I was up before the usual 4:00 a.m. this morning. It is not as difficult as it seems because sometimes I am asleep by 9:00 p.m. Besides, I am sleeping on a bed of a hard plank board without a mattress. I awaken almost every hour to change sides as my hip bones are feeling bruised. I made the mistake of leaving my thinsulate pad in Bangalore; one that I will not repeat. The quiet of the night settles early here. However, one bird awakens occasionally during the night to squawk, chatter and complain about something; then it settles back into silence. I suspect it’s a myna; they have such a wide range of voice possibilities. Since I am up early, I quickly scurry about with washing my face, drinking a cup of hot tea, and straightening my bed. So I will have 15 or 20 minutes for meditation before the blasting of the loudspeaker begins.

The blaring always starts on schedule. Indians are never on time for anything, but that music commences at 4:30 a.m. rain or shine. I would sure like to tell the person who invented the loudspeaker a thing or two. So when the blasting starts, I stop my attempt at meeting the Divine through meditation and start reading the Ramayana, out loud to help my concentration. Last night the Sadhu delivered a thick, English translation to my door just before I retired.

After breakfast, I go by the Sadhu’s cottage to check the only calendar to be sure of the date.

“It’s the 24th. Tomorrow is Christmas,” I mention to him.

“Yes, do you need anything special, it being Christ’s birthday?”

“No. Christmas is a festival of materialism for us, not anything spiritual. I am glad to be away from that madness. Although I realize how great Christ and his teachings were, I’m not interested in Christianity as a religion, or in any religion for that matter. However, the Christians are too narrow-minded for me.”

“Don’t concern yourself. Narrow-minded, not narrow-minded. It’s all the same Life. Let them be; you just be at peace. That’s all I want of you: shanti, shanti.”

“Yes, you are certainly right. I do not want to be narrow-minded about narrow-mindedness.”

The phoebe-like birds have come to my porch in their daily scavenging for bugs and worms throughout the ashram grounds. Although they seldom sing, they have a lovely song that includes a distinctive trill at the end of each line. A durango also visited us today. He is solid black with a long tail split into two forks. I have often seen him quietly sitting on a high wire, but today he was swooping and dipping after bugs. Later I see him taking a ride on the back of a black goat. I am amused because he has always seemed such a loner before.

Since it is Christmas Eve, I want be quiet. In early evening, I pick a dry spot and sit on the sand to watch the sunset. The monsoon with its puffy clouds produces the loveliest of sunsets. Broad streaks of gray strata along the horizon reflect the rays of the sun up to the higher cumulus clouds to color them with orange and gold. A fat crescent moon hangs overhead and a stray wisp of a cloud, bright pink, floats by it. I watch the evening star disappear behind a gray streak, then reappear, then disappear and reappear again. Slowly the moon fades into the murky dusk above the horizon. I lie back in the sand and watch the moon through the fringed arms of the palm trees that fan the settling darkness. And I wait. Yes, there they are. Tiny lights that glow and fade, glow and fade and glow. Fireflies at Christmas time.

December 25, 1990
Christmas morning dawns foggy and chilly. I complete my daily reading of the Ramayana with extreme joy; it is so incredibly beautiful. The Indians say that the Ramayana not only portrays the divinity of all life, it also extols the nobility of life. I am half-finished with my morning yoga routine when there is a knock at the door. The brahmachari peeps his head in the door and tells me, “Annaji has suggested that you come over for the morning prayers and lighting of the lamp, since it is Christmas.”

“When?”

“In five minutes.”

I quickly wrap myself in a clean sari and walk the short distance to the school prayer room. As I take my seat on the square of carpet placed for me, I smile, for the shrines are decorated with tiny twinkling lights. Seeing them puts me in a cheerful mood, for I love Christmas lights. The boys sing their morning prayers, then I give each an orange and apple—Santa in India, or something like that. I had arranged for the fruit and a special meal in honor of my mother, since she has a Christmas birthday. Sitting there, I recall, although it is 7:00 a.m. on Christmas morning here, it will be 7:00 p.m. Christmas Eve in U.S. I shutter at the thought of the Christmas Eve madness that I have experienced in the past. I have been totally guilty too. I love giving gifts, decorating and cooking for Christmas. However, if we Christians put as much time, thought and energy into the preparation for Christ’s birth in our hearts, as we do on gifts and food, the world would certainly be a different place today.

