With Mataji and Sheela gone, I am totally alone. It has started to dawn on me what a great place I have found for a serious retreat. Although the spiritual progenitor is no longer here, the staff is quite clear that the reason for the ashram is to provide an environment for spiritual retreats. I am not obligated to do anything, nor expected to socialize with or entertain anyone.

In addition, the office staff is very generous in getting any supplies I need, including mung beans, so I can sprout them for my only green vegetable. The secretary even took library books to copy pages to save me the one hour trip to town. Then they would not take any money for the service, not even for the copying charges. Of course, I will give them a donation when I leave, but they do not know. They really seem to be on purpose with their service.

It’s a ten-minute walk over a sun-scorched path to get to the office and post office. When I need anything or have any questions for Raju, the manager, I always go over early in the morning before the sun is at full blaze. However, I then linger for a while to enjoy the trees. This area must have been the first stage of the ashram, for the trees are awesome. One mango tree, which shades the retirees’ quarters, is as big as a mature oak. I cannot imagine how many bushels of mangoes will be picked from that one tree.

I am most delighted when I spot my favorite tree, the Shiva Lingam. Its subtly fragrant flowers of waxy white grow on short branches coming straight out of the trunk, so I can easily reach one of the perfumed treasures to carry with me. They wilt after one day, so I do not mind taking one. The tiny round lingam, symbol of Shiva, is protected by a cap of fringe, which represent the serpents that protect him. Interestingly, this tree that seems so intrinsically Indian is not a native plant. The British brought it here from Africa during their many horticultural exchanges.

One morning when I am passing by, a charming Indian woman, dressed in the traditional white of a widow approaches me to invite me for tea. Since her English is good, I accept. I am happy to meet one of about fifteen elders who have chosen to spend the vanaprastha stage of their lives here in this ashram. And I only need to meet one, the rest will thereby find out all about me. I am sure they are all Telugu speakers. I love the sound of Telugu, said to be India’s most poetic language. It’s full of lu’s and du’s for word endings. For example, the word “okay” is paravaalidu; in Tamil, it’s simply paravai. I love to say “paravaalidu," even though it seems a slow way to say “okay.”

As soon as I sit down in her sparsely furnished room to watch her start up the kerosene stove, she asks me a very common question in Andhra, “May I know your good name?”

“Yes, I’ll be glad to tell you my ‘good name,’ if you will explain to me why the people here are always asking for my good name. What is the world is a good name? Do people have bad names?”

She laughs and then explains, “Maybe it does not translate well from Telugu, for our language is very flowery. It’s like saying you are such a jolly and clever person that you must have a special name to go with those characteristics.”

“So my good name is just Nancy. I’m glad to know that I don’t have to have a bad name too.”

I am always questioning these idiosyncrasies. Recently, I asked a gentleman in my train compartment about the use of “thank you.” He was telling me about having worked in Germany, when he happened to mention that the Germans had the irritating habit of saying “thank you” a hundred times a day. He had felt that it was such nuisance that he had told them, “I’m only going to say ‘thank you’ once in the morning, and that’s it for the day.”

So I took the opportunity to remark that I had noticed that the Indians always seem to be offended when I say, “thank you.”

“Of course, they are offended. Just like you would never say ‘thank you’ to a family member, since they are a part of you. So when you say ‘thank you’ that is insinuating that you do not consider them a sister or a brother.”

“Oh, I see.”

Unfortunately during fasting, I got into the habit of sleeping late—until 7:00 a.m. How easily good habits leave us. I ran out of tea bags long ago, so I do not have it to help push me out of my morning doldrums. Dull or not, I sit, to practice the breathing exercises that were recommended by a sage last year. Then I chant the Gayatri Mantra aloud, as these practices seem to brighten my mind. Watching the breath is to harmonize with the breath that breathes you. Chanting the mantra is to align with your higher self. Afterwards, I force myself to do some plain physical exercises—for the body.

Having so much solitude, I begin to slip into a quiet joy as I go through each day. I experience the pleasure of being with Nature and with my quiet self. Gradually, I spend more time just sitting in silence and letting the peace of the place settle into my bones. I guess you could call it meditation. As always, I am reading a book or two, material to reflect upon to continue to expand my knowledge and understanding of this extraordinary miracle of Life that is creating itself every day. The Hindus say that there was no beginning to the creation because each day is a new creation. I am beginning to appreciate that concept.

