We seem inclined to place the world’s sages in the immemorial past, so that our logical minds can dismiss their histories as myths with a few embellishments. Nevertheless, even in modern times, every century Bharata has engendered many incredible spiritual sages; most of them are in the predominate religion of Hinduism, but, remarkably, they exist in both Islam and Jainism also. Already we have met two Hindu sages, Sri Aurobindo and Sri Ramana Maharshi, who both died in the early 1950’s.

I was quite intrigued to learn that there had been a Tamil Nadu sage who lived in a village near Pondy in the early 1900’s. Revered by the local Christians and Moslems as well as the Hindus, Swami Ramalingam taught that ALL reduces to Light; therefore, there can be no real difference between substances, whether they be physical or mental. Note that the Hindus always include mind and emotions in the material world.

A poor Brahman boy, the future saint, Swami Ramalingam practiced meditation, along with memorizing and chanting of the Vedic scriptures. One day, when he must have been in a relaxed state, he looked into an ordinary mirror in his room and saw the image of a deity. An ordinary person may have thought, “gee, I am going crazy,” or “someone is playing a trick”; thereby, dismissing the event. However, his level of consciousness was raised to such a subtle level that he realized that he and the image were one. They were one and the same. He was the deity in a grosser manifestation.

That realization removed his veil of ignorance to such an extent that he began receiving extraordinary revelations. On special occasions, he was invited to give lectures to his elder brethren. What I saw of his writings were quite off-the-wall: Long discourses recounting all the many universes, galaxies and worlds, including how they were created and connected. Long, long lists—any audience other than elder Brahman brethren would have “slept off,” as we say here.

One bright day, when Swami Ramalingam was still a young man, in his mid-thirties, he realized that no one had understood a word he had taught. Further, he reasoned that they were not likely to do so in the future. He told everyone that he had ascertained that his work was ineffective to them, so he was just going to bow out. In the immitable style of Hindu sainthood, he told them he was going into his little hut (without food or water) and not to disturb him for thirty days. Indians being Indians could not abandon anyone, certainly not a saint, certainly not for thirty days. After only two weeks, a couple of devotees broke into the hut. They found no one there. The police were called in, but thorough investigations revealed no body, and no evidence of foul play.

Indian history is replete with such stories. I visited a temple outside Poona in 1979, where Shivaji, the most revered Marathi [one from Maharastra state] saint of all time, had ended his life by disappearing into a stone that still remains in the temple compound.


Since the site of Ramalingam’s miracles is close, I take a bus from Pondy to Vadalur where he lived. First, I visit the small museum that has small dioramas that portray the major events in his life. Then I sit quietly in the small chapel to wait for the daily service at 11:00 a.m. To a small audience of only six, the priest begins the ceremony by removing one of the seven curtains, or veils, that obstruct the eternal divine light. Since this is an ordinary day, only three of the curtains are removed. Only at the winter solstice are all seven curtains removed to reveal the Eternal Flame.

I decide I better eat before getting on the bus for Kumbakonam. After treading up and down the main street row of shop-stalls, really hovels, I finally enter the most likely hole-in-the-wall cafe. Of course, I am the only female customer. I explain that I want vegetarian food.

“Not possible,” I am told.

“That man has some vegetables; just give me some of those,” I instruct.

“Oh, yes, that is possible.”

“Then give me some rice too.”

While I eat, I chat with the friendly proprietor and a couple of the diners in kindergarten English.

As I am leaving the cafe, a man is entering. I am taken aback because he looks at me with such disdain that I think, this must be a true “maha-chauvinist.”

“She comes from the ashram to eat meat in a Moslem hotel,” he plainly voices his complaint as he disappears behind the door.

I had not realized that these were Moslems. Neither had I realized that you only ate meat in Moslem hotels. His assumption that I am from an ashram must be because of my simple unbleached homespun sari; others have drawn the same conclusion. I wonder if his comrades inside will inform him of the ordeal they went through to give me a vegetarian lunch.

I nearly miss the express bus for Kumbakonam. Not because I am late; I have been waiting 30 minutes when a ramshackled, beat-up contraption arrives. I hesitate, this can’t be the express bus. To be sure, I step onto the bottom step and state that I am waiting for the express bus to Kumbakonam.

“This is the express bus,” the driver assures me.

Oh, dear, this is the express bus, I resign myself and climb aboard. Expecting the worst, I am pleasantly surprised. The bus actually has the lounge-type seats of the long distance buses.

“But there are no empty seats.”

“In the back,” the driver directs me.

“Madam, here’s a seat.” An elderly man of ample girth has commandeered one and one-half seats for himself. The two men behind him are now pointing to the empty half of a seat and insisting I take it. I squeeze in and close my eyes. I will not be able to see anything out the window, so I may as well relax.

When we arrive in Kumbakonam, I take one look out the window and panic. All I can see are simple mud huts. I doubt I will be able to find a decent place to spend the night here. I better stay on this bus, find a town with a hotel, and come back tomorrow, I resolve.

