Since Aradhana is full of children and the swami has my apartment, I decide that it is a perfect time to take off for Arunachala. This holy mountain is associated with many saints, including Ramana Maharshi in this century. Luck has it that Maggie has a special appointment, so Usha actually has one day off. We are accompanied by an attractive English woman, who makes a yearly sojourn every winter to Pondy. She and Usha will return the same day, but I plan to stay for a week as the ashram has a good library that I can investigate for old books.

The nearby town of Tiruvanamallai is a traditional one. When Ramana Maharshi left home to come to Arunachala Mountain in 1896, the huge temple was already ancient. This temple is dedicated to the tejo lingam, or the fire symbol, classifying the temple as a major pilgrimage destination, along with four other temples scattered about India that house a lingam (symbol) to represent the remaining four Earth elements: earth, water, air and ether. The landmark with its towering gopuras (entrance towers) stands at the foot of Arunachala, the mountain believed to be the abode of Lord Shiva. Regularly, visions occur to pilgrims who perceive the mountain changing into the mystical form of Lord Shiva sitting in meditation. Lacking such an experience, I have to stick with my intellectual endeavors. Even so, I have no luck in finding out any historical information about Arunachala, although plenty is known about the sage who lived here until his death in the early 1950’s.

While still a teenager, Ramana Maharshi had an experience in which he realized the impermanence of the world. He actually thought that he was going to die. With his alert mind, he was able to discern that his body was going to bow out, yet he was someone different who was able to discern the coming and going of the physical body. Thus understanding that he was not the body, he then walked out of his family home without saying a word, only leaving a short note and never returned. A Hindu will tell you it was a spontaneous experience propelled by punya, merit, from a previous birth. I feel this explanation negates the fact that in this life Ramana was born in a family of Brahmans in south India. He must have heard the scriptures chanted and spiritual discussions among his father and uncles. I doubt the vision could have occurred to someone who was born in the home of a merchant who only thought of the deities when he needed help; whether it be for acquiring wealth or heirs. There is another consideration; any Hindu pandit, scholarly priest, will argue that Ramana’s birth in a Brahman family was only the result of his previous incarnations. So we can conclude that he was born in a devout family where he would obtain the knowledge that would encourage the spiritual experience.

Tirunamallai Temple

Temple bathing tank

After the sixteen-year-old boy arrived in Arunachala, he sat in samadhi, ecstatic trance, for several years. Fortunately for spiritual seekers, he slowly began to communicate with those around him, and during several periods even appeared to lead a relatively normal life. Through the years, many pilgrims who visited him recorded their discussions. By the 1930’s, he was probably the biggest attraction in south India. Many foreigners also came to interview the sage, who was known for the holy silence he radiated, as well as his knowledge. Somerset Maugham traveled here and used Ramana as the prototype for his holy man in The Razor’s Edge, but changed his name to Sri Ganesha. In the 1930’s, Paul Brunton’s A Search in Secret India put Arunachala on the map for a lot of Westerners.

Although it is located on the edge of town, the ashram is a world unto itself. The compound comprises a temple, meditation hall, library, large dining hall with excellent food, gardens, peacocks, and lots of guest cottages, plus a free midday meal for the local holy men. You could not believe the incredulous assortment of garbs, shapes and faces of the sadhus (wandering ascetics), who line up at the ashram entrance each day at noon under a sprawling shade tree. They come in all shapes and sizes: tall ones, short ones, fat one, skinny ones, with shaved heads, long matted hair, ashes streaked across the forehead or a spot of yellow sandalwood paste smeared between the eyebrows. Many are wrapped in an assortment of robes of white, yellow, orange or red cotton; while others are only a couple of threads from stark-naked.

Ashram gate with Arunalchala in background

The prize goes to a rather skinny young sadhu who has nimbus pierced by toothpicks, stuck up and down his arms. He also had a metal pick through his lips, but I did not look too closely. Little did I know that he was the only one of this type I would see in three years, or I would have checked him out closer. I never figure out where they all live; I suppose some may walk for miles for the food because I never see any of them living in the neighborhood. Anyway, they come daily with their metal pots to carry home food for the day. Their presence creates quite a spectacle.

I sit out in the sun for several hours watching the sights, for I never would have suspected that the winter sun would be too much for me. Even so, I spend my first evening in my room in bed with a terrible headache. Although the first one of this trip, these sick headaches are not uncommon when I travel. The ashram manager sends over a doctor who gives me a homeopathic remedy for “heat stroke.” Sounds like a sensible diagnosis to me. Who could believe it? A heat stroke in January.

The rooms are actually plain little cabins with an attached bathroom—with a flush toilet. After you bathe or wash your hands, if you hurry and run around to the back you can see the gray water flow down a little canal to a nearby tree. There are several sections of ashram housing, but only a few of them are located in the confines of what is actually sacred ashram grounds. Since I am of the female gender, my cabin is located outside the official perimeter. I am told that women are not allowed to sleep in the ashram proper. An interesting take on the concept that we are not the physical body.

