Across the river from Hampi is Anegundi, a small, old, traditional village with the ancestors of the rajas of Vijayanagara Empire still living in it. One has to cross the river by basket; yes, in a round, woven basket, so big that it holds four of us in addition to a large motorcycle. On the other shore, although there is a road, I reject it and head toward a small temple at the foot of some hillocks. From there I take a path that skirts the hills until I spot some remains of stone walls and fortifications. Beside a small temple I find a small pond filled with lovely miniature-flowered hyacinths, so thick the water is not visible. The flowers are so tiny that each stalk to holds a couple of dozen of the florets. I squat to admire the huge bouquet of purple-blue surrounded by deep green grass.

Then I wander on until I notice some dilapidated temple ruins hanging on a hillside beneath a gigantic granite boulder. Below them is a ridge that could possibly be a dam. Sure enough, as I cross over the ridge my eyes behold a large pond full of pink water lilies. It’s not even 10 o’clock in the morning and I have seen bouquets of lilac water hyacinths and pink water lilies. Whatever the rest of the day brings, I can hardly complain.

Then I catch a whiff of a wonderful fragrance permeating the air. After investigating, I find its source: a scraggly shrub with tiny insignificant flowers. A couple of unusual blue-green birds catch my eye, but I do not get a good enough look to be able to find them in my bird book.
As I enter the village, I ask for the residence of Sri Ramadeva Raya. According to the directions, I only have to make a turn and follow a shady path. Sure enough, I find the right house, but he is not at home. An elderly gentleman informs me that he had just left five minutes before to inspect the fields. He will probably return in an hour or so.

When I return to the main road, I am approached by a woman with the look and dress of a gypsy. However, her clothes are very clean; the white skirt and drapes that form her blouse are sparkling white.

“I’ve been looking for you. They told me there was an English woman here, dressed in a white sari,” she speaks with such profuse enthusiasm throwing her arms into the air that I taken aback.

By looking at her and her animated manner, I am not sure if “they” are spirits or humans.
However, Mira turns out to be a sensible, kind, and lovely person. She is from Belgium and has lived here for seven years. Actually, there are about ten Europeans staying here permanently, who make their living from selling ganja, marijuana, to the tourists who visit Hampi. She is curious why I am here, as “they” also told her I was asking for Ramadeva Raya.

On her advice, we have our cup of tea in the shack where they boil the water with a wood fire, instead of a kerosene burner—it tastes better. When we are settled, I explain that the gentleman in the book shop in Hampi Bazaar told me that meeting the local raja was a must, for he is quite interested in spiritual subjects. For this reason, I traveled over to Anegundi via a basket to take my chances on finding him at home. However, I missed him by five minutes, as he had gone out to inspect the fields—it is rice transplanting time. The 45 minute delay waiting for the basket boat had made the difference.

Then she tells me her story. When he had come here ten years ago to visit, she had taken up with a young sadhu, and ended up living with him. Although he enjoyed the feminine presence, he was a serious spiritual practitioner. Every day he repeated hundreds of mantras and performed certain rituals. Actually, she was a big help to him because he had more time for his religious duties since she took care of the cooking detail. They lived in one of the old temples that was in pretty good shape except it was rather breezy in cool or rainy weather since it was open on three sides. Although her family could hardly comprehend her new lifestyle, they did keep in contact. So when her mother got a small inheritance, she shared it with her daughter.

Mira and the sadhu took the gift, a windfall when converted to rupees, and spent it to wall up the three open sides of the temple, ending up with a decent abode for themselves. However, just a year or so ago, the sadhu became gravely ill and died, leaving her alone. Since then she hooked up with a second sadhu. Again, he was not one willing to settle for ganja and sex, but had serious spiritual aspirations. He has a meditation hut in the Himalayas, but had come to this area for the winter. In the spring, she had gone there with him, but the torrential rains in the mountains were more than she could take. She stuck it out for two months, but had recently returned here to her old temple home.

After an hour passed, Mira walks to the Raja’s home with me. The elderly gentleman is still on the porch. She knows him and introduces him as the Raja’s father. However, he never held the title. His brother was the regent, but he had no sons. If the king has no sons, a nephew will inherit the title. This custom fits the joint family culture, in which cousins call themselves brothers and sisters. This practice was prevalent throughout India; however, it was a custom the British eliminated, so that they could take control of any throne without an heir.

When the Raja return, Mira takes off and his father retires to have his lunch alone. Ramadeva is a dignified, handsome man in his mid-forties. He tells me that he had intended to live the life of a sannyasi. In his place, his younger brother had taken on the responsibility of taking care of the family property and producing an heir. Unfortunately, the younger brother was killed in a motorcycle accident two years ago. At that time, the elder brother was suddenly propelled into taking over the duties of a householder, including overseeing the family properties. They must not be extensive because there is no sign of wealth in the home. To complete his responsibilities, he married and now has a one year old son.

He tells me that the older generations of the town look up to his family and come to him when they need some advice in their worldly affairs. Whereas, the younger generation is not particularly interested in the tradition of consulting the rajas of yore with their problems.
Since its lunch time, I excuse myself, but he insists that I stay to eat with him. We discuss various spiritual subjects; he is also a J. Krishnamurthi fan. He admits that he is definitely suffering from lack of mental stimulation here.

Then I ask him if there is any property for sale in this area. He assures me that some is available, but since it is so fertile, and it is being irrigated by public works, the price is going up. I can get decent land for $2,000 per acre. Of course, I have in mind only enough for a personal vegetable garden. I have visions of a small group of friends getting together to have a retreat place. I spot one fenced lot that is a tiny paradise complete with mature coconut palms and a pond with pink water lilies. Enchanted, I take a photo to send back to friends in New York City to try to entice them to a retirement in paradise.


