A couple of gentlemen came to Biligiri Ranga at the Swami’s request. He wanted their engineering advice on the little cupola that is being built to protect the Bambi statue. They have volunteered to drop me off inYolander. Since they want to leave right after lunch, I meet them at the local mud-hut restaurant. They adamantly refused to have lunch with the Swami. I assume they have experienced his unsalted, boiled vegetables previously, but I don’t bother to ask them.

From Yolander, I will catch a bus for Mysore where I will find plenty of buses are heading for Bangalore. They think I will save some time, but I am considering the benefit of having a couple of breaks. After an uneventful trip down the mountain, for this is the shorter route, they drop me off at the Yolander bus stand. While waiting for the bus, I sit to have my usual cup of tea in the local snack shack. To my surprise, in walks the Brahman whom I had recently met. He is going to Mysore also, so he will have plenty of stories to entertain me on the journey.

He and his wife had lived in Hospet, the uninteresting town I visited last month, where he was a manager of a factory. They raised two daughters, who are happily settled—or at least he hopes so. He tells me that one is married and lives in Bangalore, while the younger one was contracted to marry an Indian living abroad, in Amsterdam.

“Well, you know there was not enough money for us to go there with her, and the groom could not get time off from work. So we packed her up and sent her off—you know a ‘home delivery.’ We never knew exactly what happened there. But we found out later that she was not living with him. She got a job and stayed there though.” He casts his eyes downward as he thinks of her plight.

Surely, he knows what happened, but probably hopes that I do not. In an often repeated scenario, parents send their son off to Europe or America for an education. In spite of their protests, he gets a job and remains there. In the meantime, he falls in love and marries. Later, afraid to admit to his parents that he has married a foreign woman, he submits to family pressure to take an Indian bride. Often, he returns to India and even goes through the wedding ceremony. When he returns to Europe or U. S., he tells his first wife that he has brought a servant girl from India to do the cooking and housekeeping. He can get by with it since the bride will be much younger than the husband, and usually will not be able to speak English. Unfortunately, the groom’s reluctance to tell the truth is partially because his greedy parents are eager for the dowry that comes with the Indian bride—men living in the U. S. command a higher price. Of course, neither is he eager to cause his family to become outcastes in their community, as in the case of the woman I met earlier.

Hari’s sister suffered this same trauma in the early 1960’s. Fortunately, the arrangement was also a “home-delivery,” so there had been no marriage in India. When she arrived in California, since she was intelligent and spoke English, she was able to figure out right away that the groom was already married. At the time, she also had a scholarship to study at U.C. Berkeley, so she went ahead with her studies and carved out a life for herself as a professor. The blot on her character, although it was not in any way of her own doing, could have never been expunged in India.


I am called back to the present, as the gentleman goes on, “We all were trained and educated in England. They were actually holding us back and making us think that it was impossible for us to study in U.S. A few people went to train for a year or two with General Electric, but they were exceptions. Although the States was not much until after the war.”

Then I mention, “You know I heard the most startling story. J.R.D. Tata, the Parsi magnate from Bombay, did study in U.S., in Pennsylvania, since the Tata’s were steel manufacturers. At that time, he visited Pittsburgh. He was shocked at the conditions he saw there. He took a vow that he would never subject his employees to such depravity. And he has kept his word. His factories have the best working conditions and employee support system, even medical service, in all of India. And all because he visited U.S. and saw the exploited workers. I think it’s amazing.”

“It is strange how unique influences form each one of us,” he comments, then continues with his personal history. “These same conditions for laborers also existed in England, but we all thought everything there was superior. No one dared criticized anything British.

“I studied in England in Christian College in 1936-37, then in an engineering college. You know in those years, when we returned home from London, say for a summer break, we could never wear English clothes or speak a word of English in our own homes. In most homes, in the South anyway, there was not even chair or a table. We still sat on the floor on our straw mat for meals.”

“Eating from a beautiful banana leaf.”

“Yes, from our disposable plates,” he chuckles.

As it turns out the ancestors of this dignified gentle-man had been the Ministers of a great Moslem Empire in south India. “My great-great-great-great grandfather was the minister of the monarch, Tippu Sultan.”

