My next stop, KanyaKumari, is at the tip of the Indian continent. At this one beach, you can see watch the sun rise from the Bay of Bengal, ride over the Indian Sea, then set over the Arabian Sea. The Hindus believe that one dip in this convergence of three seas can cleanse all mala, dirt, that covers one’s divinity. Historically, this is the place where in 1892 Swami Vivekananda sat out on a rock island in the sea, meditated, then vowed that Indians would be freed from foreign rule.

Some Indian historians credit him with the start of India’s independence movement. Now large boats ferry people back and forth to the rock, where one can visit the Vivekananda Memorial.
The Goddess KanniyaKumari resides in a small temple on the shore of the starting place of the Coromandal Coast that runs up the east coast. An incarnation of Shakti (the Goddess in her power mode), she wears a beautiful diamond nose ring. Legend has it that at one time the temple door opened toward the sea, but if KanniyaKumari eyed a ship, it was doomed to a watery grave. The locals say this included a British frigate that was carrying away her original diamond nose ring, stolen from her nose. Thereafter, the entrance to the sea was sealed shut forever.

Since there is not much else going on here, I go by the tourist office to see if there are any excursions to nearby scenic or historical places. A couple of unenthusiastic young men inform me of a tour that sounds worthwhile, so I sign up for the next day. The tour includes a summer palace of a Kerala raja, now in Tamil Nadu instead of Kerala (placing boundaries of states according to language groups caused these discrepancies along the border), plus a temple and an old British fort. From a display of brochures, I pick one up about a park where one can see tigers. I ask one of the young men if he thinks it is possible to see tigers there.

“No, you won’t see any tigers there.”

“Then this brochure is misleading.”

“You can try it, but I was there for six months. My degree is in forest management, so that’s where I was assigned for my work program. We mainly just dug ditches. I never saw one tiger in six months.”

We talk a few more minutes, then I ask the right question. The graduate begins to tell me his “sad story” in regard to finding work. After graduation from a university, he was unable to find a position in the forest department. He took a stopgap job in a restaurant in Madras at slave wages while continuing to look for a better position. Someone suggested that he apply for a job as a policeman. Because of his unusual height for a Tamilian, over six feet, the police officials were interested in him. They even intimated that they would consider him for a position as an Inspector, one of the top dogs. The only thing was he had to pay a 100,000 rupees baksheesh to the Tamil government. They even arranged for him to meet the Chief Minister personally. A movie idol, M.G. Ramachandran (called simply M.G.R.), had ruled Tamil Nadu’s politics for years with his Dravidian Progressive Federation (DMK).

“Well, that’s impressive. You even met M.G.R. himself. When I was in Madras, I even saw small shrines in his honor.”

“Oh, yes. They sure impressed me.”

“But you didn’t have the rupees?”

“Actually, I could only come up with 80,000 rupees, so they told me that was okay. However, to get that kind of money, we had to sell my family’s business. We had one of the souvenir shops here. It was my inheritance; it was everything my family had.”

“And your parents agreed?”

“Oh, yes. This was an important job with plenty of pay. It was a quite an opportunity for me.”

“So you paid the money?”

“Yes, I did pay it. Then the first thing I know M.G.R. is on his way to U.S. to have some surgery. The next thing I know, his government has fallen and no one knows me.”

“You paid 80,000 rupees—your family’s entire fortune for that job—and suddenly no one knows you?”

“Exactly. So that is my sad story.”

“Do you suppose it was your 80,000 rupees that helped pay for M.G.R.’s trip to U.S.? Maybe you deserve some credit—even though he died anyway, you did what you could,” I attempt to tease him out of his gloom.

“Well, this is what we Indians get for electing movie stars for politicians. This sort of thing couldn’t happen anywhere else.”

“Hummm...” I clear my throat, sigh, and roll my eyes. “I’m not really so sure about that.”


I spend the rest of the day walking along the beach. On my return, I am attracted to some stalls with lovely shells at a very low price. You are not going to tote sea shells around, I command myself in order to resist the fine specimens.

Although the water looks tempting, and it’s warm enough in November, I have declined going swimming. First I do not have a swimming suit with me, and I am not inclined to enter the sea fully dressed, like the Indian women do. In addition, this area is known to have dangerous currents, as does most of Coromandal Coast. While I was in Pondy, one ashram student was lost to Varuna, the god of the sea.

