It drizzled all night last night, but cleared with the early rays of the sun. I approach the beach cautiously as there are five or six stray dogs lying on the sand. As usual, they don’t seem to notice me. Little wonder, they must be tired from barking for hours last night. The rising sun is obscured by one huge cumulus cloud that looks like a giant rooster striding across the sky. Its comb, beak and tip of the raised wing are back-lit with golden pink. A large column of darker pink reflects in the rippling river, now in full flow, from bank to bank. The ripples magnify and play with the bright color, outlined by dark gray on one side and by clear pale blue on the other.

“Good morning, Swamiji. The river is flowing; the sun is shining; the birds are singing; that is all.”

He gleefully chants a verse by the Vedantic sage and poet, Ram Tirtha:

        I will tell you my supreme vocation,
        Before me there was no creation
        It was I who raised the sun out of the sea.

At least every other day, I go to the cottage of Siva RamaKrisna to discuss the Ramanaya. Our conversations are always informative, but the most interesting part is when he talks about Ram Sadhu’s past. He told me that the principal benefactor of the ashram and school was a Jain merchant. Years ago, his young son fell into the river and was being carried away. The few bystanders were helpless, for Indians do not know how to swim. Ram Sadhu happened to be just downstream from the commotion. Seeing the boy floating by, he jumped in the water and saved him. The father showed his gratitude by contributing generously to the charitable institutions here.

Siva RamaKrisna also told me that Ram Sadhu was quite an expert in herbal healing. In fact, when he came to Kumbakonam, he began to prepare his herbs for the local people. Of course, more and more people came for his medicines. Originally, he had come to this area with a guru, who returned a year later to behold his student totally immersed in making medicines for everyone.

“I left you here to do sadhana. You could have stayed at home in Lahore if you were going to do this work,” his Guru admonished him.

Ram Sadhu got the message and threw all of his pots for herbal preparations into the river. However, he does do one “work”, as he refers to it. Every morning after the boys put out fresh flowers on the altar at the school, they bring him all the old ones. The Sadhu spreads them out on a couple of burlap bags, turning them several times during the day to make sure they dry out well. Then, just at dusk, peak mosquito time here, the brahmachari brings some coals from the kitchen in a small cast-iron brazier. The Sadhu sprinkles the dried flowers over the coals, producing a thick black smoke—a natural mosquito repellent.

Ram Sadu on his usual bench

Once when it was sprinkling, I put the burlap bags under the benches, so the flowers would not get wet. The Sadhu saw me from his open-air room and called to me, “You leave those alone. That is my work.”

“I am just putting them out of the rain. It’s sprinkling.”

“Oh, that’s okay then,” he replied.

Today while he is fussing with the flowers, I pick up a handful of neem berries from my porch and take them over to ask him if they have some use.

“Yes, for medicine. They are one ingredient in the medicine I make for the children when they get a cold.”

He pauses to take them and examine them. “Where did you get them?”

“Right in my yard, the crows are eating some and knocking others down.”

He looks up and laughs at seeing the crows in the very top of the tree, clinging to the end of the branches where the tree forms its bitter fruit.

“Ah, look at them enjoying the Life.”

The chubby swami who has been my next-door neighbor left today to visit another ashram to help a sick friend. His name is Karunananda (bliss of compassion), but I call him Khanananda (bliss of food). This is the negative aspect of my sense of humor, criticizing this swami behind his back. However, I do refrain from sharing this label with others. It does seem that this swami’s chief interest is food. With plastic tote over his arm, he takes off to the market every day. When I pass his door before mealtime, I always hear the sound of grinding or chopping, as he is preparing chutney or condiments to spice up the bland food. Although he eats the ashram food, and plenty of it, he never eats with us. He picks up his filled plate in the kitchen and returns to his room, always taking his time to check carefully to be sure the brahmachari has served him every dish. He reprimands the brahmachari sharply if he thinks he has missed out on something.

Within a week of my arrival I knew that Swami Khanananda would be leaving soon. Therefore, I knew the time was limited that I had to listen to the noise from his radio, particularly the news in Hindi. There is so much static I wonder how he understands anything. Then there is the noise of his morning ablutions. He’s up at 5:30 a.m. to start the day with those horrific hawking sounds that the Indians seem to think are necessary for their daily cleansing. One morning I saw Siva RamaKrishna from across the garden; he was out by his cottage gagging away. Thinking he was ill, I grabbed the Nux Vomica remedy and went rushing over to rescue him. He told me that he was onlydoing his daily hawking routine. I’m still not sure, he looked awfully pale to me.

