One morning the Swami tells me, “Sivamalliappa will take you to the temple.”

“Swamiji, you know I am not a temple person. Plus I visited Chidambaram, so I’ve seen the best.”

Since my past influences have been from two intellectuals teaching the philosophical ideas, I really have not had any contact with the more prevalent religious practices of the Hindus until this trip. Although the temples and deities are not a part of my personal spiritual journey, I have been open to investigating and learning about this phenomenon. Obviously, they have been a major factor in giving millions of people a common identity for thousands of years, so they must have some value.

“Just go and see,” the Swami insists.

“Okay.”

“You will have to take a coconut and incense.”

“They will have a stall to buy it there?”

“Aah.”

Sivamalliappa, a local boy who runs errands for the Swami, arrives early the next morning to accompany me on the short hike to the temple. I purchase the proper materials, a coconut, incense, bananas, and a flower mala, garland, from a little old lady on the temple steps. She weaves the malas of snowy white jasmine and bright fuchsia bougainvillea. Just using flowers growing around here, she has created one of the most beautiful malas I have ever seen. Carefully, I carry the splendid garland, certainly fit for a deity, as we begin our ascent up the 392 steps to the Ranaganathan temple. The entrance is not particularly ornate, but the deities must be made of precious metals. I surmise this as my foot hits the thick loop of iron at the threshold. Then my eye catches the heavy metal chain that must fit through the loop to secure the door against thieves and infidels.

I consciously place my bare feet on each granite step, worn smooth by the many pilgrims who have passed this way. After stopping to take in the tall wooden columns that decorate the entrance, I hesitate because most temples have a specific route to be followed to the main deity. Generally, Ganesha is worshipped first, in order to remove any obstacles to the success of the worship. Next in line is the consort of the main deity, since nearly all Hindu deities are in pairs of masculine and feminine. Only then is the worshipper mentally prepared to behold the main deity. I follow Sivamalliappa around and perfunctorily follow his instructions of when to hand over incense and coconut to the priest, when to give the bananas and mala for the consort, when to take the ash, and when it is polite to leave.

Some temples do emit a perceivable quiet vibration imbued through the centuries with chanting of the priests and devotion of the worshipers, but I do not detect anything special here. However, this temple, like many in South India, has a feature I can certainly appreciate: a grand view. In one direction I can see all the forest-covered hills down to the plains toward Mysore, on the other, the rolling hills, terraced gardens, and the lake where the elephants come to drink in the summer. After his foreign tour, Swami Vivekananda commented that in Europe and America when one finds a scenic spot on a mountain top, they build a hotel; whereas, here in India, the Hindus erect a temple on these places of special beauty.

Even after our disagreement over the Flowers publication, the Swami gives me a new assignment to write out a little inspirational slip that will accompany an official peace slip. I balk, insisting that he knows what he wants to say; furthermore, he is totally proficient in English. Further, I protest that it is foolish for me even to attempt to create something that he can do better.

My objections are arbitrarily overruled. The Swami insists: “I know that you are the right person to do it.”

Immediately, he gives me a list of suggestions of what he wants to be included in the piece. When he arrives with my tea the next morning, it is accompanied with a note of a couple more additions for the peace slip.

Since the weather has turned nice, I am back on my meditation pad for the two free hours in the morning. I am so glad to be back in my little peaceful place in the world. In my restless moments, I open my eyes and take in the beauty of nature; the waves of the undulating green against a blue sky. I feel content just observing, instead of hiking until I exhaust myself, which had become my pattern.

Early the next morning, while I am brushing my teeth on the verandah—Indians do not brush their teeth in the room for toileting or bathing—Mahadev arrives with a note. The Swami requests that I write out a nice piece, “incorporating all the main points by 4:00 p.m.”

