| Today,
the last day of the year, I go into town today to pick up several items,
including a lock to secure my belongings in a cabinet, so I won’t have
to cart them to Pondy for a week. I also drop by the train station to get
the train schedules for Tanjavore as I may have to go Tanjavore occasionally
to use the Speed Post service to send material back to Bombay. I also find
the Gopal Row library where Mr. Guruswami borrowed my wonderful Ramayana
book. It definitely has an adequate selection of books in English, all the
Upanisads, Vedas, Puranas, and works of major sages. The librarian
is willing to be cooperative about my borrowing books, so I will not have
to worry about reference material for writing and editing. When I return from town, I bring some Indian candies back with me. As I hand them to the Sadhu, he asks, “What is this?” “It is written that the student should never come empty-handed to the Guru,” I tease. “I know that there is nothing I can give you. I’m simply playing the game.” “Yes, we are not doing anything ourselves. You give with that hand; I take in this hand, but it is not you giving, nor me taking. It is the Life, only the Life. Without It, these hands will not move; they won’t even exist.” After the class, Ram Sadhu passes out the sweets to everyone. “Ask her why she does these things,” he tells Shiva RamaKrishna. “Tell him it’s for my grandfather’s family,” I reply. “But you are one of our family too, so there is no need,” retorts the Brahman. Again the brahmachari drops by to ask what I am doing when I am in my room. He does not seem to like the fact that I am working on the spiritual magazine. Since I had just finished up an issue in Pondy before coming here, I had not planned to be having any work to do either, but obviously it is as important as his daily newspaper reading. He even has tried to get me interested in the paper because occasionally there is some article about America, but I tell him I’m not interested. He is also reading a book by Swami Ramalinga, supposedly his first public talk. I mention that I visited the Swami’s temple in Vadalur on my way to Kumbakonam. The book is a long one, some 1,000 pages thick. When I flip through it, I find it is similar to the one I saw in Vadalur, filled with cosmologies of all the different galaxies. Long lists that go on and on, not exactly light, or entertaining, reading. My current project is to write a history on Sringeri, the monastery of the spiritual progenitor of the magazine. I thought I was taking a break, but the publisher thought I would have some extra time since I just completed an issue. Anyway, he sent me about a dozen Indian books to condense to one booklet, then he flew off for a vacation in Hong Kong. I suppose it is an improvement over several months ago when I waited a week in Bangalore for material to be edited, which I never received because he had flown off to vacation in Hong Kong, but I’m not really sure. I have given most of the material a quick read through. Interestingly, a Sringeri Acharya also accomplished a disappearing act. Just like in Swami Ramalinga’s case, he told no one to bother him for a certain length of time. Naturally, the devotees had to break in and check on him before the allotted time was up. On the bench where he had been seated laid a beautifully carved column, that is, half of one. They figured had they obeyed his instructions the column would have been completed. I’m always gleaning interesting information when I’m writing or editing for the magazine, so that’s what keeps me at it. It remains too cool for me to take the traditional sacred bath in the Kauveri, although the Brahman continues to enter the chilly waters every day. The weather has totally changed since the water is in full flow; it’s cold, cloudy and damp. The Kauveri River is called the Ganga of the South and held holy by all. The traditional belief that a dip in these holy rivers cleanse one of all mala, dirt, is surely dependent on the faith of the bather, a sort of baptism. I conjecture that most of us will not be transformed by this physical act. January 1, 1991 New Year’s morning dawns cloudy and gray. The fog has hung over the river like the breath of the earth dragon for several mornings. Just as I’m finishing reading a section of the Ramayana, I hear the unusual call of a bird, a loud trill repeated, repeated, and repeated again. It’s just daylight, so I start out on my short morning stroll, hoping to catch a glimpse of the singer. I’m in luck for, on a small tree on the river bank, sits a turquoise and brown kingfisher. What a haughty fellow—to be so beautifully