Swami Khanananda does not seem to fit into the ashram life, for he is always late for the afternoon class. It must be a terrible nuisance for him to have to listen to Ram Sadhu compliment my ability to sit for an hour on the floor without moving, as he seems to be unable to sit still for even five minutes. The possibility also exists that he does not want a woman in the ashram, for he has never spoken to me once. This attitude is a bitter pill for most, particularly European, women. They take it as an insult that women have to be covered from head to toe, while men runabout in a simple loin cloth—even nude. This behavior is based on the belief that the men will easily be tempted by the sight of a woman’s flesh, whereas women are above such wanton desire.

Sunday always brings visitors from town. A priest comes to give a discourse on the Bhagavad Gita in Tamil. Since I understand nothing, I use the time to meditate, although it is difficult as the priest speaks in a loud sing-song voice. One regular Sunday visitor is Mr. Guruswami, a retired engineer. He is a very kind person and always interviews me: Anything you need? Things going well? How about the food? How long will you stay? When are you leaving for Pondicherry?

Then he flies over to the Sadhu’s cottage; I suppose to give him a report. In any case, during the interrogations, I am able to gleam tidbits of information on India’s culture. He told me that he figured out what my name means: nan is the “I” and “my” thought, that is, the ego; si means “discordant.” So my name in Tamil translates to mean: “the one discordant, or dissatisfied with, the ego.”

This morning he asks me to give him some insights of the point of view of “you people” in regard to several religious ideas, like “Why are we born?” and “What is the meaning of life?”

“Well, I think you know that Christians do not believe there is any meaning to life itself. When a human is born, it is a random happening, entirely of biological origins.”

“That could not be so. Because I have heard the Christians speak of eternal life.”

“But when they speak of eternal life, they only mean life continues after death, not that it existed before birth.”

“But how can something be eternal that did not already exist before birth, it is a contradiction in logic. Don’t they think. . . .”

“No, they do not think,” I cut him short. “Christianity is a religion of faith, not logic. That’s why so many Eurpopeans and Americans come to India.”

“But faith in what? Faith in your innate divinity?”

“Well, certainly, Christ did speak of our divinity, but that is not the basis of faith. The words of Christ are the basis of faith, but not those particular words that speak of our innate divinity, for the Christians are more interested in our innate condition of sin. Really, it’s not that easy to explain.” I pause a moment, then make another attempt. “Since we are born in sin, the purpose of life is to be saved from our sinful state. So the purpose of life is to be saved through Christ’s intervention, but there is no meaning to life itself.”

Mr. Guruswami remains speechless, so I continue: “As I see it, Hinduism has three essential things that Christianity lacks: First, a credible philosophy and logic to back up the religious practices. Second, in India, in every generation, there has been a continual flow of God-realized saints to guide and inspire the populace. Third, among these saints, there have always been scholarly sages who have interpreted the scriptures according to their unique social conditions and time in history. So due to this continual renewal, the religion has remained viable.”

The utterances of these sages are treated with the same respect as those of the ancient sages because the wisdom is from the same fount, the sanatana dharma, the ‘eternal wisdom’ that is humanity’s birthright. The inspired Biblical writings ended in 30 AD, but the inspired writings never end in Bharata.

“How can a religion that says there is one teacher, and he has said it all, remain flexible and fresh? But we must not concern ourselves, the Christians, along with the Buddhists and Muslims, remain very happy believing they are the only ones who are going to heaven,” I finally finish my tirade.

He immediately interjects, “To heaven? We don’t want to go to heaven; heavenly pleasures are only a temporary stepping-stone to another life on earth. We enjoy there only as long as our punya, merit, lasts. Then when the punya is exhausted we have to return for another human birth until we have our final birth—when we realize our innate divinity.”

“Hummm. Well. . .” He’s sure got me stuttering now. “Let’s see. If heaven is only temporary, then hell might only be temporary too. Then how could the preachers scare people into heaven? You see they need us to believe there is only one life.”

