Before the sun has appeared to radiate its warm rays on the sand and water, the river bank is visite by a few sand pips and black and white wagtails, along with a few early risers who come for their morning dump. They will wait for the sunlight before returning to take their baths in the same waters. Aournd 8:00 a.m. the river beach becomes the bathhouse and laundromat for men only. The bathers first wash their dhotis, which they then stretch out on the sand to dry while they bathe. A couple of men carry a long pole with them to stick in the groud so they can tie their wet dhotis on it to wave like prayer flags in the breeze. For a mile along the river, a brown, round backside shines in every direction.

Around 9:00 a.m., the men clear out and the women and children take over for bathing and washing clothes. The children run and splash in the water while their mothers take long, leisurely baths. While sitting in waist-deep water, they soap themselves lavishly, then rinse by pouring cool water over their bodies with a small brass pot.

When the women and children leave about 10:00 a.m., the dairyman arrives with his herd of buffalo, around two dozen, for their daily baths. The buffaloes love water, so we Americans always call them water buffaloes. The Indians cannot understand why I do not just say “buffalo.” They give richer milk in greater quantities than a cow, but I find a slight twang to the milk. The buffaloes are rather lazy, plodding creatures and love to laze around in a muddy pool on a hot summer day.

Bathers in the Kauveri River

They have never been trained as a draft animal, which I thought was strange since some of them are huge, the size of two or three cows put together. Then I heard a story of one fellow who had trained his buffalo to pull a cart, and it seemed to have adjusted. One day they were plodding down a hot, dusty road when suddenly the buffalo spotted a pond over to the side of the road. Now buffaloes seldom run, but this one ran hell bent for a nice cool dip, leaving the driver, cart, straw flying to the wind.

From the river bank, I can see the clothes washed downstream by the dobhis, billowing on make-shift clothes lines. I never use these washermen because, although their beating-on-the-rocks technique works well on simple cloth, seams become worn, the buttons broken, and the zippers destroyed. Also, they never spot-check anything—it’s simply beat and dry. Any stains remain as is, or are added unto.

The indispensable dobhi is on the lowest rung of the lowest caste because he touches the menstrual saris. Actually, his wife is supposed to wash them, but he gets contaminated also by association. Even in the dobhi caste, there is a hierarchy based on family, experience, and quality of work. If one dobhi wants to insult another he may tell him, “You are so stupid you wash cotton and silk clothes on the same stone.”

In Bangalore near the Aurobindo Bhavan, there is a dobhi colony—two rows of government-built tiny huts with their own temple in center front. The dobhis spread out in every direction each morning on bicycles to pick-up the bundles of clothes from homes or children’s uniforms from residential schools. No one ever brings their clothes to the colony personally. The dobhi is considered a necessit, a home with air conditioner, color TV, VCR, and microwave will not have a washing machine. To purchase one would mean that they would cause their dobhis to lose work. How they manage to wash the clothes in the muddy lakes and ponds and produce white clothes is what I call one of India’s miracles.

Mid-day is quiet at the river since all creatures flee to the shade to rest in the simmering heat of December. Every afternoon, there is a major convening of crows. They sit in the tops of trees cawing, then descend to the water’s edge where there is a constant dance of jockeying for position—who bathes first, who gets the best pool, continual flapping and hopping and fussing as they approach, challenge, then give ground. When they are finally satisfied that they have completed their ablutions, they fly back to the tree tops to preen and boast with their noisy crow vocals.

On Sundays a few school children come for a picnic—but the Indians are not fond of picnics. One Indian described them as “a device invented by the British to make eating inconvenient.” Often when they go for a picnic, it is just an outing to a scenic spot and there is no food. Well, I must correct that, you will not ever find an Indian without a bag of food. What I mean is that on a picnic they will have the usual bags of snacks, fruit and candies that go with them everywhere, but no particular meal.


Since I am going to remain here, I leave early one morning to go to town to buy supplies toward a permanent stay: plastic bucket, detergent, cleaning agents for walls, etc. Upon arriving, I first find to the Post Office and buy several inland letters, then walk over to a restaurant for breakfast. I now have a plan to short-circuit their custom of serving the tea after the meal. I want tea immediately. When I order, I mention the tea first: “one cup of chaya tea, bring it first, and one plain dosa [rice pancake], bring it second.” I repeat, “chaya first,” holding up one finger, then “dosa second,” holding up two fingers. My efforts paid off as I am served the tea first. But five minutes later, I am served two dosas. Immediately, I realize my communication error, but I do not even attempt to explain to them. I eat one and one-half dosa with no problem. For the remainder of my journey, I use a different technique: first, I order tea; only after it is brought to me, do I order the breakfast dish.

