After two weeks, Swami Brahmadev arrives back at the ashram. By now I have heard enough about him from the Swami to be curious. A young man, about thirty-five years old, I find him quite kind, friendly, and intelligent. Fortunately, it is not raining on the day he arrives, so he can easily move his possessions from the guest cottage where I am staying to his new cottage. The charming structure, a circular shape with unique boxed windows—with glass—was specially designed for him by an architect friend. The Swami had complained to me about the expense of building the cottage, for Brahmadev had ended up spending twice what he had originally estimated.

As Brahmadev is packing up his belongings, I leave the door open because I think a young monk would not want to be behind closed doors with a woman. I am surprised when he insists that the door be closed. When I question why, he assures me there is a danger of snakes and scorpions entering if the door is left open. Then he expresses concern as to whether the electrical connection to his kutia, cottage, is functioning yet, as he has to have an outside light.

“What for?”I innocently inquire. ”I haven’t needed to turn my porch light on a single night.”

“Well, you should, in case any snakes or scorpions are there.”

As he is leaving with his last load of books, he turns toward the Swami’s glass-doored, locked bookcases that line the back of the wall.

“I don’t understand why a Swami would have such a collection of dolls,” he comments.

“They seem to be from all over the world. I bet he collected them when he traveled after the war,” I venture an explanation.

“But why would he want to keep them?”

“Contradictions and inconsistencies; that’s India,” is all I can answer.

That evening just as I enter the Swami’s kutia for our regular 7:00 p.m. yoga exercises and dinner, Brahmadev gets up to leave with the comment: “Swamiji allows no one in his cottage after 7:00 p.m. under any circumstances.”

Since I am accustomed to arriving at 7:00 p.m. for yoga and dinner, I stop still in my tracks. The Swami motions me to sit down, so we go through our usual routine.


Physically, Brahmadev is quite a hunk of a man. Like any good Brahman should, he rises while it was still dark for his daily ablutions. Each morning when I go to the out-house, I can barely discern his form in the predawn fog, as he does fifty push-ups against a stone bench.

Brahmadev is a swami in the Arya Samaj, Society of Aryans, founded in 1875 by the north Indian Swami Dayanand. He aimed to transform Hinduism from within by removing such extraneous, and often difficult to rationalize, elements as the Puranas,the epics that tell of the exploits of the various deities.

He also created a ritual whereby persons can be converted to Hinduism. This was not for the purpose of proselytizing, but a necessary measure to enable Hindus to be reinstated in good faith back into their own religion. Many had converted to Islam for political expedience or had crossed the “black waters”(left the sacred soil of Bharata) for education, as both Gandhi and Nehru had done; however, these two dignitaries remained outcastes for the remainder of their lives. Gandhi could not even enter the home of his aunts or uncles, brothers or sisters after returning from England.

Today the Arya Samaj has originated many community projects. Brahmadev just officiated at a mass wedding of young couples who would not have been able to marry because of the high cost of weddings and dowries. The organization furnishes the hall, the priests and provides a feast for the occasion.

I truly admire Brahmadev for the social work he is doing. Again, it seems he has found a life that suits his personality and incredible energy. He does not waste his energy hiking in the forest, like I do. When he finds out about my expeditions into the forest, he is aghast. He begins to call me Swamini Abayananda, “the fearless one.”It is both a joke and a compliment, for it is written that one who can overcome all fear is as good as enlightened.

He has only been back two days, but I have already noted that Brahmadev is quite talkative, and quite curious about everything. One day, referring to the Ganesha temple in the ashram compound, he asks me, “I don’t understand why a sannyasi has a temple.”

“Oh, he must think that he’s helping the tribals.”

“Nancy, they don’t worship Ganesha. They just worship a stone in a field, or that tree. Don’t you know about their sacred tree?”

“Yes, I do know of it, although I haven’t visited it because the Forest Officers caught up with me through Nagamani and told me I have to have an armed guard to go there. I’m sure the tribals never have an armed guard!”

“I know. The officers also told me to tell you to stay out of the jungle. They have been very frustrated because they can’t speak English to tell you themselves.”

“Renunciates with temples; sacred trees with armed guards. Contradictions and inconsistencies; that’s India for sure—but it wasn’t Bharata.”