Each morning I awaken with a smile on my face. If it is not there, it soon appears when I realize where I am. One morning the cries of a koel bird awaken me early. I smile in my sleepy stupor, as I reflect, so the rains must be coming. This large black bird is known as the harbinger of the monsoon. I love to awaken to its wild cries in the still dark morning. Since I am completing forty-nine years of a sojourn on Planet Earth today, I consider his call an auspicious start of the day. At the suggestion of Swami Omkar (via his books), I am fasting on liquids and maintaining silence today.

Since it is hot as ever, I spend the day inside with my journal and books. However, the moment dusk starts to fall, I grab my straw mat and head for the roof to watch the moon rise. As I lie in anticipation, I behold the clouds shift and transform while the moon flickers and reflects through them on its journey overhead.

In this radiating heat, night has become my favorite time. Plain and unimaginative as houses are in India, they have one great feature that makes all the rest forgivable: the flat roof. Every evening I go up the staircase, roll out my straw mat, and lie down to look up at the stars. Such extraordinary beauty and unfathomable mystery. Those shining jewels in a black velvet sky are suns—incomprehensible. Life is such an incredible mystery. Just think of it, billions of years ago we were just stardust. If we somehow have the intelligence to build a human body out of stardust, surely we can manage to create a peaceful planet with a warm, cozy spot suitable for everyone.

Because of the heat, I decide to start sleeping on the roof. I experience some anxiety about the critter situation, but remind myself there is no food to attract an animal up there, not even wood. During the night, whenever I awaken for a moment, I greet my sister stars with great pleasure. Once in the Himalayas, I had awakened in the middle of the night and found myself falling from a star. It was an awesome experience that I never could explain, so I suppose I never really tried. In some obscure book, I found the information that both Pythagoras and Plato thought we earthlings come from a certain star and would return to that same star—after having experienced three perfected lifetimes. Maybe I just took a quick visit back to my home star.

One night, I awaken suddenly out of a deep sleep at about midnight. I look up and smile as I see a shooting star go streaking by. I always feel a spark of joy when I see a star streaking through the heavens. No, it must be a satellite, I tell myself, as suddenly it starts moving slowly and steadily. Did I just imagine that it was racing across the sky just a moment ago? Then the star actually stops directly over me. I’m not going to be able to figure this one out either, I tell myself. What an inconceivable creation we inhabit. If we could really experience it, truly absorb its wonder, its vastness, its beauty, I think we would be unwilling to sit in offices all day ever again. It is like we are in a paradise, but we seem content to conceal ourselves in a box. But are we really content?

I take regular trips to the Swami’s cottage, not only for the tea, which I found peps me up considerably, but also, in this scorching heat, I need an excuse to move myself outdoors for some exercise. En route as I pass the well, I am made aware that we are running out of water. Yes, I have been drinking water from one of those big open wells that I had been avoiding. Actually, they are aesthetically lovely. Every time I pass I like to look down in it and see the kingfisher that sits on a branch growing out of the side. The three wells on the property are lined with gray granite stones with long, flat stones stuck into the side in a spiral to make steps. However, the two water boys simply use a rope and bucket.

Usually, they deliver two buckets of water to everyone every morning and evening. Now I am getting only one bucket each delivery, so I am not able to take an extra bath in the hottest part of the day. So I wet a towel, wrap it around my shoulders and sit on the verandah listening to the muted chirping of the birds and watching the leaves nodding in the subdued afternoon breeze. Although I spend ninety percent of my time alone, I have opportunities for socializing with the variety of guests that come to an ashram. Naturally, some of them are wandering sadhus who bring stories of holy places or sages. Others are householders who are taking a short retreat from the world. So even though I am sitting quietly in a peaceful garden, I get all sorts of stories from the outside world brought to my consciousness—and journal.

A rather intriguing-looking swami arrives early one morning. Tall and thin, with long white hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of his neck, he looks just like a Greek philosopher. However, the yellow stripes of sandalwood smeared across his forehead divulge his true origins. He has another uncommon feature for a sadhu: large, round diamond earrings adorn his ears. I mean large, at least one-fourth inch in diameter. In addition, long ropes of silver beads, one with alternate coral beads hang from his neck. During the morning prayer service, he sings a solo bhajan, devotional song, which translates something like this:

        No matter how many millions you may have;
        What is the use, if you have no peace of mind?
        You may have hundreds of relatives to care for you;
        What is the use, if you have no peace of mind?
        You may know all of the scriptures forward and backwards,
        But what is the use, if you have no peace of mind?