I dutifully try to organize the notes that expand every time I see the Swami. Finally, I complain, “Swamiji, you have given me four or five pages of handwriting to be condensed into a piece for a 3 by 4 inch card. Now this is not an ordinary assignment. Look, Swamiji, you know what you want to say and how to say it. Why don’t you just write it out yourself?”

NO. He insists with a barrage of squeals and squawks. It appears that it has been ordained in heaven that I will write it. Then he scribbles out another one-half page of instructions.

During my short walk before breakfast, I start listening for the hum of Om in my heart. I discover a new trail with a small pond. A wonderful mountain pond—deep still calm reflecting water. I spot tiny frogs and tadpoles, swimming in its obscure depths. A breeze blows a design of fragile wrinkles across the liquid surface. Black lacy dragonfly wings glide by. I feel a sigh of contentment ripple through my body. A gentle breeze threads a string of remembrances of past contentment.

When I get up to return to the ashram, I find several iridescent black sunbirds feeding on flowers. It’s going to be a good day today, I think as I look out the door during yoga to watch tall branches dancing in the wind, while the lower limbs only quiver.

Afterwards, during breakfast, the Swami gives me a pep-talk and another sheet of instructions. When I have to face him at lunch, I again mention moving the two new lines or the introduction will be longer than the piece itself.

“Who will condemn us for it?” he rebuts my suggestion.

“You’re right. I don’t suppose anyone in India would condemn anything for being too long. I remember it was a common occurrence when Swami Chinmayananda was the guest speaker at different organizations, like the Rotary Club, that the person introducing him often took up half the time. On one occasion, a man, speaking in a native language that not even the Swami understood, took up the whole time.”

“Nevertheless, I am concerned that the type will have to be so small that no one can read it. Do you think everyone will have a magnifying glass available?” I am relentless.

I work all afternoon with stops and starts, but cannot get all the disconnected pieces into one nice bouquet. I note that the project has me so stressed out that I have not even meditated all day. One thing is clear: this damn peace slip is causing me to lose my peace of mind. I wonder if this is a lesson for me. The Swami is truly a special person, but not even he can remain quiet in this peaceful abode. He is actually spending every waking minute fussing over his ”peace slip.”

Finally, I get the ideas summarized. First and foremost, it is supposed to portray the Swami as a personification of the two teachers whom he considers the greatest sages of this century: Ramana Maharshi (“savage-type dress,” “non-conformist”) and J. Krishnamurthi (“hippie-like message”).

Then I summarize the main points he wants me to incorporate about him personally:
1) He accepts whatever chance may bring.
2) His life of harmlessness seems to be a silent revolt against the existing evils of society.
3) He guides others to contact, recognize the peace in their own hearts.
4) A spiritual person has to live away from world.
5) Greed and competition create conflict in the society, that, in turn, produces war.
6) He purposely rejects the gadgets of society.
7) Like Krishnamurthi, he thunders against the pretensions of life.

Other important points to add:
1) The Swami’s lifestyle is the most intelligent way of living in this world of greed and competition.
2) After spending a lifetime working as a slave for others, for the sake of food and shelter, what have we accomplished at the end of a lifetime?
3) Realizing this dilemma, the Swami sits in a peaceful hut, quietly humming in peace with the universe.

At 6:00 p.m., I go to his cottage early with the stack of pages, half-pages, and small notes he has given me. “Swamiji, here are all your notes, along with a summary of all your ideas. I just cannot put it together into anything that flows nicely. I’ve tried, but for me it is impossible.”

The Swami is very quiet and never looks at me directly during yoga or while serving supper. We do not meditate as usual after yoga, for he immediately jumps up to bring my bread and milk.

As it turns out my last day at the ashram falls on a special holiday: Ganesha’s Day. As I am leaving Swami writes, “Tomorrow morning please come and help Brahmadev in the preparations for the holiday meal. Please volunteer yourself and ask what you can do to help. He has to prepare special items for us: jackfruit pudding and the vegetables. When Mahadev cooks the vegetables, they have no taste.”

