After two months of simple, peaceful living, I return to Madras to attend a lecture series on Hindu philosophy by Swami Chinmayananda. Madras, the capital of Tamil Nadu, has the distinction of being the starting point of the last invasion of India—by the Europeans. The settlement and fort, established around 1640, are still in tact; St. Mary’s Church is the oldest surviving British construction in India. Many made their fortunes at this trading center, including an early governor who amassed enough wealth to endow Yale University. With its European moorings, Madras has none of the architectural treasures seen throughout the rest of Tamil Nadu. Nonetheless, it is the most Indian of all the large cities, in its slower pace of life, absence of high-rise buildings, and an unpretentious populace. Situated right on the east coast, it is flanked by sandy, white beaches and wafted daily by pleasant sea breezes. The Kuvam River, which bisects the city, has been renamed the “Black Danube” by the locals, for obvious reasons.

I had met Swami Chinmayananda in San Francisco in 1975. Quite impressed with the ideas he taught from Hindu philosophy, I had decided to go to India. Actually, I specifically had the idea that I could do some volunteer work in one of the Swami’s charitable projects. One of the most popular spiritual teachers in India, Swami Chinmayananda has declared that his mission in life is to convert Hindus to Hinduism. Since the Hindu culture was inextricably bound up with its religion, the loss of the culture—due to European influence—has put a real strain on the deeper understanding of the religion.

In 1978 when I joined the Swami in India, I ended up studying Hindu philosophy for four months in Sandeepany, his ashram/school outside of Bombay. Afterwards, I traveled with him from city to city for over a year. Everywhere he gave discourses to huge audiences—so big, they had to be held out-of-doors, on beaches, grassy soccer fields, or lawns in parks. Wherever he went he was invited for big feasts by the most affluent, and I tagged along. Often we ate candies embellished with gold and silver leaf; occasionally we even ate off gold plates and drank from gold goblets—
reminders of an era when Bharata supported some of the wealthiest kingdoms on the globe. Even Alexander the Great (320 BC) aspired to conquer its riches, and nearly succeeded.

Nevertheless, Bharata was not only known for her material wealth, her sages were held in high regard. They were definitely known to the ancient Greeks. Although we do not know if there was a direct communication between the two sages, Pythagoras was a contemporary of Buddha. Buddha’s philosophy was in response to the degeneration into dry intellectualism of Sankhya philosophy, the world’s oldest system of thought. Some conjecture that Pythagoras traveled to Bharata, for some of his theories appear to be influenced by Vedic thought, particularly his metaphysical theories, including transmigration. Pyrrho (c. 312 BC) definitely traveled to Bharata to gather knowledge. His skepticism is associated with the questioning nature of the philosophical section of the Vedas. Just as the European world took their “Arabic” numerals and the concept of zero from the Indian mathematicians, their philosophers also gleaned ideas for their philosophies from the Vedic seers—without giving any credits.


So Swami Chinmayananda is one of many subtle thinkers who carry on the philosophical tradition. Since my travels with him ten years ago, he has had several bouts with poor health, but I am glad to see he looks well now. The only sign of his aging is the replacement of his thick wooden sandals with soft, black scuffs. His voice and wisdom are as sharp as ever when he unfolds the brilliance of the two major founts of Hindu philosophy: Upanisads and Bhagavad Gita. In fact, the Hindus call their philosophy Vedanta, which means “the last section of the Vedas,” comprised of some one hundred Upanisads. The Bhagavad Gita is a later compilation of the wisdom of the Upanisads, even directly quoting several of them. This last section of the Vedas was intended for the contemplative life, as opposed to the first sections that are instructive for the completion of successful activity in the world. So these are the two major divisions of the Vedas; however, there are many schools of thought within these two divisions, plus an endless variety of branches.

While studying Hindu philosophy at Sandeepany school/ashram, I had met thirty young Indian men and women who were studying the major texts of Hindu philosophy for an extended course of two and one-half years. From that group I now have many wonderful spiritual brothers and sisters. At that time I met Swami Suddhananda and Swami Paramatmananda, who are both teaching in Madras. So one day we meet for lunch at Suddha’s teaching center. Although they are both in their thirties, they are having an encouraging success teaching educated Indians, many of whom are over twice the teacher’s age. I enjoy seeing how they have matured and developed as teachers in the ten years since I have seen them. Swami Suddhananda has been going to U.S. annually for the past few years. This year he will be giving a course in a graduate school of psychology in San Diego on an interesting theme: the mind as perceived by the Hindu.