The most compelling proof is a report of a friend when she traveled here in 1975. At that time there was an American here who lived like a native sadhu. He moved from one holy place to the other, getting by the best he could. One could say he was enjoying the experience of life beyond materialism. When he found out that his brother in New York City was to be married, he begged the brother to come to experience the phenomena of India before his marriage. The sadhu reasoned that with wife, kids, house payment, car payment, the brother would never be free to make the trip. His brother agreed and joined the sadhu on a tour of some of the standard pilgrimage spots, including KanyaKumari. Naturally, the brother went into the sea for a swim; although probably not for religious reasons. His sadhu brother was with him, but had turned his head away only momentarily. When he looked back, his brother had disappeared—never to be seen again.

Until her passing away a few years ago, an Indian female sadhu lived on the beach here with a pack of dogs. She could always get free food from any local restaurant, as the owners always said they collected twice the receipts on the days that she dined with them. Hari had met her and said it was difficult to discern whether she was a saint, or a simpleton. In any event, all the pilgrims, and restaurant owners, considered her a saint.


Now I turn back north, traveling up the east coast, to Rameshwaram, another holy site on the Bay of Bengal. If you are traveling by car at a leisurely pace, you can take a break en route at Tiruchendur, a Muruga/Subramanya temple—a very Indian phenomenon. The temple at Rameshwaram, built on a sandy island, dates back to the Ramayana, the epic that chronicles the battle of the great king Rama. Rama had to come from the Himalayas to Sri Lanka to rescue his virtuous wife, Sita, who had been kidnapped by the demon-king Ravana. After the battle, Rama is believed to have come here to offer worship to Lord Siva to expiate the sin of killing Ravana. Although the epic predates history, the RamanathaSwami temple was not completed until 1700 AD, supposedly having taken 350 years to construct it. Seven-hundred-foot corridors, lined with hundreds of beautifully of carved pillars, surround the inner sanctum. The sight is impressive, but since the pillars are all alike; it is not as spectacular as other temples I have visited.

The main feature here is the purification by bathing in the holy waters. I find a guide who speaks decent English and pay him 50 Rps. for the tour. This is not an architectural tour like in Madurai, this is a tour to the famous tirthas, or holy waters. Again, all mala, dirt, will be removed from one who drinks from all of these tirthas. Since I was expecting some gardens with lovely, natural ponds, I am surprised, for all of the tirthas are wells, that is, cement-cast rectangular tanks.

As I follow my guide around, he draws a bucket of water from each one, then he pours some in my cupped palms for me to drink. The remainder, he pours over me for a holy bath. Halfway through, I am so drenched that he takes pity and only draws half of bucket of water. One tank is clearly posted, “Do Not Drink,” in several languages, even English. “The water’s not good,” the guide tells me with a shake of the head. So I only take the bucket splashing at this one. I suppose this means that one streak of dirt remains—just enough to keep me human. However, I bet I am the only one who did not drink the water here today. The Hindus know that holy water cannot be polluted; they will drink it without ill effect. So in a dripping, but cleansed state, I approach the deity to receive a blessing.

After the temple tour in the morning, I eat lunch and opt for a short rest. As soon as the shadows begin to lengthen, I take off for a walk along the beach road. After a short distance, I am joined by a group of cheerful, young girls, about 10 to 12 years old, on their way home from school. They ask me the usual questions. As we walk along, one by one, they leave to disappear down lanes to thatched huts.

One bright-eyed girl takes particular interest in me. “Please come home with me,” she begs.

I really have not gotten my walk out, but she is very insistent. In the end, I am sufficiently curious to find out more about Amali and her family, so I agree. She flies down a sandy lane in front of me to a gate of a wooden picket fence. We enter it, then enter another gate that leads to the house. The first thing I notice on the wall is a picture of the Virgin Mary, so I make certain assumptions. The mother, named Mary, is at home; she cheerfully greets me as if she expects Amali to drag home a white face every day.

After introductions, Amali takes me on a tour down to the beach, where she shows me where they used to live, a one-roomed hut. Now their house has three rooms, a separate kitchen attached, and a pleasant courtyard with a few flowering plants.