“Now that is true. No matter what vegetables Mahadev cooks, they all have the same taste: zero. I wonder what his secret is?”

By 8:00 a.m. the next morning, the front verandah is astir with a big production. Five tribal women, Mahadev and an extra boy are busy working. It is pickle-making day too . Limes are cut into four pieces. A burlap bag’s measure of red chilies is roasted over the wood in a huge iron skillet fire, ground on the stone, then added to the limes.

I approach Brahmadev to help him with the vegetables. He corners me, “Did you see that? Why is a Swami making all those hot, spicy pickles? Even his brochure says he does not eat chilies.”

“Anywhere contradictions and inconsistencies abound, they become the norm. I’m simply not going to be bothered.”

For the Ganesha celebration, the Swami has invited the school children to the temple for a ritual and prasad, blessed food. Their little bright faces line the sidewalk waiting for the priest to come out with the sacred flame. Problem is, although the sun is shining, the wind is blowing so hard that he cannot get a damp (due to the rains) match to stay lit long enough to light the camphor. I do not know who the poor fellow is; I have never seen him before—nor afterwards. Anyway, I volunteer to help, by trying to block the wind. Somehow, in desperation, I end up with the matches in my hands, and finally light the camphor. We both take a deep breath to regain our composure. But our timing is perfect. Just as the priest begins to “show the flame,” the Swami arrives with puffed rice for me to hand out to the children for prasad, blessed by the Swami.

At dinner that evening, the Swami is still cold as a Siberian icicle. I feign that I think everything is normal.

He notes on his pad: “When will you be vacating? Brahmadev needs the room by 7:30 a.m. tomorrow morning because the painters will be starting work by then.”

“No problem. I told Mr. Rao at the temple guest house that I would be there early. He said that was fine. Then I will be in Bangalore for two weeks in case you need me to check anything at the printers.”

“Naah,” he gestures with a grimace. “You did not do the work we gave you here,” he writes on his pad.

“Swamiji, as we both know I helped you continually with your editing projects. I am sure that my not having the capacity to do this last assignment will not cancel out the other help I have given you. I’m sure you are not that kind of person.”

As I am speaking he is looking down, but I detect a smile on his face.

“Good-bye, Swamiji, I’ll drop by and see you before I leave Biligiri Ranga (B. R. Hills). I realize I cannot repay what you have given me in kindness, tender-loving care and spiritual guidance.”


At dawn’s first light, I am ready to start carrying my suitcase up to the temple guest house. I manage to carry my small, but very heavy, suitcase—containing my books—down to the main road. Then I luck out. Just as I reach it, a group of local men, probably tribals, are walking by. I gesture and pantomime (I have had some expert lessons from the Swami lately) to get one of them to carry the suitcase for me. Then I show them a 10 rupee note. They bobble their heads; they have understood. Then they banter among themselves to decide which one gets the job. Then a young strong one steps forward, hoists it up on his head and away we go for the twenty minute hike.

Coming back down the hill at full speed since I am empty handed, I head for the local restaurant for breakfast. Once Sivamalliappa and I had tea in the outer room where there are chairs, but I go into the dining room where the floor is plastered with the traditional cow dung paste. I know it’s hard to believe, but I have never once seen a fly on a cow-dung paste floor—and I have watched carefully. The lovely fluffly idlis, doused with fresh coconut chutney, are served on a green banana leaf. The owner/cook and his spouse are delightful, typical of the gentle simple country folk that you find in villages all over India.

“Madam, may I inquire where you are from?” a gentleman stops me with a question. It is the gray-haired man who I passed on the road earlier.

“I am from U. S.”

“You greeted me so nicely with a ‘namaste’ when I passed you this morning, but I did not know how to respond appropriately—with a good morning, a bonjour, or what,” he responds.