“I knew this was the tradition in old India; the kings deferred to the spiritual authority and guidance of a Brahman minister. However, I did not know that the Moslems adopted this practice also,” I comment.

“Oh, yes. There’s so much we do not know, for we do not have a true history of Tippu Sultan [1750-1799]. He was quite liberal in his views; under him, there was no persecution against the Hindus. All the histories of that time were written by the British, in most cases, Scottish soldiers. They were not educated in research techniques or writing historical accounts, so the history books are quite one-sided in their point of view.”

He continues, “When the British defeated the Sultan, they recognized his Minister’s governing ability and offered him the position of Diwan [Minister] of the state of Mysore. He did not trust the British, neither did he want to be put in a position where he would be pressed into some battle. He declined and asked them for a small kingdom where he could live out the rest of his days peacefully. The kingdom that he received was Yolander Taluk [District].”

For the sake of time orientation, after he was defeated in the American Revolutionary War, Cornwallis was made Governor-General and sent to India in 1780. He was a competent General and scored a victory against Tippu Sultan, even though Tippu’s army had been trained by the French in military tactics and included European mercenary soldiers. Interestingly, when Cornwallis was then made Governor-General, he was considered too liberal and sent back home.

I watch the sensitive face of this distinguished gentleman as he continues his story. “When the administration of Yolander Taluk passed to my immediate family, my father was already deceased. The district consisted of 28 villages; all the people were tillers of the soil. If there was a drought or crop failure, Mother would adjust the revenues through the income she had from her personal properties, so there was no burden on the villagers. Mother died when I was about twelve. Then my elder brother took over, but he had a problem since he could never collect as much revenue as the government wanted.”

“The British government?” I ask for clarification.

“Oh, yes, the British. By that time, around 1930, the Diwans were little more than officers to collect revenue for the British. My brother told them to take over the collecting themselves, which they agreed to do for a period of three years. Then they told him, ‘We’ve collected as much as possible. If there is anything more, you can collect.’ But he declined the offer and told them, ‘No, you continue for three more years.’ He just hated being pressured by them to press the poor villagers for more.

“At that time, a dispute came up about the ownership of a couple of acres in the village of Chamrajnagar. The government told him that he had to furnish the deed to prove that property was his. Well, that piece of property had been in the family for over 150 years—no one knew where any official papers were. Probably, there never were any papers at all. Everyone knew whose property it was. Somehow, I never understood how, because I was studying in England, but, somehow, they connected the ownership of that property with ownership of the temple.”

“Yes, I knew that the British imposition of the concept of private ownership of land and their deeding system totally changed the relationship of the society of the villages. It happened in America too with the American Indians. Well, it even happened in Britain. When they developed plowing with a horse, the nobles ran the peasant tillers off the lands their ancestors had lived on for centuries. But that change happened in India back in the early 1800’s.”

“True, but they didn’t pay much attention to the outback villages until the 1900’s. It was the agricultural lands that gave a profit for taxation that they were concerned with. You see, in the beginning, there was the looting of the stores of riches of the many rajas and nawabs and the money made by the British merchants and traders. All these funds went into hands of individuals and did not contribute to the revenue needed to run the country, most of which they had conquered by the late 1800’s. So they had to organize their taxation system better for money to run the country. Their system meant a switch from the traditional goods and produce to coin for payment. These two factors—deeded private property and payment in money—totally destroyed the cultural base of India.”

“I see your point. But even today there are squatters on the steps of a friend’s mansion on Malabar Hill in Bombay, so maybe the Brits weren’t totally successful in their private property ultimatums.”

He chuckles at my observation, then continues, “The British left, but India can never return to what it was. I’m not saying there weren’t injustices under the old system, but you knew who was cheating you and who to go to for justice. Everyone was responsible to someone, and also responsible for someone. It was a give and take. The British claim they introduced the justice system in India. What a hoax, under their system, everyone was cheated by a monstrous government for whom no one took any responsibility.”


The bus stops in a small village and several Tibetans board the bus. I look at my companion with a question mark on my face. He informs me that there is a Tibetan settlement in the Nilgiris, on the next road over from B. R. Hills.

