My first stop on my journey north is an important one: an ashram community founded by a woman whom I truly admire. I had the good fortune to spend the summer of 1979 with her in a retreat in the Himalayas. Swamini Sharada Priyananda is definitely a role model of an enlightened being who has created her life to fit her talents. Endowed with extraordinary energy and intellectual insight, she has dedicated her life to serving humanity in the state of Andhra Pradesh. Although ten years have passed since I was with her in the Himalayas, I still hold a vivid memory of those wonderful days filled with long spiritual discussions, meditation, great hikes and lots of laughter.

She now resides in a small village, and villages are the heartbeat of India. Statistics report that at least seventy-five percent of the population still lives in these rural hamlets scattered throughout the countryside. Here’s where you will find the real India. However, each geographic area has its own unique culture, so the rural populace is impossible to stereotype.

Andhra, as it is commonly called, is one of the largest states, covering a big portion of central India that reaches to the Indian Ocean. In my past travels, I have spent very little time in Andhra, so I am looking forward to exploring it. First mentioned in the historical records of 230 BC, Andhra is quite unique in that it has been an important domain in every Indian dynasty.

In the first centuries of the Common Era, the Buddhist had huge monastic centers here. Later, South Indian Dravidians built important temples in several areas. Even though they eventually lost in the fourteenth century, a strong Hindu Ksatriya, warrior, caste courageously battled it out against the encroachment of the Moguls for centuries. By the time the Afghan Muslims beat the Moguls in the early eighteenth century, it was the largest and richest kingdom in India, and remained so until it was drafted into the Indian Republic in 1947. Never conquered by the British, nor favored by them, Hyderabad, Andhra’s capital city, was avoided whenever possible, for the populace was so hostile to the European interlopers that they would openly spit in the “white faces.” Even the young Winston Churchill switched from his favored horse to an elephant when he had to visit there, so he would be well above the confrontation zone.

When I reach the Cuddapah station in early afternoon, I have to find a bus for the small village where the Swamini (feminine form of swami) resides. However, her address, Ellayapalle, is such a small bump in the road that no one has heard of it. Finally, from the crowd that has gathered to concern themselves with my dilemma, a gentleman emerges who knows the Swamini. With his directions, soon I am on the bus that will take me to the Korlagunta stop. From there, they will be able direct me to Ellayapalle. (Believe me, all these names are difficult for me too!) In less than an hour, I am deposited along side the road at a path with several shacks. I am tempted to pause for tea, but think better of it when I see the disappearing sun. So following the path indicated by the local folk, I track down a dusty lane, lugging my suitcase along.

I make it just in time, for the twilight glow if fading just as I enter the gates of Chinmayaranyam, Forest of Chinmaya. I have read a lot of great press on the Swamini’s creation here. Although Telugu is spoken instead of English, I have been eager to visit here. Quickly taking in the premises, I spot all the ashramites assembled in a large open hall for a class with the Swamini. Petromax lanterns are already fired up; no electricity is available tonight.

Although Swamini is an educated woman from the city of Hyderabad, she always knew she wanted to live in a rural setting. She is one of the few modern women who jumped to the renunciation stage of life immediately after receiving her law degree. Since life is meant for living, the Hindus have divided its experiences into four basic categories: 1) brahmacharya, student; 2) grhasta, householder; 3) vanaprastha, semi-retired life of contemplation; 4) sannyasa, taking of renunciation vows to become a swami/swamini.

Swamini had wanted to live in a peaceful, unpolluted environment, yet she also aspired to be in a situation where she could be of service to a rural community. Even when we were in Himalayas, Swamini was hoping for an ashram to settle in. Finally, it has all come together as she had dreamed. Being a renunciate, she could not pick and choose, but was totally dependent on others for a donation of land, which turned out to be twenty-four acres beside the tiny village of Ellayapalle.

The only stone in the rice, as we say here, is that this village is in the hottest, driest area of Andhra, which has got to be India’s hottest, driest state. Nevertheless, the Swamini’s cheerful attitude, inexhaustible energy, and ability to inspire others have managed to create a miracle in the desert.

The Swamini is respected throughout the state as an authentic teacher of spiritual knowledge, although the villagers here call her “Mother.” A fascinating aspect of the Hindu religion is the number of women saints and sages found here throughout history. Although most of the women have been the devotional, contemplative types, whom I call saints, the culture has also produced a number of feminine intellects, or sages. In particular, three stories stand out in my mind. These women are all mentioned in ancient texts that predate modern Hinduism.

The great rishi Yagnavakya, author of the most ancient and terse Upanisad, had two wives, Maitreya and Kalyani. Maitreya was acknowledged to be a knower of the Ultimate Knowledge--even by her rshi husband. Another female sage in that era was Gargi, also known to be an enlightened master. She is referred to in the Vedas as a member of an assembly of learned sages who were responsible for testing Yagnavakya’s spiritual understanding.

