack and go over to the Trishul Restaurant to have lunch with the Singhs; they have lots of good vegetables. Since it is off-season here, I get to visit with this lovely couple also.

After lunch everyone at the ashram escapes the heat of mid-day and takes a nap. With my early rising and strenuous hiking all morning, I am always ready for a nap. However, the kitchen is directly across from the hostel. The kitchen crew are cleaning up the pots and pans from lunch, producing such banging and clanging that it is impossible to relax, much less sleep. In addition, they are forever fussing and hollering among themselves. At least that’s what it sounds like. I cannot say for sure because the Indians are not inclined to speak in low voices under in any circumstance. Every afternoon I have this overwhelming urge to go over and yell at them for yelling. Now isn’t that what makes the world go round? I censor myself.

Consciously, I let my frustration go; then I walk over and say “shanti, shanti” [peace, peace] to them. They only hush for a few minutes; so it is not worth my trouble. One of the helpers is a real screamer. I named her “Shanti-bai” [peace-sister] because, as I explained to Jyothi, all her shrieks serve to remind us how nice peace is. Someone must have told her what I said because she now smiles when she sees me.

Anyway, I pull a cotton sheet over my head and hope for the best. At least, I have finally mastered the art of sleeping with my entire head under a cover, same as the people on the streets. Like them, I am forced to do so because of the flies by day, and the mosquitoes by night.

Immediately after my nap, I am off again to explore the many ruins, but I make it a point to be back by 4:30 p.m. when Mataji comes out of her room to feed the monkeys. She has a bag of little sweet bananas and a tin of peanuts in the shell to give them. The monkeys eagerly gather around her for this free hand-out. As they approach her one by one, according to their own pecking order, she carefully doles out the goodies. Usually, they just fuss a bit among themselves—you were first last time—you got more than me—type of behavior. But occasionally, one of them gets aggressive with the Mataji and tries to grab the peanut tin out of her hand. She keeps her cool, and kind of draws back with a chuckle. However, she sensibly keeps her hands covered with a heavy cloth for protection. Only the Rhesus monkeys come for the treats. The Gibbons, with their handsome beards, are around here too, but they always keep their distance, sometimes watching from a nearby roof-top. Mataji says they are impossible to tame.

After the feeding of the monkeys, we go to dinner because Jains are not to eat after the sun has set. Following the usual rice and dal, we gather in the cave to sing bhajans, devotional hymns; not one of my favorite pastimes. I would skip it, but Mataji tells me I must come to “bhakti,” devotion. However, I am relieved that everyone has a soft voice, for often there is a screamer in the group, who just ruins the atmosphere for me. Since the bhajans are all in Gujurati, I do not understand a word. They are less repetitive than the Hindu bhajans, which make singing them even more difficult for me. I am able to mouth along, reading from a book written in Hindi, the devagiri script. Both Sanskrit and Hindi use the same script. To me they are quite sensible; if you know the alphabet, you can at least pronounce the words correctly.

While everyone regroups over at the temple for the ceremony there, I remain in the cave to use the time for a short meditation. It’s a good feeling to settle into a peaceful silence after all my running around during the day. Then everyone troupes into Mataji’s room for satsang for an hour maximum. Satsang literally means, hanging out with sat, the Truth, usually with a spiritual teacher; or it can mean simply being in the company (sangha) of other sincere seekers. Our conversations always remain in the mundane reality. As far as I can discern nothing is ever mentioned about the Jain religion.

Even though we are free quite early, I never leave the compound after dark. I find that the temple verandah is a nice quite place to sit to enjoy the silence of the night. The stars stud the high horizon of this mountain midnight. Was that the blink of a fire fly or a nod of a shooting star? The moon has already set. Silence breathes deep in the quiet darkness.

After I am settled into my routine, one morning I mention to Prakash that the tea always tastes so terrible. “I wonder what they do to it. Is it really fit to drink?” I question him.

“No management,” laments Prakash with his usual hand twirl. “We have no milk for the tea because they will not take the cows to breed. So we only get two and one-half liters of milk a day from six cows, and the dogs get two liters of that. Yet, they pay that herder to come to take the cows to pasture every day.”

“The dogs drink all the milk? But they are grown dogs,” I comment. My mistake, I should have asked, if this is not milk clouding up the tea, what is it?

But it was too late, Prakash is explaining, “They’re only a year old. Mataji had a pet dog for years, but it became quite old and died. She was so overwhelmed she wept for days on end, would not even eat. Everyone was very concerned over her health, so they brought her these two puppies. She got well immediately. Since then she waits on those dogs hand and foot. She even moved to the floor to sleep to give them her bed.”

“She sleeps on the floor, so the dogs can sleep on the bed?” It’s a silly question; everyone else is sleeping on the floor. Why not the Mataji?

“And anyone who complains about the dogs. . . well, don’t try to find out,” he advises me further. One morning, I feel like going over to the hillside to catch the sunrise before meditation. A hint of mist still is hovering over the valley when I arrive. Suddenly, the sun appears and throws its glow around mountainside. Its tardy rays brighten the green valleys. Fog lifts from my mind sky. A brown kite forgets its search for food as it rides the rising wind. With a contented smile in my gut, I return to the ashram gates where I receive a jolt.

The big sign at the side of the entrance gate clearly states:
“No loud noise, no spitting, no menstruating ladies.”

At this very moment, I am in the throes of my period. I honestly had not seen the sign on the day of my arrival; I do not know what I would have done had I seen it. It is likely I would have proceeded exactly as I have done, since I have no concept that a period renders a woman an untouchable. This is one part of the different mindset that I choose to ignore. However, it has been argued that at least the Indian women got three days off each month. Since there is no garbage collection in these small towns, I have been throwing the tampons on the hillside covered with thorny bushes outside the bathroom window. At least, I have left no evidence. Well, I will leave in the morning, I reassure myself, this place did not turn out to be what I remembered, anyway.

That night a group of businessmen arrives from Hospet. Obviously, they furnish the money behind the operation. With much effort, they all sit on the floor with us for evening satsang. Their wealth has visibly gone to their stomachs; they have to heave and strain to get up and down. I listen as they have a slightly heated discussion with Mataji, in Gujarati, of course. I am just hanging out, not really paying much attention.

Suddenly I become aware that they are talking about me. Finally, one of the gentlemen asks me in English when I will be leaving. I tell him that I am planning to leave in the morning. He says that is good because guests are allowed here for three days only. Then he reports it to the others, but Mataji objects. She says that she has given permission for me to stay a month. I sit quietly, but mentally praying very loudly, God, get me out of here.

The next morning I go for my usual meditation. After Mataji’s rituals, she motions for me to follow her into her little room. Jabbing downward emphatically with her index finger, “You stay!” she states in plain English.

Well, she won the battle with the Gujurati businessmen; no householders lording it over her. Good for the Mataji! Then I realize, oh dear, but I lost. I just do not know how I will manage to stay here for a month. You have lots of incredible ruins to explore, I console myself.