colored and have such a sonorous call. He soon flicks his wings and returns to the woods. I rarely see one of them at the river; this species usually hangs out at ponds. In the afternoon, I get up early from my siesta, so I can bathe at least once in the waters of the holy Kauveri, for it is already disappearing fast. The water came up to the fifth step, but only for two chilly days. This morning it had withdrawn to the first step. I had hoped to be out when everyone was resting, but the Sadhu is already up and about, messing with his flowers, but with his back to me. I creep by silently, then admonish the squeaking gate to keep quiet as I slip down the stairs. I walk out one-third way across the river bed, but find no spot over a few inches deep. The main channel snakes back and forth between the two banks and hits the opposite shore in the ashram area. Anyway, I duck a couple of times, then just lie back to enjoy the water flowing over me. I would have liked to have had a swim. But the weight of my simple cotton pants and shirt are so heavy when wet, that I doubt I could have moved. Later, that evening since I am still stranded on the north side of the river, I have been snooping about looking for possibilities for woods on this side. The bamboo forest beside the ashram does not attract any birds. Some of the clumps are growing naturally, but most of them are fenced in and tended to produce long straight poles for rafters and scaffolding. Returning to the ashram, I see the Sadhu out on the bench. “It’s poornima,” I call to him. “Yes, today is the full moon.” How many times have I watched the sun setting beyond the banks of the Kauveri, yet I’ve never seen two sunsets even slightly similar. Ah, yes the creator does love variety. Ram Sadhu tells me that the Hindu seers—who cataloged everything—had even counted 8,400,000 species in the creation. It’s certainly possible. There are thousands of creepy-crawlies just here in the ashram. I am awakened in the middle of the night by a growling dog. Oh, well, I think, it woke me up to do the pranayama. But when I go out in the morning I discover what the growling was about—the dog chewed up my invincible sandals, only the rubber soles are left. This means another trip to town. Fortunately, I find a old pair of men’s rubber sandals to wear, so I do not have to travel barefoot. I waste a lot of time looking for a shoe store because I do not know the shoe store row. The custom here of grouping all stores of the same type together, instead of sprinkling them throughout the town is a nuisance, especially when one does not know the spot. But you can be sure when I find one , there will be at least a dozen shops. Well, it makes comparative buying easy. While I’m in town, I consume a tender coconut and carry another one back for Siva RamaKrishna. When I return, immediately I take it to him, “I know that since you are a south Indian you must love ilinir as much as I. Maybe I was a south Indian in a previous life.” “Well, that may actually be so. According to the Kanchi Acharya all of mankind lived together on one continent. More importantly, he asserts that everyone lived under the law and wisdom of the Vedas. Therefore, all people are ancestors of that original race and all religions are a branch of that original religion.” That afternoon in class, he covered the part of the story where King Dasaratha dies from grief because of Rama’s banishment to the forest. From my reading, I know approximately where he is in the text, but I am startled when the Sadhu breaks out in tears. At first I think the intermittent sobbing is some breathing exercise. When I finally realize he is actually crying, I think maybe he saw a vision of my life, as he had been looking right at me—some of my antics would surely be enough to bring a pure man to tears! That evening at supper I ask the brahmachari why Swamiji cried in class. He explains to me that it is because of his sorrow at the death of the honorable King Dasaratha. While I am outside washing my dishes, the Sadhu enters the kitchen hut. As I enter to tuck my stainless steel plate in the bamboo rafters to dry, I hear the brahmachari telling him that I had asked why he had cried. The Sadhu turns to me, “My daughter, you must understand, this is my life. To me this is not just a story. For me it is all joy. But when I hear of the suffering of others, it brings tears to my eyes. All are crying ‘I’, ‘I’, ‘I’ but they never question who is this ‘I’. An ocean of ‘I’s is the existence of sat-chit-ananda. That is Rama. Enjoy the Life.” “All else only nama rupa [names and forms]?” “Yes, you understand.” The