As the bus starts up again, he goes on with his personal story, “Since my brother could not produce a deed, the government took over that couple of acres, and they took the temple too. He was terribly upset that the Ranganathan Temple was taken over like any piece of real estate. He tried to fight it. But who could he appeal to?

“He was a devotee of Lord Ranganathan himself, but more than that he felt it was his personal responsibility to keep the temple sanctified. It was the only temple in the area for the villagers to come to petition the Lord Ranganathan for their needs. To lose the temple to the administration of foreigners was such a blow to him. Soon after, he became insane; so bad that he had to be institutionalized.”

I remain silent as he takes a moment to regain his composure. “I was called back here from England because of my brother’s illness, but there was nothing I could do. So after a short time, I returned to England to complete my studies.”

He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, “Really, his life had been taken from him; he no longer had a reason to live. He later died in that mental institution.”

I remain silent, what can I say... so many stories, so many hardships imposed on such kind-hearted people. Even though I have rationalized and explained why they have been able to endure through the centuries, still I can never really comprehend it myself. I am in a somber mood although I put a smile on my face to bid the gentleman good-bye at the bus station.


After a break for a cup of tea, I will just hop on the Bangalore bus. Although Mysore is a lovely town, I will not bother even to spend the night here since I have been here several times, even for their famous Dussehra, festival of lights, celebration. The ex-Maharaja still lives here in his spectacular palace built in the early 1900’s. The most notable feature is the darbar (audience) hall, which is large enough to accommodate dignitaries arriving on elephants. In addition, there are several notable spots nearby. Tippu Sultan’s capital and fort are only seven miles away in Seringapatam. The Keshava Temple, said to be the most exquisite temple in India, is 25 miles away in Somnathpur. I have not seen it yet, but I am happy to have something to come back for.

For the trip to Bangalore, I happen to be seated by a most congenial young man. He and a good friend have started a computer company in Bangalore, specializing in both hard and software. They are both Brahmans, who were unable to continue higher studies because of discrimination against the high castes. At the technical universities they wanted to attend, there were only three seats available to Brahmans. Those seats would be fought over viciously by those who have the most power and most money. Not having the resources for such a contest, they are manifesting a successful business without the degrees. I end up making a new friend and having a reliable place to borrow a computer to work on the magazine.

A few weeks later, I am invited to their office to celebrate Dussehra, which is celebrated throughout south India, a commemoration of Shakti. She is the feminine energy, from whom all material wealth flows. So all machines—computers, motorcycles, cars—are decorated with flowers and smeared with sandalwood paste with a dot of red kumkuma. Then there is the traditional feast of sweets. Gulab jamans (I call them gulabis) will ever remain my favorites. They are a small round doughnut made of mostly of condensed milk, deep fried, then soaked in sugar syrup with a hint of rosewater and saffron.

Now that I am on my own, I take the first opportunity just to sit and think. I really feel in the midst of uncertainty. It has not been easy to find my ideal ashram with serious meditation and study. Surely, I am living through my own personal experience of Rassalas, the Prince of Abssynia. It was always one of my favorite works in English, but I never intended to live out the scenario personally.

Now why did I come to India? I ask myself. First, because of curiosity; I will always want to peek behind the curtain of the unknown. Also, I am intrigued with the idea of having a totally different mindset, a different way of looking at the world. I have to think about these ideas and see where I am. Admittedly, I do experience a certain aliveness and freedom alone in the mountains. But in the city—I was not back in Bangalore thirty minutes when I was calling a auto-rickshaw driver a “bastard” (he doesn’t know what I’m saying). He was trying to charge me double the meter price.

In the meantime, I always have work to do on the magazine, but soon I will have a treat. In a week, Swami Chinmayananda will arrive here for a ten-day lecture series. He is truly my spiritual guru, for he was the one who has most helped me in the attempt to “remove the darkness” of ignorance, which I would call simply “unconsciousness.” I have no inclination to be dependent on him, and he would not allow it if I wanted. When I am not with him, I enjoy being free and independent. Nevertheless, every time I meet him, I am again overwhelmed with his being. He is incredibly radiant and joyful. That was what attracted me to him as a teacher, when I met him in California in 1976. While I watched him giving a lecture, I noted that he was just exuding joy; he truly was enjoying what he was doing. That’s what I wantwas my conscious thought.

