Back in Bangalore, while I am re-evaluating what I want from my trip here, Hari hands me a booklet by a Swami Nirmalananda. He is a sage who lives in a sylvan setting in B. R. Hills. Located in Karnataka in the northern Nilgiris at the end of a road from Mysore, Biligiri Ranga remains a primeval forest. Actually, as the crow flies, it’s not that far from where I was in Kottagiri. Although Hari had not met the Swami, he told me that the local newspaper had run a series by Swami Nirmalananda, and that he appeared to have been influenced by J. Krishnamurthi. Somewhat intrigued at the possibility of living in a forest setting with a scholarly swami, I immediately sent a letter off to B.R. Hills.

Dear Swami Nirmalananda,

I have been a student of Vedanta—major influences are Swami Chinmayananda and J. Krishnamurthi—for 15 years. I have an understanding of the concepts, but frankly I have had difficulty applying them in the “real” (unreal) world. Therefore, I have come to India for a period of sadhana. First, I am looking for a peaceful setting for meditation, and, secondly, satsang with a genuine teacher. A friend mentioned your ashram as a good possibility and gave me your little booklet, “

To Live to Benefit Mankind,” which I find aligns with my point of view about doing some service. However, I still have my own mental house-cleaning to accomplish, although I have been working at it for years now.

I have just returned to Bangalore from a month’s stay in Hampi. I am assisting with the editing of a spiritual magazine, so I will have to be here in Bangalore for the next ten days. I am hoping that then it will be possible to come visit your ashram, if you are in station, and have a simple accommodation for sleeping and food. Of course, I will be able to pay a reasonable donation for such. I would like to stay for at least one month because I think it takes several weeks for one to assess the Guru and for the teacher to assess the student. I am 50 years old, and don’t have time, energy or inclination to waste your time or mine.

Sincerely, Nancy


I receive a reply, almost by return mail. With anticipation, I open the envelope and am elated that the Swami assures me: Yes, I will be welcome. Further, he mentions that the accommodation will be sparse, but adequate.

Two weeks later, right at dusk, the bus makes an “unscheduled” stop to let me off right at the dirt road that leads to Vishwa Shanti Niketan, the ashram of Swami Nirmalananda. By the time I trek one-quarter of a mile, lugging my suitcase, heavy with books, I am wondering if I will be able to look and play the part of a guest.

For I am truly exhausted. The 7:00 a.m. bus would have taken five hours, but it was “under repair.” It was not until 8:30 a.m., after I had been told at least a dozen times, “It’s coming now,” that they decided to cancel it. That meant I could take the 9:15 a.m. bus—a seven hour trip, as it follows a more circuitous route—or I would have to wait for the 1:30 p.m. bus to get the five-hour direct route. Considering the long delay I had already endured—the clock had flashed 6:05 a.m. as I entered the station—I opted to take the longer “scenic” route.

However, I discovered Karnataka is not all that scenic. Its beauty is tucked away in hidden valleys, but overland on this journey, and on the one to Hampi, I found the landscape is mainly dry desert, dotted with only a few scrub bushes. By the time we reached the scenery of the foothills, I was barely hanging together. The monsoon is sparse this year, so it was an extremely hot journey.

We took a 45-minute lunch break, which meant that we would arrive at 5:15 p.m., not at 4:30 p.m., as indicated on the computer at the ticket counter. But I could not complain, I needed a break. I only allowed myself a cup of hot tea and a couple of small bananas as my stomach was beginning to feel strange. The bus station and town—I know not its name—were too dreadful to remember, so I will spare you the details. Suffice to say that the out-door toilets sat quietly awaiting a cleaning by the monsoon rains. I suppose that’s why the latrine shed did not have a roof.