“One life time per person?” he questions.

“Yes, one life time per person to do it all,” I reply.

“Hummm. That would be rather limiting, wouldn’t it.”

When Mr. Guruswami came today, he presented me with a nimbu, lime, to ward off evil spirits for the new year. He also gave me the addresses of two relatives in Pondicherry, should I need anything while I am there. He has known Ram Sadhu for many years and has started putting together a biography from information he has gleamed directly from Ram Sadhu and other devotees.

He is very talkative and is quite happy to fill me in with some details of Ram Sadhu’s life as Sundar Das. We are such creatures of curiosity to be intrigued by a sage’s personal history. As if “counting other people’s money” will benefit us. It is hard to believe, but Sundar Das served in the British military in World War I in Mesopotamia. That’s how he got his “right-o” jargon.

As his strapping 6' 2" body testifies, the future Sadhu was born in Punjab to a distinguished family of Jallian Brahmans, who had served as ministers to the kings in that area. The kings always gave land to those who served them, so the Brahmans lived a simple life with family property to support themselves. Their role in the society was to give spiritual, as well as practical, advice. In Punjab, they also excelled in herbal healing, Ayurveda, and were the only doctors in that area.

Although his earliest childhood was embellished with all his wishes fulfilled, Sundar Das received a blow early in life. For when he was eight years of age, his father died, leaving his young wife with three sons to support. We can assume they had cows for their own milk and grew enough wheat and vegetables for the maintenance of the household. But never fruits or vegetables to sell; for a Brahman is a Brahman, and a merchant is a merchant.

As her ancestors had done, Prema Mata, his mother, continued in the role of a healer. She would have helped pick and prepare the herbs for her father when she was a child, and later helped her husband in the same way, so she was already practiced in the healing arts. With this service, she made some extra income to purchase clothes, utensils and other necessary household items, including her sons’ education. Since there were no schools in that small village, she had to pay room and board, as well as tuition, in the nearest town. When the eldest brother finished his education, he left for Burma to make his fortune.

Sundar Das had started his education in a near-by Muslim school, where he mastered Urdu. To continue his education, he had to go to the county seat to attend a government school to the eighth standard, taught in Hindi. For high school, he enrolled in the English-medium Christian school that his two older brothers had attended. However, he had only completed the ninth standard when his second brother left for Burma, also to earn money. Sundar Das was then called home to help his mother with managing their farm and preparing of the herbs.

As in all villages across India, festivals were a highlight of the year. However, there was another common entertainment in the villages, that was reenacting the dramas of the epics, particularly, the Ramanaya in the North. There were troupes that traveled through the countryside, but each village also had its own local talent. The villagers never tired of seeing these local productions of their ancient heroes. Although Sundar Das eagerly participated in these dramas, he particularly liked playing the role of Hanuman, the hero-monkey who was Rama’s most ardent devotee in the Ramayana. Having easily become an expert in boxing, wrestling and gymnastics during his one year at the Christian school, he trained the other village lads in these sports. They would also demonstrate their athletic feats in the village gatherings. So Sundar Das was living a quiet life in a quiet village when his brothers returned from Burma, deposited a fund in a bank account for the maintenance of their mother, and renounced life in the world. They both left for the Himalayas to take the sannyasa vows and were never heard from again—not even one letter to the family. Now that is a pakkha (perfect) sannyasa.

The young Sundar Das did not know what to do with himself, so he joined the British army when he was only seventeen. He ended up in the middle East as a clerk in a military hospital, along with over one million Indian troops who were shipped to Mesopotamia during World War I. I have never understood exactly why there were so many Brahmans, the priest and educator caste, in the British military. One obvious reason is the British were taking over their traditional role as educators and, in the North, doctors. In addition, the British were usurping the small kingdoms, so there were no longer kings to advise. Another reason is that the Brahmans were more educated than the general populace. Therefore, Brahmans were prevalent in all government services, especially since they had a proficiency for learning languages, which the British lacked. So these native clerks translated between the local populace and their British captors. After the war, Sundar Das returned to India and continued as a military clerk in Lahore.