The Hindus divide what we normally call the mind into two parts: the mind (manas) and the intellect (buddhi). The mind is considered to be the servant or file clerk of the intellect. To illustrate this role of the mind, Swami Chinmayananda tells a personal story, which he claims is true. When he was attending the university, he shared an apartment with two other young men. They pooled their resources so they could hire a servant to cook and keep things in order. The first morning the servant was on the job, one of the young men came rushing out of his room, ordering, “Quick, run me some bath water. I’m late for my class.” Just as the servant turned to follow the instructions, a second one called from his room, “Shankar, fetch me some hot tea right away.” Then the Swami explains, “I came out of my room, gave the boy a rupee note, and told him to go fetch me some cigarettes.” The boy stood there stunned. What could he do? He could not be three places at one time. He just quit and walked out—then and there.

The Swami goes on to explain, “So this is the way we treat our mind-servant. We think we want this, then we think we want that, then we change our mind again. How can the mind serve us and grow in dynamism if we don’t allow it? Taking the role of the director of the corporation, we must focus it on one task, assign it the action and allow it time to complete the job successfully. Afterwards, we can congratulate ourselves on the success, then move forward with another task. With this plan, you are sure to attain success in whatever endeavor you choose.”

Another point the Hindus emphasize when analyzing the mind is its dynamic nature. To illustrate this point, there is a story of a noble and wealthy monarch whose greatest desire was to understand the spiritual truths and become enlightened. One day he received the news that a famous sage was passing through his kingdom, so he sent an ambassador to bring him to the palace. After the sage had been fed and given time to rest, the king summoned the sage to his private quarters to ask him to fulfill his heart’s desire. He requested that the sage give him a mantra, sacred incantation, that he could repeat, so that he would be able to experience his divine nature.

The sage explained that he could give him a mantra; however, he could not just hand out one to just anyone. First, the seeker of wisdom had to be tested. The test was simple: the king was not to think “monkey” for ten consecutive days. So the first thing the next morning, before the king went for his bath and prayers, he thought: Now what was it I was supposed to do? “Not think monkey.” So he had thought “monkey.” Never mind, tomorrow he would remember not to think “monkey.” The next morning, the same thing occurred, so the king had to give up, for it was impossible for him to remember not to think “monkey.”

I think this concept of the mind explains Saul’s conversion to St. Paul. He was thinking about Christ more than the Christians. The Hindus have a similar case: a famous poet had been a robber who continually and regularly deprecated Lord Rama. In the end he was converted and translated the epic of Rama’s travails on earth into Prakrit, the language of the people. We have more modern examples of priests and preachers being programmed with the “no sex” idea. In concentrating on what they were supposed to avoid, it was inevitable that sex was on their mind. Therefore, the mind is for thinking and creating things; it cannot think no-thing.

Swami Chinmayananda is staying in the home of a long-time supporter, the Nambiar family, where he has his own personal room upstairs, which remains locked when he is not here. The house is so big that there is space for another American woman and me in an extra bedroom downstairs. The Hindus are out in their usual hordes to see the Swami personally. By the last couple of evenings, the crowd is so large that Mr. Nambiar cannot even get into his own home.


Frankly, I am looking forward to getting back to my quiet routine in Pondy, so one evening I opt to sit out in the yard with Mr. Nambiar away from the smash of hot bodies. I am always glad to get an opportunity to ply him with questions as he has lots of India stories. He and his brother design and build factories for extracting vegetable oils from seeds, a business started by their father, who had been a respected pillar of the Madras community.

In his youth, the elder Nambiar had left Kerala to go to far-off Delhi to attend the university. He was of the Ksatriya, warrior, caste, so his education was only for ornamental purposes. After earning his degree, it was understood he was to come back to live in the family home. However, it was obvious to him that the Brits were not as generous to the native aristocrats as the kings of yore had been. Ksatriyas did not work for wages; in fact, they did not work, except when called upon to protect the kingdom—their specific duty. Otherwise, they remained content to oversee their property, which consisted of at least one village. With the foreign government, new avenues of revenue had to be instigated. Since the duty of a military officer could be extended to include administering justice, many had entered into the British court system as minor judges. Of course, it goes without saying; these native judges could never preside in a case involving a Brit.

While, on the one hand, the British appeared to belittle India’s caste system, they used it advantageously to put themselves on top. Even the lowest file clerk of European blood was above the most erudite Brahman scholar—in the courts, in the schools, in travel, in the clubs. I realize that the phenomenon still exists when I walk right into an exclusive private club in Bombay without a question; whereas, an Indian would never get beyond the front gate without having to prove his membership.