I often greet the villagers as I am walking as it disarms their shock at seeing my white face; in addition, it usually brings big smiles to their faces to be acknowledged. I particularly noticed this gentleman because he did not have the look of a local. However, his simple dress, a quality cashmere sweater that was worn at the neck and sleeves, along with his unshaven face threw me off. I forget that, traditionally, Brahmans only shave once a week. There is an injunction against touching a razor; actually, I think it’s just the cut hair, just like cut fingernails. By the way, this means that the barbers are polluted and are the lowest of the lowest caste, even lower than the dobhi, washerman. The barber travels around once a week to the villages. The shaving takes place under a tree, since the low-caste barber (along with the shaven hair) would not be allowed to enter a home.

When I comment on his command of English, the dignified gentleman explains that he had studied in England. At that time, his family had been the Diwan (ruler) of this entire region. The center of the district was at Yolander.

“Oh, so that is why there is such a palatial, although dilapidated, residence in Yolander. I saw it when I was there and thought it must have been the home of a raja or nawab. So you lived there when you were a child?”

“Oh, no. My grandparents had lived there, but we lived in Bangalore. It was more convenient for education, and was more comfortable. Mother would come to Yolander if there was some special occasion that required her presence and for the annual revenue collection.”

The next day we meet for tea on the verandah of the guest house I am staying in. First he tries to convince me that I should not be staying in the temple guest house. “It’s too quiet,” he insists. I tell him it’s fine for me since I love quiet, but he seems unsettled about it.

In every part of India, from the jungles to the deserts, indigenous tribal peoples exist who are considered to be the original inhabitants. Of totally diverse customs, they have remained outside of the mainstream of the society and culture. They are the adivasis, or first [adi] inhabitants, in contrast to the harijans, or untouchables, who lived in the populated areas, thereby suffering more exploitation and discrimination. I take the opportunity to ask him about the local tribals.

“Now these Soligas of this region are called a scheduled caste?”

“That’s correct. That’s the term for the tribals who have always lived isolated outside the society. However, because farmers are clearing their forest for tilling and planting of cash crops, they are being forced to come in contact with others. Obviously, the tribals have no deed to the forest they have lived in since no one knows when.” he explains.

“So without getting any benefits, the tribals are losing their forests that have sustained them through all the empires, wars and plagues. The Soligas subsisted principally by hunting and gathering?”

“At least in the last century, they were planters of maize and raghi, their millet. They used a method so that they continually moved from one place to the other, so they never depleted the soil. Neither did they cut the large trees, but always made an effort to save them.”

“So that’s why so much natural woods still exists around here.”

He goes on to explain, “Another problem is simple exploitation has begun even here. For example, huge tamarind trees grow in the forest. The merchants from outside have the Soligas pick all the pods for the market. Although he gives the tribals only a few rupees for their work, he may get a thousand for the crop from just one tree.”

“I wonder if the tribals use the tamarind for cooking like the south Indians do. Since they don’t eat rasam or sambar...”

“I doubt it. They have no idea that it could be of value to anyone. You see they are not accustomed to dealing with outsiders. When I used to come here with my mother in the 1920’s, if they saw us, the Soligas would run away,” he comments.

“Yes, the same thing happened to me the other day. A small child took one look at my face and started screaming as if he had seen a ghost,” I tell him with a smile.


It’s great to be on my own. First thing, guess where I head? Yes, the Soliga’s sacred tree. To get the exact lay of the land, I take the bus to the tiny village where I had wanted to return to see the baby elephants. It turns out to be a summer home of an ex-raja and is now available for rental, particularly for groups who want a quiet retreat and want to ride elephants. After looking around, I turn back to retrace the route to the signpost that I spotted from the bus for Dodda Sampige, the sacred tree.

