| Vishakapatnam
sits right beside the Bay of Bengal. I find it an impressive place—clean,
quiet, cool—good possibility for a sabbatical. Actually, it could pass
for a European city on the Mediterranean. However, I catch the sight of
a nude sadhu, adorned only with a dab of gray ash smeared on his
penis, strolling down the main street. Thereby, I am informed that, indeed,
I am in India. Here’s a poignant example of the individualism I had
mentioned previously. I even find an air-conditioned restaurant where I have a great lunch. The little bowls of assorted vegetables and dals, plus yogurt and dessert arranged on a round stainless steel thali (tray) taste like ambrosia. I don’t particularly miss good food when I don’t have it, but I really love it when I do—especially since the opportunities have been fo few lately. My next stop, Bimili Beach, is only a one-hour bus ride the following morning. When I reach the large tree that serves as a bus stand, I ask for directions to the Souris Ashram. A quarrel promptly ensues between a rickshaw driver and a coolie as to who will take me there. Fortunately, the vendor in the near-by banana stall interjects his advice. He opines, since it is only two blocks, the coolie is the logical choice. I follow the slim dark man with a rag wrapped around his head to cushion his load down a narrow lane. Then we turn onto a broad street that runs along the beach where he stops in front of an utterly wonderful sprawling house that faces the sea. Is this an ashram? There is no sign, not even the usual placard with the house name. When the coolie pushes open the gate, I find myself in a little whitewashed paradise, surrounded by a tropical garden. This is not your usual ashram, but an airy and spacious house, built around an open inner court. I arrive at about eleven o’clock to find Mataji Souris already eating lunch. My first impression is that she is a sweet woman of about fifty-five years of age. Her tiny size and dainty manner give her a certain childlike quality. Her thick salt and pepper hair is pulled back in the traditional braid. “Hello, I am Nancy.” I greet her as I put my offering of bananas and mangoes on the table. “Yes, I know; I recognize you. I got your card, so I was expecting you,” she replies in a calm, yet chirppy voice. Thank goodness, she speaks English well, I note. She is dressed in an immaculate white starched cotton sari. White glass bangles cover her arms half way up to her elbows. These bracelets appear to be her only adornment. “I think you will want to go to the bathroom,” she breaks the awkwardness of my just standing there gawking while she is in the middle of eating. “Yes, that is a good idea.” By now, I know how to freshen myself quickly by just pouring a few cups of water over my head, arms and legs. Although plenty of Indian women will not eat a bite of food after traveling until they have had a full bath from head to toe and put on clean clothes. I have not taken on that injunction. When I return, Souris immediately takes on the role as hostess. She informs me, “You will have to wait a few minutes as the girls want to make you a vegetable.” No matter whether you are a guest in a palace or a mud hut, your “food” will always be a primary concern. “Thank you, but tell them I am totally adjusted to Indian food, so I don’t need anything special.” “You even eat chilies?” “Yes, I can, although I prefer a mild dose.” “Here we use very little chili powder. They put in a bit for flavoring.” “Good, that’s fine for me.” After lunch, I join Souris as she sits out on the verandah answering her correspondence. In spite of the approach of high noon, the long shady verandah across the front of the house is breezy and cool. I sit taking in the environment with a quiet observing mind. A couple of house sparrows twitter and hop about the bushes. Many people disregard the sparrows, but I enjoy the little fellows with their white collar and black bib. After all, they are the first to come to a feeder or to build a nest in a human’s yard. I never saw a sparrow at Shanti ashram; it must not be civilized enough for them there. Here in Bimili, we have the regular crow instead of the jungle crow, and lots of them. I watch one bringing sticks to a small tree beside the veranda. She is building a nest just when the worse heat is setting in. Five days later, she is still busy with the task, but the jumble of sticks continues to grow. After a short time, I begin to feel sleepy. The gentleman sitting beside me has already nodded off. I get up to stretch my legs by walking up and down the veranda. Before I know it, I have wandered down the steps to check out the garden. Ah, I see a small pond with white lotus flowers holding their delicate treasures above the water. Souris must be truly a lady after my own heart. I feel enchanted as I walk through the narrow paths of the garden, lined with deep pink oleanders that sway against the blue sky. Soon Souris retires for her nap. After washing clothes and piddling about, I go for a walk on the beach since fluffy clouds have bestowed us with a shady afternoon. When I return, I