On our way back from the beach, we encounter Mary, fetching water from a small well. Amali explains that she prefers to use this small well, although she has to use a rope and bucket to draw the water, because the large well with the pump always has long lines this time of the day.
We wait for Mary to walk back to the house, then follow her to the kitchen. An open room on the garden side, it forms an L with the main house, but there is no doorway between it and rest of the house. Mary has insisted that I have dinner with them. I watch as she begins to stoke the wood fire to cook the meal.

Soon we are joined by Amali’s older sisters, both school teachers, who speak decent English. They tell me that Mary would love to come to America to make money. I ask if she knows that there are many people in America who do not make a lot of money. But Mary is definitely not convinced. She is sure she will strike it rich if she ever gets there. While we are talking she is preparing boiled fish and a tomato sauce. The young women help with chopping the tomatoes and vegetables for the sauce, but only Mary tends the simmering pots. Of course, I am not allowed to do anything. It’s a not matter of jati, caste; I am a guest. I wonder if a fisherman is higher or lower than a foreigner who has crossed the dark waters? Even in the fisherman jati, there are visible hierarchies. In this case, the head of this household is doing well for himself; he now owns his own boat. This new home with an extra-large outer yard is proof of his status in his own group.

The fish, a white firm-fleshed variety, is now cooked. Mary removes the fish from the pot and carefully removes all the skin and bones. The fish is ready for the sauce, I think, as she pours the red sauce over the white heap. As usual, I thought too fast, there is another step. Mary begins to squish the fish and the sauce together with her bare hands. Soon it is pressed into a croquette type ball. Ah, fish croquettes, she will now fry them, I think. No, they are ready to eat as is.
By this time, Amali’s father has arrived home, but he does not enter the kitchen. He sits in a chair in the patio area to eat his dinner. We women sit on the kitchen floor for our dinner of tasty fish balls and fluffy steamed white rice. By the time we finish, it is quite dark, so I bid the kind family good-bye and wish them well.

The next day I explore the extensive beaches where I observe several varieties of crying sea birds. In the evening I look for a special shop because Rameshwaram is known as the place to buy crystal Siva lingams. I want to purchase one for the altar of a friend in Vermont. Directed to a certain store, I enter behind a dark curtain, where I sit on the floor in a circle around a short table with the male members of the family. Not wanting to misrepresent my intentions, I explain to them I can only afford a very small crystal.

Never mind, I still get the royal treatment. Tea is served before I can consider any possibilities. Of course, the men question me about my travels. After our tea is finished, a selection of small crystals is brought out on a dark purple cloth. The merchants display such concern that you would have thought that I was purchasing a diamond. They help me pick out a nice one that is totally flawless.

Although I arrived by train, I decide to take the bus since I will be heading to a town on the beach north of here. Thinking that the route passes along the coast, I am planning for an onslaught of scenery, sea birds and sea breezes. However, I had not counted on the highway cutting inland, so the terrain is pretty barren.

I reach Vailankanni by midday. Since the early monsoon clouds have disappeared, it’s a very hot day, so I quickly find a room. After a bucket and mug bath, I rest until the worst of the heat is over. By late afternoon a breeze is wafting in from the sea, so I wend my way up a tree-lined walkway to the cathedral of the Holy Mother.

The tradition of a beautiful Lady of Health began here in Vailankanni in the 16th century. A young shepherd boy was carrying a gift of a pot of milk to his teacher. Suddenly, an unusual sleepiness overpowered him and he fell down in a swoon by a Banyan tree near a pond. He then saw a vision of a beautiful lady, holding a charming baby in her arms. Haloes of divine light encircled their heads. The divine lady then asked the boy for some milk for her child. Entranced by the vision, the shepherd boy offered the milk with reverence and respect.

At first the teacher did not believe the boy’s story. However, when the half-empty milk pot began to fill, and even overflow, he returned with the boy to mark the place of the vision. This spot became known as “Our Lady’s Tank,” and developed into a pilgrimage place.

Some years later, at the end of the 16th century, there was another appearance of the Holy Mother. A poor lame boy was sitting under a spreading Banyan tree to sell buttermilk to support himself and his widowed mother. Again, the Holy Mother appeared and asked for milk for her baby. After the baby drank the buttermilk, she instructed the lame boy to go to a nearby town to a certain rich gentleman, who is said to have been Christian, and ask him to build a chapel for her. When the lame boy tried to get up, he found that his legs were healed. He hurried to the near-by town to tell the gentleman, who had just had a dream of the Holy Mother just the night before. So a small chapel with thatched roof was erected with a statue of the Holy Mother and the Divine Child. Because of the healing of the boy, the chapel became a major pilgrimage destination for the sick and lame.

