This morning brought more fog, rain, wind. I do not think it is foggier, rainier, windier than the previous four mornings, but the accumulation is beginning to take its toll on my psyche. I am not the only one complaining. The cabbage roses along the sidewalk are not able to open their bright pink faces because their petals are rotting. The electric power, usually off from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. for conservation, has been off for the past 24 hours, which has certainly has contributed to the dismal atmosphere. There is not even enough light in my room to read; that is, unless I open a shutter to let in the wind and fog.

One afternoon a charming woman, about forty years of age, shows up at my door. She had just returned from a visit to her family home in Bangalore where she happened to see Swami Brahmadev. He told her that there was an American lady at the ashram and that she should go and meet me. Nagamani lives just down the road and oversees a house and property here in B.R. Hills owned by her family. Since it is the rainy season, they are in the process of planting coffee on what they hope will be an income-producing plantation. After we share a few mundane details of our lives, she gets up to go. I suggest that if she stays another thirty minutes the Swami will be up from his nap, so she can see him.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to see him; that’s why I came by when I knew he was asleep. He got so angry with me the last time I was here because I forgot to bring him a telephone book from Bangalore.”

“That’s strange. There’s no telephone here.”

“No, no. He wanted it so he could get the addresses of all the wealthy businessmen in Bangalore. He wants to mail them requests for donations for one of his projects.”

“Do you suppose it is for that bust of himself? Once he told me the artist was donating it, but another time, he contradicted himself. I suppose there will be the expense of casting it.”

“I don’t know. He’s always cooking up some project that he needs money for. When he completed that Ganesha temple, we thought he would leave us alone about donations for a while. Then it was the Bambi statue; then his own memorial bust. Actually, he already collected for both of them some time back.”


My daily bath has become a welcome ritual that I look forward to, especially, since it has turned cold. The bathhouse is the only heated room. Mahadev, the servant boy, sets the big copper pots of water to heat for our baths. The heat from the fire makes the room quite cozy. Evidently, I took too long the first day because the Swami told me that he was glad I took such a long time cleaning myself. However, in order for him to keep on schedule, he decided that he would bathe first in the future.

“Should I give you a nice rough cloth to rub down with?” he notes on his clip board. Before I even answer, he disappears and returns with a square bright orange wash cloth and hands it to me.
“But don’t ever put it in the bucket with the hot water,” he cautions. The “unclean” of the china cup phenomenon rears its head in diverse ways.

While we are on the subject of cleansing, with a rather casual look on his face, he writes, “Do you do the Ganesha mudra [hand position]?”

“I have never heard of the Ganesha mudra,” I confess.

“You have to cut the fingernail of the middle finger of your left hand [the unclean one] very short. You use it to clean out your rectum each morning.”

“You clean out your rectum each morning with your finger....?”And he is worrying about a wash cloth in a bucket of water?

“Yes, you need to keep the colon track as clean as possible.”

“Somewhere I did read an article connecting a clean colon and spirituality. Frankly, I did not give it any attention. But I don’t think it mentioned this particular technique.”

“You must do it daily.”


For several mornings I have noticed that the servant ladies give the Swami a foot massage. Since the Swami’s asthma is getting progressively worse with the bad weather, I show him a reflexology foot chart and volunteer to work on his feet. I massage them for some 15 minutes, giving particular attention to the lung area. To my surprise, afterwards, he insists upon reciprocating.

He seems to grab my foot with too much fervor, but I remind myself: I am not the body. Then I close my eyes and try to relax because the massage is much too vigorous to be enjoyed.

The next evening is unusually damp and windy. Because of the moisture, the Swami is wheezing so badly from asthma that he does not even attempt to do the yoga exercises. Fortunately, today he received a package from a devotee in Bangalore containing some ayurvedic medicines for asthma. He is wondering about taking them, and I advise him to do so immediately. Then I relate to him Vani’s successful story of curing her asthma with herbs.

“Anyway, you have nothing to lose,” I console him. The truth is that he is wheezing so badly, I am concerned whether he will make it through the night.

Lo and behold, the next morning he is fine; only an occasional cough remains. He does continue to take the herbal concoction three times a day as prescribed. The following morning at yoga, you would not have known he ever had asthma. He remains well during the entire month that I am here in spite of the cold damp rainy weather, which refuses to go away.