moon has not yet risen so the stars are unusually bright. A fire fly cries “I”, “I”, “I” as he lights up the shaded path under the sprawling neem tree. A gentle breeze waves the palm fronds and tousles my hair. It is “I”; it is “I.” January 3, 1991 I got up this morning fighting off dullness. I guess the limited hours of sleep have finally caught up with me. Only the thought “Swamiji deserves a better student than this” gets me moving. My body has already adjusted to the wood-plank bed, so discomfort is no longer an aid in getting me up in the morning. Later, when I am sitting on my usual bench inside my open door, writing in my journal, the Sadhu comes up with his big toothless smile. He places a piece of paper with the words written on it: Of what avail this body mind If hearing God’s performance fine The heart breaks and then melts not The eyes disclose tears gush not The body does not shake and thrill When the Lord’s story his ears doth fill. “So now you understand my tears?” “Yes, Swamiji, I do understand.” “Of what use is this heart if it is not melting with the thought of God.” “I do understand.” We have a long rest period after lunch, from 12:30 p.m. to 3:00 p.m., so several times I’ve just lain on the bed and practiced some relaxation or meditation technique. One day I had actually not slept, but I remained very relaxed, then got up very refreshed after thirty minutes although I had not slept. This has not reoccurred, and some afternoons I am dead tired—sleeping for up to one and one-half hours. I fear that the pranayama technique has not helped my energy level as I had hoped it would. So today, instead of sleeping, I decided to ferret back through the files of my mind to see if there is some clue somewhere that I was destined for a spiritual life. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Like everyone, I experienced my crystallization process in my childhood, especially after I started school. Those memories brought up some feelings, but certainly I never had any spiritual experiences, devout disposition, or any outstanding character. In fact I was normal, ordinary and middle class. I was kind to the underdog several times, more so than normal for my age, but beyond this rag yanked out of the bottom of the barrel to find “something,” the barrel is empty. I think the making of the robots that schooling aims for, and achieves, is totally counterpoint to individual creativity and expression, although some adapt easier than others. In some way, I resisted, maybe by just never making studies important or giving my best, since it was so easy for me to get by without studying much. In itself, that presents no problem, but the fact I found nothing that merited giving my best to; yes, I think that has been an obstacle in my development. When the brahmachari brings 3:00 p.m. tea, he is also carrying a new “Guest Book.” On the first two pages are enumerated the rules for “Visitors and Devotees.” First comes the announcement in bold letters that “Visitors and Devotees” are welcome for only three nights. Following is a declaration that there was no provision for anyone to stay permanently under any circumstance. The brahmachari tells me that the Sadhu had requested that he bring it to me to sign as the first guest. Rejection, true and clear spreads over me and settles right in my gut. My intellect tells me that those two conditions could not apply to me since I am already here, but my feelings take no heed. Had not Ram Sadhu himself invited me to stay? Would not he directly tell me to go? I just have a feeling that this book was in fact created because of me. Oh, the anguish of rejection— how it knots the stomach and kills the rational mind. I drop the subject of rejection during the class, but afterward my mind picks up the knitting again. My bags are kept packed. I was moving when I arrived here and I will continue moving when I leave here, I realistically sum up the situation in my mind. To subject my mind to more useful endeavors I go over to the Brahman’s hut to discuss several points on the Ramayana where Tulasi Dasa has changed the characters or action somewhat from the original Sanskrit version of Kali Dasa. I have in the back of my mind to ask his opinion about the guest book, but no opportunity arises, or rather in talking with him my mind is soon engaged in a world beyond guest books. Now here is a startling aspect of the Ramayana. From one aspect, the whole world was put into chaos for the sake of the carrying out of a curse. Yes, the villain, Ravana, was actually a guardian of the palatial heavenly gates of Vishnu. I take the opportunity