Later, I am delighted to encounter him in the Swami’s cottage when I go there for a cup of tea. The moment I arrive, Swami Ramananda immediately starts boiling the water. After a proper greeting, it is not a spiritual question I pose for the visiting swami, but a very mundane one—in my most subtle style, I blurt out: “Sir, are the diamonds in your earrings real?”

“Yes, they are real,” Swami Ramananda translates his reply.

Then the visitor goes on to explain that his parents saved them in a box since he was a small boy. Since the diamond earrings were a gift from his parents, he feels that he should not renounce them, but should wear them. His whole demeanor tells some story, but I am too inexperienced to discern it. Too bad Shruti and Sheela have already left; they could have filled in the blanks for me.
The traditional—and modern for that matter—society of India allows for an unimaginable diversity of individual expression. We may think we Americans are pro-individualism, but individuality is seldom rewarded unless it is set on the tracks of the mainstream society. I promise you, there is no disdain—even by the higher castes—toward anyone who is outrageously different in thought, word and deed here, including dress—or lack of it.

Another guest is a retired widower who appears to be in his early sixties. His perfect English allows us to have in depth discussions. He tells me he hopes to spend his time living in an ashram, so the visit here for a couple of weeks here is a test.

I gather bits and pieces of his story. After his retirement, he had taken another “assignment,” but that did not work out. He does not call it a job, since Ksatriyas (at least in Andhra Pradesh) do not take money for work. The assignment was teaching at a residential school run by a friend in exchange for a living quarters, servants, food, car and driver. However, the position did not work out because his friend was not running the school as efficiently and effectively as Mr. Raju thought he should. He opted not to be a part of a sham operation that was collecting exorbitant fees from unsuspecting parents.

“But you were married and had a family. How did you support them without earning any money?” I query him.

“Oh, I was forced to work for money then. I had a career in a bank. But now that my children are all doing well on their own and my wife is gone, I have no responsibilities. So I am free to live a traditional life of the vanaprastha; you know, living in the forest, studying and contemplating.

“So you won’t consider remarrying?”

“Oh, no. My children would never allow that.”

One day our conversation wound around to the subject of the Indian government taking over Hindu temples. He mentions that a friend has the cushy job of being the government official overseeing the famous Tirupati Temple. Few foreigners get the opportunity to visit this famous temple. From waiting in lines for up to twelve hours, the shaving of the head before you enter (not required, but endows a preferred blessing), to the gold jewelry that the Deity commands for favors bestowed, to the gooey sweet prasad served up after the darshan—this temple is preeminently Indian. Stories abound of how much gold is given to the Deity. Temple worship is a system of thought power, reinforced and maintained by chanting and offerings by the priests. You give to the Deity; the Deity gives back to you. I have been led to believe that Tirupati is the richest temple in India.

Of course, I just have to inquire of Mr. Raju as to the amount of the compensation his friend receives for this cushy job.

“Oh, he won’t take a salary. They just give him a bag of money.”

So that confirms what I was wondering; no salary means his friend must be a Ksatriya also. I question him further, “A bag of money. Just how much do you suppose that bag contains?”

“Oh, at least 20,000 Rps. This is a donation to keep him quiet because they don’t want anyone to know how much money actually goes through those temple coffers.”

“Twenty thousand just skimmed off the top to keep him quiet? And this is monthly?”

“Yes, monthly. He just looks the other way.”

“You are telling me that this is an example of the Ksatriya code of honor, to just take money and look the other way. Why do I get the feeling something is missing here?”

“Oh, he is very honorable. He will not even let his wife go out in the car the Government furnishes him. He has bought a separate car for her.”

I have always said that I want to experience a different mind-set—just for the experience of seeing the world from a different perspective. But damn, I want it to make sense! Contradictions and inconsistencies continue to abound flourish and thrive here.


