For the next couple of days, I begin the day by imbibing nature’s beauty. In the beginning, I am content to walk through the lovely ashram garden. By the second evening, I am eager to expand my territory, so I set out to explore along the Kauveri. I walk toward town to look for a stall selling soap for washing my clothes. Since I travel so lightly, I already have a suitcase full of dirty clothes. You will be surprised to know that in India all clothes are washed by hand. I am even more surprised to find out I am washing all of my clothes by hand.

On the way I notice a tall gopura, tower, of a very old temple. On my return, I turn down a narrow lane and enter the temple. I am greeted by a young friendly priest who is quite eager to show me around. With his half-dozen English words and my half-dozen Tamil words, we somehow manage to communicate.

The temple was built in the Kumbakonam style—very long and narrow. One must go deep into the cave-like darkness to arrive in the sanctum sanctorum with its presiding deity. In this case, it’s Siva, represented by a coal black lingam, adorned with three stripes of yellow sandalwood paste and a big red dot of kumkum. I find a flower of mirrors nearby with an octagonal center and eight petals more intriguing. A ghee lamp is lit and placed exactly so that the flame reflects in the center of each petal. The one light by whose reflection all else glows with the Light of Life. I breathe in the peace and sanctity of old Bharata.

Returning to the ashram, I choose the high path along the river. To my delight, behind the temple I discover a lovely pond complete with blue hyacinths, water lilies, and a new variety of water bird that can walk over the hyacinth leaves. Charmed by the natural beauty, I determine that this is the perfect spot to come and enjoy nature after my early morning meditation and yoga session.

The next morning I trip lightly over to the pond with my little straw mat in hand. I find a semi-decent path down the sloping bank to the pond. On my way, I note little piles of droppings scattered about in the various short weeds and grass. Since the ants have converted them into little hills of crumbled dirt, I pay little attention to this ever-present evidence of human proximity. Fortunately, I find a strip of clean, dry grass where I spot some long-toed birds walking on lily pads, near, but not too close to frighten them. Spreading my little straw mat on the grass, I sit down to space out.

The water lilies, patiently waiting the touch of sunshine, are only partially open. The hyacinths are completely closed, for they evidently require full sun to wake them up. On the opposite shore in a dense bamboo grove, a kingfisher sits in alert contemplation and waits for a ripple in the water. Although he does not display such dramatics in fishing as his black and white cousin, he is definitely more colorful. In the shade, he appears to be a royal blue. However, when he darts out into the sunlight, he reveals a dazzling iridescent turquoise, the same as the peacock. When he fishes, he swoops and skims the top of the water, not daring to plunge into the water.

Although I have to venture several footsteps out into the mud of the pond to do so, I manage to pluck a splendidly fresh white water lily with a fringed yellow center. Clutching my prize, I start to climb the slope to the main path that skirts the river. As I do so, an elderly man on the main trail starts yelling something at me. I am quite taken aback. Perhaps he sells the water lilies at the market and thinks I’m stealing his stock. But this seems quite a fuss over one flower.

Wait a minute. Now I remember that while I was sitting at the pond, I could hear several groups of men pause, comment and move on. Having people around is so normal that I had not given it any thought. The truth now dawns. I have been sitting in the men’s toilet. I see men come down to the riverside in the early morning for their daily dump, but I guess this group prefers grass to water. I must have forced quite a few to have to pollute the river this morning. I do note that they did not use their normal place because of my presence. In contrast, the men at the river are quite uninhibited about baring their behinds to all and sundry. They practically squat at each other’s feet. Interestingly, judging from their dress, the river dippers are the higher caste.


I had asked Ram Sadhu for permission to ask him some questions and tape the conversation. So that morning, I start my query, “Swamiji, you follow the Vedanta thought that all life is Brahman. So how can one know what is best for the spiritual life and what is not?”

“Let the world be, we are talking about Life itself. Life is everywhere; there are no differences in the Life. There is only one Life that appears in different forms in the material world.”

“Well, I can understand that, at least, intellectually,” I reply.

“Only Life is always there.”

