My month is almost up, so I am eager to get out of here before my unclean time cycles around. It has been a good month in many ways—a real leisurely time. I have meditated every morning and evening, no levitations, but I have had some peaceful moments on my little pad. Daily I have explored the wonderful temples and countryside. In spite of the inconveniences, I have felt content most of the time.

Oh dear, Jyothi just told me that Guru Poornima, a special day to honor the gurus, is coming up and that Mataji wants me to stay. The truth is she ordered that I have to stay for the up-coming celebration. Jyothi has already queried me about my age. Since I am 50, she naturally assumes that I am not fertile, as Indian women have a tendency to start and complete their menstrual cycles at a younger age than European women. She even said when she found out my age, “Oh, then you don’t have to worry about secluding yourself for a week from Mataji, like the rest of us.”

This was not the only clue I had indicating the severity of the rule. One evening in satsang, Mataji was virtually yelling at Prakash; she went on and on. . . and on. I was thinking it was quite unusual for a such a saint to be so disturbed. He must have stolen something, I conjecture. Later when I am able to inquire from Jyothi what the ruckus was about, I find out that Prakash “allowed” a young lady to enter the temple during her menses.

“You mean it is Prakash’s responsibility to question all young women who enter the temple. Aside from the fact that he is often away running errands for the ashram, a young Indian man, especially a bachelor, can hardly be expected to do such ‘dirty work.’”

Jyothi, my ally and informant, just stares at me with a “how should I know?” look, and sensibly defers making any comment. Jyothi is crippled from a car accident in Bombay when she was sixteen. She is a beautiful woman of about forty with lovely salt and pepper hair down to her waist. Due to her handicap, she was never able to marry. This discrimination against women and men who are not able to bear children is prevalent in all castes and creeds. I recall a gentleman who once described his daughter’s marriage arrangements to me. He told me of his anxiety because the prospective groom had been in a car accident, but seemed to have recovered completely. Nevertheless, he assumed his parental duty and requested a private conference with the young man to ask him if the accident had affected his virility. “I didn’t like doing it, but I had to,” he had confided.

I am surprised to find out that Jyothi may have been here when I visited in 1979. When I question her about the three nuns whom I had met who were starting out on a pilgrimage across south India, I find out that she was traveling with three nuns at that time, as their assistant. She always went ahead of them to make arrangements for their meals and lodging because they could only eat food from kitchens in Jain homes. Whenever possible, they slept in chaudris, pilgrimage shelters, of Jain temples.

In spite of my misgivings about my approaching physical malady, I feel obligated to stay and make the best of things. It would simply be too rude to walk out the day before Guru Poornima; the day that honors Mataji. And I would have missed quite a celebration.

I did it again! If I had left when I planned, I would have gone through the whole month without a major faux pax. Since everyone is getting ready for Guru Poornima, I had moments of feeling useless. However, I found out why it’s better that I just remain useless. One evening at our evening satsang with Mataji, Jyothi is preparing the cotton wicks for the extra butter lamps necessary for the ceremony. When I volunteer to help, she shows me how to take a little puff of cotton and twirl the top of it to make a little wick. I pull off a little puff, but the little wick just will not form for me; the cotton seems to stiff. So I just automatically spit on my fingers, as if I were threading a needle, and give the cotton a successful twirl.


“No,” Mataji’s voice stops me short.

It’s funny. Without a word said, I know exactly what I did wrong. You do not spit on items intended for worship. Sure makes sense to me. Truth is I had already learned this lesson. Once when I was in the Himalayas, the ashram manager there arranged a ritual in commemoration of Krishna’s birthday. We were all to offer a flower, so I was handed the loveliest rose to give Krishna. Immediately, earthy me, I put it straight to my nose to inhale its heady fragrance. Fortunately, a friend saw me and chuckled, then motioned me aside. She explained my mistake and gave me another flower. You cannot offer anything to the Lord that has had its fragrance sniffed out of it by a human nose—a heathen one at that. So I should have remembered that lesson.

People begin arriving from all over India, particularly Bombay and Madras. All the empty buildings and cottages fill to capacity. As it turns out, devotees who only come here once or twice a year have built these quarters. Most of them hope to retire here someday. Since they are from the city, they speak perfect English, so I am able to communicate easily. One friendly lady from Bombay asks me how long I plan to stay. I tell her I will be leaving right after the ceremonies.