In the mid-seventh century, a Portuguese merchant ship en route to China (remember, the Pope had given Portugal the eastern half of the world) was blown off course in a storm. The frightened sailors fell on their knees to entreat the Holy Mother to save them. They promised Mother Mary that they would build a chapel in her honor wherever she delivered them to safety. They reported that there was an immediate lull in the storm, enabling them to get to reach shore at—you guessed it—Vailankanni. One can imagine their surprise when they arrived at a chapel in that very town with a statue of the Holy Mother, which they immediately knew to be Mary. This miracle occurred on September 8th, the Feast of the Nativity.

Today’s Indian Christians are sure that the early miracles of the Virgin Mary were performed for Catholics only. I think there is a possibility that history has been touched up a bit because Hindus have always been flexible about accepting miracles from saints of any religion. However, it is possible that there were Christians here since St. Thomas did travel to India to establish Christianity after the Ascension. A memorial to him, supposedly martyred (again possibly a Christian myth), is outside of Madras.

When the Portuguese arrived in Kerala on the west coast, they definitely found a Christian church. I had occasion to ask a Bishop there if any writings or records existed of the church before the arrival of the Europeans. I thought it would be fascinating to compare the teachings of St. Thomas that would have been untainted by Paul, Constantine, etc. Also, it would have been intriguing to know how Christianity impacted a people with a different history and mindset. However, the Bishop assured me that nothing—no records, no writings, no history—existed from the original Indian churches. I still wonder if he is correct. We also know that Marco Polo encountered Christians during his travels in India in the 13th century. He even wrote of St. Thomas’ tomb.

That evening I join hundreds of pilgrims, most of them Hindus, in the main chapel for the healing service. The priest places a blessed wafer in a gold frame with a handle, rather like a hand mirror. Then he walks up and down the aisles, turning the wafer so everyone can receive the blessing. I do not know if there are any on-the-spot healings this evening, but the museum is full cases of silver parts and pieces of the body (the Mexicans call them “milagros”) that people have sent in to commemorate their healings.

Later that evening, I join a program that is supposed to be a service and meditation. I know there will be no English spoken, but I have nothing else to do, so figure I may as well pick up the vibes. No one can deny that many Indians have a tendency to be verbose, but the speaker this evening is going for the long-winded awards for both the Christian clergy, in general, and Indian, specifically. For a while, I manage to sit peacefully doing my own meditation and just enjoying the space. Of course, we are all sitting on the bare marble floor, so after an hour my feet are feeling squashed and squealing: let me out of here. I look around to see how everyone else is faring. They are all doing very well; everyone else is sound asleep. Bless the Indians for their capacity to sleep in any situation. I smile as I wonder, which came first: the capacity to sleep through anything or the long-winded clergy? After another fifteen minutes of discomfort, the priest has not slowed down; he has not even taken a breath, so I beat a half-hasty retreat to the back exit.


Leaving early the next morning, I travel north for another unusual Indian phenomenon, this one Hindu. The bus takes off down a two-lane metalled (that’s what they call asphalt here) road, shaded by tall, swaying palm trees. Small, clean adobe huts with large shady yards line both sides of the route. Here is the idyllic India that Usha and I have often dreamt of. I cannot wait to get back to Pondy to tell her that our paradise really does exist. Each yard is neatly swept, with a circular kovalam laid out at the door step. I think these are made of the traditional rice powder. I love this aspect of the Indian culture, giving a little gift of food to the animal kingdom each day. I practice it whenever it is practical. The modern Indians, living in cities, have totally lost this wonderful aspect of their culture, an appreciation and honoring of the natural world that sustained their ancestors for many centuries.

The modern Indian gurus who came to Europe and America were forced to massage Hinduism somewhat to suit the Western mindset. This included the Indian concept of reincarnation, which has no negative connotation to being reincarnated as an animal. There were many sages described in the Puranas who reincarnated as deer, or monkeys. Even today the sadhus in Rishikesh say the monkeys that hang around the ashrams were former sages, now engaging in play in a monkey’s body. There is no negative implication at all; animals are wonderful.