to ask the Siva Ramakrishna this question that has been bugging me. “I have heard that Ravana was a highly evolved person, actually a Brahman. Now how did he end up the villain in such an unholy war?” “Good question. Here is how it happened. There were two gate-keepers in Vaikunta [heaven], Jaya and Vijaya. You couldn’t say that they were the highest devas [beings of light], but they were heavenly beings. One day while they were on duty, the hermit Sanaka approached the gate with the intention of paying homage to Lord Vishnu. Not realizing the spiritual statue of the unsightly sadhu. . . . You know how Indian sadhus look?” “Oh, yes. I’ve been to Rishikesh, where they vie for the title of being the most outrageous looking.” “Yes, you know what I mean. Since the gatekeepers had no idea that he was a sage from his appearance, they refused his entrance. Sanaka had spent his entire life practicing tapas [austerities], including total celibacy. He was not one to be told what to do. So he cursed the gatekeepers to three lives on earth as asuras [demons]. They protested such a terrible fate, so Sanaka told them that while on earth they would receive the blessing of being killed by Lord Vishnu himself.” “So Lord Vishnu had to be born because of the words of a sadhu? Amazing!” I interject. “So that is why they were on earth, to fulfill that curse? But why did Sri Rama have to incarnate on earth for this task?” “Remember, Nancy, there is a Rama born in each yuga.” “A Rama born in each yuga? No, I did not know that.” I eat in the kitchen in the evening. I never knew the reason why half the time the brahmachari brings my filled plate to my room and the other evenings, he calls me to the dining hut. Maybe there is no reason. Tonight a stranger is present, not eating, just hanging around. Several younger boys from the orphanage, who take turn helping in the ashram kitchen, are lined up across from me. We all eat the same food. When I start eating, I am aware that the stranger, along with boys are all staring at me. I have gotten used to eating under the eyes of an audience; at least, I pretend that I have. After a few minutes, the brahmachari explains to me that this man has come from a nearby village in which lives the Tamil overseer of Hinduism, let’s say an equivalent of a bishop. He had visited Ram Sadhu some time ago. Since then, every month he sends about eighteen pounds of various dals (dried beans), a large packet of Indian spices and a dozen coconuts to the ashram. Upon departing from his visit, he had asked Ram Sadhu, “What can I do for you—whatever you want. You name it and it shall be done immediately.” “I have everything I need here, even more than I need. I want nothing at all, ” the Sadhu replied. Further the Swami asked him, “You lead such a peaceful life here. I have longed for such a quiet, peaceful life. And now I have all the responsibility of a big organization.” “That is your dharma [duty] in life and you must fulfill it. It is my dharma to sit quietly. We cannot exchange our destinies.” The brahmachari goes on to mention that he is not the only person who has offered Ram Sadhu the fulfillment of any wish. Another was a very wealthy lady; another a sadhu from Trichy who can change lead to gold, produce ash out of thin air, and “these kinds of things.” “Like Sai Baba.” “Yes, like that.” The stranger, who speaks no English and therefore is just an onlooker, then asks the brahmachari something. “He is curious about you, since such a master as Ram Sadhu has accepted you as a student. He is calling you to visit his master’s ashram.” “When I’ve found diamond, why would I go looking for gold. You said yourself that Swami sends sincere seekers here to Ram Sadhu, not the other way around.” January 4, 1991 Again there was a sunrise that outdid the recent sunsets. The water glowed a warm pink as the light fog dissipated in the light of the sun. I was not quite so dull this morning upon awakening. While I am in Pondicherry I will be able to catch up on sleep, surely that will make a difference. I spent a normal day with yoga, pranayama, reading—my daily schedule is nicely set now. During my evening walk, I return to the nearby lily pond to pick a lovely water hyacinth. They are so beautiful, this variety has a eye of purple dotted with yellow on its upper petal. Since they are so common here, they are considered a water weed. Usha calls them the “damn sewer flowers.” Nevertheless, I remain their admirer and enjoy seeing them in the ponds and drainage ditches all over the south. Tonight dinner is brought to my room. I eat, then carry my plate over to the outdoor