“But to connect this body with that Life. When I try to make the jump, somehow I miss the boat.”

“But this body is in the Life. There is no jump to be made,” he comments, then sits back thoughtfully.

“Do you think that when someone is enlightened, it is generally because of their karma?”

He looks up, “Well, of course that is a factor.”

“So we cannot say that enlightenment is due to self-effort in this life time. It is because of karma, or past efforts.”

“Not so, because enlightenment has nothing to do with this mind and body.”

“Yes, I do realize that,” I reply in a studied voice. “Karma only effects the mind and body. But I keep thinking that I should do the ‘right’ thing. That’s my biggest mistake. I’m perpetually deciding what is the right thing for me to do.”

“It’s all in your head. This is right and that is wrong. What you think is right for you is wrong for others. The only ‘right’ thing is that you must know your true Self.” He pauses then continues, “I am the Life. This idea must come up. That is the spiritual life. That is all.”

“Yes. That’s really what has me puzzled. What exactly is a spiritual life? I know some people in the normal world are as spiritual as those in ashrams and monasteries.”

“It’s a simple thing.”

“I know I am making it difficult.”

“Eat and live in peace. Then you will understand your true, divine Self. That, my child, is the spiritual life.”

He gets up and scoots across the room indicating that the session is over. Then he turns back. “As for thinking, I am this little, limited body, this idea must go. I am the Life that exists everywhere, this idea must come up.”

Since this is my third day here, I also have my note of thanks all prepared, so I take out the envelope and hand it to him.

Friday, December 14, 1990
Dear Swamiji,

I thank you for these two days to relax and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere here. Actually, you have not told me anything I did not know. I had reached the same conclusion for myself in the U.S. and that is why I came to India—for a period of serious sadhana, which I consider to be an absolute necessity for my further progress. First, I went to an ashram near Bangalore, but they were building a nature cure clinic and wanted the American to be the director, plus there was other funny business going on there. So I left, I did not have to leave America to find this sort of thing. Recently, I’ve been roaming about. Certainly, it is partially because I do not have the capacity to sit quietly. I do not want to blame anyone else. I would like to be able to sit quietly for long periods of time, but until then I will just keep moving along. Thank you again for your kindness and care toward me.
Sincerely,
s/Nancy

Along with the note, I give him the white water lily and a 100 rupees note.

“Where did you find this?”

“If there is a lily pond anywhere around, I am sure to find it!”

“It is so beautiful. . . And what is this?”

“This is a letter to you.”

“And this?” as he unfolds the rupee note.

“That is dakshina.”

“Dakshina? I don’t need any dakshina. . . Now you explain to me what is in this letter; what you want to say. Afterward, I will read the letter, then I will understand your mind.”

So I relate to him the gist of its contents. When I am nearly finished he interrupts me.

“Now? What about now?”

“You told me I could stay a day or two here, so I have now completed two days.”

“But now? What is your program now?”

“Now I have no fixed program. I am free. Well, except I do have to be in Pondy on January 5 to pick up my visa renewal.”

“Then you stay here with us. It’s peaceful here, you can stay here and enjoy the true Life with us. Here we only live the spiritual life, not the material life. The boys here said they will be happy to serve you.”

Tears well up in my eyes and start to roll down my cheeks. “I hope I deserve it.”

“My dear daughter, you just be happy here. There is no worry. The Lord himself has sent you to me. He who creates will also maintain. That is His duty, your only duty is to appreciate.”

“Thank you, you are so kind.”

“Of course, for you are my daughter. Now you have not eaten breakfast. You must eat. Afterwards, we can discuss these little details.”


After the Brahman’s talk that day, Ram Sadhu informs everyone I will be remaining with them, then reiterates that they should all serve me in any way possible. I always manage to be at peace in the class in spite of the unknown language, for I always challenge myself to sit for the entire hour without moving.

It is not until the evening that what is happening begins to dawn on me. Here I am at this moment: A result of 1001 past decisions, accidents, missed opportunities, failures and successes, forces—seen and unseen, wrong judgments and right conclusions, all dumped into a caldron to somehow brew up the present situation.