The heat has reached the pinnacle of endurance because a hurricane is brewing in the Bay of Bengal, so we are now getting high humidity along with the heat. Just after dark, predictably the power goes out, so we do not even have any relief from the overhead fans. Concerned for the Swami, isolated in his hut, I take a lantern and a pot of water to walk out to check on him. There is no well in the area he lives in, plus I know he gives out the water that is delivered to him daily to the laborers that work on the grounds here, so he could be in need of water. When I arrive, he is already in bed, but calls out that he is fine and has plenty of water. My cotton sari is completely soaked with sweat as I start out to return to my cottage.

What a night. At first, I could not sleep for the heat, then the thunder and lightning begin. The monsoons are definitely what I term “Todo, we aren’t in Kansas anymore,” storms. I do not fall asleep until practically dawn. I awaken very late, so the verandah is scintillating with hot sunny steamy sticky air. Seeking shade, I go out back of my cottage to sit on the cement bench under the huge tree where I usually see an owl. In spite of the long willowy branches, the sun still manages to beam sparkles of light through the lacy leaves. However, I am in luck for when I first sit down, I spot a small owl directly above me, but it shifts its position to hide itself.

After finishing my morning exercises, I look around to enjoy the chirping birds and flitting butterflies. Then I spot the owl, hiding overhead, which is smaller than the one I usually startle when I pass this way. Now sitting in plain sight, the little guy is clearly watching me. When he sees me looking up at him, he bends down and cranes his neck as if to take a closer look, exposing a white beard, probably a neck-ring. Then he settles back to stare at the stranger, occasionally blinking one eye, then looking to one side, then the other, then back at me. I attempt communication by chanting whoooo—whoooo—whooooo to it.

Some people criticize Hindu philosophy as being too intellectual. But I feel that it gives understanding into our oneness with all of the world and its creatures. Vedanta explains with rigorous logic that everything comes from and is an expression of Brahman, the omnipotent Godhead. As I am opening myself with wonder and love to the little owl and he is opening with wonder and love to the strange, featherless creature wrapped in a white sari, it is a marvelous exchange of god enjoying god. After some time, when I have to leave for lunch, I give my little companion a proper “namaste” as I depart.

After only two monsoon rains, springtime is presenting its colors: white lilies, orange amaryllis, yellow butterflies and red velveteen bugs. The Mayflies are tumbling out of the ground, rushing to relish their one day of life. By evening the whole sky is filled with flickering soaring golden wings. What a sight to see the multitude of gossamer wings celebrating life as they fly up to the heavens.

New green lacy leaves cover the trees surrounding my cottage. The tropical trees never dare loose all their leaves at one time. The old leaves wait for the arrival of the new ones; then hesitate a moment before dropping, so they can shade the tender new shoots.

All the orchards are spilling over with their abundant fruit offerings. One day while I am strolling around, I begin smelling the most wonderful fragrance, like ripe tropical fruit and jasmine intermingled. I finally spot the source, a tree with a yellow fruit. I am puzzled because these are supposed to be cashew trees. Then I spot the small curled nut dangling below the fragrant, yellow fruit. Later that day someone tells me the yellow fruit is edible and gives me one to try. It is all water and fiber, which does taste okay, but leaves my lips with an unpleasant pucker. I decide to stick to smelling them.

At last I discover an authentic jungle critter. One morning on my way to the Swami’s cottage, I spot a huge lizard. Well, it’s like a lizard, but at least three feet long. When it sees me, it raises up on its two front legs. I am at least twenty feet away, so I do not feel any danger. However, neither am I absolutely sure I am seeing what I think I am seeing. I ask the Swami if such a creature exists. Although he says, “yes,” I am still not convinced as sometimes he does not understand me. So I keep the question in my mind: Was that fellow real?

Ask a question; get an answer. I suppose because of the rat, I am always careful to close the wire door to the front verandah. Today when I brought in a bag of fruit, I forgot to go back and secure it. Several hours later, I walk out to find I have a guest: one of those three-foot lizards. When he sees me, he is truly terrified. He tries to leave, but cannot find the exit. I grab a broom to try to gently coax him in the direction of the door that still remains ajar. He is just too panicked and takes a flying leap for the wire fencing. With a lot of wiggling and tail flopping, he somehow manages to squeeze himself through the hole of the wire mesh. The existence of three-foot lizards has been confirmed.