In the market, I have to meander through a labyrinth of vendors for ten minutes or so before I find the type of shop I want. The proprietor of the small stall insists on offering me a cool drink. Enjoying the pause to sit a few minutes, I slowly sip the cold, sweet nimbu pani, limeade. I have no idea where the water came from. This is one of those occasions I simply have to throw caution to the wind for the sake of politeness. In the countryside and villages I do not have to worry because the water comes from wells.

The young man then gives me directions to the stall where I will find notebooks. I buy a large thick one, for I am determined to keep a daily journal. I have been taking sporadic notes in a diary, but now I am going to be thorough. Writing daily does not come easily for me; I guess for the same reason I never enjoyed spectator sports. However, I am going to make the effort, for Ram Sadhu is too great not to share with others.

This morning when I told the Sadhu I was going to town to get some supplies, he replied that he could get me anything I needed. It was not necessary for me to go out.

“I need to go the Post Office and also to purchase some small items that I may be particular about, like shampoo and a journal.”

“You go, but you do not have to tell me. You can come and go as you please. This is your home.”

When I return that afternoon before satsang, he again mentions, “I can get you anything you need. You don’t have to bother to go to town.”

I had my daily exercise traversing the marketplace, so in the evening I just putter around the river and make a startling discovery: The river is totally clear of all people after 6:00 p.m. I have the whole place all to myself. I stretch out on the dry sand and dream dreams of far away places embellished with moonbeams glowing through palm leaves.

December 19, 1990
Today was a normal day with no particular ups and downs until my evening walk. As usual I cross the river and choose a path I have not taken before, heading due south away from the river. The path skirts rice fields and a couple acres of sugar cane. Definitely, a productive terrain, I note. An old woman—
really ancient, her dark leathery skin hangs loose on her thin body—is plodding along beside me. She is bent from the weight of a huge burlap sack, stuffed with fodder, so heavy that she weaves as she walks.

To my surprise I come across a small village in the middle of nowhere. As I pass the yard of the first thatched hut on the path, the largest buffalo I have ever seen, sporting a fear-inspiring set of horns, looks up and starts toward me. Thank goodness, I can see that it is securely tethered. Good Lord, I think, don’t tell me that even a buffalo can recognize a stranger. However, the mystery is soon solved when the old woman, who had fallen behind me, crosses over and dumps her load of grass for the big fellow.

The children and women in the yards of the huts remain quiet as they watch me pass. In the center of the village, I am surprised to see a couple of “cement” houses. I have not seen any of these city-type houses on this side of the river. On the steps of the veranda of the largest one, a young man is sitting along with several children. He stands up and motions for the children to stand also. I greet them with a “namaste” and they return it.

He then asks the expected: “Where are you from?”
Then, “What are you doing lonely here?”

“I am just walking.”

“But you are lonely. Why isn’t someone with you?”

“I guess because I know how to walk by myself.”

“But no one walks lonely here.”

By now I am moving slowly down the path. “Good-bye,” I call over my shoulder. I walk farther down the path, which is broad enough to be called a road, but definitely not adequate for cars. I greet several curious-eyed children with a “namaste.” The road begins cutting even further away from the river through beautiful bright green rice paddy. One irrigation pond is full of lovely lilies with a large white crane fishing in its shallow water. Finally, I have to give up on finding a path that cuts across to the river. Although I do not want to, I begin to retrace my steps.


Just as I feared, everyone is on alert: There is a white lady in the village. A gaggle of giggling children soon surrounds me. I am prevailed upon by the parents of one little back-eyed cherub to bless him. When I pass the young man’s house again, he jumps up and asks me in—which means to sit on the veranda, never inside the house. Actually, any wandering sadhu or traveler is welcome to sleep on these verandas should he arrive in a village in the night.

The young man says he wants to talk to me for five minutes. I agree and take a seat on the long wooden bench. His elderly mother, in a heavy silk sari with her ear lobes covered with large disks of gold and a diamond gleaming from her nostril, is sitting on a side bench. Although I am sure she does not know a word of English, she wants a good look at the strange phenomenon. Every child in the village is crowded into the tiny space between the verandah and compound fence, making it appear that the verandah is off-limits for them.