I truly want to savor this lovely, precious, fragile life in all its splendor, but with all my grasshopper-ant conditioning, I intermittently feel guilty at doing nothing at all. We can’t sing and dance today, as we must worry for tomorrow—but tomorrow we are going to die! I have always said that all I really wanted to do was enjoy the birds and flowers, feed the animals, and walk in the woods. Here is someone telling me to do just that. Will I be able to endure the peace? It is one thing to say all I want to do is sit peacefully and enjoy the birds and flowers, and another to be able to it.

When I greet him the next morning, Ram Sadhu smiles and pats me on the head. “You enjoy the life here. The Life itself is God. Your body is the temple, the temple for the divine Life. That’s all I can tell you. You must live the Life.”


By the fifth day my daily routine is established. I awaken at about 4:00 a.m. (without an alarm—now this is a miracle), brew a cup of black tea with my electric coil, steam my eyes, wash my face, then sweep the floor and porch. The activity awakens me enough for meditation on my porch under the spreading lacy leaves of the neem tree. I put a sheet around me to ward off the cool early morning air, but I only sit on my little straw mat, as my legs and ankles will hurt no matter what, so no need to cause commotion over finding a cushion. When my mind really starts running and my legs complaining, I get up and do some stretching exercises. About this time, a cup of tea arrives from the kitchen. Thus fortified, I continue my attempt to meditate until 6:00 a.m.

After meditation, I go indoors for fifteen or twenty minutes of yoga, including surya namaskara, the salutation to the sun routine. By sunrise I am out by the river to watch the sun’s rays color the clouds that stretch across the east. The clouds are plentiful as it is still east-coast monsoon season. I poke and piddle around, looking for anything unusual in the river bed, while feeding any fish I spot for my daily bhuta yagna.

The scriptures ascribe five daily offerings. Bhuta yagna is to offer food to our animal friends. Since most of the birds here are either insect or nectar eaters, I have not had any success in attracting any of them with food—except the voracious crows.

The Sadhu always locks the gate to the river after lunch while everyone is resting and again at night. One day, just as he is locking the gate, I scramble up the steps.

“I was feeding the fish—bhuta yagna—with some rice leftover from lunch,” I reply to his questioning look.

“Don’t you know that it’s a bhuta yagna when you feed yourself,” he replies with a chuckle.


After my morning walk, I have 30 minutes to bathe and put my laundry in the bucket to soak. Mosquito-buzzing time is over, so I open the shutters to let in the fresh air. As soon as I am bathed and dressed in a clean sari, I go to greet the Sadhu with a “namaste” while he is sitting in his cottage reading the newspaper.

One morning, shaking his head in disbelief, then looking into my eyes, he tells me, “So there you were in America. Now you’ve come all this way and found me here.”

“It’s a miracle, isn’t it?” I reply with a broad smile.

“We can never guess the ways of the Lord. We never know what is next.”

Breakfast of rice gruel, sometimes mixed with dal, arrives at my door about 8:00 a.m. Afterwards, I sit outside on a cement bench in the garden. I read and watch the little sun birds, which frequent the hibiscus flowers. Since tea is always served after the meal, it arrives some time during this hour. The winter sun is tolerable until 9:30 a.m., then I flee to my cool, shady room where I read, or write, until 12:30 p.m.

Lunch is always plain unpolished white rice with a soupy sauce of dal and a vegetable. About once a week there is a special meal at the orphanage, as it is the custom among the Hindus to do some charitable deed on certain occasions like birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and anniversaries of the parents’ death. The family who makes the donation often come to eat with us or at least to greet Ram Sadhu. However, the Sadhu and Annaji never eat the special food from these occasions as it has extra oil or ghee. Or it may contain onion or garlic, both of which are considered counter-productive to a meditative life.

Ram Sadhu insists that his diet of rice, dal and vegetable is essential to meditation. “If you want it know a person’s mind, watch what he eats,” he declares.