However, before I have gone a half-mile, I am distracted by a dirt road that runs along a ridge off to the right. There appears to be a clearing ahead, so I take off to investigate. I find only a couple of mammoth old trees that have fallen in the storms. As I turn around, I behold the most wonderful sight below me. There is a beautiful Soliga village with thatched huts and dirt lanes. Beautiful because it is laid out in exact rectangular pattern and sparkling clean. Made entirely of natural material, it’s all surrounded with bright-green flora of the forest. I stand in awe at such simple grandeur.

My first inclination is to find a route down the ridge to visit it, but something holds me back. Here is one spot of human habitation that has never been invaded by an outsider. How can I, from a long line of barbarians [ie. Europeans/Americans], dare approach such a holy spot? Suddenly, I feel sure it would contaminate the hamlet immeasurably to have the vibration of a people who have fought among themselves in countless wars, even two world wars, to control the wealth of the planet. I suddenly realize the Old Testament must be a record of the arrival of the barbarians on the planet. We do not know where they came from, but we do know that they found people already here because Cain, Able and Seth found spouses for themselves. And we do know they brought war with them, lots of war—the Bible tells us so.

Quite contrary to that modus operandi, these Soligas have never fought with anyone. They have lived peacefully in this forest, never bothering anyone. . . or anything. In their tribal ethics, they consider cutting a tree as the greatest sin. In addition to their farming, they gather many roots and herbs for both nutrition and medicine, so, of course, they used techniques to preserve the stock. Unfortunately, the clans have a susceptibility for sickle cell anemia, for which they have not found a natural cure.

Literally, Soliga means “the one who came from within bamboo;” however, they have their own creation story. The deity Madeswara was passing through the forest, carrying a small Champak seedling. Setting it aside, he visited the nearby stream. When he returned, he found the tree had rooted, so he left it at that spot. That seedling has now grown into the two-thousand-year Dodda Sampige. The Soligas claim to be the descendants of one of this deity’s two sons. So the Soligas are the children of the “Lord of the Great Champak Tree.”

The deity is worshipped by placing smooth round stones at the foot of the tree. Among the stones are signs of offerings such as grains and flowers. To be in the presence of this sacred tree, which has been honored through the centuries, is completely overwhelming. To behold the wonder and beauty of this manifestation of nature is an act of worship. When I arrive at the tree, several Soligas have come to worship. They prostrate themselves at its feet and offer flowers. I follow their example, putting my knees in the damp sandy gravel of the river bed. The Soligas, curious and friendly, attempt to talk to me, but there’s no hope for communication. By the way, I do not see a single wild animal either coming or going, so, as I suspected, the armed guard was not needed.

The next morning, I return to the jungle. First, I check to see if the yellow ginger is in bloom. The sun is shining and my orchid radar is at its peak. I find five plants, all easily attainable on felled trees or branches that have been blown down by heavy winds. Now there is only a gentle breeze to keep me comfortable, so I stop and climb up on my favorite boulder of granite. From my perch, I behold the wonders of this green, leafy paradise, then ponder how I ever managed to survive without it.

This morning on the main street, I met Brahmadev and he invited me to lunch since he is cooking today. En route, four or five cars pass me, for B.R. Hills is visibly astir getting ready for the Chief Minister’s visit. When I pass the police station, usually totally dark and deserted, there are several officers loitering on the porch. One of them hollers down to me, “How long are you here?”

I answer the query crisply, “Just a couple of days.” I have certainly been here long enough to know to avoid police paperwork whenever possible. The officer waves me on. Since he speaks English, I surmise he arrived with the Minister.

I reach the ashram at the usual lunch time to find both Swamis all smiles. They are both eager to find out how I am faring at the temple guest house. And what am I doing for food? I assure them that everything is fine. Then Brahmadev expresses his concern and tells me that, had he been in station, he would have advised me not to stay there.

“You mean because of the suicide? Sivamalliappa told me about that.”

“And you can stay in that room?”

“Wait a minute. He did not say in the room. He told me that a young couple jumped off the precipice that the temple sits on because the boy’s parents would not allow him to marry a tribal girl.”