As soon as we reached the hills, I got some relief as the temperature dropped considerably. Suddenly there was no sign of human life for miles. We must have passed through an animal sanctuary as I spotted several elephants near the road. The man across from me spotted a couple of beautiful deer, sambuars. The driver slowed almost to a stop, so we could all get a good look. Later we went through a small clearing with a couple of buildings where I spotted two juvenile elephants tied along side the road. I got a good look at them because the moment we passed I had my head out the window barfing up the recently ingested tea and bananas. Under these circumstances, I cannot say I fully appreciated them, so I made a mental note to return. The winding mountainous road really was getting to me. I got out my homeopathic remedy pouch and took a dose of my trusty Nux Vomica (motion sickness remedy) and settled back for a relatively relaxed last hour of twisting, uphill roads with my stomach dancing in sync with the bumping, jumping bus.

As I enter a gate and follow the walkway to the swami’s stone cottage, it is so dark that I can hardly make out the surroundings. However, I am quite encouraged by the sound of falling water in the background. From the wide porch, a skinny, clean-shaven swami greets me and motions for me to come inside.

He is all smiles, giggles and cackling laughter, interspersed with oohs, aahs, and haas. Only when he picks up a clip-board and starts to write, do I realize he has not uttered a single word during the two minutes of his greeting. I did not know that he practiced mauna, silence; evidently Hari did not know either because he had not mentioned it.

“There was no 7:00 a.m. bus today,” I explain my late arrival.

“Aah,” the Swami affirms, as if he already knew.

Before I know it I am seated in front of the Swami, who scribbles on his pad, “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please, that would be great.”

“Milk or sugar?” he writes.

“Just a little sugar. I think black tea may help settle my stomach.”

Seated on a plain straw mat, I sip the hot, sweet tea. But the truth is, I still feel like a lump of left-over oatmeal. Then the Swami suggests I take a bath. When I happily agree, he directs me to the bath house. Actually, after traveling, an Indian woman would not even have had a cup of tea before bathing. When I enter the adobe hut that serves as a bath house, a large bucket of steaming water is sitting there waiting for me. Hot water. . . there is hot water here! I have not had a hot bath since I’ve been in India. And the bathroom is warm and cozy! Then I spot the stove, modeled of adobe, with a few embers still glowing in it.

However, I find that the water is so hot I don’t think I can bear it. When I look around, I can find no faucet for cold water to cool it down. Naturally, I am already undressed when I discover the water is too hot, so I decide to grin and bear it. Surely, my tired muscles will appreciate the heat. And do they ever. The hot water trickling over my tired, cold body is like a miraculous salve. My body consciously inhales the vitality from each mugful as my pores suck in the warmth of the hot liquid. So this is what bathing is about, I think.

I do feel slightly better; at least I can now pretend to look alive if I make a conscious effort. Returning to my straw mat, I watch the Swami darting around, dealing with the making of fresh bread and other details with a servant, the same one who prepared the water for my bath. The Swami wears a faded orange robe over his thin, taunt body, which appears to be quite spry. Only the short gray stubble covering his head indicates his 62 years. There are two approved hair-styles for swamis: shaved head or never cut.

At last he sits down on his tiger-skin pallet and poises himself for conversation. First, I ask him about his practice of mauna.

“By speaking too much and indulging in unnecessary talk, we only create an atmosphere of noisy insanity,” he writes on his pad.

“Yes, I do realize that mauna is a good discipline. It keeps us from getting carried away with so many issues, most of which do not matter anyway. . . and in any case, we often cannot do anything about.”

“Aah,” he nods in agreement. “Silence is the Temple of Truth.”

Then the Swami suggests some yoga exercises, “since you are tired after the long, tedious bus journey.”

“But I think I am so tired that I don’t feel like I can even move.”

“Oh, yes. You’ll feel much better afterward. Then you will sleep well,” he assures me.

I am not convinced, but am willing to give it a try. The Swami and I chant “Om” three times, then do a series of simple exercises that move and stretch, but do not contort, every single limb and muscle, including the eyes. Having survived that ordeal, I now get dinner. I am not sure about eating either, but I simply do not have the energy to object to food offered by an Indian. They somehow imbue food with such sacramental qualities that it is the greatest insult to fail to offer food to a guest; topped in gravity only by the guest’s refusal to eat the offered food. He serves me some homemade whole-wheat bread with jam. As I watch him, each act seems to be carefully calculated and precisely executed—exactly one tablespoon of jam per slice of bread.