A new bird arrived in the garden today, as large as the koel. A large member of the cuckoo family; it is black, brown and white with a long tail with a broad stripe of white. I have never seen this bird before and am trilled to see it in flight with its tail pointed like an arrow. It heads for the neem tree whose berries must be his main interest, but the tiny fruit is nearly finished. The smaller phoebe-like birds are singing merrily today. Are they happy at having a cool, shady day, or do they know it is Christmas?

After supper I am floating peacefully through the garden when I encounter the Sadhu. “No stars tonight, Swamiji. But there is a big fire up the river. The sky is glowing with pink smoke in that direction,”I express my concern.

He turns and looks, “They are firing bricks.”

“Firing bricks? Yes, of course.”How often have I seen the pyramids of the ancient brick-making method in progress, but never the actual firing.

December 26, 1990
Yesterday the Sadhu suggested that I start pranayama, or breathing exercises. After class today he asks me to make a chart of my pranayama practice; how many rounds and how long it takes. He has already recommended that I try for twelve rounds at each sitting.

“You should do it 48 times a day.”

“But 12 times the three hours means 36 total.”

He does not reply. I decide that since twelve is still a bit of a strain for me that I will continue to do twelve for a couple of days. Then I can add one cycle each day until I reach the higher number.

As far as I can tell the water has still not been released upstream, although one narrow channel is winding through the sand. I think it must be from a bit of rain somewhere north of here. The buffaloes have to be satisfied with wetting their hooves and taking a drink, as water is too low for a buffalo bath. I wonder where the villagers are bathing and doing their laundry. The bamboo poles holding lines of billowing clothes are still visible downstream, so the dobhi continues his trade. The river is so quiet that I can actually hear the slap of the clothes on the rocks.



For my evening walk, I cross the non-existent river to the other shore and start down the closest path, which passes the crematorium shed. I am half way up the stone stairs before I am aware that there is smoke coming from it. The red crepe paper poppies and colored streamers strewn about give evidence of a recent procession, which strangely I had not heard. Usually, there are loud drums to warn one and all of the potential pollution. Once when I was in Chidambaram, a bier (the usual two bamboo poles supporting the body, which was wrapped in white cotton cloth) was approaching me. One of the two priests clapped his hands vigorously when he saw me. A warning to me of the polluting corpse. . . or vice versa?

To the Hindu pollution is not physical. It has nothing to do with human excrement in the rivers they drink out of, the open sewers that run by their homes, the mounds of human poop along the roadway. Pollution is a vibrational thing—the touch of an uncouth person, the shadow of a toilet cleaner, food cooked by the impure person or a menstruating woman—but the presence of a dead body is the worst pollution of all. Yes, cremators are definitely untouchables, but some have managed to take advantage of their position for some economic leverage.

At the top of the rung of this untouchable community—all castes have strict and complicated hierarchies—is the Benares clan. Tradition has it that if you die in the holy city of Benares you will be liberated from the cycle of birth and death. No matter your past errors, they are rendered null and void. So there are a lot of Hindus migrating to retire in Benares, making a booming business for the Doms—the undertakers there. First, the cost of wood for the cremation is high; they can, and do, charge a premium. One cannot start a funeral pyre with any old match, so the service of providing the fire brand from the perpetual flame calls for an another fee. If the family of the deceased is wealthy, additional gifts are extracted. The head honcho, called the Dom Raja— (Recognize the word raja, “king”?), negotiates all the accounts. He is reputed to be the wealthiest man in all of Benares. Typical of caste hierarchy, his position is inherited, not elected or bought.

So here I am in the midst of polluting smoke from the local crematory, which is not exactly pleasant for me either. An Indian would have avoided the polluting smoke at all costs, but holding my breath, I scurry past the structure. Not without taking mental notes: the pyre is a small, a tidy heap with the outside totally covered with round cow-dung cakes, placed around it in an orderly fashion. A neat pile of them sits nearby, ready for service though no caretaker is visible. When I do have to take a small breath, I am astonished to find that I only smell grilled steak. Can you believe it? A funeral pyre only smells like the neighbors barbecuing in their back yard.