In the evenings after yoga, we continue to exchange foot massages. Later, he wants to show me a head massage technique that he learned in Japan. Grabbing me around the neck from behind with one arm, he begins to scrub my head with overwhelming vigor. Again, I have to remind myself continually, I am not the body. I feel as though I have put myself in the hands of a psychopathic killer. However, he refuses to allow me to massage his head. The next night, he is extremely sleepy, so we skip the head message session. In a way, I feel relieved, yet there is something strangely appealing about this stimulation to my brain circuitry.

“Which do you like better, the yoga or foot massage?” the Swami asks me one evening while we are munching on our daily bread.

“Well, I probably like massage better, especially the headscrubbing, now that I have gotten used to it. I think it stimulates my brain—something that I certainly find it beneficial on these cold lethargic days. But I think that the yoga is probably better for health, that’s why it’s so hard for one to keep it up alone.”

“Yes, even I will go for long periods without doing the yoga when there is no one here to do it with. It does help to have company. You must find someone to do the exercises with when you return home,” the Swami suggests.

“I have my own theory of how to distinguish a good habit from a bad habit. If it’s easy to get and difficult to break, then it is a bad habit. If it’s hard to get into the routine, and is broken easily, even by missing a single day, then it’s a sure sign that it is a good habit. Now would our esteemed Swami like to explain to me why nature works against us in this way?” I query him.

“You must remember the role of the three gunas [modes of energy]: dull, active, calm. One or the other will always predominate. No need to be concerned about which one is playing its role in your life at any given moment.”

After a thoughtful pause, he continues, “Are you humming like I suggested? We must continue to feed the fire and fan the flame.”

“I fear that when I sing because I am feeling dull, I am trying to escape from the dullness. Krishnamurthi says stay with the feeling until it dissolves.”

“Don’t escape. Just be with the dullness, and sing anyway. Don’t be concerned if the dullness is there, or if it goes.

“Live one moment in that thought-free state, then the next one moment, and continue one moment at a time. Remember what I told you, the Christian fathers said: ‘If you are free of thought, you are free of sin.’”


Plop. Plop. Plop. My rubber sandals slap the asphalt road, wet from last night’s rain. Elephants passed during the night and left their unmistakable turds: tank shells of dried roughage with every ounce of juice sucked out. A young child waves to me from a small thatched hut surrounded by maize. Only green is visible up ahead, decorated with pink and orange lantana. A bird greets me every four or five feet. I stop to admire a wild variety of tiger lily that is half yellow and half orange. Upon a closer look I discover that a tiny yellow-breasted honey-sucker is clutching the stem; he is almost buried inside the blossom.

The ashram and village are surrounded by deep trenches, ten-foot deep and ten-foot across, to protect them from the elephants. One villager told me that the elephants are only here during the summer (March, April, May), but no one else seems to agree with him. However, everyone does agree that the elephants only come out to forage at night, so it’s not likely that I will see one.

Occasionally, a local farmer comes to bring fruit to the Swami, so I take the opportunity to find out more about this area. He cultivates mulberry leaves to feed the silk worms at a local silk factory. The gentleman tells me he has to sleep on his property at night since he cannot afford to have elephant trenches dug. He uses a lantana and cactus fence to keep out cows and even larger animals. In spite of the fact that the elephants are supposed to be deep in the jungle during this season, they are coming to drink every night in a small pond across from the gate, the most vulnerable spot in his fence. He has to be on the alert to divert them as they would destroy his whole crop in just one feeding.

“Sir, just how do you divert elephants?” is my obvious question.

“Oh you just scold them, then they will go.”

I am not convinced, “How do you scold an elephant?”

“Oh, you just say, ‘Haahh, haahh,’ and turn them aside.”

However, the elephant trenches do not ward off the tiger, bear, panther and leopard that also roam these hills. Unfortunately, neither do they slow down the marauding wild boars that visit the neighboring maize fields every night. Each morning, I see stalks of maize strewn along the road. The tribal people, including the young boys, take turns beating pots all night to frighten off these hungry, destructive creatures. They even got into the ashram grounds once and uprooted a couple of small banana trees.