check my laundry only to find out that crows have dirty feet. Several crows had landed on the line my clothes were hanging over (no clothespins) while I was out. The two ladies who tend to the cooking and cleaning were watching me as I hung my clothes where the crows like to sit, but no one said a word. One cannot tell another, specially a guest, that they are doing something wrong—or stupid, as the case may be. After I rewash the clothes, one of the women shows me a place to hang them under the veranda, so they will be out of crow territory. Every morning Souris is up by 6:00 a.m. to watch a video of an Indian dance or music on her 24" color TV. I find that it is an enchanting way to start the day. After tea is served, Souris goes to chop the vegetables for the salad, so I go up on the roof to do my daily exercises to keep my body in shape. When Souris goes back to the prayer room to arrange the flowers from her garden, I sit with her and watch, as this is my only time alone with her. I enjoy watching someone do something consciously and clear-mindedly. Then it is also good practice for me to watch someone doing something I think I do well, without interfering, giving advice, or butting in. Daily she makes several fresh arrangements to decorate the dining table and prayer room. After a couple of days, I begin to use the opportunity of this time alone with Souris to talk to her. While she is arranging the flowers, I explain to her that in the U.S. I was always too busy and too involved with projects to make money to survive to meditate regularly. My plan was to save money and come to India with the purpose of serious sadhana (spiritual practices). At the same time, I wanted to do some purposeful activity. Although I had the idea of being involved in some service project, the editing of a spiritual magazine published in Bombay has been somewhat of a substitute. “The activity part has worked out okay, for I have enjoyed the editing, Otherwise, things have not worked out as I planned. So I guess you could say that I have given up on the idea of getting enlightened.” “In the end, everyone must give up the desire for enlightenment,” she tells me, sweetly and wisely.” “Yes, that may be true, but I gave it up in the middle.” She laughs at my observance, but makes no comment. Well, I am not one to fool myself. I know where I am at. I have lots of ups and downs. I have noticed several photos of the great Indian sage of this century, Ramana Maharshi, framed and hanging on the walls of the prayer room. His name, which is a bestowed title that means “great sage,” is reserved for the great rshis of yore who wrote the Vedas. The fact that he has been given this appellation means that even the most orthodox consider his wisdom and attainment equal to those rshis. So one day, I ask Souris, “Did you actually know Ramana Maharshi?” “I did not know him, no. No one really knew him,” she replies. “I understand what you mean, but did you ever meet him?” “Oh, yes. But I never spoke to him, nor he to me. I just went there and lost myself.” I remain silent. After a moment, she continues, “Then really there was nothing to say, nothing to ask.” She pauses again. “No, nothing at all. One or two times I did have a glimmering of a question I was considering asking him. But every time another person would ask the very question I was thinking about. So any questions I had about sadhana were answered that way.” “And your father went with you?” “Oh, yes. He went, although he was a radical. Of course, my father was no saint; but he was a sadhak [truth seeker]. He lived in total freedom as he saw it.” “I’m beginning to wonder if even enlightenment is in one’s destiny,” I reflect. “You see we are already enlightened, but to know it! Actually, it’s such an easy thing, yet so difficult. Just as when we see a flower it looks so simple, but what it went through to sprout up through the hard dirt and develop and grow, such a struggle to bring itself to the beauty of its full flowering.” “So many teachers say that after enlightenment, it’s all joy. But from my limited observations, it simply can’t be true.” “Even joy is a quality of the mind. If you go beyond the mind, what is the meaning of joy?” she counters my comment. “Many teachers say if you are practicing faithfully, surrender the ego, or selfish desires, then all good will come. I think it is all just a golden carrot for us donkeys,” I continue. “But surrender, real surrender, is not easy. If you have truly surrendered, again, you are beyond the mind. Then what is the meaning of good and bad? But even so, you have to act as if there is good and bad, otherwise you will get hurt and you will hurt others. That’s why traditionally the true spiritual knowledge was only given out to disciples who had passed rigorous tests of discipline.” “But I still wonder if enlightenment is part of one’s destiny. Can one really accomplish anything by self-effort?” “No, you are wrong there. Self-effort is beyond destiny. Only the mind and body are bound by karma [results of action]. Ramana Maharshi says that self-effort develops will. Self-effort