Leisurely, I walk past green fields of waving rice. A row of women are weeding the plants. Work-ing across a row together, they move in unison. Their colorful saris of red, orange and green billow in the stiff breeze. These rustics are crazy about the colorful nylon and polyester saris. One cannot blame them for wanting a sari that is easy to wash and dry. However, on a typical tropical day in south India, it’s like being in a steam cabinet. Yes, I am speaking from personal experience. I almost had to disrobe in the middle of the street once when I borrowed one of Usha’s nylon saris in a pinch during the monsoon season.

I purposely walk past the spot where I had seen the lovely green pin-tailed birds dust-bathing one evening. Lined up on high wires, they are here again today. They show off with an occasional pivot, flourished with a swirl as they catch a passing insect. I have never seen these bee-eaters so near civilization before; they like the open fields. Here they seem to have happily adapted to modern man’s inventions. Afterwards I go by the Banyan tree temple. I place a purple flower and a coin in the Kali Shrine—we all must bow to Mother Time—sooner or later.

Banyan tree temple with priest

Taking deep breath, I pause a moment in this most ancient of temples; humankind’s first temples, even in Europe, were under a wonderful tree. I breathe in the beauty of the overhead boughs draped with green leaves. As per the dictates of custom, several Neem trees are also are growing here, but they have remained small in the shade of the large Banyan tree. The marriage of these two varieties of trees is supposed to produce the vibrational environment for the granting of desired progeny. Yes, they are still praying for babies here in India. Black granite stones, each carved with a caduceus, the serpent symbol of vital life, are placed under these trees by couples in a ritual to beget children. The serpent in India has not received the bad press that is has in the West via the Hebraic scriptures. Here it is considered a positive omen—it’s LIFE.

In the evening the Sadhu sits in the kitchen during supper. After I have finished eating, he asks if I am doing the pranayama.

“Yes, I’m doing it.”

“That’s 36 times, but you must do 48.”

Just as I open my mouth to explain I plan to gradually increase the number, he continues, “There is another time, you know.”

“What time?” I am puzzled.

“Oh, yes. At twelve midnight. It is the best time.”

“It may be the best time, but it is not my best time. If I am going to get up early, I have to sleep early. I can’t possibly stay up until midnight.”

“Let it be. You do as you can. It’s my duty to tell you these things; that is all I can do.”

“Well, I usually wake up around 1:00 a.m.; I could do the pranayama then.”

“Sary [okay in Tamil], you do that. I know you are getting up early.” He turns to the brahmachari, “She gets up at 4:00 a.m. I’ve watched the light go on in her room.”

“You don’t know what a miracle that is—my getting up at 4:00 a.m. and without an alarm clock. I’m used to waking up a 7:00 a.m. every day in Pondy.”

“Here we do nothing but sadhana. That’s why we are here. We have no interest or concern with the material world.”

“The old buffalo is being pretty cooperative up to now. I don’t want to overwhelm the old fellow,” I comment with a smile as I pat the hip of my body.

“Rama, Rama. Who has sent me this daughter?” the Sadhu mutters as he exits into the dark night.


December 28, 1990

I set out for a morning walk through the sand bottoms where once a river flowed, for the trickle that appeared yesterday is gone today. I pass the small pool of the pots left from the ceremony for the ancestors. Every time I pass this way I eyeball the cute little miniature clay pots. They look so common, but try to find them in the marketplace. For the sake of the ancestors, I resist pilfering one. The lack of flow has left the water limpid and clear and the largest pot has overturned, so I can see additional details. The large pot was sitting on a flat, gray stone with a red cloth underneath and was full of rice. I can also discern that some of the small pots contained mango leaves, instead of paan leaves. When I go to wish the Sadhu good morning, he again asks about the pranayama.

“It’s going fine. I did do one cycle when I woke up a 1:00 a.m., but I had difficulty getting back to sleep.”

“Sleep. We don’t want to sleep; we must conquer sleep.”

I know this sleepless phenomenon of the Hindus is mentioned in several scriptures. Even in the Bhagavad Gita, “the sleepless one” is one of the accolades that Lord Krishna gives to the hero, Arjuna. But to one who has claimed what she does best is sleep, the idea has not been given much consideration.

“If there’s no mind, who sleeps?” he continues.

“If there is not mind, then there’s no one to sleep.”

“Right-o.”

“So you never sleep?” I question him.