By noon the next day, I have recovered from my headache sufficiently to take the short walk to the temple. A local sadhu lives nearby in a tiny house, sandwiched among other stone houses, just outside the main temple gates. When I approach the verandah, I see several young Indian men sitting with him. I hesitate, not wanting to interrupt, but they all motion for me to enter. Sure enough, Panka Baba, thus nicknamed because he always carries a panka, a palm fan, has his emblem by his side. He is an outrageous sight: donned in rags with rank-smelling smoke from his bedi encircling his head, flying with gray hair.

In perfect English, Panka Baba asks what I am doing here and where I am going. He seems interested in knowing what is going on in Pondy. Briefly, I describe the few public ashram activities I have attended.

He then tells me a bit about his own guru, Sri Ram Das, who is quite well known as a great enlightened sage. Even today, at his ashram in Kerala, there is continual chanting of Sri Ram. It is on my tentative itinerary, but I will never make it there. As we are talking, several other young men arrive to sit and listen. I feel quite positive that these young people are open to talking with the sadhu. Although he is certainly not traditional—I have not seen him dance in the temple courtyard yet—I feel sure he is a positive influence on them.

The next morning, I get up early, ready to do pradakshina, circumambulation, of the holy mountain. The winter sun rises late, so I plan to leave about 5:00 a.m. However, the call of a tropical bird awakens me earlier. I just love the sensation of hearing the call of a tropical bird announce dawn in the dark of the night. Since I am awake, I get up, dress, and am ready to go at 4:30 a.m.

Consequently, I end up walking for an hour and a half in pitch dark on an unknown route. I quickly surrender to the beauty and silence of the night. The moon set some hours ago, so the stars are diamonds, sparkling across the intense blackness of the countryside. I have always enjoyed driving at night, to soak up the star power, but I have never actually walked any distance at night. This experience is turning out to be a pleasant phenomenon. I cannot explain how contented and connected I feel, as if I were made for walking under the stars.

At the midway point, there is a small shanty where I stop for a steamy cup of hot tea. Since I am the only customer, I do not linger long. As I continue on, the sunrise begins with just a faint stripe of pink, glowing below a bank of gray clouds. A row of palm trees add their dark silhouettes across the horizon. It is the season of the morning star, so the brilliance of Venus crowns the scene. Slowly, the colors change and brighten, until finally the sun emerges from the clouds, which continue reflecting pink across the sky for at least forty-five minutes. The brilliant tones look more like a sunset than a sunrise. I vow never to miss another sunrise. Nature’s gift to us, too precious to ignore.

The journey traditionally ends with darshan, “beholding” of The Deity, at the temple. I arrive at 7:30 a.m., which is pretty good timing since I took a leisurely stroll, stopping to take in the beauty of the mountain, admire the birds, and drink tea under a ragged canvas shelter. I had really just gone on the trip as a lark to see the countryside and to see the various pilgrims participating in this tradition. In fact, I am surprised that I did not see one person on the entire journey. I expected that a lot of people would be by-passing this Sunday stroller.

Afterwards, I feel wonderful. This trip is surely more than a lark, I think. The daily trip around the mountain is reputed to change one forever. One young Swiss woman, who has lived here for over ten years, swears that it changed her totally. Recently, she even took a trip back home to Switzerland for the first time since her arrival here and had a nice reunion and reconciliation with the western world. And she came back to Arunachala.

Interestingly, later when I return here, I set out the first morning for the wonderful pradakshina around Arunachala. Although I still enjoy walking alone in the quiet morning atmosphere, the experience is just not the same. I suppose it is because of my expectations; I had a totally innocent mind the first time. Yet, there may be another factor. I always love new experiences. Wherever I am, I am always exploring new territory. I never retrace my steps unless I just cannot avoid it. I must admit I love experiencing new things definitely more than writing about them.

Ashram Temple

After a lot of blind alleys, I find out that the sacred mountain Arunachala, which simply means “red mountain,” is considered the spiritual center of the world by the Tamils. The details are expounded in the Skanda Purana, which refers to Arunachala as the sacred heart of Shiva. The story goes that Brahma, the Creator, and Vishnu, the Maintainer of the creation, fell into a dispute about who was the greater deity. The ensuing chaos on the earthly realm prompted the Devas, heavenly hosts, to call on Shiva, the third member of the Hindu trinity, to request that he settle the dispute between his two associates. Whereupon Shiva manifested in the form of a towering column of light and declared, “Whoever is able to find the upper or lower end of this column will be considered the greatest among the gods.”

Lord Vishnu took the form of a boar and began to burrow deep into the earth to find the base of the column. Whereas Lord Brahma took the form of a swan and soared to the heavens in an attempt to reach the pinnacle of the light. As Vishnu, in his boar-form, was rooting away, he fell into an altered state of consciousness in which he began to perceive the Supreme Light within himself. No longer concerned with an external column of light, he allowed himself to melt into a meditative ecstasy. On the other hand, failing to reach the top, Brahma saw a flower falling through the heavens. He caught the blossom, then returned to Shiva, declaring that he had plucked the flower from the summit.