“Oh, you should stay here longer while you have free time. It is such a wonderful opportunity.”

“But it is difficult staying here. It is just so noisy since the ladies’ hostel is by the kitchen, plus pilgrims are constantly coming and going.”

“You should ask Mataji to give you separate quarters.”

“How could I ask for special treatment, when Lakshmi and Jyothi who are older women and have served Mataji for so long have to stay in these quarters?”

She sort of smiles, purses her lips, and looks down without making any comment.

Mataji lights up with all the devotees surrounding her. During the evening ceremony and bell-ringing in the meditation cave, she becomes playful and starts trying to push people over. When she approaches me to break the boredom, I do the same thing to her, lightly, as she passes by. I figure someone else may as well have some fun too. At first, she is quite startled, then she realizes that I am only playing too. So we have a hip-pushing contest, but I let her win.

The following day is poornima, full moon, bearing several surprises even for the cynic. To get into the spirit of things, I even go the temple and withstand the terrible banging of the big bell. First thing after breakfast, there is to be a big ritual. Mataji is present, seated at the end of the altar table. I am right in the big middle of the crowd, eagerly awaiting to see what she will do because I have been told to expect a surprise.

All of a sudden, one gentleman gets up and starts saying something in Gujurati. After he speaks for a few minutes, someone else speaks up with some comments, then another. I keep waiting for the ritual to begin, but the talking among themselves continues. Finally, I squeeze to the door to step outside for some fresh air. After ten minutes, a gentleman comes out and I inquire when the ritual will start.

“But it has been going on for almost an hour,” he replies in perfect English.

“But I was present up until ten minutes ago, and there was no ritual.”

“Oh, yes. It is actually an auction.”

“You know that is what it sounded like to me, but I thought it was the projection of my western mind. Now, could you kindly explain to me how an auction is a ritual.”

“We support various charities, so we bid to give donations to the charities.”

“I see...”

“Yes, the highest bidder gets the punya [merit].”

Before I can question him further, although I have no idea what I will ask, he begins to question me about my stay here. As it turns out, his daughter is a regular resident here. She has gone to her family home in Rajasthan for a couple of months for a period of intensive meditation and fasting. I express my disappointment at not getting to meet such a sincere seeker. I do wish she would have been here, so I would have had a companion for meditation each morning. I can easily understand why she went home for serious meditation—she did not like those banging doors either.

By that time, everyone is filing out to have tea. Afterwards, Mataji will conduct her part of the ceremony. So fifteen minutes later, we all pack back into the cave room. Everyone starts singing bhajans, while Mataji drifts away into a light trance. All eyes are on her as she begins to lightly rub her heart area. Within a few minutes, a bright yellow-orange powder starts to emerge, then accumulate. She has arranged her sari phalu [the end that falls over the shoulder], so that the powder falls into it.

This miracle of producing powder out of thin air is rare, but not unheard of. The powder, or sometimes ash, is supposed to have a special healing quality. Of course, I question, would anything produced out of thin air necessarily be magical? Although many believe that the ancient yogis could do such things, they doubt anyone has such powers today. In some cases, there is evidence that it is a trick. I did have a first-hand report from a gentleman who traveled with a swami from Mysore who produces ash. The gentleman did find a large stash of ash in the swami’s suitcase. The swami caught him, accused him of rummaging through his suitcase, and was furious. The gentleman contends he only intended to help the swami pack as he was running late for an international flight. Anyway, after that incident, they parted company.

However, everyone here is sure that this powder is special. From my front row seat, I can see no evidence that there is any deception. Mataji has no sleeves to hide it and the powder is bright orange, so I would be difficult to conceal without staining something. We all line up for Mataji to rub some on our foreheads. Afterwards, we troop off for lunch. No rice and dal for lunch today-we are served an array of delicious dishes, including a couple of desserts. A special cook is here to prepare the feasts for the two day celebration.

“Come, quickly. Mataji is calling you,” Jyothi is signaling me. I follow her back to the cave to find everyone gathered around the little antique Chandra Prabhu idol.