Every day my tropical paradise continues to wilt. The bright blue morning glories are usually open by 8:00 a.m., but when I pass by at noon to return some editing to the Swami, they have already given up on the day and remain crinkled up. Brahmadev happens to be sitting with the Swami when I enter his kutia.

When I hand the paper to the Swami, Brahmadev asks, “What is that?”

They then begin speaking in Kannada, so I assume the Swami is explaining. Later Brahmadev tells me, “Swamiji, told me it is none of my business, or rather, none of my karma [work].’”

I take note that the Swami observes mauna only in English. But not entirely, one afternoon, I happened upon him speaking in English with Mrs. Rao, the wife of the temple priest.

I had met her last week when I needed to mail some letters. I took the main road up to the tiny Post Office beside the temple. To make ends meet financially, the head priest of the Ranganatha Temple, Sri Rao, also serves as the local Post Master. Interestingly, he seemed to know who I was.

“We are all wondering how you are managing to stay with that Swami who wears his anger on his nose.”

“So you have had some encounters with him?”

“Oh, yes. He is very demanding about his mail service.”

“Well, at times he is challenging, but I think that he has his heart in the right place. He just gets carried away with his projects.”

I had not noticed, but evidently Sri Rao had sent a young boy to his house, for his wife appeared to invite me to their home for a cup of hot milk. When I step into their modest home, I know the sacrifices many Brahmans are making in “secular”India. Not that the temple Brahmans in the villages ever had much wealth, but neither did the worshippers. However, the priests used to have respect as the scholars, teachers and advisors in their communities.


At this time, sixteen pages of the forthcoming book, Flowers arrive from the printer. The Swami had been plying me with questions about printing, publishing and pricing. Now he asks me to look over the pages and make a list of any corrections I would recommend. Dutifully and carefully, I read the pages. Then I write a letter to the publisher with a list of my suggestions. When I read it aloud to the Swami and Brahmadev, they both enthusiastically agree with my suggestions—they declare the letter is perfect.

“Tell him [the printer] I concur with all points,” the Swami notes on his pad. But when I ask for his typewriter to type it out, he gives me his “not now” hand signal.

Later, when I ask again, I add, “Should I just send my handwritten copy?” as I am getting the distinct feeling that he does not want me to touch his typewriter.

Finally, he scribbles: “It is too late to do anything about it.”

“No, Swamiji, these are just the proofs; they can still make changes. They would not have sent them to you to check if it still were not possible to make changes. They can definitely change the paper stock from this cheap stuff, so thin that the impression of the letters nearly cuts through. It is incompatible with the nice glossy cover you have already printed.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about. You are talking like a mad woman,” he scribbles on his pad. Then he jumps up and runs to one of his locked cupboards and pulls out the evidence: a stack of printed pages. The Swami has the first half of his book, 500 copies, already printed up in his cupboard. He’s right; nothing can be done now. However, I fail to see that I am the one who is mad. But I’ll reserve judgement.



Brahmadev has brought one welcome change: The food is better. He cooks a special dish for us at both breakfast and lunch. When I ask Brahmadev how it is that a traditional Brahman boy knows how to cook so well, he replies, “I like to be proficient in everything. In that way, I do not have to be a slave to anyone.”

Later the Swami informs me that Brahmadev had been a chef in a luxury hotel in Delhi before taking the orange cloth of renunciation. The next morning while we three are having breakfast, the Swami chants a Sanskrit verse that sends them into peals of laughter.

Then he writes out the translation for me:

        In regard to offerings:
        Decoration is pleasing to Lord Vishnu,
        Lord Shiva enjoys a bath,
        Lord Sun prefers prostrations, and
        Brahmans like food.

“Brahmans love food; that is the reason that one gets the best food in the Brahman hotels,” the Swami explains.

At that moment, Mahadev comes in with some uppama for me cooked by the ladies. Yesterday I happened to mention that I liked it, not knowing that the ladies make it for their breakfast every morning. The Swami told them to make some extra, so I could have some too.

Uppama is made from sooji, India’s cream of wheat, but this batch has a strange brownish color.
“Well, I don’t think this is Brahman uppama,” I remark.