When Vishnu floated in, still oblivious to his body, he exalted Lord Shiva, “You are the beginning and the middle and the end of everything. You are indeed everything and you illuminate everything.” Shiva announced Vishnu as the winner, whereas poor Brahma had to confess his deception.

Now this is where Arunachala comes in. Shiva realized that his manifestation as a column of light was so dazzling that it was dangerous to behold. Therefore, he manifested as the sacred mountain Arunachala; thereby explaining, “As the moon derives its light from the sun, those who worship me here at Arunachala will obtain illumination. Arunachala is ‘OM’ itself in physical form. For the sake of the devoted, I will appear on the summit of this hill every year in the form of a peace-giving beacon.”


When I return to Pondy, Swami Nischalananda is making plans for his departure. He has been asked to head an important ashram in Udipi, but he persists in his dispersions of spiritual organizations. He is going to Mysore, as he has another devotee there who will put him up for a while—another young woman. She is married, but she works outside the home in an office. Since he does not have her office phone number, the swami frets over the train schedules. He wants to calculate his trip so that he will arrive just after 5:00 p.m., so she will be home when he phones to be picked up. Having spent hours upon hours in train stations, I become slightly impatient at the hullabaloo he is causing over the fact he has to arrive at just a convenient hour.

“What difference does it make? I’ve spent lots of nights in train station waiting rooms. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, I couldn’t do anything like that,” replies the sadhu. While there is a tradition that a sannyasi, renunciate, should rest at a temple, pilgrimage shed, Brahman’s house or at the foot of a tree, the rules are from common practice, not from a rule book. Every swami who has taken the sannyasa vows is an individual unto himself and answers to no one. Of course, he may consult with elder swamis, or the one who administered his renunciation vows—if and when he pleases. Since the renunciation is for the purpose of freedom, it does make sense that freedom is impossible with someone lording it over you. After postponing his departure several times, he finally walks out the door, loaded down with his ample luggage.

“Don’t come soon,” Usha teases him in an impish voice, a variation of Tamil’s most common farewell phrase: “Come back soon.”

Just at the moment Usha knew she could not survive another day, relief comes. The kids are being sent out to “the school.” Maggie has met a young woman from Spain who wants to do some seva, service. So Rosa agrees to go out and attend to the children, in exchange for free room and board.

The school is a result of a long-term project that Maggie’s significant other, Nata, had started. I never inquired as to what attracted Nata, a wealthy Italian businessman, to Pondicherry for his retirement. Anyway, here he was, and he was bored. With the simple motivation of helping the poor folk in the area, he started taking bread out to the criminal village. When I first heard Usha and Maggie speaking of the “criminal village,” I thought that the inhabitants had served prison terms, therefore, were now outcastes from society. This assumption turned out to be erroneous.

From time immemorial, the populace of this particular village made their living as hired guns, so to speak, because they only had knives. They could not afford guns. Throughout the Tamil-speaking land if anyone wanted any heinous crime committed, and had the money to pay for it, this village was where they came to make a contract. With India’s modern courts of law, things have changed and these people have fallen on hard times. Nata’s little project grew to include constructing a shoe factory (only outcastes will handle leather) where the villagers could work and earn a decent living. Because the majority of the workers are, and always have been, women, Nata built a school for the children of the workers.

When Nata died, Maggie took over directing the projects and seems to be doing quite an adequate job. She has even built a big home for herself and her favorite adopted daughter near the school. Now there are plans to start construction of a high school. Within ten years, the lives of these villagers have been transformed. When I visit the school, I find healthy, alert children, interested in their studies, yet happily sitting together for a silent meditation.


But there is one stone in the rice. Recently, an aggressive Communist from Kerala has come over to the village and is inciting the workers to ask for better working conditions: higher pay and shorter hours. At this time, there is a profit being made in the shoe factory, but the surplus is being turned over to the school for the children. It hardly falls under the category of capitalist exploitation. Maggie is not taking a rupee from the school for herself. She does not need to. Anyway, the whole operation is scrutinized carefully by the Government.

By coincidence, Usha and I happen to meet the culprit at an All India Youth Conference held in Pondy. The youth from the various Indian states have different languages and distinct customs, particularly wedding ceremonies, food, and often dress. Usha can tell where a woman is from by the design on her sari and by the way she wraps it. So these ten-day conferences, organized under the guidance of Vimala Thakkar, bring teenagers together in a “let’s learn about each other and appreciate each other” jamboree. Vimala is a true daughter of Bharata, who I will have the privilege to meet during my sojourn.

Since both Usha and the Communist are originally from Kerala, they happen to strike up a conversation. Naturally, Usha asks her where she now lives. That’s how we find out that this is the very troublemaker who is now residing in the criminal village. Of course, Usha does not reveal her connection with Maggie, but nonchalantly asks a few pertinent questions. Oh, no, the Communist asserts that she has no intention whatsoever of interfering with the villagers’ lives or disturbing the factory or school there. Upon listening to this political advisor, as the Marxist calls herself, explain her business in the village, one has to conclude she is doing little more than sponging off the local folk who are now enjoying a low level of affluence because of Maggie and Nata’s dedicated work.