One disadvantage seems to be developing from the Swami’s return to health; he has more energy for his various projects. He is putting together a booklet, named Flowers, which will contain a collection of his ideas on various subjects. He envisions this wisdom as his opus magnum and has a special cover in three-colors on glossy stock already printed and waiting for the text. One evening, he gives me two articles on “happiness,” which he has previously published and has decided to include in Flowers. He asks me to go over them, as he wants the English to be perfect. From previous editing projects here, I know that he only wants confirmation that what he has written is great. However, in my quick scan I do find a couple of small corrections. One article includes the sentence: “When one comes to feel the serene joy and sense of limitless freedom, he or she feels too ill to bother about anything else in life.”

I comment that “ill” does not seem to convey the intended meaning, that perhaps “content,” or “detached” would be more appropriate. I go on to mention that the problem is since the normal meaning of “ill” is “sick,” the reader might be confused and assume a negative connotation. The Swami jumps up and runs to a locked cabinet and pulls out a thick dictionary. Upon looking up “ill,” he pores over the long list of possible meanings, then slams the book down in front of me. Accompanied by his usual groans and grunts, he points to a meaning that is number seventeen: “unpropitious.”

“Sir, you can hardly expect your reader to know the seventeenth meaning in some obscure dictionary,” I comment, although he is gesturing and aahing that “ill” is the right word. “Anyway, as I’m sure you know, ‘unpropitious’ only means ‘inauspicious.’ If you want it to have a positive connotation, as I think you do, it still does not fit your context. Perhaps, ‘detached’ is more appropriate.”

He then thumbs through his dictionary huffing and puffing in an excited manner to look up “detached,” as if the whole world depended on it. He finally comes up with“disinterested,” which we both agree fits fine. The thought does flicker across my mind that my life was easier when he was “too ill to bother about anything else in life.”


Previously, I spent all day outside, until 7:00 p.m., when I went for yoga and dinner with the Swami. Now I listen to the groaning of the wind in the trees on the ridge and recall that when I first arrived I thought it was the rush of a waterfall. However, someone is happy with the weather. The frogs are out chirping their spring song. They are everywhere. One morning I discover a small frog in the toe of my muddy tennis shoe, another behind the broom. Yesterday, one hopped through the drain in the bath house to join me while I was bathing. The drain is a horizontal hole to the garden outside and is plugged up immediately after use.

On the third day of my voluntary incarceration in my room with shutters closed to deter the wind, rain and fog, the Swami asks me, “Do you feel cold and lonely there?”

I explain that I am used to being alone. However, I am beginning to feel dull and lethargic without my usual long walks. Wrapped in my down sleeping bag (remember, this is August in India), I end up spending the whole day reading. Fortunately, I packed along some books because the Swami’s books remain in locked cabinets. So far, I have read a collection by Aldous Huxley and a sociological study on a south Indian village.

One afternoon when I bring my stainless steel tea tumbler back to his veranda for washing, the Swami is out on the porch sorting lettuce seed. One rarely finds lettuce in India, but this is the perfect climate to grow it. He asks if I will come back in 15 minutes to help plant the seed. I agree, but as I turn to leave I inadvertently knock one of his wooden sandals askew. Automatically, I start to carefully push it back into place with the same foot that knocked it.

“Uh-uuh,” he thunders his disapproval. He grabs his pad and scribbles: “You are not to touch them. Especially with your feet.”

“But, Swamiji, I inadvertently knocked the sandal, so I am only putting it back where it was.” Then I mischievously bow toward the sandals and then touch my heart a couple of times, imitating the gestures of the native women.

“I’ve seen swamis get very angry when someone even touched their sandals,” he retorts.

“So have I,” I respond sweetly. He keeps his head down so I cannot see his face, but I bet he is laughing. His anger is always short-lived.


One of the Swami’s ideas for meditation is to meditate with the eyes open. His reasoning is we should be able to be in a state of equal-mindedness through the activities of the day. You can see in such a way that the universe looks through you. Another way he describes the practice is looking at the world with the innocence of a baby.

After sitting in meditation, he asks: “What impressions do you get looking at my face?”

“Very calm, very peaceful.”

“Apart from that, do you feel that I am experiencing something inwardly?” he inquires further.

“I’m not really perceptive enough to judge that.”