“Does this bus go on to Tanjavore?” I inquire of the seated passengers.

“No, you’ll have to change buses.”

I accept my fate and descend the dusty steps into the chaos of passengers, buses, bicycle rickshaws and chuck holes. Upon spotting a big “INFORMATION” sign, I immediately perk up. Well, well, this is a new twist—information available at a village bus station, I heave a sigh of relief. Then I approach the dark hole in a wall and inquire of the two men sitting on rickety folding chairs if they know of a Swami Rama. They debate back and forth for a few minutes, but nothing concrete emerges from the banter. Next I ask about the tourist office. Again some discussion follows in Tamil.

“Oh, yes—good. You can take an auto to the tourist office where you can get information.”

Forget the swami for now, I tell myself. I will be content with info about a hotel, for I still can see nothing but thatched-roofed huts in every direction. One of the men kindly escorts me to an auto rickshaw and tells the driver in Tamil to take me to the tourist office. We zoom off as if he knows where he is going. However, we arrive at a large residence.

I remark innocently, “No, the tourist office.”

Only then does he insist, looking me straight in the eyes, in his broken English, “Tourist office idliya.” No tourist office! And he is right, there is no tourist office in Kumbakonam. It’s most likely he helped me avoid a hassle, for service at the tourist offices is notoriously poor. The joke among the foreign tourists is that it is a case of “no chief and too many Indians.”

So I am quite content that he has found what looks like a place to stay. Certainly, it’s a step in the right direction. I pay him and he disappears around the corner.

When I enter the large, wide verandah of the comfortable, clean bungalow, only one person is visible: a sadhu-type, with his matted hair in long, wild jadas and red paan-stained lips, seated cross-legged on a wooden bed near the entrance. Fortunately, he speaks enough English to tell me that rooms are available here and the owner will return in 30 minutes.

The lodge faces a huge bathing tank—as big as a city block. At the four corners and the four mid-points of each side are small peaked pavilions. I cross the street and sit on the bank of steps near some women who are bathing, washing clothes, and dipping their babies in the cool water. Their system for public bathing without exposing themselves is well worked out. I watch one woman out of the corner of my eye as she first removes her blouse, while she holds the sari around her body. Then she pulls her petticoat up over her breasts and secures it by tying it tightly. Next she drops her sari inch by inch as she enters the water. She soaps—mostly exposed parts—then leaves the water with the wet petticoat clinging lightly to her body. One lady takes a turmeric root and rubs it on the wet granite step, grinding it into the bright yellow paste that she applies to her face. They are so engrossed with their tasks they do not seem to notice me. It’s such a lovely spot. I resolve to come back in the morning to feed the tiny minnows that are nibbling at my toes.

Meanwhile, thirty minutes have passed, so I return to the lodge. The owner/manager has just returned with a small boy carrying a satchel of books. They both gaze at me with blank stares. When I ask about a room, he immediately declares, “No, no. No rooms available,” and exits into a back room behind a closed door. I quickly percieve that I am dealing with a brick wall—Brahman style, so I pick up my suitcase and start down the steps.

On second thought, I pause and turn to ask the sadhu, who is still sitting on the day bed, “Sir, do you know of a Swami Rama here in Kumbakonam?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he honestly seems to ponder the question.

“He is an old man, over 90 years old, and is a Punjabi.”

“Oh, yes. You must mean Ram Sadhu. He stays on the other side of the river in Kottaiyur. You can catch the #1 bus around the corner. It will take you straight there.”

“Thank you very much, sir. This is very helpful.” For once I have a feeling I won’t have to get a second opinion.

When I turn the corner, I am most happy to see a row of several modern hotels ahead on the dusty road. The first one I pick is only 30 rupees per night, just my price. When I reach my room, I immediately take a cold bath—no hot water in the afternoon—and lie down for a rest. It seems as if I have been on the road for days instead of hours. I can find the holy sage first thing in the morning, I tell myself as I drift off.

At sunrise the next morning, I return to the tank with puffed rice to feed the minnows. They practically take the food right out of my hand. Two kingfishers, the black and white variety, entertain me with their great diving feats: spot a movement, hover in suspension, hover, hover, hover—now, plunge. They emerge with a silver sliver of a fish in the beak; they never miss.

I later find out that this is the famous tank. According to legend, a kumbha, a large water pot, happened to appear here after a big flood. Lord Shiva pierced the pot with an arrow, allowing its contents to flow out to create this sacred tank. A big festival commemorates the occasion every twelve years, when the waters of the Ganges are said to flow directly into the tank.

After savoring my favorite breakfast of idlis and coconut chutney at the hotel, I figure it is late enough to drop in on an ashram. I inquire from the desk clerk the whereabouts of the #1 bus stop and am directed to a flag pole up the street. After a short wait, I squeeze onto a bus that contains at least fifty people beyond its capacity. As always, I announce my destination loudly to the driver, then to the collector and surrounding folk, so they will tell me where to get off. Up until now, this technique has proven infallible.