While working in the big city, Lahore, Sundar Das became aware of the India Freedom Movement. World War I had brought some rude awakenings for the Indians. The Indians, even Gandhi, had been duped into thinking that if they helped the British in the war, Britain would consider them worthy of independence—at least, dominion status. I have not been able to find total numbers, only references here and there. Some 17,000 who were captured by Rommel in North Africa were distributed in prison camps in Germany. An additional 29,000 Indian troops were sent to guard the Suez Canal that had been commandeered by the Europeans. One contingent of 12,000 Indians was devastated due to lack of supplies and ammunition. Interesting to note, the British Government had sent T.E. Lawrence, the man they considered most capable of negotiating with the Turks, to Baghdad to attempt to gain the Indian army’s freedom, but to no avail. The incident of leaving these men stranded to die was considered of such gravity that the British Secretary of State of India (in London) resigned.

In those early days, V.D. Savarkar, Bal Gangadhar Tilak, and Aurobindo Ghosh led the freedom movement. They moved around in the North, definitely the most politically active area. Sunder Das served as a body guard to the speakers at several rallies. When he witnessed the devastation in the Jalianwala Bagh Massacre in April of 1919, he was more determined than ever that Indians should be freed from these “civilized” oppressors.

Another important influence emerged during those years. In 1918, Sundar Das met his first spiritual guru, Swami Anamananda. We tend to picture monks living in remote caves, but in both the Hindu and Buddhist traditions, many authentic holy men often visited towns where there were many pious householders. Staying only a few days in any one home, they gave practical suggestions about any problems facing the family, as well as spiritual guidance. Perhaps, one motive was to look for potential students. Swami Anamananda must have seen in Sundar Das a bright, intelligent, inquisitive, healthy young man, who had the qualifications for a spiritual student worthy of his time and attention. They had long private discussions. I sometimes wonder if some of Ram Sadhu’s words to me now are the same words that his Guru told him so long ago.

Prema Mata was watching the political and spiritual activities of her son and was concerned, especially when he was imprisoned twice. She saw only one solution: tie him down in marriage. And that is what she did. He did not have the right, or the conscience, to say “no” to his mother. She had already lost two sons to the spiritual ashrama; she needed a daughter-in-law to help her in the household and care for her in her old age. Returning to his childhood village, at the age of 22, Sundar Das was married to Amrith Kaur, only 15 years of age. In the following five years, they had three lovely daughters and lived a simple life with no wants, nor luxuries.

Sundar Das continued living the life of a normal Brahman householder, maintaining his family and serving the community in whatever way that he could. However, an unfortunate incident occurred that caused him to totally re-evaluate his life.

It happened that one of his neighbors was a goldsmith. Somehow a gold ring turned up missing at his shop. The goldsmith accused Sundar Das of taking the ring. Sundar Das had been taught from a young age to tell the truth and he never deterred from that training. When he denied taking the ring, he thought everyone would believe him. But the goldsmith kept harassing him and even accusing him publicly.

One day Sundar Das had had enough and shook the goldsmith up a bit. The village council levied a heavy fine against him because of the incident. The worst of it was that Prema Mata even doubted him and meted out the worst punishment possible for a Hindu son: she stopped speaking to him.
What kind of world is it that values a gold ring over the word of an honest man, he questioned? He seriously mulled over the situation and formed his own conclusion. “This world is not the place for an honest man, so it’s not the place for me.” One morning at daybreak, without informing his wife or mother, he left for the holy city of Haridwar to begin his life as a sadhu. He innately felt this calling for some years, yet he had been obligated to continue to take responsibility for his mother. Now that his mother and wife were financially stable, he thought the incident a sign that he should take the step to renounce the world.
                                                                                      .   .   .   .   .

When I return to my room after dinner, at about 8:30 p.m., I have a little time to read. Since everyone else goes to their rooms too, some nights I sit out on the cement bench alone in the dark. I have never had the opportunity to enjoy nighttime like I have here. Daytime is the manifestation of Life’s activities; night is Life itself. I watch the stars, listen to the trees swaying, enjoy an occasional chirp of a cricket or croak of a frog, and savor a gentle breeze that surrounds me with wonderful fragrances of jasmine. It feels so good to be part of this enchantment, but I must go to rest. My light is always out by 10:00 p.m. at the latest, in preparation for my 4:00 a.m. arising.