“We must live as an instrument of God’s peace. ‘Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace’ were the words of St. Francis. To live in a state of perfect harmlessness and non-interference is living peace. In Sanskrit there is a saying: Dukha vasam; sukha prati; that is, ‘the ending of sorrow is the attaining of happiness.’ One does not have to work for happiness; it is enough to end sorrow.”

“In this world ‘ye shall have tribulations’ whether you are enlightened or not?” I suggest.

“Yes, but it is different. When your mind is as transparent and cloudless as empty space, where is any suffering?”

“So all I have to do is lose my mind. Sounds threatening to an American.”

“Christ said: ‘He who loses shall gain.’”

Having exhausted our thoughts for the moment, we sit in silence, which we often do. We feel no need to communicate and are content to be with our own thoughts—or silence. After some time, the Swami picks up his pen.

“Let me speak [write] my heart to you, Nancy. My only wish is that people should be able to grasp our universal teachings and live good and noble principles in their day-to-day lives. Excepting this, I have no plans, no ambition, absolutely no desire for name and fame.

“Since you have read our writings and have crossed our path, please take this as your own mission in life and try to do your best in fulfilling this mission as yours, not mine.”

“But, Swamiji, I don’t want a mission. Although I am so grateful that Swami Chinmayananda came to California so I could come to know Vedanta, in the end, I really have to question these swamis who spend all their time running around the world, trying to save souls. Some of them are becoming as unpeaceful as the Christian missionaries they imitate. More and more, I am realizing that your peaceful life, far from the maddening crowd, is the best solution for me.”


Every afternoon, I have to carry an umbrella to put out the seed for the doves. I can no longer see them through the open door while doing the yoga exercises; only little billows of fog creeping into the door are visible.

I really miss my walks; furthermore, I need some exercise. So one morning when there is only a light mist, I borrow the Mahadev’s big umbrella to go out for a walk. Not a creature is stirring. Everything is silent; only an occasional call of a lone bird echoes in the gray forest. Even the tribal village next to the ashram remains quiet. For fear that a downpour may start any minute, I do not dare enter my favorite haunts in the jungle.

The yellow butterflies that usually dot the tall lantana bushes are not to be seen. Where do all the butterflies go when it rains? I have to stick to the paved road as the grass is glistening with rain drops. Although I walk for almost an hour, not one person or vehicle passes me.

In spite of the gloomy weather, the Swami remains his cheerful self and our daily discussions continue. In addition to his spiritual pursuits, the Swami likes to keep himself informed of current events. He subscribes to Time magazine, as well as several anarchist publications. But his worldly education is not complete.

“Is AIDS transmuted by oral or anal sex?” he inquires one day. After taking a moment to recover from the shock, I give him what little technical information I have on the transmission of AIDS.

“I understand that oral sex is quite common now,” he continues.

I am feeling a little queasy, so I cut him off with the comment: “I don’t know; I never asked anyone.” Then I counter his questions on sex by asking him if he has ever been intimate with a woman.

“No! Never!”he insists with a stern hand signal.

“But you were in Italy for three years in the British army and did all that traveling later. You were not yet a monk.”

“But I was very shy. . . . Besides I was a Puritan. My own Guru—he was enlightened all right, I’m sure of that—but he had this weakness.”

“When one takes the vows to become a sannyasi (swami), does one state that he will remain celibate?” I question.

“No, not at all.”

“So technically speaking, when a Hindu swami has sexual intercourse, there is no breaking of any vows?”

“No, he is not breaking any vow, but that does not mean that his behavior is condoned by the majority. However, most will not condemn him for the behavior; they just accept the fact that he has a weakness,”he explains.

“I can see that is nothing to condemn per se. Yet somehow I feel that there is something intrinsically wrong with it. I know it can be my Puritanical conditioning; perhaps, I’m wrong in being critical of what is simply human behavior.”


One evening a young man, around twenty years old, arrives from Bangalore to stay for a couple of days. He had met the Swami on a hiking trip here last year and had returned to visit him on several occasions. This trip Sunil brought a poem by Lao Tze in which the Chinese master had commented that, though he never moved from his hut, the whole world came to him. After reading it to us, Sunil comments that it reminds him of our Swami. At that moment we are eating our usual bread and marmalade dinner.

“So you too think our marmalade is better than the store-bought mixed fruit jam? Is our bread better?” the Swami overtly fishes for compliments.