Another example comes from the lengthy text Yoga Vasishta, which tells of an enlightened queen. The story goes that King Shikidhvaja and his Queen Chudaalaa together inquired into the Knowledge of the Divine Self. The wife was the first to understand the Truth and even gained certain supernatural powers. Although the husband was pleased with the attainments of his spouse, he was disappointed with his own progress. In order to further his development, he went to the forest for a spiritual retreat. Evidently, sensing that the king would not want her as a spiritual teacher, Chudaalaa flew over to his hut in the guise of a hermit sage. She thus taught him and brought him to the understanding of the Ultimate Knowledge. Having achieved the supreme goal in life, the two liberated ones spent the night in conjugal delight. Well, that’s what the text says. . . and it seems like a relevant point to me. Being enlightened evidently does not mean that you become a Mortimer Milk-toast. Or become impractical: this bliss scene was after Chudaalaa had tested her husband’s loyalty by using her power to create celestial damsels to tempt him.

A similar story (minus the conjugal bliss ending) appears in the Tripura Rahasya, also an ancient text replete with stories of saints and sages. A prince, named Hemachuta, and his wife, Hemalekha, were inquiring into the Ultimate Knowledge. She understood the Truth, but somehow he could not figure it out. Only through the teaching of his wife was he finally able to comprehend the Highest Knowledge.

So the concept of enlightened women is not a new one in Bharata’s history. I would say that from those early times through modern times, the women saints and sages have received excessive veneration from the populace. Therefore, the Swamini is not a pioneer in a women’s spiritual movement, but a part of a long line of enlightened sages and saints.

When she moved here ten years ago, the first step was to locate water to create this little oasis. Several modern “bore” wells, as opposed to the usual open-pit wells, were dug here to provide both the ashram and local villagers with a year-round water supply. Then they began to plant dozens of native trees, thereby converting the site into a huge garden. In addition, a fence of eucalyptus, sandalwood and clumps of lacy bamboo enclose the grounds. Shade trees and fruit trees—lots of mangos—line the paths that wind through the rustic cottages.

Summer arrives early here. Even though it is only the 1st of March, everything looks dry already. I am definitely confined to my “I came to a fork in the road and took the path well-shaded” mode. The shadows of the trees help, but I have learned to skirt the shady side of buildings and walls too.

The ashram community is a network of activities, with teaching being the major focus. I am able to join the classes that the Swamini gives to a group of young people. She is training them to go out to the various towns in Andhra to give discourses on the scriptures, as she has been doing for almost twenty-five years. Presently, about a dozen very intelligent and dedicated students are in different phases of their training as teachers. Although brahmachari means student, its most common usage is the term for a spiritual student, or novice. Technically, it means one who thinks continually of Brahman, the impersonal Supreme Being. A Sanskrit word often has several levels of meanings: one for the mundane world, and one for subtler realities. For example, the word for “bird” can also mean “mind,” since it is prone to take off in flights of fancy.

In addition to the spiritual classes, a residential elementary school provides education for children whose parents want them to have a spiritual education along with the secular one. Traditionally, the upper-caste children left home at six years of age to live in the ashram of a guru, who taught them everything from spiritual treatises to methods of warfare. The gurus always had a wife, up to four wives, to assist in his service to the youth of his community.

I find that these energetic sprites with their bright smiles add a pleasant dynamic to the community. In the evening, just before sunset, all the children gather to chant verses from the scriptures for the Swamini. I wish I could describe the joy I feel in listening to these innocent voices chanting Vedic hymns. I am transported to a time when Life was true open flexible sacred. I breathe in these whispers of our ancient roots and feel whole. Surely, this quiet connected expanded feeling is an essential part of our humanness. I do not know how we all manage to function without daily awareness of it.

The ashram family is completed with a retirement home for the elderly. During her travels and lectures in Andhra Pradesh, the Swamini inspired many to honor their vanaprastha tradition by retiring to a spiritual community. Most of them choose to study the scriptural text along with the brahmacharis. Several of them help the brahmacharis with the spiritual classes for the children each evening. Others enjoy serving as grandparents to the youngsters by giving them attention and care. Several of the elders have fit in perfectly as the principal caregivers for an orphanage serving a half-dozen toddlers from the nearby villages. These retired people, many in their seventies, are living a full and meaningful life; how they feel about it clearly glows on their faces.

With the generous donations from businessmen in Andhra, the ashram is able to fund other charitable projects. The brahmacharis deliver food, dal (husked, dried beans), rice, and clothing to the elderly of the surrounding villages. It costs only $3.00 to feed one elderly villager for one month. Whereas, a donation of $10.00 feeds the entire ashram, including the school children, their mid-day meal.