It’s only 8:00 p.m. when he asks the servant to show me to the guest cottage. I am so relieved to be able to go to bed early, but it turns out this is the Swami’s usual hour of retirement. Daily he awakens around 2:00 a.m. because he thinks this quiet and peaceful time is best for meditation.
The short bio of the Swami in the brochure he had sent me spoke of his austere life-style and specifically stated that he took no tea, coffee, chili pickles or dairy products. Bhogi (materialist) that I continue to be, I brought a big supply of tea bags with me, along with my electric coil. So when the Swami offered me tea this evening, I was surprised.

Even more so, when the next morning, the Swami arrives at my door at 6:00 a.m. with a cup of steaming tea. He makes me taste it to make sure it is okay. It is fine, except the Indians boil tea, so it is a bit too strong. Not that I complain; how often does someone serve me tea first thing in the morning? I find a bush with some small nimbus (limes) that I use to dilute and lighten the dark color. With the tea, the Swami also hands me a note telling me to be at his kutia, hut, at 8:00 a.m. for yoga exercises.

While we workout, I look through the open door and see speckled doves feasting on the grain that is put out each day for them. Eventually, I will be delegated the honor of putting out the bird seed. The feeding area is surrounded by various varieties of orange trees, with a lots of taller, native trees in the background. This is truly the forest primeval. Dare I hope that I have found the idyllic spot I have been searching for—a natural forest and a swami who understands English.

After breakfast, the Swami tells me that I am free to do as I please until lunch. Immediately I streak out for a walk behind the ashram where I thought I heard a waterfall last night. I was mistaken; the sound I heard is caused by a curious phenomenon. As I exit through the gate at the back of the grounds, I am on a mammoth granite ridge that extends as far as I can see in both directions. From this spot, one can see back to the Karnataka plains; on a clear day, one can probably see Mysore, the nearest city. However, one would not be able to enjoy the vista long because the wind is constantly whipping along here. Strangely, it’s not blowing at the ashram only 50 feet down the hill; we only get the noise that sounds like a rushing waterfall at night.

At his usual 11:00 a.m. lunch time, I am back on my straw mat as the Swami serves my plate with plain, boiled vegetables and rice.

“I’m not used to being served by a Swami,” I comment with a smile.

“We consider you our child, so we treat you as your own mother would,” he stops serving to write on his pad. (I’m sure he means Indian mothers, but it seems irrelevant to enlighten him on the subject of Western mothers.)

Since I have been in Pondicherry, he asks about Aurobindo, particularly if he is known in America. I tell him I had never heard of Aurobindo when I was in U.S. Then I add, “I loved the ashram area though. Certainly, I admire The Mother and Aurobindo; he had such an incredible intellect. However, the phenomenon that surrounds them continues to remain a mystery to me. How can people idealize dead persons who taught immortality? You know I like to think feel that we have to keep our logic in tact, even in our spiritual quest.”

He takes his clip board and taps me on the head. With a smile, he utters his affirmative, “Aah.”

“Yet,” I continue, “even insensitive me feels a wonderful, peaceful silence around that ashram. It is something extra-ordinary.”


In the mornings, I am up before dawn, for I do not want to miss anything. I set up a little station on the corner of the veranda: a meditation cushion, bird book, notebook for inspirations and insights, and a book by J. Krishnamurthi in case I start feeling dull. As I watch a few minutes before sunrise, the sky begins to turn gray on the mountain crest. The bulbuls announce this first sign of light with their melodious songs. Soon I hear a dozen birds chirping from different directions.

From on my cushion, the nice symphony vibrates my heart and puts a smile on my face. Fifteen minutes later the small yellow-breasted wrens contribute their rapid cheep, cheep, cheep. A shrill call of a large bird, probably a koel, resounds through the forest. The swishing of the trees swaying in the wind on the ridge adds a soothing background beat. The occasional darting of a bulbul to catch an unsuspecting bug is the only movement I note. I breathe in the peace of this luminous perfect now.