“I do rest the body. The body has to have food and rest, but I never sleep. I let my body rest until 1:00 a.m. I’ve been sitting in this chair since then—no sleep—and I’m totally fresh,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “We must rid ourselves of laziness.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Laziness. Well, I certainly know her. I can honestly say that I know that I know laziness.”

Surely, to some extent sleep is an escape and a forgetting. Is that why I am getting by easily with less sleep—nothing happening during the day to escape or forget?

It is one of those clear, bright spring days—yes, December is spring here—so bright and crisp that the mind naturally stands lucid and transparent, content with the world. The bulbul is declaring his presence in the garden with his melodious song. The rust, black and white bird has found a mate and they are fluttering and chirping in a nearby tree. The little black nectar sucker is back testing the tubular yellow blossoms that have just opened. As it turns out, these flowers are more difficult to sup from as their clusters are on willowy branches not suitable for perching. The tiny sipper is forced to hover and spin his wings in midair to collect the nectar. The tiny black sunbird is accompanied by a plain two-toned gray one, who must be his mate. The iridescence spreads over his shoulders and head like a little jewel!

Today the eagles arrive early, at 11:00 a.m., to bathe. I suppose they feared there would be no water if they waited any later. At that time, a rural lady passes through the sandy by-way with her prized buffalo—a monstrous one with horns turned back along its neck and back, so long and heavy I am shocked that she can balance them while walking. Her young offspring tags after the both of them. The eagle plays it safe and lifts himself out of the water with a quick down-thrust of its wings. He swoops and careers at a low level along the river’s course, then lands to take a third dip in the water.

In the evening, I discover a pond full of white water lilies close to the cremation shed. Nearby an eagle is perched in a palm tree. He does not fly away at my approach, but moves his head slightly up and down to let me know that he has noticed me. I return early the next morning to find him sitting on the same palm frond. It is early enough that no one is around to disturb my peace. Contentedly, I sit on my straw mat appreciating the lilies that are half opened, admiring two turquoise kingfishers on a nearby stubby reed, and enjoying the antics of a small water snake as he glides through the water.

Too soon, though, the local male genre begin arriving to dip their tails in the pond. Oh, dear, the first fellow is dipping right where I have been watching the snake. So this idyllic pond is a toilet too. I reconcile myself to the reality and never return. I eventually give up the plan to sit for a morning contemplation of nature as there is simply no good bird-watching spot that is not near the water, therefore, used as the local toilet. I occasionally pass that way on my evening walks, but I never see the eagle again.


December 27, 1990

When I go out at the first crack of dawn for my morning stroll, I am thrilled to see that the river has returned. The two narrow channels are now broad and indolent, so the flow is about the same as when I arrived. The sun begins to send shades of rose to announce its arrival. The water catches the color and robes the river with shades of orange for a royal start of the day. Only myself and an errant bat, winging its way to its daytime hideout, are present to admire it.

As usual at 9:00 a.m., I go out to the garden bench with a book to partake of sun rays and birds’ songs. Every day I like to practice consciously being grateful for being here in this beautiful environment. Ram Sadhu is usually sitting nearby on the bench by his cottage.

“One can get so many books, but you must read only those written by people of experience. That book, Serpent Power, written by. . . . Well, I can’t recall his name.”

“Woodruff? John Woodruff? He was actually an accomplished yogi?”

“Oh yes, he studied and practiced all these things and understood them from firsthand experience.”

“I bought that book when I was here in 1979, but I never had time to even open it when I returned home. It remains packed in a box.”

“Too bad. You would have learned a lot. You must awaken that serpent power that sleeps in the mooladhara [the root energy center]. That subtle force is like an electrical force. There are two levels of electricity: material and spiritual. The material level is the body. It is only electricity, vibration. After that serpent power awakens and pervades the body, every cell vibrates with sound. After that there is light—only light.”

He pauses, then continues, “Don’t your scriptures also say, ‘If your eye be single, your whole body will be filled with light’? It’s one and the same light, for ultimately there is only one light in creation.”

“Is the sound like Om?”

“Not really; it’s not like a sound you can vocalize. But you can say Om is a symbol for that primordial sound.”

With a gleam in his eye, he wiggles his finger back and forth while moving it upward. “That’s the power like the serpent that raises you to God.”

“But in the Old Testament, it was the serpent that caused the downfall of man.”

“That is another thing, not this at all.”