We cross a bridge over the Kauveri River and then turn to follow the bank of the river, lined with trees and tiny huts. I relax and enjoy the scenery until, some thirty minutes later, a general rustle rolls through the bus when someone suddenly notices that we were one-half kilometer past Kottaiyur and I am still on the bus. The driver makes an unscheduled stop and I am pushed through the throng and out the front door. I am encouraged at what I see, for the area along the river is quite lush with palms and bamboo groves.

Upon inquiring, a man on the street points me toward the Ram Sadhu ashram. Then he orders a young boy who is playing nearby to escort me. The urchin accompanies me over a little bridge, down a path, past a jog in the road, to the gate of a school. Then a couple of students guide me to Ram Sadhu, who lives in a compound behind the school. We enter a small garden of hibiscus and other flowering shrubs, skirted with white-washed huts and tall shade trees. The sweet odor of jasmine drifts through the air. As I inhale the fresh air, both physically and mentally, I open myself to the upcoming experience.

The children call out, and a brahmachari comes out of a hut. They tell him that I am looking for Ram Sadhu.

“Have your breakfast first,”he invites, motioning me into the nearby thatched hut, which must be the kitchen.

“Thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

He bobbles his head and the three of them accompany me to the Sadhu, who is sitting on a cement bench in the shade of a large tree. Ram Sadhu is a very sturdy man, still quite muscular for his age. The ring of gray hair circling his bald head and his short untrimmed beard are both gray. With his chest bare, he only wears a faded short orange dhoti around his hips.

After we are introduced and exchange “namastes,” I briefly explain to him my situation, since I have no idea how much English he understands.

Then he looks straight at me and says in English, “The spiritual life is to be lived. It can’t be talked about. You can stay here with us one,” he hesitates, “or two days. Then you can see what I mean."

“I will have to go back to the hotel to get my things. I can go now because I also have to find a bank and change some money to pay the hotel bill.”

“What’s the hurry? You have time to sit and rest. I’ll show you to your room.” He calls a hefty Punjabi gentleman to bring a bedroll for me. We enter a one-room cottage with a tiny porch that will be my home for the next few days. He rolls out the thin wool blanket and straw mat over a solid wooden bed.

“You just relax, that’s all.”

I leave at approximately 11:00 a.m., so I will be sure and have time to go to the bank and check out of the hotel before noon. I am not sure if it is an Indian, 24 hours after check-in, or European, 12 noon, style check-out time.

“I’ve come with my things, Swamiji,”I greet him as I hand him a small box containing sweet laddhus and a salt snack.

“Bless you, my daughter. Now you just relax. You are that very God, so how can you worry. There is none other than that One, so you must be that God.”

“Now that is exactly what I find very hard to believe.”

“But it is so, my daughter. That is all you need to know. But to know it one must live alone.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone in solitude. It is the only way.”

Again, he guides me to my room and asks if I need anything.

“No, no nothing at all,” I assure him.

Each afternoon there is a satsang of the four or five men who live in the small compound. I have no idea what to expect since everyone here speaks Tamil. A learned Brahman, Sri Shiva Ramakrishna, gives a commentary on the Tulasi Ramayana, which he has translated into Tamil. I understand not a word, but I do not mind. Quite content to be in such a beautiful place with such good company, I try to meditate for the entire hour. It’s good practice for my ankle bones, sitting on a cement floor with just a light blanket for padding.

After the class, Ram Sadhu tells the manager and the other two men present that I am a spiritual seeker whom he has invited to stay in the ashram for a few days. Further, he tells them, “we will serve her in whatever way we can.”

Ram Sadhu in his garden

I have noticed that Annaji [“elder brother” in Tamil], the manager, wears a bandage on a couple of toes. Later the Brahman explains to me that he had once been a leper, therefore, an outcaste. This had been during the time Ram Sadhu was living alone in the near-by woods, so he took the young man in and healed him with herbal medicines. Various devotees were always seeking out Ram Sadhu, asking if they could help him in any way. After Annaji was healed, Ram Sadhu suggested that some of them help the young man set up a service project in the community. At first he passed out flour and rice to the poor from a small hut. Over the years, using the money from the devotees of Ram Sadhu, the hut expanded into the orphanage for 100 boys. Later he added an elementary school that also included the village children. Ram Sadhu was persuaded to come live in the ashram some ten years ago when he was 87 years old. By then, the forest in which he had continuously lived alone was cleared, the land plowed under, and planted in crops.

That night after dinner, I hear a rap at my door. When I open it I am surprised to find the Sadhu. Earlier when I left the kitchen, I noted that the lights were out in his cottage, so I thought he had retired early.

“Is everything okay?” he asks with a beaming smile.

“Oh, yes. Everything is fine.”

“Do you need drinking water?”

“I have some.”

“And there is water available for your morning bath?”

“Yes, everything is fine.”

“Okay, my daughter, you rest well.”