Although the Nambiar family’s holdings were ample, the family was large, and ever expanding. Seeing the inevitable, Nambiar’s father switched his course of study to engineering and, after graduation, started a company. Mr. Nambiar tells me that he feels sure his father became an outcaste in his own family for this infringement of caste rules; that is, working for pay, or worse still, owning a business. After leaving for the university, his father never returned to his family home. When he and his family went back to visit Kerala, they would only visit the wife’s family home, never his. His wife is of the Nambiar caste too, but obviously from a more liberal family.


Due to Maggie’s connections, I had been lucky to hitch a ride to Madras in an ashram car that was being sent to the airport to pick-up a friend arriving from Paris. However, I have to find a bus to take me back to Pondy. One day I stopped by the tourist information office on the main street to ask about the bus schedule to Pondicherry. They leave every hour on the hour, I was assured. So after lunch, I take off for the bus stand. When I arrive about 2:45 p.m. in plenty of time to catch the 3:00 p.m. bus, the ragged porters inform me that I would have to wait until 4:00 p.m. for the express bus. Express bus! Why didn’t the tourist office personnel tell me that there are express buses? I opt to go on the local bus rather than wait over an hour in the Madras bus station. There is no bus station, not even a shelter; just buses parked helter-skelter on a huge, dusty parking lot, which is full of chuck holes, scattered with rocks and rubble, and perfumed with the rankest of odours. Well, what can one expect when there is no public restroom?

The local bus definitely travels the scenic route. After an hour, we leave the main highway and pass through rural India. The terrain is not as lush as along the coast, so the villages do not look so affluent. These villagers work and eat and love as they have for centuries, untouched by the changes in emperors, viceroys, or prime ministers. As we enter every village, we encounter the village deity. In these small villages, it is often a big clay horse, standing ready for the deity to mount and ride whenever help is necessary. As in many rural areas, the locals have their own unique culture. The villagers believe that the spirits in the other world influence the affairs in this world. Therefore, the obvious thing to do is to have a benevolent—very powerful—spirit, to protect the village. The chosen one is Ayyanar, who is awake and vigilant, particularly in the dark of the night.

In this region, I am only seeing the basic red clay horses, but some villages have garishly painted ones, standing some eight feet high. Larger villages even have the mustached and armed Ayyanar seated on the steed, or standing beside it ready to mount. The quality of the rendition is not necessarily an indication of the actual affluence of the village. It is often dependent on a native son who succeeded in the city and wanted to reward the deity. Located nearby the village deity is a thatched hut where a Brahman priest performs a daily ritual for the welfare of the village. However, the real action takes place after the Brahman has gone home. On special occasions, behind a makeshift tent, an animal, usually a chicken, is sacrificed by a local sorcerer.

One of Mr. Nambiar’s stories dealt with the such superstitions of the rural Tamils. He often travels out to the sites where factories for extracting oil are being constructed, in this particular case, in Tamil Nadu. Mr. Nambiar, an educated and sensible person, tells me he actually witnessed a ghost attack the plant foreman, virtually taking him down to the ground. Mr. Nambiar explains that he did not see an apparition; however, he did see the foreman being knocked about like a rubber ball. The management of the new plant took the easy way out; they inquired in the village what to do about this particular ghost. Oh, yes, the villagers acknowledged there was a ghost in the village. Their solution was simple: they put out a plate of food each night, then the ghost would not bother them. To this day, the officer sets out a plate of food each evening at the main door of this modern factory.

But that’s not all. The locals are terrified of machines; machines are after blood—just like cars and buses want blood. If the machine wants blood, give it blood. So a ritual is performed in which a rooster is killed and offered to the machine spirit in place of human blood.

“No one will set foot in the factory until the ritual is completed,” Mr. Nambiar assures me. “You just pay the local priest; he makes all the arrangements and performs the rituals. We just turn our heads and look the other way. But the ritual is necessary if you are going to operate a factory in Tamil Nadu. Otherwise, no one will work for you.”

As we approach Pondy, we pass miles of rice fields. Just to give me a thrill, a couple of white cranes take flight as the bus passes a shimmering pond. Although the darkness of night starts to settle over the landscape, I leave the window open so I can see a little scenery and have some fresh air. The large window is arranged so that my window is shared with the seat behind me. The wind is probably blowing worse in the back because the man sitting there closes the window. Actually, there is no glass, only some type of vinyl shade, so he closes the opaque shade. When I reopen it, he complains of the cold air. Cold air indeed, it must be down to a chilly 78 degrees. Anyway, I want to see the scenery, if only by moonlight. Since the bus is three-fourths empty, I motion for him to move over to another seat. A titter of laughter passes through the bus because all eyes are on us. The man does change seats, but in a rather daunted manner with his head hanging. This is one of several incidents that will give me an insight into the male from the villages of south India.