The young man, in his mid-20s, starts to pose his questions, beginning in the Indian subtle mode: “What are you doing here?”

“I’m staying at the ashram for sadhana.”

“What?”

“At the ashram across the river.”

“The Swami Ramalinga Ashram?”

“Yes.” I am surprised to hear it referred to as a Swami Ramalinga Ashram. However, there is only one ashram, so I do not want to complicate matters by debating its name.

“So you are doing service there in the school and boys’ home?”

“No, I am not. They are being managed quite well by Indians.”

“So what are you doing?”

“I told you, sadhana. You are an Indian, you know what sadhana means, spiritual practices, like meditation and study of the scriptures.”

“So what are you studying?”

“Hindu philosophy.”

“So if you are doing service at the ashram, that’s okay.”

“But, as I told you, I am not doing any service.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Sir, I cannot see that I have to explain my actions and motives to you.”

“Oh, I do not mean to be personal.”

I take the opportunity to change the subject, “So how long has your family lived in this house?”

“Five years, it is five years old. It is my older brother’s house. He works in Saudi Arabia.”

“I see, so you own land here?”

“Yes, we are landlords. But I am going to be a commercial man and make a lot of money. Commerce is where the money is.”

At that moment, we are interrupted by the servant, who has appeared with a stainless steel tumbler of hot milk, well sugared. The mother takes the tumbler from the tray and then carefully puts it into my hands. I am sizing her up, probably not from Tamil Nadu as she only has one nose diamond; definitely, must be south Indian, judging from the heavy silk sari, but not Kerala, they only wear cotton. She could be from Andhra Pradesh because they have a tendency to immigrate to get good farm land. But I am not sure though, for a high caste Andhra women would be listening behind the door, not out in plain sight.

As I take a sip of the rich, buttery buffalo milk, he continues, “Yes, I’m going to be a wealthy magnate. I will be able to help these poor people.”

Then he points to the village children, all dressed in virtual rags, but none looking hungry. “That is my true desire.”

“What will you do to help them?”

We volley back and forth a minute as he does not understand what I mean.

“I will build something like the Swami Ramalinga ashram school, but first one has to have the financial base.”

“One does have to be careful though, we can get so carried away with making money and accumulating things that we forget the ideals of our youth.”

“I see what you mean. Do you feel you have forgotten your ideals?”

“The truth is I don’t recall having any ideals in my youth; I was much too self-centered. I don’t think I have ever given much thought to the future at all, not in my entire life. But I certainly think to have a goal like yours is very commendable.”

“But one has to have a financial base... [a pause] Will you give me the address of your organization in America?”

“I have no organization in America.”

“You know, the one that sent you here to do service.”

“No organization sent me. I came on my own.”

“But that is impossible, someone had to pay for your tickets here and your travel.”

“I paid for them myself.”

“I don’t believe you. It is impossible. Your parents, an organization, someone paid for your trip.”

“It is possible because that is what I did.”

“No...”

“Look, your brother is working in Saudi Arabia. I’m sure he makes enough money for his trip back and forth. He has even saved money to send here to build this house. So how can you say it is impossible?”

I stand up with my final words, “I need to go now.”

I turn and wish his mother “namaste,” then start down the steps.

“By God’s grace, may we meet again,” his words follow me out the gate.

Well, it will not be by my grace, I think, because I certainly will not take this route again. I do not relish these tedious conversations, although I do learn something about how the locals think and live.

Because of the delay, fifteen minutes or so, I arrive back at the river after the sun has set, so it is totally deserted. Even so the sky is streaked with an afterglow of color, so I stand motionless for a few moments to take it in. However, the dim light presents me with a challenge when I try to find a place to cross the river. I have learned that the narrow strips in the river are often the deepest. The wider places where the river spreads out and makes ripples, which I first thought were currents, are actually the shallowest crossings. Tail of my sari in hand, I pick my spot and wade in what turns out to be ankle-deep water, enjoying the cool water on my hot, dusty feet.

Day by day the river is disappearing. A week ago I was lucky to find a crossing that was only knee deep; now it’s ankle deep. When I reach the dry shore, I pause again to catch another long inspiration from the streaks of purple and rose stretching across the dark sky. Then, taking in the wonder of that quiet twilight moment, I twirl a couple of times with my arms out-stretched in joy.

