The plains of Andhra Pradesh are getting hotter and steamier, so I plan to escape to the mountains. I will have the advantage of the cooler altitude, plus the rainy season, which definitely hits the mountains harder than the plains. My chosen destination is Arraku Valley. I cannot wait to see it since I have been told by some people that Arraku Valley is the loveliest place in the world. Yet, just as emphatically, others have insisted there is absolutely nothing there. As it turns out, we can assume that the first group must have never been out of Kurnool (Andhra’s podunk).

After I settle into a hotel in Vishakapatnam from which I can take the train to Arraku, I make myself a huge tropical fruit salad for a late lunch. The fruit here is so sweet and delicious, especially the huge juicy red-orange payayas. Then I take a rickshaw out to visit an ashram on the beach. After greeting everyone, I settle on a huge gray granite boulder by the sea, enjoying the breeze, listening to the ocean murmuring its eternal melody, and kind of meditating on the expansiveness of it all. I have never lived close to an ocean, so having time to enjoy it here has been a new experience for me. I feel content to sit under the shade of this huge pipal tree, listening to the soothing sounds the ocean. The life of the ocean has such patience. The waves crashing constantly, pulling in one direction then the other, yet the seaweed and anemones remain soft and flexible, bending in one direction, then the other, then back again. They never seem to complain about the vicissitudes of life. Suddenly, I notice the sun is low behind me; I must have been sitting here for over an hour. The shady tree and huge boulder are the best means to enjoy the beach, I decide. No itchy sand and no burning sun.

Since the sun is low, I opt to walk back to town along the beach and catch the wonderful twilight. First, I have to pass through a fishers’ village that is spread along the beach for at least one-quarter mile. Here I have my one and only bad experience with villagers. Actually, the fisher people are a class, or caste, of their own. Like every other caste, there are myriads of varieties according to their language and region. Since fishing is an early morning enterprise, the men have a tendency to sit and drink liquor—palm tree home-brew—in the afternoons. Marketing is the female domain. Harsh and strong, the women often carry the fish to market in huge heavy baskets. I have encountered several on the suburban trains of Bombay; they brook not an ounce of consideration to anyone. They sit with their baskets spread out in the standing-room only sections as if they owned the train.

It is rare for the fisher-caste children to have any schooling, although there was a public school in one village I visited south of Madras. I was told even though the education was free, no one attended. However, the school officials got smart and offered a free lunch, then all the mothers sent their children for school. I see no evidence of a school here, but there are plenty of children. A couple of the men yell out to a group of children playing in the sand to ask me for money. I just play and joke with them until we reach the outskirts of the village where I figure they will turn and go back.

Unfortunately, an elderly man joins the band of rag-tag kids. He has with thick gold loops in his ears, which is quite out of place here, and seems slightly mad. He eggs the children on, so that they start pulling on my clothes, even grabbing at my purse, and demanding money again. I motion for them to leave me alone, but to no avail.

Finally, I stop and look the man straight in the eyes. Even though I am sure he will not be able to understand a word of English, I figure at least I will have my say. “You are a very mean man. Teaching these children to beg and harass a woman is a very bad thing.” Lo and behold, the man and the children back off and turn around, leaving me in peace. I wonder what they thought I said. Anyway, I heave a big sigh of relief and continue on.

By now, even though I am only a mile from the main Vishakapatnam Beach, there is not a soul to be seen in any direction. The beach is quite clean of any debris or trash, so the crumpled heap of cloth ahead is quite noticeable. It appears to be the shape of human body, but a large driftwood log is partially covering it. I disdain approaching as I pass, but I do turn and look back to make sure. Yes, the shaved bald head of a male is quite visible from this direction.

When I reach the public beach area, it is working alive with people. Fully dressed, the local populace is not here to swim, but to eat snacks and to mix and chat with friends in the fresh cool sea breeze. I look around for a policeman, but I do not find one until I am leaving the park. When I ask him to report the body, he tells me he cannot leave his post. However, he does give me the correct telephone number for the police station, which is a great help.

As soon as I return to the hotel, I dial it immediately.

“Hello,” a male voice answers.

“Sir, do you speak English?” I inquire.

“Yes, Madam, I do. How may I help you?” the officer asks in a most elegant tone.

“I wanted to report that I saw the body of a dead man on the beach. It is probably about two kilometers east of the beach park.”

“Did it appear that it had drifted in from the sea?”

“Yes, that is what I thought. But I did not approach close enough to get any details.”

“Yes, madam. We will surely check into it. May I know your phone number, in case we have any other questions for you.”