Once Swami Chinmayananda was challenged by an American about the horror and impossibility of “coming back” as an animal after one had reached the pinnacle of life; that is, incarnating in a human body. The Swami put his answer quite charmingly.

“What’s wrong with it,” he bellowed in his husky voice. “We Indians might be born as a dog in America. Now that would be an improvement for most of us in India, you will have to admit!”

My bus soon reaches the small town of Thirunallar, the site of a famous temple with a shrine to Shani, Saturn. Although many temples have small chapels honoring the planets, this is actually the only temple I know of that is dedicated to a planet and its ruler. Here, just as in Western astrology, Saturn is considered a villainous influence, so it is thought to be expedient to propitiate him in some way. I am able to observe a big ceremony with lots of flowers, flames and incense, performed on behalf of a couple of gentlemen, who have evidently paid a decent price for one of the more expensive rituals.

But Shani is not this temple’s only claim to fame. It also has a shrine with an emerald lingam, which is worshipped with a special ritual at 12:00 noon daily. Since I have to wait over an hour until noon, I look around the temple, which is small and not particularly interesting architecturally. I am thinking that this stop was worthwhile only because it was on my route north back to Pondy. I am definitely off the beaten track, so I have no idea how to get to Pondy from here. I approach the two gentlemen mentioned above and ask them if they happen to know of any public transportation back to Pondy.

“No, I don’t think you will find any public transport from here, but we are returning to Pondy now in our own car. You are welcome to accompany us.”

“Well, that sure solves my problem easily.” Really, I am rather aghast, and grateful, that the only two gentlemen in the temple who speak English, therefore, the only two I can question, are actually going to my destination. This does not happen often.

“But, of course, now you see how Shani can remove obstacles.”

“It’s sure made a believer out of me,” I laugh. “I hope it works so well for all of your desires too.”

The ritual bathing of the emerald lingam is much less elaborate and quite short. Of course, I am most curious to see if it is really an emerald. No, it is not. It looks like polished marble, but it is green; well, greenish. It definitely is not translucent like an emerald.


Some time or the other, I suppose I have to deal with the Hindu lingam/phallic symbol issue, so I guess it may as well be now, while I am beholding this emerald one. Lingam has always been translated as a phallic symbol ever since the Europeans arrived, before their time I can not say. Honestly, I have never seen a penis that looks like this lingam; perhaps my research has not been extensive enough. However, to me it does look like the cone of a nuclear reactor.

The Hindu religion is full of symbols and symbolism. The translation for lingam is “symbol,”so it is a symbol of Lord Shiva, thought or energy, as opposed to Shakti, form or force. Their union creates the universe, so using the representation of human parts is a valid method to show a union.

However, the mystics are aware that humans have a subtle body that is named the lingam shariram, or symbolic covering or body. I think the Shiva lingam is the shape of our subtle body. Also, some Shiva lingams are round or elliptical in shape, while others are very irregular. So I am not totally convinced that the Shiva lingam is a phallic symbol. However, considering this is the culture that produced the erotic art of Khajuraho and the Kama Sutra, anything is possible.

After the ceremony of the emerald lingam, I wait for the two men to change into their street clothes, as they had put on dhotis for the rituals. Then we start back for Pondicherry just at lunch time. Before we leave the small town, we stop at a restaurant that has no sign and is totally off the beaten track. They serve delicious vegetarian food—the green beans are actually still green, and the yogurt is fresh and sweet. This is the type of place the natives know about, but I never would have found it.

My hosts are perfect gentlemen. They speak of their adoring wives, their precocious children, and their doting parents. Of course, they are quite interested in me: what I am doing here and what I think of India. As usual, I end up doing most of the talking, when I would have learned more by listening.

They easily find 27 Francois Martin and drop me off at the front door. Usha has moved to the other side, the Indian side, of the sewage ditch that once served to separate the French and Indians. She and Maggie had a parting of the ways. Since I was not here when it happened, I never get the details. Maggie must have completed Larry’s manuscript, but she had several others in her mind. Among her literary endeavors, she has written the first of a series retelling the Mahabharatha in a literary style in English. Usha would be helpful, since she knows a lot of the Indian lore. That’s not to say that Maggie does not. She has thoroughly studied, and understood, many of the Hindu texts.