and will are both independent of karma [action],” she instructs. “I guess I lack self-confidence. This whole phenomenon is so contrary to the Western mindset. Even though we may think we have understood, it’s not the kind of understanding that comes from living saturated in the belief that you are a divine being, as in the culture here.” “One must have tremendous faith,” Souris interjects. “Oh, I really do have faith in the system; faith that others have made it to the goal. But no real confidence that I can. I think that doubt somehow keeps me from making a total commitment.” Souris used the word “karma,” which has variations of meaning that makes it difficult for the Western mind to comprehend. The word karma is the noun form of the verb root for “to do.” Therefore, its simplest, and most common, meaning is “action” or “work” or “performing a ritual.” Again, karma is referred to as cause and effect, or the inevitable result of the actions. To act is the nature of mankind—no one can exist without action. However, we can choose the attitude from which we act. A result is built day by day with the actions we take. If we lay our bricks haphazardly, a wall cannot be straight. If we lay them consciously, the wall will be stable. It is simply ludicrous to think that the Indians are passive because of their theory of karma. The Indians are not passive because of any religious theory; they are too practical for that. They are passive because they have been invaded for the last 2,000 years by armies that had more powerful weapons than they did. They found out a cannon does not distinguish between a good guy and a bad guy. While living in Souris’ paradise, we do have an occasional interlude with the outside world. People are always sending her video tapes they consider to be interesting or informative. One afternoon we watch an ordinary Swedish film with English subtitles. The story is basically about the disintegration of the life of a European family with the extra touch that the daughter falls in love with her mother’s lover. I do not think Souris would have understood half of it if I had not been there to interpret between the lines for her. The world it portrays seems like an alien planet in this peaceful little kingdom by the sea. On Sunday I am elated to find out that they watch the regular Indian classical movie. The movies are in the various vernaculars, but with English subtitles. Of the non-commercial genera, the plot is always a sensitive and straightforward portrayal of an aspect of Indian life, usually with some social comment or criticism. The directors are the true artists of the cinema here, but Sunday TV seems to be the only place to view their creations. Since I have not been around a TV in a long time, I am honestly looking forward to the treat. But my pleasure is cut short, only thirty minutes into the movie, the electricity goes out. No problem, Souris has a Honda generator. Just as they start it up, the phone rings. The local hospital is calling. They were in the middle of an emergency surgery when the power went out, so they need to borrow Souris’ generator. Well, that’s that. It is rural Andhra Pradesh, the power will be off for hours. I take off for a walk on the beach. As I look out over the sea, memories of past beaches flutter like beautiful butterflies through my mind—oh, it is a splendid sea. Heading north, I discover an old dilapidated mansion, which puzzles me. There is a wall around it and a lock on the gate, so I pass on. Then I find an old British cemetery, also locked with a chain and padlock. I continually find remnants of the European presence even in remote spots. As I turn around to leave, I notice an old woman inside who is sweeping and cleaning, so the gate is slightly ajar. When I squeeze through the small opening, the woman looks up and sees me. She starts to say something, but then turns and returns to her work. Maybe she realized we would not be able to understand each other. I love to read old tombstones; they tell so many stories. Most of these graves are those of small children—and young wives; one large headstone contains a list of sixty men who were lost at sea. Undoubtedly, they were young men coming over to seek their fortunes. When I return to the ashram, I ask Souris about the deserted mansion. I should have known; it was a summer home of one of the former Andhra rajas. After Independence, he did not have the funds to keep it up, so it is just rotting away. She also informs me that during World War II, this Raja allowed American soldiers to bivouac in it while guarding the Indian Ocean from Japanese attack. As for the European population who now rest in the cemetery, they were plantation owners in this area, which was once a major producer of jute, made from hemp. Hemp (marijuana) has many commercial uses, other than getting high. If you see an antique book without yellowed pages, they were surely made from hemp. The current reformation against the planting of hemp has eliminated our best source of paper and unnecessarily caused the destruction of too many trees. Back in the old days, the British