“Nancy, there was another suicide in the guest house itself. I think he was a married man. He and his girl friend stayed at the guest house. I think they were dead in their room for several days before anyone even thought to check on them.”

“That must be the room that is pad-locked. Mr. Rao’s brother had been staying in the room I am in, so I’m sure it is not the same room.”

Brahmadev is still not convinced, “Are you sure it doesn’t make any difference to you?”

“Why would it? I don’t know them. I’m sure the temple priests did the purification rites to send their souls to the heavens.”

Planning to start a little garden, I brought the orchid plants with me that I had found in the forest. After we ate lunch, I pull some stems of leaves off a banana tree to tear into strips to use as twine. Then I carefully tie the plants to the branch of a tree. Since the rains are bound to continue, followed by the cool winter, I feel sure they will be able to establish themselves.

That evening from my verandah in the guest house, I can see the parking area at the back of the temple. I had seen a bunch of cars there, which are now gone, so I assume the Chief Minister of Karnataka has come and gone. So I go over to the temple to see how the state visit went. It turns out the Minister has not arrived—an hour overdue. The occupants of the cars I saw were looking for the Minister. The priests and a few other well-wishers are feeling bored after an hour’s wait. So I tell the two fellows who are waiting to play their flutes to go on ahead and play now for our enjoyment.

Their music is truly wonderful. Of course, I begin to dance. The music is soft, so my dance is soft—twirls, swirls and dips. In years gone by, the devadasis (servants of the deities) danced in temples, so it has been done before. Everyone else begins to clap their hands with the music, so we have a lovely, spirited time, since it turns out to be another hour before the Minister finally arrives.

I step back into the background to observe as the horns toot and the banners fly to accompany the Minister as he troops around the temple for the traditional circumambulation with his entourage. Then he enters the temple for darshan of the deity. Only pausing a moment to stuff some sweet prasad in his mouth, he is quickly back out at the entrance gate to plant the customary tree, by flashlight, since it is now pitch dark. The word is spreading that he was late because he was at the Swami’s.

The following day I go by the Swami’s cottage, as he had asked me to drop by in case he had some task for me. I am feeling quite happy as I walk down the familiar dirt road with a tribal village on one side and dense shrubs on the other. I enter the ashram gate and wind my way up the concrete path. I check my orchid garden, finding every one of them adjusting to its new home. Truly peaceful moments surround this beautiful place—I have not figured out if it is because of, or in spite of, the Swami.

I find him all abubble because of the Chief Minister’s visit to his cottage. “He stayed here for an hour. I served him tea, my brown bread and cake,” the Swami jots on his note pad.

“What did he say about the road?” I question him.

The Swami looks at me as if he had been shot. He must think I am psychic, I muse.

“How did you know about the road?” he scribbles in a fury, then he quickly composes himself.

I just smile and reply, “Well, you must have mentioned it. Is the Minister going to cooperate after all that tea and cake. . . and your blessings? You did give him your blessings, didn’t you?”

“Hum.” He affirms. “He did assure me that he would be able to do something about the road.”

The Swami only needs me to change the typewriter ribbon, so I quickly retread it, then take off for a hike. I saw no need to tell him he had written me one of his notes on the back of his rough draft to the Minister. Of course, I read it. He had requested the presence of the Minister at his kutia during his impending visit. In addition, the Swami had requested that something be done about the condition of the road to his kutia, assurting that its bumpy condition makes it inconvenient for all the pilgrims who come to visit him.

The same Chief Minister is in the news a month later. Poor fellow had a massive stroke. The next day Rajiv Gandhi, in his role as leader of the Congress Party, arrives in Bangalore, not to console him, but to ask that he step down immediately. Even the Congress legislative members in the Karnataka State Assembly are shocked at their leader’s audacity. They form a coalition to support the Chief Minister until it is determined whether his health will allow him to continue with his duties. So politics in the world’s greatest democracy roll on.