facet, wash it, and return it to the kitchen. The Sadhu is not out tonight, so I return to my room, close and lock the door for the night. Some time later, perhaps thirty minutes, there is a rap at the door. I am not surprised. “When are you leaving?” asks the brahmachari. “Tomorrow at 11:00 in the morning.” “How long will you stay in Pondicherry.” “Only one week.” “Then what is your program?” “Ram Sadhu has told me to come back here.” “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You see this cottage is that lady’s. She usually comes and stays on Sunday, but now she is keeping away for your sake.” “I see.” “Anyway, you read the rules in the guest book—only three days stay, so you have already been here one month. So that is the most we can accommodate you. Annaji says no one can stay here permanently. You read it in the book, especially a woman. We are all men here. Some ashrams have a ladies’ quarters, but we have no such facility here. If you wanted to stay outside somewhere, you could come here during the day.” “I don’t think there is a suitable place outside, do you?” “Annaji might think of something. What is your goal? Tell me that.” “I simply want a quiet place, with a holy presence, where I can do sadhana. Anything else I can do at home, can’t I?” “Well, people come here, and Swamiji always tells them to stay, calls them his son and daughter. We can’t be expected to look after all these people, so we have to take on the task of sending them away.” “I see.” “So Ram Sadhu knows that you are sending me away?” “Oh, yes, he knows. But he himself would not ask you to leave. He said that if is our ashram rules, then we must be the ones to ask you to go. He said he sees all alike: man, woman or thief.” “I see.” I bolt the door behind the brahmachari. All the rejection and disappointment I’ve faced up to this moment in my life were just a preparation for facing this moment. Interestingly, during my evening walk I had recounted my fear, or doubt, of my ability to have enough discipline and energy to live a spiritual life. The moment of facing the fact I am less than I hoped for has arrived. Didn’t I write yesterday I have no appointments with the future. The river of time flows on, carrying me along. January 5, 1991 The river is only one-fourth full today. In a few days it will return to the few small streams flowing down a wide sandy bed as it was when I first found it. As I walk in the cool of early daylight small things cross my mind to lament: The great library I had found, inviting friends here to meet a true master, and fulfilling my dreams of really finding out firsthand what this spiritual trip is about. If I had not made plans, I would not be experiencing disappointment about fulfilling them. After breakfast, I go over to have a talk with Siva Ramakrishna. He expresses surprise that I have been asked to leave, but he fills me in on some details that surely influenced my expulsion. “But you did see that new ‘Guest Book’ that states a three-day limit for all guests?” I ask him. “Yes, I even helped them with the spelling of the English. But that was for visitors. You were already here as a permanent resident, invited by Swamiji, that book could not apply to you.” “Well, it did apply to me. In fact, I suspect that it was created for me.” “This comes as a shock to me. Ram Sadhu was so happy to have you here. He thought that you had come all this distance seeking spiritual wisdom, so we should help you to our full capacity. He told me so, and told me to help explain any points to you since he does not feel that his English is adequate.” “But there must be so many students coming to meet such a master that it is difficult to accommodate them. The brahmachari said that so many people come that they have to ask to leave.” “No, not at all. There are very few people today who are interested in sanatana dharma [eternal wisdom]. I fear that Hindus today are only interested in going to the temple to ask the deities for favors in their material life.” “That is true, isn’t it? And it is also true in Christianity, praying to God for so many things. Actually, religions were created to nurture our spiritual life; but we have completely turned them around to create them in our own ‘image’ to be able sustain our material life.” “So it’s true even in Christianity too?” Then he returns to the matter at hand, “We hardly ever have guests; that cottage has been standing empty for months on end—waiting for you. It seemed perfect.” “But brahmachari told me that it is Amma’s and that she needs it to come on the weekends.” “She built that cottage for our use, not for her use. She