“Look at the milk coming out of it,” they push me up front and center. Sure enough there is a milky substance coming out of both eyes, and also seeping from the heart area. I can plainly see the liquid oozing out of the stone creating a regular drip running down its body. I am sure it would be impossible for this to be set-up because there is now at least a cup of milk accumulated in a stainless steel tray at the feet. Admittedly, the idol is washed daily with milk and other liquids, but they roll off the marble. If anything remained, it would surely evaporate in this hot, dry climate. Anyway, this type of stone could not absorb so much liquid. I have to admit that I am witnessing an extra-ordinary event.

They say this phenomenon occurs regularly on special Jain holidays. I happily accept my ration of the ambrosia, sipping it with a mixture of sanctity and merriment. My mouth may be silent, but my mind is running: If the ambrosia is so wonderful, what has it done for the people here who have been sipping it for years? Jyothi and another resident remain physically handicapped; Lakshmi is angry; Prakash is frustrated.

As it turns out Mataji has a teenage daughter, who also comes for a few days. I am surprised to learn that she was actually raised by my roommate, Lakshmi. Mataji was married and leading a happy householder’s life when her husband suddenly died. Since she is the emotional type, to drown her sorrow, she began coming to this ashram to her Guru, who lived in a cave—no buildings at that time. She soon decided to leave the world and live in the ashram, leaving her daughter to be raised by Lakshmi’s family, who were also devotees of this Jain holy man.

Several young girls, about 12 years of age, are also here for the celebration. They want me to accompany them to the local Hindu temple, which they like to visit, even though they are Jains. As we enter the gates of the Virupaksha temple, we see a sign in English: “Please keep off the plantains from the sight of the monkeys.” Translated, it means: the monkeys will grab any banana they see. Once at the ashram I witnessed them grabbing one from crippled Jyothi. Although this temple does not have as many wonderful sculptures as the later temples in the area, this one is a huge maze. Somewhere in a back corner, the girls show me the spot where you look through a crack between the granite stone to see the temple gopura, tower, upside down. They tell me that this temple is pictured in their physics’ book because of this unusual phenomenon.

With great enthusiasm, they also relate to me a story they read in their elementary school reader, approximately sixth grade. Once upon a time, there was a woodcutter who lived in India. Every day he went to the forest to cut enough wood to last a day for himself and his neighbors. After he had worked for an hour or so, he relaxed under a sprawling tree until the heat of the day had passed. Then he loaded up his donkey and headed home for a leisurely evening talking and playing board games with his fellow villagers.

One fine day, a couple of American entrepreneurs approached him. “Look, this is a huge forest here, worth lots of money. All we have to do is cut all the trees, then we can use the lumber to build a big sub-division. Why, you will be rich. Then you will be able relax and enjoy life.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m doing now,” replied the woodcutter.


The next morning I pack my bag and am ready to leave on the early bus. I bid good-by to dear Jyothi, whom I will surely miss.

“Please come back and stay with us again. We can arrange for you to live here,” she entreats me.

“Jyothi, you know I have had a good stay here in many aspects. I really value your friendship. You have been so kind and helpful. You know, I really don’t think I will return to a place where the dogs sleep in a bed, while the people sleep on a hard granite floor, the monkeys eat the only fruit, and the dogs drink all the milk. I can’t explain it, but it’s just too wacky. I still have to have some rhyme and reason in my physical reality. I’m not a saint like you.”

She blushes, then laughs. With a smile, she hobbles out to the gate with me, insisting on carrying my bag of books, purchased from the local book vendor. Then I take my last hike down the dirt road to the bus stop.

As I am walking down the road, I ruminate over the past month. I have said that one reason for my travels in India is the experiencing of a different conditioning, to attempt to look at the world through a different mindset. I am certainly getting material to challenge that task. Mostly, I am amazed that this place was so different from what I thought it would be from my previous visit. The only activity here that could be considered spiritual was the singing of bhajans, which falls under the category of devotion, whereas I am more interested in the path of knowledge. I had reason to believe there would be some type of study, for the three nuns I had met before were quite scholarly, as well as sincere seekers.

Although the life here may not have suited me, it is perfect for others: Jyothi is totally happy here. And she does have options; her family is quite wealthy. Watching Jyothi’s kindness and devotion to Mataji, as well as to me, was surely a gift I received during this month. Under all the physical difficulties she had to deal with, I never heard one complaint or saw even the hint of a frown. Maybe she truly is the saint in this place.