A few days later, I decide to return to find the spot where Mira lives. I take a different route by crossing the river at the temple; only to find that my basket boat karma is getting worse. I walk through quite a few cultivated fields to reach the Sarovar Tank, the sister pond to the famous Sarovar Lake at Mt. Kailasa in the Himalayas. My white face attracts the eye of a local swami, who runs after me. Since he speaks English, he starts showing me around the ruins in that area. Down the road, we climb a hill to view a group of three very small temples. Amazing, one is a cave that is as cool as if it had been air-conditioned. He cannot explain the phenomenon, but there seems to be a large crack that the cool air is coming through. Anyone can move in and just live here, he tells me. There is even a door with bolts installed so one can lock up one section. During the tourist season, he actually rents it out to tourists at a daily rate. There is a catch: one has to carry water from the bottom of the hill, but it is not too far, he explains. A nice Indian sadhu had been living here, but a German girl arrived with lots of money. She taught him the fine arts of ganja smoking and sex, then they went tripping off to spend her father’s money.

Everywhere you look the hills are filled with lush green meadows and valleys. I just love it; I am really thinking this is a place to consider to live. During our tour, the swami finds two tea stalls where we stop for tea, made by kerosene flame, however. When we pass a vegetable stand, he suggests tells me if I will purchase vegetables, he will cook lunch for us. I am in a good mood from the lovely tour, so I agree. After purchasing a large bag of tomatoes and potatoes, he remembers that he needs some oil. I purchase the kilo size, plus a couple of other small items he needs.

An intelligent, interesting fellow with plenty of savvy, he had lived a householder’s life as an engineer. Then when his children were married and settled, his wife went to live with one of them and he became a swami. While we sit and talk, he cooks a tomato rice dish, which is quite good. After we finish eating, although I volunteer, he insists on doing the dishes. When he goes out to bring in water from the well to clean the dishes, I place a 20 rupees note on the table. When he returns I tell him I have to go, but I left a small dakshina, donation, for him. He runs over to the table, and picks up the note.

“Is that all?” he exclaims.

“Yes, that is actually all I have left with me. I don’t carry a lot of money around.”

“Oh, well. I will go back to your quarters with you so you can get some more.”

“That’s not necessary. I really don’t want to give any more.”

“But when the foreigners come here, they give me such generous donations.”

He pulls out his guest book and starts leafing through the pages to show me who has been here—mostly Europeans. They have signed his book and left their name and address. After each entry is a notation of the donation they gave, usually about 400 rupees.

“That’s great that you get such generous donations. However, these people are only here for a short vacation. I have come for three years, so I am on a budget.”

He does not get my point, or at least acts like he doesn’t, for he continues washing the dishes hurriedly to go across the river with me. So I tell him in a firm tone that I am sure I have no extra money to give him because I will be at the Jain ashram for a month and want to give them a decent donation. Then I walk out in a hurry. Fortunately, he does not follow me.

My luck, the basket is on the other side, so I will have at least a 30 minute wait; this morning I waited over an hour for it. Resigned to my fate, I sit and watch the water flow. Where does the water come from? Where will it disappear to? Will the same drop of water ever pass this way again? The rushing water cuts deep into the red soil, leaving wide sandy banks. Butterflies gather on patches of cool, wet mud to pump themselves with moisture. I lie back and pretend that I can flutter across the river like a butterfly.

Then my basket boat karma really gets bad; words fail me in recounting the fiasco. The problem begins when, just as the basket arrives, it starts to sprinkle. The oarsman wants to wait, but I tell him, “Let’s go, we can make it in ten minutes.”

Obviously, we all know the rain pattern here; it’s going to get worse. I was right, in ten minutes it starts pouring. The boat man makes a shelter for us by turning the basket over. So I am stuck under a basket for an hour with two men; one of whom punches me in the breast with his elbow; that is, until I show him my fist. And that was not the worse part.

When the rain slacks off and we make it to the other shore, the hill that we have to climb has become a slippery, slimy mudpie. My sandals were not made for this particular challenge. Seeing the two men doing okay with their bare feet, I take my sandals off, but I still slip and slide. Finally, I am at the mid-way point, with no hope of ever reaching the top. Just at the moment, I am ready to slide back down the hill to wade along the shore to see if I can find a better spot, the boatman takes pity on me. He somehow grabs my hand and helps me out of the slough of despond. I stop at the first public water faucet, take off my sari and wash the caked mud off it and my body. Dressed in a full-length petticoat and blouse, I can hardly be guilty of public exposure, and I cannot get any wetter.


I somehow manage to rewrap my sari and drag myself over to my usual stall for a cup of hot tea. As I am sitting there sipping the hot, sweet liquid and breathing deeply, my attention is diverted by a commotion across the street. The monkeys are on a rampage. At least a dozen of the largest males are lined up across a roof, teeth barred, making a terrible racket. The females are jumping back and forth from tree to roof. Finally, I see the problem. A couple of teenagers are trying to trap a baby monkey. Actually, they have it trapped on a screened verandah and are now trying to get a rope on around its neck.

Somehow I pick up my soggy bag of bones and wind my way back to the ashram. When I approach the ladies’ hostel, I am surprised to witness the same scenario. Prakash and the cook have trapped a baby monkey in the kitchen—and already have a rope around its neck. Over a dozen large males and countless females are on the high wall opposite the kitchen, complaining at the top of their lungs--monkey screeching is loud. Prakash tells me that they want it for a pet and asks me what I think. I advise him to let it go because it is actually a juvenile, so big that I doubt it will ever accept any training. After some ten minutes, the noise stops, so I guess he released it. God, what a strange day.