As I turn and start back to the ashram steps, I catch a glimpse of a solitary figure moving along the river. As it approaches, I realize it is Ram Sadhu. I have never, ever seen him out of the ashram compound before.

“Good evening, my darling daughter.”

“Good evening, my revered Father,” I respond with a smile.

The sky has darkened enough that the crescent moon is now shimmering on the horizon. Together we look up at it. Then he places both hands on top of his walking stick and looks straight into my eyes.

“It’s the second day, two digits. Night before last was the dark night. Our rsis did such a great task in observing, then naming, all aspects of nature. The moon has been divided into sixteen kalas, or sections, of time. Each kala bears the name of a woman.” Weaving back and forth while leaning on his cane, he represents a perfect picture of the Wizard Merlin.

“These names represent the different parts of the manifested creation?”

“They are the different energy levels that create the different manifestations.”

“I see.”

He turned and spread his hands, “The Life is everywhere expressing its joy. Oh, you cannot imagine what wonderful times I have spent here. I used to lie right out on the warm sand and sleep. There were no buildings, no lights, no one at all in those days. All this civilization has appeared in the last twenty-five years.”

“How old were you when you left your family?”

“About thirty, but I always knew this was the life for me. Even when I was a boy, I understood that everything is God. My mother taught me all these things; she was such a devotee. She also taught me the Ramayana. Every night she would have me recite some verses before I slept. If I forgot and slept off, she would even wake me up and say, ‘My son, recite just a few verses for me.’ She did not make it seem like something I had to do, but that it was something that gave her such great pleasure. Of course, it made me happy to please my mother. Gradually, I memorized many long passages from the Ramayana.

“We were Brahmans and lived a religious life. No one was surprised or bothered when I left home. It was natural for me; everyone knew that it would happen sooner or later.”

As we reach the steps up to the ashram compound, Venus is twinkling near the new moon. He mentions that there was a notice in today’s paper that the dam, upstream from us, is full and the authorities will be releasing water tomorrow.

“So you must be cautious in your wanderings tomorrow.”

“Yes. I will. I am so happy; tomorrow we will have a river again.”


Occasionally, Ram Sadhu comes in and sits on a wooden bench as the rest of us eat. He never eats with us; the brahmachari serves him in his cottage. Anyway, he only has a little fruit with a glass of hot milk at night. I always bow, touch his feet, and say “Good night, Swamiji.”

“Right-o, Rajarajeshwari.”

When he says this, I lift my eyebrows to demonstrate great doubt, because this is the name of a goddess.

“Yes, you are a queen in this world. You just don’t know it, that’s all.”

December 20, 1990
Today I woke up with a slight headache. After a rest I still do not feel any better, so I opt to take my usual river walk and get some fresh air. Also I take a dose of Bryonia, one of my trusted homeopathic remedies. In ten minutes the pain has evaporated, this is the second time that I have had good results with Bryonia for a headache. Fortunately, it’s still early enough that not many people are out yet. I walk the one-half kilometer down the river bed to the deep hole where I am sure to find fish to feed and a couple of kingfishers to admire.

However, I have some trepidation about entering the river bed with the knowledge of the impending release of water. Logically, if a big inundation is coming, it will only be released at night because it is not possible to alert all of the rural villagers. But action in India often defies logic.

I recall when I was in the Himalayas in 1978, there had been a terrible flood, which was caused by the Indian equivalent of the Army Corps of Engineers. Upstream from Uttarkasi, there had been a big log jam across the Ganga (for some reason the British preferred to mispronounce it “Ganges”) from trees that had fallen in a harsh winter storm. The debris was so great that a lake had formed and was threatening to spread out and flood several near-by villages. The engineers rushed in with as much dynamite as they could carry, put it in the middle of the dam of timbers, and set the charge. For miles downstream everything within ten to twenty yards on each side of the banks was leveled, if not by the force of water, by the huge trees and debris it carried. The greatest losses were to the sadhus who build their huts along the banks of the holy river. If there were any human casualties, they went unreported; no one collects this type of data in India. It was all Mother Ganga’s will. Long live the holy Ganga!

This morning the Kauveri remains in her usual dry state. The newspapers said tomorrow, but considering the Hindi languages uses the same word, kal, for tomorrow and yesterday; these notices must be subject to indefinable law. When I return to the ashram, I wash up and greet the Sadhu. Every morning our dialogue is exactly the same.