The gathering for the noon meal is a highlight of the day. Everyone sits in the huge, open, thatched dining hall with the floor smeared with dried cow dung paste. It’s considered an antibacterial, and I have to confess that I have never seen a single fly land it. We all sit in lines along the walls and across the floor. Of course, I have the seat of honor by the Swamini, but it turns out to be the “hot” seat.

As customary, a verse from Chapter Four of the Bhagavad Gita is chanted for grace:

        Brahman is the ladle,
        Brahman is the food;
        Brahman is partaker of food;
        Brahman is the digestive fire;
        Whoever sees Brahman in all actions attains Brahman.

Since there are about one hundred of us, and no one eats until everyone is served, we go on chanting the entire fourth chapter. Still not everyone has their food, so we start chanting other verses. Then the Swamini asks me to lead one.

“But I don’t know any verses,” I quickly explain.

“You did know some when we were in the Himalayas. You must have forgotten.”

When we were in Uttarkasi, the Swamini never understood that I never chanted a single line. I just looked at the book and mouthed along. Since Sanskrit is one of those sensible languages, like Spanish, that reads just as it looks, I could pronounce it correctly without knowing the meaning of words. On my first trip, I did study Sanskrit diligently whenever I had a chance because it is fascinating. Also, other Indian languages have many Sanskrit words, so it gives me an edge when I try to learn the basics of the vernaculars. So the fact remains, I can read Sanskrit—but not fast enough.

I am assigned a room in the section with the brahmacharis. We all have a small adobe cottage, topped by a thatched roof. The bathrooms are separate structures across a shady corridor. Three walls of the tiny cubicles are made of adobe, while the fourth one is only a woven screen, letting in light and fresh air. The airiness feels good in the heat of the summer; I suppose that there is never any cold weather here. The thatched roof is practical and allows for fresh air under the eaves; however, all the dry straw creates an ever-present fire hazard. Already there have been two serious fires here. One was caused when a scorpion stung one of the brahmacharis, causing him to drop a kerosene lantern. The flames were roaring before he even realized what had happened.

So one morning, the Swamini directs the setting up of an altar, so that the brahmacharis can perform a Vedic ritual. Then they start the chanting of ancient verses prescribed to protect one’s abode from fire. The brahmacharis continue chanting all day. I am sure that these rituals can make a difference, if done properly and with the right attitude—it’s the power of positive thinking, reinforced with the energy of millions of repetitions through the centuries.

I do know of a couple of successful cases. When I was in South India in 1979, the monsoon rains had failed to arrive on schedule. The priests started chanting the Vedic invocations to bring rain. And rain it did, such an inundation that they had to start looking up the verses to stop the rain. Another time when I was in the Himalayas, a U.S. satellite had gone astray. It was predicted that it would crash right into India. The priests, from one end of the country to the other, began chanting incantations for protection of the motherland. The satellite landed out at sea. Of course, the American engineers have another explanation.

The ashram and village have a mutual support system. The villagers provide the labor for the kitchen and gardens. Teen-age girls come over every day to fill the huge clay pots with clear water for bathing. Recently, a new program was started to replant a nearby hillside with trees. Several men are paid for watering a certain number. Since they only are paid if their allotment of trees remain alive, they have incentive to do the work.

In addition to providing income for the villagers, the ashram runs a school for the children. One morning, a brahmachari takes me over to tour the village and school. The hamlet of some 600 people is quite unusual, even picturesque. Eight-foot white-washed walls, which give as much shade as possible from the blazing sun, encircles each house. The wooden entrance gate in the front wall is painted and decorated with bright colors. Inside the fences, the spotless white houses are built of stone, made smooth with adobe, then white-washed. Stalls covered with thatch give shade to the cows and oxen in each compound. These people do not know what a mortgage payment is. Built entirely of local materials, the houses were constructed by the occupants with the help of their neighbors. In another area, I heard the men singing songs while they worked together carrying materials to erect a new house.

The children attend classes gratis. The villagers supplied the land, materials and labor to erect two large, open-air sheds that serve as classrooms. The ashram takes responsibility for supplying the teachers, books and a midday meal. After I am introduced, the bright-eyed children sing a ballad in Telugu for me. They all seem to be vying to sing the loudest and best. I have visited many such classes, both high and low caste, throughout India, and I have never noticed a single, bashful child. They all seem so full of confidence and curiosity to meet the strange white lady.
One evening the villagers visit the ashram to dance for us, a simple circle dance. The majority of the performers are men of all ages, with only the youngest girls and elderly women joining in. Predictably, only five minutes into the performance, the power goes out. The petromax lanterns are quickly lit. They do produce a fanciful setting, but not enough light to really see the folk dance well.

Daily life is gentle and effortless here. I watch the villagers as they take their cows out to forage, bundle rice straw to make a thatched roof, and work in the kitchen. Everyone has a duty, knows that duty, and seems content. Momentarily, I forget that there is another world out there where everyone is struggling and competing for survival. I wonder, why don’t these people, who have so little, appear to be struggling?