One evening, I cross the river and walk west down the south bank. I pass wide expanses of rice fields when I come to a tiny village where the women and children throng to gape at the stranger. They attempt to speak to me, but I have to give them my usual “Tamil idliya.” A young man, who is standing down the path a short distance , is called over. He speaks enough English to ask what I am doing here, which is really all they want to know. I explain that I am simply walking, enjoying the beauty of the “pu” and “pakshi.” (I have to show off the few Tamil words I know.) When he explains to the women, they are all smiles, seeming to approve of my interest in the “flowers” and “birds.” Their huts are built off in a group to one side, not lined along the dirt road track, which is the usual custom here.

I continue walking until I come across a lovely banyan tree, an incredulous sight of a holy maze. This variety of banyan forms roots on the branches that eventually reach the ground and start another tree, until one cannot discern where one tree ends and the other begins. The Hindus hold this tree sacred, and often a platform or altar has been built under it. Here there is a huge raised platform made of granite stone and cement. Walking up the steps, I see several small stone chapels: one contains an image of Hanuman, a devotee of Rama who was the hero in the Ramayana.

Another enshrines Kali, the Mother Time who laps up one and all in the end. The awesome black Kali with her necklace of skulls is not worshipped out of fear, but is invoked to help in removing obstacles or any negative forces. In her case, she is dancing on her consort, the masculine energy that empowers her dance of creation and death. The platform is bordered with a three-foot wall, most of which is edged with metal spears. Each shaft is tied with a red rag and topped with a green nimbu (lime).

As I proceed down the path, I pass an area of natural forest, then orchards. No fruit yet, but I conjecture that they are guavas; then I pass large banana and coconut plantations. A few mud huts for the laborers are scattered along the route. I suddenly realize that it’s so late I better find the bus to go back to the ashram since night is approaching.

At that moment, I approach a lovely area, full of tall, spreading coconut palms. Mud huts with thatched huts are scattered through the palms—an exact replica of the ideal of a primitive, simple life in nature. I am beholding a picturesque Shangri-La. Seeing the huts are so artistically created, I figure that they were privately built by the occupants and not some government or landowner tenement for field laborers. Yet I know the setting is an illusion; the huts will be dark, damp and full of mosquitoes—and probably mice. Even so, there is something so appealing about not ever having to pay rent. Of course, they do have to work to pay for food, but at one time the people of these idyllic villages would have grown all of their own staple crops.

As I pass by, several people come out to see the stranger and I greet them cheerfully. One gentleman among them speaks decent English. After replying to the five standard questions: “What country?” “What is your name?” “Are you alone?” “Where are you coming from?” “What are you doing here?” I ask one of my own: “How can I get back across the river?”

I am instructed to continue on and just ahead there will be a place to cross the river. I will then be in Swamimolai, where I can catch a bus. He was right; the path soon turns and crosses the river via stone steps down to its bed. Darkness is falling fast as I follow the narrow lane over to the bus stop by the spires of a mosque.

When I return to the ashram, no one is around, so I busy myself with my normal routine for no one ever inquires of my comings and goings. After supper, I am at the outdoor faucet washing my stainless steel plate with ashes from the wood stove and a chunk of coconut husk, when the Sadhu approaches.

“It’s so dark. Can you see okay?”

“It’s fine, Swamiji. I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“Yes, but you returned after dark tonight. I think you better at least tell us in which direction you are going when you leave the ashram.”

“I walked on the other side of the river because there is more natural beauty—and less traffic and people—over there.”

“You crossed the river?” His voice expresses a tone of surprise.

“Yes, I crossed the river, walked as far as Swamimolai, then crossed back over the river and caught a bus.”

“Achaa [yes],” he chuckles.

At least he knows that I was not out buying some goodies to stuff my face. There is not even the common tiny stall with bedis and bananas—India’s version of the 7-11—in the other side of the river.

Daily, I watch the life at the river. The river is ever flowing, in perpetual motion; unconcerned about who bathes, who drinks, who swims, who washes clothes in its water. Enjoy me! Enjoy me! I just keep rolling on and on and on, it sings. But the river is mistaken.