“She does have a good eye, doesn’t she?” laughs Brahmadev.

Uppama is one of my favorite Indian foods; it’s great for breakfast or tiffin, a snack. It does keep in the frig well for a day or so, but, like all Indian food, it’s best fresh. And it’s easy to make. For Brahman Uppama:

Measure:
        
1 cup of cream of wheat.
Roast it dry in a dry skillet over a medium low heat for 10 minutes, or until you can smell an aroma coming from it. Stir it constantly so that it doesn’t brown.
Remove cream of wheat from skillet and set aside.

Meanwhile, put into a suace pan:
        2 1/2 cups of water
        1/2 tsp. salt

Bring to a boil.

Place in warm skillet over medium heat:
        3 tablespoons oil, preferably coconut oil
        2 tablespoons of urad dal (available at Indian stores)
        4 tablespoons of chopped raw cashews

After one minute, add
        1/4 tsp. whole jira (cumin seed)
        3 tablespoons shredded coconut
        3 tablespoons white raisins

When ingredients are slightly browned, add:
        4 or 5 fresh curry leaves (available at Indian stores)
        1 cup roasted cream of wheat

Immediately, stir in vigorously the 2 1/2 cups of boiling water
Add more water, if needed, to make a soupy paste, without any lumps.

Cook and continue stirring until water is absorbed and the mixture takes on a dry, clumpy texture (about 3 minutes).

Cool for a few minutes, then stir in
        1 tablespoon chopped fresh coriander leaves

Enjoy!


Neither Brahmadev nor the Swami will eat food cooked by the tribal ladies. Mahadev has to cook food for the two swamis because he is a Brahman also, although from a lower sect. His family lineage is the caste of temple servants who perform menial tasks, such as polishing the lamps, tending the cows, and cooking the prasad.

I comment that their concepts are just the opposite of ours. The Swami has the fresh vegetable salad (an influence from his European days) cut up by the tribal women, who may not have clean hands, so we would be hesitant. However, we would have no problem eating food cooked by them, since it would be sterilized by the heat.

I know that this prohibition of eating food cooked by a lower caste person comes from the belief that the subtle vibration of the cook enters the food through Agni, fire. There’s even a story about a monk who had dinner at the home of a wealthy devotee. Somehow the guest could not resist the temptation of stealing the gold goblet that held his water. Five kilometers down the road, he came to his senses, retraced his steps and returned the goblet to the owner. He apologized and explained that he just did not understand what came over him. When the owner investigated the cook, he found the true culprit. The cook was really a notorious thief who cased his victims by working as their cook. His “thief” vibrations had entered the food that the monk had eaten.

Brahmadev enlightens me further on the eating habits of some Brahmans. It seems at a temple in Brindavan, the birthplace of Lord Krishna, the priests compete for the record of who can eat the most burfi, a candy made of condensed milk and sugar. The record now stands at 15 kilos consumed at one sitting. The challenge: any pandit who eats 2 kilos of burfi receives 500 rupees, afterwards he receives 500 rupees. for every additional kilo consumed. The connoisseur who managed to gorge the 15 kilos earned 7,000 rupees. for his efforts.

“Of course, he would have vomited it up afterward, I was told,” Brahmadev concludes the story.


One evening the Swami again consults me on the wording of the donors’ names on the stone slab that will be part of the base of the Bambi statue. His face lights up at my suggestion, giving my head his usual tap of approval with his clipboard.

Then he writes: “You have some very good ideas, and I appreciate them. However, I do not have to use your suggestions. That printing was already done; you were foolish to say it wasn’t.”

What can one say; there are many things that can invoke silence. I calmly get up, carefully roll up my mat, then pause to wish him “sleep well.”

But the peace doesn’t last long, the next morning the Swami comes running down the walk flaying his arms and hopping about in such a way that it looks like is his tail is on fire. The Indians often use the expression “hopping mad”; I am now beholding “hopping mad” in action. Since he does not have his clipboard with him, he cannot communicate the problem, but I do surmise that I’m the guilty party. When he points to my stainless steel tumbler on the window sill, his squeaks and squawks increase. I had inadvertently dropped the tumbler a few minutes earlier and he heard the crash from his porch. He motions and points out a dent in it; actually, there are several. From my veranda, I can look past the Swami and see the servant women lined up like three little birds, grinning from ear to ear, but I manage to stifle my laughter and take a serious stance.