On another occasion, I was on a bus when I politely asked a man, who was too well dressed to be an ordinary local, to put out his cigarette that was blowing smoke in my face. It was one of those rank home-style bedis, made from simply rolling a tobacco leaf. He ignored me with a smirk. The local men who witnessed the scene reported him to the conductor, who made him put out his bedi and move to the back of the bus.

The express bus trip from Madras to Pondy is a three hour ride, but, because of the circuitous scenic route, we take almost six hours. When I tumble off the bus, I feel as if I have toured all of south India—for a price of only 12 rupees—less than one dollar. India is not as big as it seems; the slow transportation lengthens the kilometers, so that they seem like long miles. I finally arrive in Pondy at 8:30 p.m., two hours after dark. To an unwelcome surprise.


“The swami is here,” Usha greets me with a perky tone of voice, but the dismayed look across her face tells another story.

“THE swami? Which swami?”

“You know, Nischalananda.”

“He’s back already. I thought the sadhu had wandered over to Kerala,” I reply with a telling sigh.
Swami Nischalananda had been in Usha’s class when she studied in Swami Chinmayananda’s school/ashram in Bombay in 1981. After the course, Nischala spent some time in Bangalore with the Chinmaya Mission, founded to provide regular study of Vedanta in the towns and cities. After teaching there for several years, he moved to the Kailasa Ashram in Rishikesh for a period of sadhana, spiritual practice. He now eschews spiritual organizations, especially swamis who are into gathering money for ashrams and temples. Anyway, he says he now intends to spend his life wandering about like the “traditional sadhus,” sleeping peacefully under a tree, living the authentic life of a detached renunciate.

He had stayed here in Pondy for five days less than a month ago. At that time he stayed in my apartment down the street—hardly a tree. During that short visit, Usha provided all his meals at her expense. In many ways, he really was a delightful companion. He has a great sense of humor, and his contagious laughter rocked the house. Usha and I both enjoyed his company thoroughly, except he was rather critical of many other swamis. I do not mean to insinuate that we did not take in all the inside gossip about the holy men with open ears, but, frankly, he seemed over-critical of several that Usha and I both know and respect. We feel they are doing good social and spiritual work, so we were rather cautious of his other critiques.

However, he is set in his basic opinion: Swamis are renunciates and should not do any karma, that is, work. In spite of the common use of the word, karma simply means “action”; therefore, it picks up connotations associated with results from an action. When the swami is criticizing others he becomes a bit aggressive and animated; however, there is usually a peaceful side to his nature. Maybe we all could be at peace if we never had to work and could just walk into anyone’s house to stay as long as we pleased.

Usha continues to explain, “Well, he decided to wander back to the east coast to visit Chidambaram. However, since it is Pongal, the harvest festival, he could not find a room anywhere there. He’ll be here for at least another ten days.”

Of course, we both know, without having to mention it, that every temple has free shelter and food for sadhus—but very simple fare. “Another? How long has the traditional sadhu who claims he simply wants to sleep under a tree been wandering here?” I query.

I am being too critical; I should give him credit. He does wander down to the beach every morning to sit on a bench and read the daily newspaper.

Usha rolls her eyes to the side room to alert me that the swami is in the kid’s room watching TV. “Already four days chalked up,” she speaks with a lowered tone. “Maggie gave him your apartment again.”

“No problem. Anyway, it’s really her apartment.” However, it means I won’t be able to use the computer again, I remind myself. I returned from Madras with a list of projects that I plan to accomplish. However, I can always spend the time at the library for my on-going research on an ever expanding list of intellectual projects.

My loss of the computer is a small inconvenience in comparison to the burden on Usha. Nischala is a young, modern-day swami. No simple fare of rice and dal (beans) for him, he expects his food to be cooked to order. Usha outdid herself on his previous visit and cooked every delectable dish known to her. Some of which the swami requested, although the ingredients were quite expensive, and the preparation was labor intensive. So this is how the “traditional sadhus” live, I observed sarcastically to myself more than once during that visit. Evidently Nischala does not believe his own “under a tree” press.