“Namaste, good morning, Swamiji.”

“Good morning, my darling daughter, are you well with yourself?”

“Yes, Swamiji, I am well.”

“Need anything, any food, supplies?”

“No, Swamiji, I need nothing.”

“Go have your breakfast. You need to eat too.”

Once when I was leaving, I turned and grinned back at him: “Only one need: eternal peace.”

At 3:00 p.m. as I am going over to hang my sari on the clothes line, I hear an unusual splashing sound. Looking out over the fence, I see an eagle standing in the river, bathing in a shallow pool of water. Interestingly, it is only some ten feet from a man taking his bath, and both appear to be unnoticed and unconcerned by the other. Then a pair of eagles swoop in to join the first, but stand at the edge of the water. At that moment, a couple of young boys come running by, totally oblivious to the birds. The three circle up and around to alight a little farther downstream to continue their ablutions. Again, within moments, a couple of dogs come running by.

Although the dogs pay no attention to the eagles, the birds are alerted and rise, circle, and find a new bathing spot. What a sight to see them pulsating those giant wings, then enjoying themselves as they dip and shimmy in the water. As soon as one finishes, it flies to a nearby tree, and another enters the deeper water for bathing. I do not see two of them bathing at the same time. They appear to wait in line, perhaps to serve as lookouts.


December 21, 1990
The river still has not filled up, but I stroll the dry bed with confidence as the sand trucks are back today. I am glad I have known the river in this form, a couple of silver streaks winding through the sand, easily available to man and beast. And it is ever-changing, but not necessarily of its own volition. The dump trucks, brightly painted in turquoise, yellow and red, daily carry away loads of sand leaving pits that modify and remold the two main streams and the secondary channels. As a result, each day a branch dries up or another branch breaks through between the two channels. Sometimes small boys build a dam to make a small pool, but the sand seldom holds the stream back for long.

I have a slight headache again today, so I go for a slow stroll through the trees and shrubs of the bamboo forest on the west side of the ashram. I think of Adam walking in the garden of Eden; the responsibility that humans have to protect the beautiful creations of the plant world. I wonder what the actual Hebrew word is for “dominion.” Man has “dominion over” the plant and animal kingdom, soon expanded to man over man. Is that where it began: in Genesis with the term “dominion over,” rather than “responsibility for”? Or did man write Genesis to suit his own nature?

All the creation is a manifestation of the incredible diversity of the One Supreme. Was The Fall just having the capacity to divide the diversity between good and bad? If so, the ability to drop this acquired skill must be a key.

A new guest arrived in the garden this morning; a rust-colored bird with a black-tufted head and white breast. While watching it, my eye wanders over to a white flower on a vine that runs along the ashram fence that turns out to be some type of wild squash. When I look up, I spot a golden-backed woodpecker, not seven feet away. He has not spotted me, as he goes hopping and pecking, hopping and pecking, up and down a branch. His feathers are ruffled and scruffy, definitely contributing to its appearance as an old world bird.


December 22, 1990
I had not thought it possible, but the river can no longer be called a river. The flow has been completely cut off by the tracks of the sand trucks leaving long, isolated fingers of motionless water. The water level is so low today that the buffaloes have to sit down for enough water to get any relief from the heat. But I do find some minnows to give my leftover rice. They are playing about in a small pool only a foot deep. In that pool I spot something else of interest: a small red clay pot—six inches across—stuffed with a piece of folded banana leaf. I squat down to observe the layout carefully. Around this pot are a dozen of its miniature—one and one-half inches across—each pot stuffed with a pan leaf. Uncooked rice, inedible to the fish, is also scattered around.

Later, I ask brahmachari what the offering I saw in the river signified. As I suspected, it is the ritual for the ancestors, performed on their death anniversary. They believe that ancestors partake of the offered food. I have noticed in the city newspapers, even in Bombay, that the death anniversary has been modified from a trip to the river to a notice in the newspaper with a photo, name of deceased, and date of death.

“She doesn’t miss anything, does she?” the brahmachari commented to Ram Sadhu.