At times my eyes close in meditation; at others, they are open to encompass nature’s drama. Thirty minutes pass before it’s light enough for the speckled doves to awaken and add their cooing. Soon they are fluttering about, moving from the high branches where they roosted for the night to the branches of the smaller citrus trees. They seem to be cautiously checking out their feeding ground. The slightest noise or movement on the walk sends them in a cloud back to the higher branches. A small striped squirrel scampers up to breakfast on the grain. A pair of pied wagtails land under the bench along the pathway, but prefer to remain silent. Four crows fly by, assuring that their presence be noted with their loud cawing.

By seven, the cooing of some thirty doves drowns out any other sounds. Their chorus soon fades away as they occupy themselves with eating ragi, a native grain. English speakers call the round, ash-gray colored grain, which turns dark brown when cooked, millet. Ragi constitutes the major diet of the tribals throughout this region. Singing a melody taught them by their grandmothers, the women grind it into flour, mix it with water, boil it, then form it into large balls that are eaten with a chutney, if available.

Iam content to spend the whole day outside, sitting on the veranda for an hour, then walking around the vicinity until yoga at 8:00 a.m. After yoga, breakfast and a bath, I return to the veranda to read and take notes, for I am thinking about a possible writing project. In the afternoon while the Swami is napping, I leave the ashram and head down the road. Just like in Hampi, I am impelled to be up and exploring, and I am not disappointed. The village is spread out over several miles with small pockets of habitations here and there, so there is a lot to explore. Ten foot lantana bushes decorate the roadside with their bright orange and pink flowers. However, they are not intended for show; their thorns and thick growth form an impenetrable barrier to protect the homes from wandering wild beasts.

But the best part is off the beaten track. By the third day, I have scoped out the surrounding territory and am ready to take a trek into the forest. As soon as the Swami has closed his door for his nap, I head out back. I walk along the ridge, then catch a trail going down into the forest.
The shade is so dense that I find only a few plants and flowers growing on the ground. Most of the trees are broad-leaved evergreens or varieties of bamboo. Soon I spot a couple of orchid plants in the trees—too high for me to see very well. Then suddenly I see them hanging in every tree. However, I am disappointed that none of them appear to be in bloom.

At one point, as I am going along a path, I see the tail-end of an animal—who saw me first. So I am only able to observe its rump; reddish fur on its body with a slim black tail like a cat. Further, down the trail I surprise some of the local tribals, about eight men and women, carrying large logs of wood. Needless to say, they are quite started to see a white face in the jungle, but smile and reciprocate my greeting of “namaste.”

The next morning, the Swami tells me I should not be going so deep into the jungle. Well, news certainly travels fast here, I take mental note. I do not bother to ask him how he knew my whereabouts.

“I do not feel there is any danger. I didn’t see any ferocious animals. Only one small fellow that ran before I even could get a good look at it.” I describe what I had seen, but he cannot identify it; neither can anyone whom I later ask.

“We never go into the jungle. There are bears that can crush you to death. They come here on the ashram grounds to eat the fruit off the tree behind your cottage.”

“I haven’t seen any.”

“It has already finished fruiting this year. Remember you are my guest. I can’t be responsible for you if you go into the jungle.”

“So the guru who teaches Vedanta, which clearly states ‘I am not the body,’ is concerned for my physical body?”

He laughs and lets the subject drop.


So I am totally free from noon until 7:00 p.m. when we again go through the yoga routine. I am so grateful that I have so much quiet time to myself. . . and it is quiet here. One evening as we eat our daily bread and jam, the Swami asks, “Are you lonely?”

“No, I am fine. With my walks, books and meditation, I feel totally content.”

He notes on his pad, “Now because of this asthma which I have had for several years, I have asked Swami Brahmadev to stay here. But for years people asked me: ‘Aren’t you lonely here?’ I used to point to The Above. So how could I be alone?

“There is real joy in abiding in the Self. But as I have to deal with all and sundry for anything and everything, I don’t get enough time for a quiet atmosphere; in spite of our ashram being in such a quiet and peaceful spot, much better than other ashrams.”