When Swamiji arrives, there are a couple of American women traveling with him. One appears to have become a bit attached to the Swami. She evidently does not know how ruthless he can sometimes be. He sometimes tells us, “Don’t hang on to me. I’m not a mule guru carrying anybody on my back.“Because of the two women and one European man who has joined us, we become involved in a discussion of a subject that is not normally brought up in satsang with an Indian guru. We ask, “What is a guru?”

Through our studies, we know that the scriptures specifically note the qualifications of the guru: “one well-versed in the Vedas and well-established in the Truth.” The Swami emphasizes that the teacher must give equal importance to the intellectual teaching of philosophy, as well as a sensible practice appropriate to the student, whether it be meditation, teaching the scriptures, or serving in the community. Someone mentions that it is getting harder to find such a qualified teacher these days.

“Oh, you think so? Well, it is just as hard to find a good student!” the Swami counters with a hardy laugh. Then he continues, “So many people want to follow a guru blindly, like dumb cattle in a herd. They want to sit in the guru’s shadow and comprehend the light. It will never happen. Just like any other worthwhile endeavor, one has to employ intelligent evaluation when following the spiritual path.

“If you are waiting to be transformed by the touch of a guru, I’m afraid you will have to wait a long time. Self-redemption must ultimately come from within yourself. Any external props such as temples, gurus, books are only aids to help build-up your inner perfection.”

“But, Swamiji, in America, we have some real quacks for teachers.”

“One need not be so critical. Teachers are needed on every level. Can we say that the elementary school teacher is a quack because the graduate student no longer has any need for learning the alphabet? No, we need those who teach at the lower levels to bring the student’s understanding forward, so that they can move up to the higher levels.”

While we are on the subject, I formulate a question regarding my quandary about a guru’s moral behavior. “Swamiji, I know that in Hinduism good and bad, right and wrong are much more flexible than in the Western religions. However, I find myself questioning the behavior of some of the gurus, particularly those who have migrated to the U.S. and Canada, in regards to having sexual relationships with their women students.”

“You are correct; we cannot say that the behavior is wrong in itself because he is not actually breaking any rule or vow. However, the guru’s behavior must be morally perfect, since the students are bound to imitate the teacher to some extent. If he is immoral, then the students will copy his bad habits, thinking these things do not make any difference; yet they may make a difference for the student. So the student is misled and does not make any progress.”

I comment further, “I guess it is the secretiveness that bothers me. It just seems such a contradiction that someone who expounds Truth is sneaking around enjoying sensual pleasures. Why are they secretive? I think everyone should enjoy sensual pleasures any time they want if they have a consenting partner. I guess this is why it is such a quandary for me.”

“I’ve noticed they always seem to choose young, pretty women. It’s not like they are attempting to have a true relationship as we think of it, chimed in one of the American women.

“That’s right. If he decided that he wanted to have an open, equal relationship, no one would think twice about it,” I comment.

This prompts the Swami to add, “So this kind of talk is the kind of gossip that the behavior generates. That’s why the guru has to be above these things, or we will waste our time preoccupied with his escapades, instead of his teaching. It’s human nature.”

After a moment of silence, he mentions, “Actually, we will be covering the qualities of a person ‘established in Truth’ later in the week. In Chapter Two, Lord Krishna gives out the signs to look for.”

Of course, we cannot wait, so we pull out our copies of the Bhagavad Gita. I have already read the chapter plenty of times, so I have a general idea, but I have never thought about any specific issue.

The European man begins to read, “One of steady wisdom is one who gives up all desires of the mind and delights in his inner divinity; who is undisturbed in misery and free from desires even in the midst of pleasures; who is free of all attachment, fear and anger; one who shows no particular affection to any one person.”

“There we are; we have our answer,” I comment.

“Good this is just what I wanted. You are all investigating and thinking for yourselves. You don’t need me. I’m going to work on my correspondence,” the Swami gets up and goes to him room.