lives in Madras and only comes to Kumbakonam a couple of months out of the year. And as you have noted, she does not stay here when she comes. She always stays at that other ashram. We can’t keep up a cottage for the one or two nights she stays here in a year, and she does not expect it.” So I bring up another issue, “Then there is the woman thing; I don’t think a couple of the residents care for a woman being here. The brahmachari mentioned it.” “Nancy, in our Manusmriti [laws given by Manu] the women are given the heavier burden. You westerners interpret it negatively. If you study the smritis [Manu’s words] carefully, you will find that the more intelligent and more responsible are always given the heavier burden without exception.” “Well, I did know that in relation to Brahmans. When it comes to the duties and responsibilities of caste, the Brahman has the heaviest load of duties, or, in cases of infraction of the rules, the severest punishment. So you mean that it is the same with women? More is expected of them since they are more capable. That’s interesting.” “Yes, as you may know, a religious ceremony done by a wife or mother is much more effective than one performed by a priest.” He pauses and then continues in a low voice, “You see, there was one other guest about a year ago. He created a problem.” “A problem?” “Yes, you see we did have a woman living here, for quite a few years. She built a cottage for herself, where Swami Karunananda now lives, and retired here. Last year a young sadhu came. He seemed nice enough, and seemed interested in scriptural studies. He and the lady became fast friends. She would cook little snacks and treats for tea time, so he would spend some time in her cottage talking. She was like a mother to him.” “Both of them were Indians?” “Oh, yes. He was from Madras. Although it seems he had some story about working in the foreign, perhaps the Middle East. Really, we did not question him much, that’s not our purpose here.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “One day, the young man disappeared during the night. The next morning, the lady was found dead in her bed. All her gold and diamond jewelry was missing.” “That must have been quite a blow to everyone.” “I can tell you that it was quite a blow. There was a real commotion with the police and all. However, they found no evidence of foul play. Apparently, she died of natural causes and the young man found her and took advantage of the situation to take her jewelry. “Of course, they searched for him. As it turned out, he had visited several other ashrams and had left them all suddenly, stealing typewriters, tape recorders, and such,” he concludes the story. “Well, that certainly would influence the manager’s opinion about having a woman in the ashram.” “Yes, of course. I’m afraid it has.” These new details do change my perception of the situation, but not my disappointment. Sri Siva RamaKrishna continues to assure me that Ram Sadhu had planned that I was to live here. “He had even asked me to help you in any way I could. Specifically, I should find time to answer any questions, so that you would understand the true meaning of our sanathana dharma.” When I go to tell Ram Sadhu good-bye, I simply say, “I’m leaving today for Pondicherry. You know ashram management has told me I should not return.” “Yes, I know. This ashram management. . . . I’m a sadhu I cannot get involved in these ashram management things. If I did, I would soon be a samsari [ordinary struggling person]. Please forgive me and understand.” “Anyway, I’m so grateful for the time I’ve spent with you. You’ve been very kind.” “Yes, I know you are grateful. I feel it. You know I have three daughters of my own. When I renounced, I left them and have never even written them a letter. That is the life of a sadhu.” “Yes, I understand.” My bags are packed and waiting, as I pick them up and head toward the gate, the Brahman comes out to the path to bid me farewell. The Sadhu sees him and comes hobbling out, “Let her go—she will never be alone, for we will go with her.” I stand for a moment immersed in my feelings, my abundant gratefullness and my incredible disappointment. What is it I wanted? What is it that I think I am losing? Where do I go from here? These are questions I will have to contemplate for some time. With tears in my eyes, I take a long pause at the river gate and smile down on the stream. Sitting here on the banks of the Kauveri in the presence of a saint, I have known peace. That peace still comes back to me when I remember the clear radiant eyes of Ram Sadhu and the gentle flowing of the river. |