“Swamiji, we sannyasis are not concerned about such small matters as a dent on a tumbler.” I turn to my door as I say, “I have that editing of the brochure finished; I’ll get it for you.”

I end up appreciating this practice of facing another’s anger, almost daily now, because I have always been one to quake at authority. Strangely, I am never affected by the Swami’s anger, beyond the momentary shock. Since I am not emotionally attached to him, I do not mind what he does. I watch and am amazed that I do not react, nor feel any need to react. Then of course I am quite content doing my own thing: reading, meditating and walking, since it has started clearing up every afternoon now. I hope I can take this “accepting what comes without trying to change it” attitude home with me.

In the evening, I hear the chatter of many little birds and go out on my veranda to investigate. The tiny sun birds are settling for the night. They must be in a mating mood because they are darting, dipping and fluttering in pairs like butterflies. One swoops down to the ground and picks up a dry leaf almost as big as itself. I stand and watch in awe until they disappear into the brush at the edge of the compound. I never see them again.

A few days later the sun is shining in the morning. I don’t want to miss a minute of it, so I take off early. The soft breeze in the trees is a cheerful, bristling background to the lovely melody of the bulbuls. Nature has painted these birds drably in gray, white and black, but in a moment of artistic abandon has added an accent of red at their ear and under their rump. Judging from the fresh dung on the roadside, the elephants must have taken over last night and used the road as their grand trunk highway through the full length of the village.

The intermittent sun and forceful wind have already dried the path through the jungle, except in the deep shade. I go along humming while feeling in my heart “what a beautiful world this is.” As always, I have a keen eye out for birds and animals. I get so carried away that when I return the Swami has given up on me and already started doing the yoga routine.

I quickly sit down and start the exercises, while looking out the open double doors. “Oh, Swamiji, it is so nice to see the sunshine. Let there be more sunshine in our lives.”

That evening, when as usual the Swami asks me how my meditation is progressing, I reply with a grin, “Definitely better today since we have some sunshine. Do you think enlightenment may be dependent on sunshine?”

“Yes. The sunshine of happiness. Just like the clouds seemingly cause depressing weather, our minds become gloomy because of the three predominate moods [dull, active, calm] that predominate at any given moment,” he comments on his note pad.

“And the sun is always shining in spite of the clouds,” I agree with him.

Normally, I leave his cottage immediately after breakfast, but one day I hang around to help get the vegetables peeled and chopped, ready for cooking, since lunch has to be ready by 11:00 a.m.

“Swamiji, you are as busy as a one-armed paperhanger.” I tease him.

He usually chuckles at my Americanisms, but today he’s too busy to bother. It’s Saturday, so the local sadhu has already been here for his weekly donation of rice and dal. The masons who are building the cupola for the Bambi statue have come, eaten breakfast, and are now having coffee before starting their work. A family of tribals just arrived asking for food. The Swami is putting together some puffed rice and ready-to-eat dried dal on a plate to offer them immediately. He then personally places some provisions in the burlap sack they are carrying.

He allows no one to enter the store room, not even Mahadev. He daily picks out the vegetables to be cooked, measures out the rice, oil and even salt from his pantry. Since no one can touch the tea leaf or sugar, he always makes the tea personally. This is the first time I’ve been able to eye-ball his stove, electric, made in England. It’s the only evidence of any British influence I’ve seen in B. R. Hills since I’ve been here.

Somehow all the sunshine and promise of my own cooking inspires me to song. I begin singing my version of “Lord of the Dance” while swaying and moving my hands as I sing. Then I begin to repeat the verse and start twirling in the tiny space of the kitchen. The Swami is delighted with the show and bobs his head and starts to clap his hands in tune with the melody.

“Dance can be sadhana too. It is an expression of ecstasy. Remember to keep a silent song alive in your heart.”

I am tripping lightly as I leave his cottage and face the sunlight. I spread my arms and take it in. Ah, yes, enlightenment must be dependent on sunshine—that is why there are so many saints in India. It’s all this wonderful sunlight.