“I can affirm that it is much quieter.”

Every morning I meditate alone on my cushion on the veranda. In the evenings, we meditate together for about 20 minutes after yoga. He makes helpful suggestions for my meditation practice. He stresses keeping the mental gaze at the heart center rather than on the breath or at the forehead.

He writes, “When the mind is focused on the heart, then we are in the thought-free state. When any thought arises, one must sacrifice this manifestation of the masculine intellect to the feminine heart. When the feminine heart and the masculine mind are united, there is bliss.”

“So is this what you mean when you write ‘fuel the fire and fan the flame’?”

“Aaah,” he grins as he taps me on the head with his clipboard.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘heart’?” I ask him.

“True love, feelings and compassion for all beings. The thing is to have a translucent mind and an attitude of love and compassion for all.”

“So it is a state of being?”

“Yes. Remember, Nancy, we do not create peace. Peace comes uninvited to a quiet, tranquil mind. Even the Christian fathers of the desert tradition said: ‘If you are without thoughts, you are without sin.’”


In spite of Swami’s apprehensions about my treks through the jungle, I continue to take off immediately when he closes the door for his nap. With my one-hour morning walk before yoga, and the three hours in the afternoon, before a week is up, there is not a road or path in the extensive village complex that I have not investigated. I just love the jungle and have discovered a huge boulder that I can climb upon to sit and read without danger of some animal sneaking up behind me. As I turn around to leave, I come face to face with a tree branch that supports a row of big orchid plants lined up its entire length. I am sure it is a type of dendrobium orchid, but I have not seen it anywhere else. Unfortunately, it is not the season to see them in bloom. I will have to return in the winter to see that beautiful sight, for thick stalks from last years’ blossoms are dangling from both sides of the limb.

Every afternoon I am wandering around exploring trails, made by animals. Then I land on my big boulder for an hour or so. From this perch, one day I encounter the most beautiful parrots with a purple splotch on their heads. I cannot even find them in my bird book. As I quietly watch, I realize most of them are hopping through the branches of a certain type of tree. They remind me in size and spread of a redbud tree, but the flowers are orange clusters of sweetpea flowers, which must give some nectar to the parrots.

Although I love my treks through the forest, I also enjoy my time spent with the Swami. In addition to our informative conversations on spiritual subjects; we have our love of nature in common. After dinner one evening he hands me a paper on which he has written a tribute to his dear pet, Bambi. The baby deer had been brought to him to nurse, for no one knew what happened to its mother. The Swami had kept it by his side, feeding it from a plastic bottle. Even now, he displays great joy when he speaks of Bambi; he must have been a very good caregiver. Bambi grew up and, although not restrained, she chose to remain in the protected confines of the ashram. However, one day tragedy struck; Bambi was killed in an accident.

“By a car?” I question.

“Aah.” He grabs his pad. “She was too trusting; she did not know to fear cars since so few come this way.”

The Swami is now involved in a project to install a commemorative statue of Bambi in the garden beside his cottage. An artist in Bangalore is making the sculpture. Another artist came to the ashram to do a clay sculpture of the Swami. The bust will be cast in bronze and put along side Bambi’s statue.

As the Swami requested, I read over the inscription that is to be chiseled in the stone at the base of Bambi’s statue. I make one small suggestion, but the Swami decides he likes it better the way it is, so it is ready to be submitted to the stone engraver. Quite satisfied, afterwards, he is sitting and humming. He has a habit of humming no matter what task he is doing. “There should be this type of nursing a melody in you all the time,” he notes.

One evening the Swami is making preparations to light the oil lamp. Just as I am thinking, after he is accustomed to my presence, perhaps he will allow me to light the lamp, he motions me over and hands me the matches. When I spent time in Kerala, I always appreciated this simple daily ritual. I carefully adjust the little cotton wicks, so they will not go out or burn the peanut oil too fast. As dusk descends on the mountain top, I ignite the first light of the night. My life has always been without ritual or ceremony. I begin to cherish this one quiet moment of conscious action each evening.