Even though it is still extremely hot elsewhere, Bangalore remains a tolerable 80 degrees because of its altitude of around 3,000 feet. Every morning I take off to walk to Lal Bagh, a wonderful botanical garden. Hyder Ali, the father of Tippu Sultan, created this 240-acre garden over 200 years ago. This accomplishment certainly puts him high in my esteem, although he spent most of his life as a warrior dedicated to conquering more territory. Bangalore was just a small village ruled by a local chieftain when Hyder Ali arrived and decided to make it his summer quarters. I am sure every other ruler, including the British, contributed new varieties to the garden. There are even selections from the tropical areas of Africa.

I stroll through all the shady paths before I sit down to bird watch in my two favorite spots: the lotus pond and the bamboo grove. One day I actually see one of the incredible white Paradise Flycatchers with the long tail streamers fluttering among the bamboo clumps. I have only seen them in the Himalayas before.

But nature is not always so gracious. One morning I hear some crows making a big racket. When I approach, I see a small helpless baby owl hovering on a branch that is being tormented by the aggressive big birds. He is low enough that I could reach him, but I know that he will never allow me touch him, even to protect him. Although he is a baby, his beak and claws have developed noticeably. Knowing that I would have to have some type of equipment to make a rescue, I go over to the green house to try to find an attendant. I end up making a round of the entire garden, looking for someone, but to no avail. I feel so helpless. I finally have to give up and head for the library, leaving the little owl to its fate.

I usually have about an hour to stroll around the gardens, then I head for the library, which opens at 10:00 a.m. I spend most of the day collecting material. I have to copy it by hand into my notebook, since there are no copy machines for my articles in the magazine. Just as I am about to finish the up-coming issue, I get a nice surprise when Nagamani phones me at Hari’s, where I am staying.


She is in Bangalore visiting her family, so they invite me to their home for lunch. I get to meet her sweet, dear mother, and her brother, Varadha, and sister, Radharamani, but not her father. He is a retired professor and lives with a student in Mysore where he continues with his teaching of private students. Nagamani’s younger sister, a Sanskrit scholar and an enterprising woman, is a manager of a state bank. With this job, she supports the household. Of course, since the father is retired, he has no income.

Her mother tells me an unusual story of how Nagamani, meaning Lord (mani) of the serpents (naga), got her unusual name. Her great grandfather (father’s side) lived in a village 30 km. from Mysore. One day a cobra appeared on the path where everyone passed each day. Strangely, it was just lying there and did not move for several days. It was a bother for the villagers to go around it, plus there was concern for the safety of the children. Nagamani’s great grandfather took charge and grabbed the serpent by the back of the neck and took it to a spot away from the traveled path. While doing so, he noticed that cobra’s tongue had a thorn in it, which he promptly removed. Then he put the cobra down and told it to go in peace.

Instead of leaving, the cobra turned back and circled the rescuer three times as a sign of respect. (It goes without saying that they were clockwise circles.) Then the snake raised its hood and bowed three times. The man was intuitive, so he understood the serpent to be saying: “We shall be friends and I will protect your family from harm from serpents for seven generations. Further, you are to name the firstborn of each generation ‘Naga’ (snake) after me. I will come and visit the home at the time of every birth.” They followed the instructions; so, true to its promise, a cobra was spotted at Nagamani’s birth.

The family is planning to take a tour of some of the pilgrimage spots in south India and have asked me to come along. I am quite eager for this opportunity because they know many unique places that I would never find out about. My only hesitation is that Varadha, who will be driving the car, is a bit reckless behind the wheel.

He also tells me an interesting story. Remember the Nadi Shastri who gave Vani and me palm-leaf readings? As it turns out, Varadha used to work for him. Soon after I was there, the shastri left on his trip to U. S. as planned. As he was returning to India, an American astrologer told him that he had a bad conjunction coming up. He advised Ramakrishnan to exercise caution as sometimes it meant death. “You don’t know diamond from glass,” Ramakrishnan chided the astrologer. “I have a lot of work yet to do. I am destined to be very famous.” As fate would have it, Ramakrishnan died of a heart attack a week after returning to India.

Unfortunately, the Radharamani is not able to get off work as she planned, so the trip is canceled. I am disappointed, but Varadha tells me of an “enlightened” sage in Kumbakonam by the name of Swami Rama. However, I decide to take a mental break first. I set out on a tour of several of major pilgrimage spots on my own. I have not been inclined to be just a tourist, but for the next six weeks that’s what I am going to do.