And nature does come in different forms. One night I wake up suddenly. While I am still wondering what caused my awakening, all of a sudden, sharp teeth start to clamp down on my big toe. Fortunately, since I am at least half-awake, I am able to jump out of bed like a bat out of hell. The rat is back. Oh my God... it has found my room, and my big toe!

Aruna and the girls who help in Mataji’s cottage have a kitten, so I ask to borrow it for a night. But only for one night—Aruna was bitten on the finger by a rat last week, so the kitten is desperately needed for their rat patrol. Sure enough, no sooner does the kitten enter my room, it starts sniffing out a trail to the bathroom door. There is a small hole in the corner due to dry rot. Can a rat squeeze through such a tiny hole? I ponder. Must be, for when I stuff the hole with stones, I find that the ones on the backside of the door have been moved around. Fortunately, it is plugged up enough on my side that the hole remains blocked. It’s gratifying to know that I can outsmart a rat.

A few days later, I actually see the rat again, in broad daylight. I find it sitting up on the rafter that runs across the rear of the kitchen. Surprisingly, it does not run away, but sits there staring down at me. After all, we have been roommates for a month now.

I look up at him and speak aloud, “Look, I know you won’t believe this, for it does not seem possible that a big person like me can be so frightened by a little creature like you. But the truth is, I am frightened to death of you. Here’s what I am going to do: I will leave you some food here every night. In exchange, I expect you to stay out of my room and away from my path.”

After that encounter, each evening I place a piece of chapati on the ledge, right below where I saw him. Every morning, there is not a crumb left. We have made our peace; I never see him again.

Coming down the path by my cottage one afternoon, I notice a couple of little yellow and black sapsuckers gathering around the bath water drain. I immediately go to work rigging up a small birdbath with clean water. Then I sit by the window to watch as the male dances and flits, spreads his wings, bobs up and down, dances and prances up and down, back and forth. Finally, he flies over the bowl, hovers, and then drops down to the water. He hesitates, then starts to repeat the ritual. I am so grateful that I have time to care for my bird friends. They are so alive and spontaneous.

While watching the birds dance around the water offering, I happen to notice a banana in a jackfruit tree. A bright yellow banana in the jackfruit tree—am I imagining things? In spite of the heat, I immediately go out to investigate and encounter the most wonderful creature. Definitely, a member of the reptile family; the lizard is a sixteen-inch yellow specimen. As I approach it, the black slit of its yellow eye turns toward me. I hesitate, partly because I do not want to frighten it away, but mostly because I do not know if it can jump. Yet, I am close enough to see that it has no claws. Instead, it has a padded finger and thumb like a two-pronged paw. As I watch it, it clamps these pads around the branches to maneuver itself from branch to branch, while curling its tail around the branch for balance. Without claws, I do not think it will be able to travel on ground, so it must stay in the trees. Little wonder that it chose this lovely place to live. But how did it get to this isolated garden? Did it use to live in the thorn shrub jungle that existed here fifty years ago?

Of course, I am thinking his paws are some special adaptation of evolution, so I cannot wait to get to civilization to check it out. Later, in a Hyderabad library, I find a guide to Indian reptiles. My little banana friend is shown in it, but with claws, not pads. So I am eager to contact the Indian Natural History Society when I reach Bombay. I do attempt to phone them several times, but never can reach them. This is not the only time the telephone system in Bombay has inconvenienced me considerably.

That evening I lie out on the roof for a while, but later go to my room to sleep as there is a monsoon storm headed this way. Although my bag is packed and ready, I cancel my idea of leaving tomorrow to wait until the storm passes. I sleep soundly and awaken at the crack of dawn with the most wonderful, fresh breeze blowing over my body. I feel so incredibly cool and comfortable. I tell myself, don’t move, you have absolutely nothing to do today. Although I do not think I fell asleep again, I am able to lie there for hours immersed in the gentlest peace. Surprisingly, when I get up and start moving around, the peace remains. I watch cautiously. What will be the item that carries my mind away. What desire, what expectation, what drama will I find to disturb my peace? I carefully watch my actions and thoughts; I want to stay with this one as long as possible.

The next morning, I get up at 4:00 a.m., so I can catch the early bus to my next destination. I smile as I walk beneath the big letters that spell out “Shanti Ashram” across the archway of the gate. I feel truly grateful for the peace I have experienced here.