On the weekend we have a break from our normal routine, as we are invited for a special feast in the nearby town. Only the affluent can afford to arrange for such an occasion. I understand we are celebrating the son’s birthday. This will be my very first journey in an ox-cart, actually called a “bullock-cart” here. Fortunately (in Andhra only), the carts are covered, rather like our covered wagons of yore. Off we go, early, so we can reach the house by lunch time.

During our three hour journey, cars and buses give way as we plod along the highway. We have a great time, bumping along, singing, bumping along, laughing, with lots more bumping along. The brahmacharis want me to teach them some English songs—not necessarily religious ones. I start with “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—life is but a dream.”

“You see, we Americans have our philosophical tradition too!” I tease them.

On the return trip, we have to stop and wait for two hours at a railroad crossing. The automatic bars lower when the train is scheduled to arrive, not being programmed to take in consideration that today the train is hours late. Time, the Indians have lots of time, plenty of time to spare for waiting two hours at a railroad crossing. Not a soul is complaining; everyone is patiently waiting. They seem to think there is nothing anyone can do. Yet, I somehow know this is not the first time the train has been late.

The Swamini is realistic about my ability to endure the intense heat that is descending on us, for it’s going to get much worse before the June rains come. I am perpetually bathed in sweat. Even though I bathe three times a day, I never feel any real relief. The overhead fan would have been a great help, but the power is always off when I need it. One small compensation though: it’s too hot for mosquitoes. Somehow I can take sleeping in a pool of sticky sweat, or being dive-bombed by mosquitoes, but the gods have thus far saved me from having to endure both at the same time. It’s divine dispensation for the angrezhi, an English-speaking foreigner.

In spite of all her responsibilities, Swamini is determined that I will receive teachings from a major philosophical text of Vedanta while I am here. The chosen text, a favorite of mine, tells of Nachiketas, a young boy who defies a god. Ancient Indians are accused of having written no history, but that is not really true, for glimpses of their way of life is sprinkled through all their epics and even their philosophical treatises. The Katha Upanisad is no exception.

In line with Hindu traditions, the young boy’s father, a Brahman priest, was performing his last worldly duty of giving away all his worldly wealth, thereby insuring himself a place in heaven. While Nachiketas’ was observing the ritual, he happened to note that dear old Dad was holding back his best cows, and was only giving away the old and decrepit ones. Being a priest’s son, he knew the scriptures: those who are miserly in their giving go to joyless regions after death.

Clearly upset at what he was witnessing, the boy cleared his throat, cast his eyes to the ground, then asked his father in the softest of tones, “So to whom will you give me?”

When the father ignored the obvious censure, the boy asked again, “Father, who will I go to?” Still no answer was forthcoming.

So it was only his third try that prompted an answer from his enraged father, “You, you go to Lord Death.” The father cursed the son with “go to the devil,” as they say in Spanish, or our equivalent of “go to hell.”

The son remained poised, for a father is a child’s first guru (teacher); therefore, his words could not have been spoken in vain. “Gee, Dad wants me to go to visit Lord Death. I wonder what good can come out of this?” Nachiketas thinks to himself. With that thought, he journeys off to the nether world. Nachiketas was quite clever, when he reached the abode of Lord Yama (one in control), he did not miss the chance to question the imposing demigod who knows both this world and the other. Because of the boy’s interrogations, Lord Death revealed the wisdom that has been treasured for centuries in the philosophical treatise, Katha Upanishad.

Of course, since reincarnation is a tenet of the Asian religions, they have a totally different attitude about death than the Christian/Islam idea of “one chance is all you get.” The Jains and Hindus even practice self-euthanasia by refusing to take food or water when they know the time has come that they can no longer take care of themselvs and will be a burden to others.

For some reason, I have always felt an affinity with Nachiketas and his wonderful optimism. Often, when life deals me a challenge, I remember his words, “so what good can some out of this?” Surely, if he could take advantage of a trip to hell to gain wisdom for humanity, I can derive some small benefit from my minuscule trials.

Although I love it here, for it is exactly and perfectly the environment that I would create for myself if I were an Indian teacher, my lack of Telugu limits my ability to integrate successfully into the ashram. When I tell the Swamini of my idea of trekking up the Godavari River, she discloses that she knows nothing of that part of Andhra. However, she does give me several suggestions of places of natural beauty to check out, including an ashram she has personally visited. Since it is near the sea, she assures me the climate will be cooler.

As I bid the Swamini good-bye, she warns me, “Take the first bus that will stop for you. Don’t wait for the Tirupati bus as you can wait for hours. Once you get to Kodur, there are plenty of buses from there.” It was not only a warning, but also a forecast: how do the people endure this kind of public transportation?