Before we can answer, he continues, “Every word in that poem is applicable to me. Will it be a good idea to print it on our new ‘peace on earth’ slip?” He turns to me as he finishes writing.

“I don’t know. Don’t you think it might make you look egotistical—saying, ‘look at me; I’m like Lao Tze.’”

Surely, he knows by now: If he asks for my opinion, he will get it. I keep hoping that he will quit asking, for even the gods know I can never keep my mouth shut.

“So I am living that life already, so there is no need to say so. Don’t you think just sitting here [like Lao Tze], I do more good than going around the country ‘disturbing the peace of others’ like all those traveling swamis. Don’t you think I live more like the rshis?”

“But each has his own place in the worldly samsara—each according to his own nature, as Lord Krishna put it. There is where I think Swami Chinmayananda is so wise. He says we must take our unique innate talents, which ordinarily would be working toward one’s personal material gain, and put them to work in service of humanity. That’s what he has done so incredibly in his life. If he were sitting up here alone all these years like you, he would have cleared the whole forest with his dynamic energy. Yet this life seems to be perfect for you. Both of you have truly found an environment that is perfect for your vasanas, innate tendencies, in the world.”

“Well put: Each has a little place in the world,” he writes.

“Except me, it seems. You are doing what you do best and he is doing what he does best. You both are very encouraging models that there are people who have exactly matched their situation with their vasanas. That’s what I wish I could do,” I observe.

“As long as you are in the world, in whatever profession, there is exploitation of others. The life of the sannyasi is the only exception. If we are given to, we accept; if not, we do not grumble.”

“Of course, there are all types of sannyasis in India. It is not like one has to fit into a mold. There is not even a standard robe, and certainly no Pope or board to dictate orders.”

“You’re right. When I traveled around India I saw a lot of variety. I even spent a day or two with those beggar-sadhus in Benares. They begged their food, then brought it all together.”

“Already cooked or uncooked?”

“Already cooked. Unless a sadhu is confined to one place because of the rainy reason, he only takes cooked food. They mixed it and ate it. But after I ate the concoction, I started vomiting. It was awful.”

“So you were in Benares too?” I question.

“Yes, I traveled all over India before I settled here.”

“Do you know of some sect in Benares of which it is said that they eat the flesh of the corpses in the cremation ground? I understand that it is to imitate Lord Shiva, the destroyer deity,” I question him.

“Now that sect is almost extinct, since they are also celibate monks. There used to be a similar place in Gujurat state. These types are called ‘agora panthi.’ Agora means ‘horrific’; panthi means ‘one who walks that path.’”

“So they renounce life by focusing on how horrible it is. I’ve heard in some parts that it’s even considered best to take the sannyasa vows at a cremation site. It’s amazing the myriad of ways life has manifested in Bharata. Of course, it’s partly because the old never changes. The new is always being added on, impinging and expanding, but the old remains intact, even though there is definitely no pressure to conform to the mold.”

After a moment’s thought, I remember another curiosity. “What about those nagas who run around with only a few ashes smeared on their body? Have you ever had any contact with them?”

“Of course, I know of them. They practice the breath of fire, so that keeps them warm. No doubt, it gets awfully cold in the Himalayas where they live.”

“Is it a really a spiritual sect?” I question him.

“Not what you would call spiritual, for they have no philosophy. But by conquering their physical bodies, they often develop certain siddhis, supernatural powers. They can use their siddhis to help others in danger, or in illness, I suppose.”

“From reading Swami Rama’s Living with Himalayan Masters, I surmise there still be some incredible yogis living in the Himalayas. Not that one would be able to find them, or even be able to know who is authentic or not.”

However, it’s clear that I will never become a yogi. I am meditating less since I can no longer sit out on the veranda each morning. That environment was really agreeing with me. I make a mental note not to return to the Nilgiris in August. Instead of the sitting meditation, I try to keep a meditative mind, or what I would call an expanded alert mind, whenever I am walking, even the short trip to the out-house.

Each day the Swami asks about my progress with meditation. One evening when he asks how I am progressing, I reply, “Quite well, almost blissful. But, Swamiji, I definitely do have a hang-up. Really at times I feel incredible waves of bliss, but only when I am alone. I will never let another person see it. I keep it a private matter.”