I return to the kitchen at 10:45 a.m. to cook the vegetables. But just at the moment the green beans are at the bright green, crispy stage, some guests arrive. They must be important because the Swami is beaming, cackling like a bird, and rushing around putting out straw mats. He’s really at his best receiving guests. He even puts his special marmalade on the bread he serves as prasad, blessed food, then generously passes out his precious bananas that he usually dispenses one by one.

I tell him I will go ahead and eat since the vegetables are at perfection. Familiar tastes on the palate. . . sheer delight. So give me some sunshine and crispy vegetables and I’m happy.

That evening after yoga, as usual we sit peacefully in silence for some ten minutes. Then he queries me, “Tell me, Nancy, are you enjoying your stay here? Nothing is lacking. Our daily routines, food, yoga, etc. All okay?”

“Yes, but I did really love to taste my own style of cooking: crispy vegetables instead of cooked to mush.”

He responds via his pad, “Oh, my heart leapt with joy when I saw you dancing and singing. I felt you were dancing in ecstasy like an angel—not on earth at all—soaring high in heaven.”

“Yes, but only in front of you. I’ve never dared allow myself to be blissful in front of another person before,” I confess.

He has not allowed me to massage his feet since our dispute about Flowers. Or was it when Brahmadev arrived? Anyway, since he is in such a good mood, I ask him if he wants a foot massage.

“No, no,” he insists.

“If you don’t let me, I’ll touch your sandals and hex them with my unclean foreign vibration,” I tease him, as I roll up my mat start to leave for the guest cottage.

He cackles gleefully at my joke. He does have a great sense of humor and takes my occasional cantankerous remarks in stride. After all, he is having to make many adjustments himself. Like the night I clipped my nails in his room. I honestly did not know nail clipping was an unclean act. I was just waiting for him to finish in the kitchen, so I pulled out my nail clippers. Actually, he survived the clipping of the nails without a total hemorrhage. It was when I got up to throw the clippings outside that he came unglued—“hopping mad.” Could you have imagined that one should not throw nail clippings, or any other trash, out after dark? Nor could have I, so I ignored him and told him not to be superstitious. After all, I couldn’t keep such unclean trappings in my lap while I ate. In short, the Swami deserves plenty of credit for accommodating me in ways that I shall surely never know.


The following evening, the Swami is standing at the door of his cottage when I arrive for yoga. I had put the end of my sari over my head because of the cold wind.

As I enter, I mention, “In Hampi, everywhere I went, people would call after me: ‘Indira.’ I don’t know why they had such a fascination for her.”

“She was only playing with power.” Then he writes out a Sanskrit sloka [verse]:

         Power, pregnancy, taking a loan,
         intercourse between dogs,
         in the beginning much joy and pleasure,
         but at the end so painful—even ending in death.

“Well, I’ve heard a lot of Sanskrit verses, but that one takes the cake.” I can’t keep from laughing aloud, although I doubt it was meant to be funny.

Later during our discussion time, the Swami starts writing, “You are already enlightened, but you do not realize it. In fact, you are face to face with God; yet you do not realize it. Be nothing; then you are everything.”

“I know why I don’t realize I’m enlightened. It’s because I don’t think a simple, ordinary, plain Jane like myself can be enlightened. I think it happens to someone special, very special.”

“To know that there is nothing to gain, nothing to change, that is wisdom,” he replies.

“But Swamiji, it can’t be that simple.”

“We only have to realize we are seeing God all of the time.”

“So give up the idea of a great mystical union?”

“What is mystical union when all is THAT only?”

“That is a great answer,” I chuckle gleefully. “You’re right. For there to be a union, there must be two. So that’s why Adi Sankarcharya and his Vedanta theory emphasizes the non-dual point of view. So really the enlightened have to deal with the same nonsense in the world as everyone else. It’s just a change of attitude?”

“When rains come both the enlightened and unenlightened get wet. But the enlightened never get bothered. The rain comes; the rain goes.”

“Okay, okay—I get it. If I say, ‘I am enlightened,’ it only shows my egoism. But if I say, ‘I am not enlightened,’ I am not speaking the truth.”

“Aah.”