used to plant controlled substances such as marijuana and opium without compunction. In China, they even fought three wars against the Chinese Emperor’s edict to prohibit the importing of opium--The Opium Wars. An American author, who was attached to the Embassy in Calcutta, told me, “The Brits did use these substances, a few quite heavily, but it was not common in most areas. The habit was not socially sanctioned, yet the users were not ostracized by their social group.” After several days when I am alone with Mataji, I take another opportunity to speak of spiritual matters. “When did you become a serious spiritual seeker?” I question her. “You see, I always was. Even as a child I was always trying to figure things out. The world seemed quite grotesque to me, yet so fantastic. It was like a Disneyland to me. They thought I was mad; that is, everyon except my father. I would walk into walls and even beat my head against the wall. I never wanted to do the things other children did. “Then when I was ten, I experienced a major change. I had been naughty, some childish thing, I suppose. But to punish me, they locked me in my room. I was screaming and crying and crying. Suddenly, I noticed a spider on the wall. I became totally absorbed in watching that spider weaving its web. I became so interested that somehow my mind and body disappeared. Then, when I became aware of myself again, I started crying again. ‘Now that was strange,’ I told myself: ‘In that absorbed state, I was not crying.’ In that state, there was no sorrow or suffering; yet, no joy either. Of course, I became fascinated to know what that state was. “I was always trying to figure these things out, but I kept it to myself. By the time I was fifteen, I had understood that it was not just the body that was the obstacle; it was also the mind. You see when I was a child, I was trying to break out of the physical body when I was hitting my head against a wall. Now I realized you still have a mind. So I went on thinking about these things. I could not even go to school because I had terrible migraine headaches all the time,” she pauses because the cook has brought a couple of vases and a bunch of flowers from the garden. She arranges them neatly on the table, then continues, “Then an administrator from one of the schools met me. My father was the deputy school inspector, so she must have come to our home to speak to him in that capacity. When she saw me, she asked my father about me. Then she told him that I was destined to be a saintly person and have an ashram, so he was not to be bothered about my schooling. Further, she told him that I was not to get married, so not to pressure me in that regard either. That woman was like a guardian angel who appeared right in my home. Her words helped me a lot to be able to establish my independence,” she smiles as she leans back to view her floral creation. “Since my father was a writer, we had a very literary household. Often a variety of authors and even classical musicians would visit him. In those days he was an ardent agnostic and a cynic. He even wrote against the gods, and wrote so many criticisms of the Indian society. Then one of his friends insisted that he go to see the ‘great’ sage, Ramana Maharshi. My father was not really interested; to him it was just a trip—almost a dare. But somehow on that trip Ramana Maharshi touched him deeply. Father brought me back a book from the ashram. We read it together and tried the methods Ramana suggested. I did everything my father did. Really, he was such a friend and guide to me. Unfortunately, I did not have much luck with the method at that time because so many thoughts would cloud my mind. “I was ready to give it up. I decided I was going to try the practice the meditation just one more time. That day, alone in my room, Ramana Maharshi actually appeared to me. You would call it a vision, but it was so real it was as if he was right there with my eyes open, so that I could actually touch him. From that moment, my true sadhana began.” Souris pauses and looks down for a moment. Then she looks at me with a soft smile so radiant that I know that even she has been touched by the memory. I feel so connected to her and so honored to be with her in such an open manner. “So on my seventeenth birthday, as a gift, I was taken to meet him in person. I was so over-whelmed then and there, that I lost myself and sat in samadhi [divine ecstasy] for hours at a time. You cannot imagine what a beautiful soul he was. I never wanted enlightenment or anything like that; I only wanted to be loving like he was. He always loved everyone equally. When you are love, you only see love. That is what I wanted.” “Interestingly, that is what a Christian father I met last year also told me. It’s easy to forget some 2,000 years later that the concept of love was really the basis of our Christian teaching,” I interject. “One can not even imagine the love that emanated from Ramana. When we returned to Andhra, I carried on with my sadhana privately because my family said that I was going to be a parasite, and not amount to anything. Not my father, it was my aunt, who was the head of the household because she ran the family business, a hospital. So for the next ten years, I suffered because I wanted to be with Ramana. However, he did continue to appear to give me specific guidance. He told me, ‘You do not need to come to me, for I come to you.’ “During most of that time, I had to work every day because my aunt died unexpectedly. Then we all had to pitch in and help out at the hospital to keep things going. Finally, my father decided he wanted to retire and be near Ramana, and my mother was quite agreeable. So we packed up and moved. But by that time Ramana was quite weak. We only had six months with him before he died.” I sit with wonder at this remarkable story from this gentle woman. Seeing her now it is hard to picture the hardships she must have gone through in her past. I have noticed that in U.S. there seems to be a tendency to use the meditation and/or the spiritual quest to insulate oneself against the blows of life. Some even tend to put a lot of time and money into creating a comfortable environment to fill up the senses: candles, incense, cushions. The amount of paraphernalia now available for a simple exercise like meditation may indicate that we are indeed seeking comfort. One does not get such luxuries here in India. You get a straw mat and a stone floor. The quest is direct confrontation—with yourself and the hard world around you. If you want to make your day longer get up at 5:00 a.m. Even though I go to bed early, the day still stretches out forever. At Shanti Ashram I had a library of books to keep me company and to escape into. Here I have none. Little things become more significant. A highlight of my day is when the milk maid arrives every morning with her big buffalo to deliver the milk. Tagging behind them is a week-old buffalo calf. Surely, all baby animals are adorable, but for me the baby buffalo is the cutest of all. After a couple of days, the milkmaid notices me admiring the baby, only then do I dare approach it. I did not want to upset the mother and have her kick over the milk. But mother, baby and milk maid, all seem to accept my presence. I am quite happy on the days when the weather is good, so I can go out and walk along the beach. However, on stormy days, I have a lot of time alone in my room, a small unadorned shady space. From the window of that little room on the roof, I watch the palm fronds waving frantically in the wind. Is the wind disturbing their peace? I question myself as a reminder of what a peaceful mind is really like. One evening after the meditation hour, I am sitting with my mind and body in a restless harangue. God, it's an effort to do nothing, I observe with a sigh. It seems like the stiller I am, the more my mind runs. In the past, I have had a tendency to roll along, just assuming everything is working out in my life, since I constantly try to be clean and clear in each experience. Suddenly, I seem to be paddling down the mind river on a mission to analyze every event in my life. I feel totally tired—of everything: wind, sea, sun, sitting, standing, eating, and definitely tired of lying on this hard cement floor with only a thin straw mat as a mattress. Although this house is considered an ashram, it is quite different from the two ashrams I recently stayed in. Those were large complexes supported by donations from wealthy businessmen, although augmented by income from a residential school in one case, and fruit orchards in the other. However, this place is owned and operated by Souris’ personal funds, inherited from her family. It is really her personal contribution to the world. Two gentlemen are staying here for a year or so to be able to work on a writing project. Some dozen guests, usually an entire family, come and go during the week that I am here. Definitely our days whirl around Souris’ interests. One afternoon a neighbor brings by a video of her son’ s marriage ceremony for Souris to view. The Indians continually and unmercifully impinge upon the time and good-nature of spiritual masters to watch their children’s dance or music performances, and even their wedding ceremonies. When Mataji invites me to join her for the viewing, she mentions that she thinks it will be of interest to me from a cultural standpoint. She is right, for the ceremony, as well as the preparations, is unique in every area. “I will watch part of it, but you never know how long an Indian wedding will be. Some last for days,” I reply hesitantly to Souris’ suggestion. I may be bored—but not that bored. “Well, yes, this one did last for at least eight hours, but we can jump forward through some parts and just watch the important moments,” answers the practical Souris. I seriously doubt this is the first Telugu wedding ceremony she has witnessed on video tape. The drama starts at the engagement party in which the bride is presented with saris from all her major female relatives. Then she presents a coconut to all the guests. The tape then skips several weeks, or months, to the actual wedding day. For the first step, the bride is carried