Usha is recovering from the blow of losing her job and her lovely home at Aradhana. She was able to move only because Maggie compensated her quite generously by giving her a lump sum of money to settle in a new place. In addition, she paid the necessary deposits and donated a very old refrigerator. One look at it and I see why it is running all the time. The door does not close completely, so we can get that repaired quite easily.

As much as we both loved Aradhana, this place is really better in many respects; except the location, for one cannot beat having Ganesha as a neighbor. Here we do not get beggars on the porch, only goats. And they do leave a bigger mess; we end up putting a fence to keep out them out.

The couple, who own the house, live in France where he serves in the French military. It’s a modified Pondicherry style: the bedrooms surround a large courtyard. However, the courtyard is covered to keep out the rain, instead of remaining open to the sky, as is common here. The kitchen is in the back with the traditional open-air wire screening. Two enclosed stalls are off to the side: one for bathing and one with an Indian-style toilet (you squat).

Usha has rented the second floor, which is one huge L-shaped room that serves as a living, dining and kitchen. The wall where she set up the kitchen also has the open-air wire screening. A decent marble bathroom with British toilet (you sit instead of squatting), a small bedroom, plus two verandahs. There is a tiny one out back and a large one stretching across the front.

The surrounding yard is a huge compound, filled with four or five mud shacks of squatters. Usha points out to me the carpenter who built my desk at Aradhana lives in one of them. On the other side is a large garden of coconut trees and a few shrubs with flowers. Across the front of this garden, connecting the large house with the neighboring building is a small two room cottage. The owner’s sister lives there with her alcoholic husband and two daughters. The sister serves as an on-site landlord.

I plan to stay for only one week because Usha will have a student boarding with her who will help her with Vibhu, her son. With Maggie’s help, he has been accepted in the ashram school. Since Usha is not working yet, we have a great week together—except for a flood—on the second floor!

Most Indian houses have a drainage hole in several places in the walls, so that you can virtually hose off the floors, which are usually marble or hard concrete. One night while I am sleeping on a cotton mattress on the floor of the living room, I am awakened by a terrible monsoon storm. Half-awake, I hear the sound of water near me, so I jump up to investigate. Water is pouring into the room through the drainage hole from the verandah, and is just about to flow over the threshold of the wide French doors. I quickly start grabbing Usha’s beautiful straw mats off the floor while I call out to wake her up.

Fortunately, she takes one look at the flooded verandah and immediately figures out the problem. She grabs a broom, then runs through the water on the verandah, now half-way up her calves. While she is jabbing to clear the blocked drain on the verandah, I grab my mattress and all the large pillows, piling them on the dining table. At last the water stops creeping across the floor. I managed to force the wooden plug back into the drainage hole, so that it will not come out again. Evidently, the force of the water had just pushed it out.

Then there was the snake-lizard incident. Since I take my daily pilgrimage to the library, every morning I get up, fold my sheets and arrange the mattress like a daybed before I take off. One afternoon when I return, Usha is all a-flutter because she found a snake lizard under my mattress. She is particularly furious because she has told the servant regularly that she must turn and check the mattress every day. Evidently, this is an Indian thing—and now I know why.
Anyway, Usha had some spare time today and was doing some extra cleaning and arranging of cushions after the dampness from the flood finally dried. When she moved my mattress, out lumbered a large, 3-foot snake lizard. Fortunately, it headed right for the door to the verandah and was seen no more, she reports.

Somehow, I just do not want to get into the subject of 3-foot snake lizards. It does seem that it has possibilities for developing into a theme for obsessing. Nevertheless, I do ask, “How do you think it got up here on the second floor?”

“It would have just climbed up one of the trees by the verandah and dropped down.”

Then, I poise the obvious question, “Do you think snake-lizards are poisonous?”

“Absolutely. Why do you think I have the servant turn the mattress every day?”

I did not know that; they only speak to each other in Tamil. I do know you have to remove and shake out your sheets every day to remove any small creepy crawlers. However, I just somehow refuse to let the incident disturb me because I know if I get into fear, I will have a rough time living here.

So I simply reply, “So I slept with a snake-lizard under my mattress last night? I bet he doesn’t find such a warm spot tonight.”

I could stay in Pondy indefinitely, but I keep remembering that in Bangalore Varadha told me that if I wanted to find a “true sage” that I should go to Kumbakonam. Now that I have gotten my impulse for travel out of my system, I decide I am ready for a peaceful retreat.