December 23, 1990
I overslept for the first time today, how seriously I do not know because my watch has decided to become an instrument for stopping time. I assume it is trying to help me reach the timeless state. However, we now have temple music that starts blaring promptly at 4:30 a.m., so I doubt I slept too long with that noise. This blasting of loud music from the temple just began two days ago, for this is the month of the devas—Margari—the most auspicious month of the year, primarily celebrated in the south. For forty-five days everyone in Tamil Nadu lives the life of sannyasa, abstaining from sex and meat-eating.

This season is particularly associated with a pilgrimage to the Ayyapa temple. A goal of every man in the South is to visit this temple once in his lifetime. The men all don a black dhoti for their first trip. After completion of the Ayyapa pilgrimage, the following years, the men can wear either orange or blue dhotis. So in late December and January, hundreds of orange-clad pseudo-sannyasis are rickshaw drivers, office clerks, and the banana-stall attendants. I was told that even the Moslems become vegetarians. Therefore, the price of vegetables skyrockets, especially since it is the rainy season and the principal vegetables of tomato, eggplant and okra, which all need the hot sun, are not growing well. In addition to the austerities, special rituals are performed in the home and everyone goes to the local temple daily. The boys in the orphanage are rising earlier than usual to be able to parade around the temple singing bhajans before their morning prayer service. The music via the loudspeaker is not conducive to meditation, so I decide to forego the attempt and catch up with my journal writing.

After breakfast, as usual I sit in the garden reading and watching the tree with tiny fragrant trumpet flowers. The yellow flowers are so small and insignificant that only the nectar suckers and I appreciate them. I hear a chirp, “Look, look, look at me” and raise my eyes to see a tiny black bird stretch his wings to pivot slightly to show me the bright iridescent blue patch on his shoulders and back. His long curved bill fits easily into the small tube of a flower. The other two nectar suckers that frequent the flowers are yellow breasted. They seldom make a sound, but the bobbing of the flowering branches indicates their presence.

Today the river is down another foot. Only a pair of eagles come to bathe. After standing and hopping, standing and hopping, they only find eagle-knee-deep water. Finally, they give up and fly upstream, seeking better possibilities for a cool-down. The black and white kingfishers are out in full force. Kerplunk. Kerplunk. They are having good luck and only have to hang in the air for a few seconds to spot their prey. Whereas earlier I have seen them hover for at least sixty seconds at a time. What skill they flaunt as they bend their body into a forty-five degree angle, spin their wings, and dive straight into the water, disappearing completely, then emerging with a silver sliver in their bills.

My patroness, that is, the owner of the cottage I am staying in, arrived today. A widow of ten years, she is petite and vital, a typical Tamil woman. Even though she is going to spend the night, she insists that I not move out of her cottage. She says she can simply sleep in another place, probably on a straw mat on the kitchen floor. Another example of Indian hospitality that is not to be equaled in all the world. They believe that a guest is god, and act accordingly. She spends a lot of time talking to Ram Sadhu, in Tamil, so I did not even get a drift of the theme. Also she finds some time to help in the kitchen. When returning from washing my dishes, I meet the Sadhu coming up the path.

“Aaka,” he calls out to me, which means “elder sister” in Tamil and is a definitely a term of respect connoting the wisdom of an elder.

“Tatta,” I return his greeting. He gets a good laugh over my reply, as I surprise him with my knowledge of the Tamil word for “Grandfather,” also a term of respect. You see the Indians consider it disrespectful to call anyone by their given names. So there is a title of respect for everyone: tambi, younger brother; anna, elder brother, etc. You may have noticed that I never call Ram Sadhu by his name. Although he is not a swami, we all call him “Swamiji” as a term of respect, since he really lives the life of a renunciate, or sannyasi.

A great example of this custom of respect appears in the Ramayana. During their wanderings, Rama, Lakshana and Sita visit a small rural village. The women are serving the three guests equally, not wanting to favor anyone, even the Lord Rama. However, when they get the first opportunity, they take Sita aside and ask, “Which one is Rama?” Sita cannot point to her husband (pointing must be considered rude everywhere) and she has never dared utter his name. “My husband is the dark-skinned one,” she replies, thus remaining in the confines of respect.

The most universal way, although more common in the North, to entitle someone is to add the Hindu suffix “ji” to the name, so I am usually called “Nancyji.” Since I am the only female here, I am most often referred to as “she.” You may also note that Ram Sadhu has never called me by my name, but “daughter,” or sometimes “aaka” elder sister. Tonight, “Tatta” presses a little packet of candy into my palm.