I later wondered if the serpent of the garden was the crocodile in the Hindu system. It sits in the second chakra that represents the seat of passion—and power. Weren’t Adam and Eve seeking power—the power to become as gods?

In the evening the water is even higher, too deep to wade across, leaving me stranded on the civilized side of the river for my walks.

“Ah, the river has at last become a river, Swamiji.”

“Yes, it is coming. They empty that dam into three separate rivers, so we don’t know when we will get our ration. It will soon fill up to the steps.”

After a short walk in the bamboo grove, I return to the sandy beach to sit and watch the sunset. The sunsets in the South are slow and languid, especially compared to the sun’s quick exit in the mountains of the North. The long, broad strokes of bright rose remain brilliant for a long time, almost as if it had decided to become a permanent set on the world scene. Often, several phases of color spread across the westerm sky, but tonight the rose hue lasts, then, ever so imperceptibly, slowly deepens and darkens. A lone crow appears graceful as it wings its way to the woods for rest.


December 29, 1990

There is no sunrise this morning as dark gray clouds hang in the East. Only a faint color reflects in the clear band on the western horizon. Since we are about fifty miles inland, we only catch the edge of the monsoon that travels up the east coast. I bet Usha is getting inundated in Pondicherry. In the early days of the rainy season in November, the storms are so massive this distance makes little difference, but they taper off by late December.

I put on a sweater to sit out on my bench for reading and thinking. Caught up with life, we never have time to question the mystery of the world with its immensity of implications. In our fixed track from home to the office, from the refrigerator to the TV, who takes time to explore the marvels of nature—the melodious song hidden in a bird’s egg, the fluttering of jeweled wings concealed in a fuzzy caterpillar, the spreading oak tucked in a tiny acorn?

Who indeed can understand these unfathomable secrets of nature? We even ignore and never wonder at the mysteries we carry within. How did we know how to build this physical body—by what intelligence? And our dream selves, where do we get the eyes, ears and mouth to see, hear and speak in our dreams? How do we make the sounds that we hear, the images that we see? While dreaming, we are the set artist, the actor on the stage and writer and director—all in one. Surely, contemplating these things should be sufficient to cause us to appreciate and wonder daily at the mystery that we are.

Ram Sadhu walks over to the gate, opens it, and stands watching the river. After some minutes, he speaks to the boys playing in the sand. They have ten days’ vacation after exams, but most of the boys from the orphanage remain here, having no home to return to. Although most of them do have one parent alive, the parent will be living in the streets. Even though I never understand a word, it is always a joy to see the Sadhu talking with them. He speaks so sweetly and lovingly, showing genuine interest in them.

I remain on the bench reading when out of the corner of my eye I catch the orange of Ram Sadhu’s clothes rounding the corner going back to his cottage. At that moment, a bulbul breaks into song. A wave of sweet peace arises from I know not where. My eyes close in sweet contentment. This world and this Sadhu are amazing. What wonder I experience as my mind spreads out to experience the joy of creation, the joy of the birds who chirp, the sun that gives light, the leaves that give shade, the flowers that give delight, the earth that gives support, the breeze that cools and caresses my skin.

When it becomes too hot, I go to my room to write in my journal. Afterwards, to stretch my legs and breathe some fresh air, I walk outside to check to see if the river is still rising. I walk down the stairs and across the sandy beach to its edge. Calmly I stand watching the widening expanse of water running to the sea. The sight tells me something about the combination of the flow and foundation of life. The masters say that shakti (energy, power) can be drawn into the body from different sources such as the sun, water, fire, lightning, air and ether. I would also add, especially flowing water. In the Chinese Buddhist tradition, several monks were enlightened while watching the flow of a river, so I am not the only one who thinks so.

A pool is forming in the hole that the boys have hollowed out the last few days—bucket by bucket—carrying sand to their playground. This morning they dug a canal from the hole to the river so that it would fill up with water. I turn to return to the ashram and catch a flash of orange turn from the fence. The Sadhu was watching me. I had suspected so before, but this is the first time I actually caught him. When I climb the steps, he is stooped over his flowers with his back to me. As I reach my porch, I realize that again I am experiencing a wave of indescribable peace. It feels as the cells of my body are waking to a wonderful aliveness. It is kind of like the feeling of anxiety, but that feeling is hot and oppressive, whereas this feeling is cool and comfortable. So the Sadhu may be getting through my thick hide after all.