to the groom’s house for the ceremony in a special basket conveyed by her eldest maternal uncle, who holds pride of position in many Indian castes and communities. The bride is wrapped in a bright red sari. A red bridal costume seems to be the norm everywhere (except in the state of Kerala). When she arrives, all the female in-laws sprinkle the bride with rice, then her mother, sisters and sister-cousins repeat the ceremony. Then the scene switches to the men. The groom is honored by having his feet washed by the bride’s father. Thus properly purified, the groom and bride smear sandalwood paste on each other’s forehead. Then they spill a large plate of rice over each other’s head, to symbolize prosperity in their union. The bride then washes the groom’s feet. She must have already had a ritual foot washing because then the groom places toe rings on her feet. Afterwards, he hangs the mangala sutra, auspicious thread, around her neck. This thread symbolizes the invisible thread that binds them in their growth toward becoming one in a harmonious life. Next, they exchange huge garlands of jasmine. Throughout the ceremony, the priests are chanting appropriate mantras and incantations. In the middle of the ceremony, a veil is put up to signify the preparations are over and the vows will now be taken. Souris explains that this is a modern innovation, for in the past, they put up the veil in the beginning of the ceremony. The marriages were totally “arranged,” so that the bride and groom never saw each other until they repeated their vows. In those days, the first time the groom saw his new wife would be via a reflection of her face in a large brass plate filled with oil. Since Andhra remains rather provincial, a high percentage of marriages are still arranged here. Nowadays prior to the engagement, there is a formal meeting between the potential players in the family drama geared to produce progeny and wealth. The girl can refuse a suitor—but not too many, or she will be labeled undesirable. Only in Andhra Pradesh does the bride receive the toe rings from the groom. Elsewhere they are worn only as decorative jewelry. I love wearing them. However, my wearing them here has created a problem because everyone thinks I am married. Naturally, they want to know where my husband is, and how he is getting along without me. I am happy to report to them that all men everywhere are getting along great without me. Daily, after Souris finishes her correspondence, nap and afternoon bath, she sits out on a daybed on the veranda. Gazing out at the deep blue sea, she allows herself to disappear into peace, just as the waves vanish into the turquoise abyss. The waves rise and fall, rise and fall; the waves are only the sea itself, manifesting in a fleeting form of rising and falling. As darkness blots out our lovely twilight, a moon that is nearly full emerges from the dark whirling water. The moon is connected to both the ocean’s waves and the mind’s waves. The moon causes waves in large bodies of water; the moon causes ripples in the little watery pools of our minds. I recall that the Babylonians used the same word for both moon and mind. I must think about that one some more. After dinner each evening, we all gather on the cool veranda for music. A couple of instruments are brought out for Souris to play. Some people are just created to be lovely, to adorn the creation. Souris is surely one of them, I think, as I sit in the fresh evening air, listening to Souris’ soulful singing. After she performs, the rest of us join in singing a couple of bhajans. After the music, we sit quietly for another thirty minutes. Then we catch the end of the news on the TV. Souris seems to keep an ear tuned to what is going on in the outside world. I note that women run all the last three ashrams I have visited: three very different women. Not surprisingly, all of them have created a unique environment that suits their own personality and talents. I like this flexibility in the “religious” hermitages here. It is also noteworthy, that I have no rules or regulations imposed on me in any of them. I am free to come and go as I please; attend services or not. The environments are meant for one to unravel to reveal their own innate divinity—there are many paths to the One—and I have to find mine. Time passes slowly with Souris; languid smooth days come and go. She is truly sweetness and silence personified. The Zen adage, “sitting quietly doing nothing, spring comes and the grass grows” definitely fits this lovely lady. Nevertheless, the day arrives that I am set to leave. In my note to her, I mentioned I would be staying for ten day. I stick to that time frame, since there is no reason to change it. Souris is a good role model of living in a peaceful state. At a blink of an eye, she seems to enter a space beyond time with its fluctuating realities. She has found her peace and contentment in her little home here, but it is not my life. My home is in my being. My silence is in my mind. My peace is in my heart. I am not going to find them anywhere else, I tell myself as I bid Souris farewell. |