We hope he will not be expecting the same service this trip, for now Usha has the responsibility of taking care of a total of five children in her home. Maggie sends over a small tiffin carrier of cooked vegetables with brown bread from the ashram kitchen every evening to help with the meals, but none of the kids will eat it. This food falls into the category of left-over food, since it was cooked over an hour ago. The swami won’t touch it. You see he is also of the priest caste, a Brahman; therefore, is quite particular about such things. Although technically a swami, being a renunciate, is supposed to leave his caste rules and duties behind when he dons the orange robe, some of the current ones do not accept the “take what comes to you unasked for” rule of the renunciate literally.


The Pongal season to celebrate the harvest is the biggest festival in Tamil Nadu, so the decorations are quite elaborate. I enjoy meandering through the lanes of the sections with Indian homes. All the window sills, the roof tops, and balustrades are lit up with tiny oil lamps made of red clay pots, with oil and a tiny cotton wick. Every morning, the young women of the household sweep and wash down the street to make a kovalam on the pavement. The designs seem to fall into two design categories, geometric or flowers. In either case, they will be circular, then filled in with designs. Traditionally, they were made with rice powder to feed the birds and tiny crawling creatures—the Indians simply do not object to ants, roaches, flies, like we do. Now, they just use a white chalky powder for the kovalam, which is created anew daily in front of each house and hut throughout the southern states. Since it is holiday time, they are bigger and more colorful; particularly here, since the Tamils use brightly colored chalk powder for special occasions. Obviously, since they are in front of the door or steps, they are messed up by the comings and goings during the day, disappearing for the new design that will be created tomorrow.

In all the excitement of the holiday and the additional guests, the servant woman Mary has become so useless that she has not even made the kids’ beds when Usha comes home—
unexpectedly—at noon one day. I am sure Mary resents the extra work, but she does have a tendency to take advantage of Usha’s good nature. The only thing Mary likes is running errands. Daily she spends hours on a trip to the market for a few vegetables. It’s hard to find a way I can really help Usha, but I hit on the idea that I can do the shopping at the market, so Mary will be free to do the housework. Maggie has sent one of her servants over to do the laundry; therefore, Mary should have no excuse not to finish the beds and cleaning. Nevertheless, Usha is hesitant to give me the task since she fears the vendors will take advantage of a foreigner. Finally, she agrees, but writes out a list of prices for me.

I sometimes feel that walking through a market here is like walking through the human unconscious. The market has no order, no organization, no efficiency—just one big cauldron of people, all of them totally unconcerned about accomplishing anything any time soon. Dark stalls, florescent pictures of gods, heaps of wares, tinsel garlands, stacks of burlap bags and, today, lots of mud, complete the picture. Each of the unlit stalls carries its own specialty: One has grains and dals; another may carry only rice, at least a dozen varieties, all unprocessed white. One stall will have just coconuts, another spices; one may sell such staples as sugar, flour and tea. There is always a special stall for the many varieties of coffees, at least in the South. The mind is overwhelmed, yet strangely alert, waiting to see what this unconscious whirl will bring forth next.

I finally find the vegetable section outside the pavilions. The vendors are all females, sitting on the ground with their vegetables piled in little mounds on pieces of oil cloth. I pick out the ripest tomatoes, okra, banana blossoms (still on stalk), beans, and fenugreek greens. Whatever looks freshest is our fare for the next two days, since I opt to shop only every other day. Then I search out the fruit stands in another corner of the market. I select the wonderful tropical fruits; all sweet and juicy, just like a fruit is supposed to be. Today I choose a huge papaya, guavas, custard fruit and Indian oranges; they taste like an orange, but peel like a tangerine. Fruit vendors do take their carts through our neighborhood, but they often only have apples and bananas to cater to the European tastes. I pick up a bunch of coriander leaf, a few green chilies and a few nimbus to complete my shopping for the day.

I have no problem with communication on prices—hand signals does it all. As it turns out, I purchase everything at half the price on Usha’s list. That’s how we discover that Mary, in addition to taking three times as long as I did for shopping, has been charging Usha double the price for the vegetables. She was able to dupe Usha because normally vegetable prices do go up during the monsoon season due to difficulty in picking and getting trucks in and out of muddy fields.

Usha sticks with her because she says that all the servants are like this. Then one day, Mary arrives with a yellow face.

“The decision has been taken out of your hands. The maid has jaundice,” I inform Usha.

“What makes you think so?”

“Her face is yellow!”

“Oh, Nancy, that’s just the Tamils. They smear fresh turmeric paste on their faces. They think it lightens their skin and makes them look beautiful.” So that ended the emergency.