I give him the hotel number without mentioning I will be up and out of here by 5:30 a.m. in the morning. I have learned to avoid complications.

I arrive at the train station early to purchase a ticket. “No first-class bogey on the Arraku train,” the ticket collector informs me. So the ticket only cost $2, I console myself. The 6:45 train finally leaves at 7:45, which could have meant we would be one hour late. In the event, we arrive three hours late. En route we encounter a lot of “goods” trains. They are carrying ore from mines in the mountains and have priority on the single track. The passenger trains have to pull over and wait on the side tracks whenever these trains approach. Needless to point out, these delays are not figured into the time schedules. Neither is the fact that the 6:45 train always leaves at 7:45, according to a couple of regulars on this route. Time is such a nebulous commodity here; no one seems to notice the delay.

A fellow passenger tells me that the easiest place for me to find a room is the Railroad Guest House. I had written for reservations at the Forest Guest House, but ominously did not receive a reply. I am now informed that the Forest Guest House is in another section of town, several kilometers down the road; further, there are no taxis there, not even rickshaws.

Heeding sensible advice, upon arrival, I go over to the Railroad Guesthouse, but there is no vacancy. I decide I better eat soon, as I already have a slight headache from having a breakfast of fruit, then no lunch. This is really the outback; there was not even a tea vendor at the tiny stations along the way. When I ask some Indian tourists about a place to eat, a young college student volunteers to conduct me to the best place, and also to carry my suitcase. In addition, he informs me that I am lucky. A few days before the train had been stuck in a tunnel for several hours due to a power failure, so the train did not reach here until 5:00 p.m. Sure makes it seem that I am lucky!

The “best” restaurant turns out to be the mud shack variety. Sitting on a bench at a rickety wooden table, I order the banana-leaf special—the only choice. Meanwhile, an elderly swami has spotted me and is hovering by the door waiting to accost me when I leave. I detest eating under such circumstances, so I order another special for him. Evidently, he prefers take-out, as he simply folds his plate and hobbles off. I had not realized that he was crippled.

Since the only way to get to the Forest Guest House is by bus, I place myself by the roadside, waiting for its arrival. After a short time, a young nun walks by on the opposite side of the road; she smiles and waves at me. Since I am still waiting when she returns, she crosses the road to speak to me. Since I have already experienced being waylaid by several Christian proselytizers, I remain rather cool and distant at first. Nevertheless, it quickly becomes apparent that she is simply being friendly.

When I relax, we fall into an easy conversation. As she is leaving, Sister Ancy Thomas asks me where I am staying. When I explain my situation, she replies, “Oh, if you have any problem, you can come stay with us. You will see the sign for the Nirmala Sisters just up the road on the right-hand side. We run an infirmary for the villagers there.”

I thank her, explaining that since I had written for reservations a month in advance, there should not be a problem at the Forest Guest House. “In any event, come by and visit us while you are here,” she turns to go.

Eventually, the bus arrives and I find the guest house. Problem is it sits about one kilometer from the highway. By the time I reach there I am dead tired from carrying my suitcase, which seemed small until I had to lug it up a hill. The combination of being tired, not eating on time, and the high altitude are getting to me; my head is pounding. My heart sinks as I approach what is the smallest guest house I have ever seen—two rooms max. Realizing that I may be in a predicament, I fall into the chair on the verandah to rest for a few minutes.

Before I really have time to recuperate, a dignified, middle-aged gentleman appears and asks me what I want. I explain that I had written for a reservation and hope that there is a room available. He informs me that there is definitely no room here. In addition, he assures me that writing for a reservation mean nothing because the forest officers have first choice; moreover, there is no one here to receive correspondence. I assure him that I had known that; therefore, I had sent to the letter to the nearest district office. As he struts down the walkway with a young man tagging behind him, I definitely sense that he is one of the “Officers” that I heard about in Kaikalur and Maredumalli.

After I finally gather my wits about me sufficiently to walk back to the highway, someone advises me that up the next road is the Roads and Buildings Guest House; perhaps I will find a room there. Unfortunately, no room is available there either, as the place has been taken over by an engineer from Hyderabad on holiday with a prostitute from Vishakapatnam.

Interestingly, they are both quite open and honest about the situation. I do not know if she is the typical prostitute here, for I believe this is my first encounter with one. Although Bombay and Calcutta are notorious for their women of that trade, this particular woman looks like a normal Indian housewife, nylon sari and all.

In spite of his obvious preoccupations, the engineer is quite helpful. He volunteers to drive me around to see if there is any hotel, as he wants to see the sights of Arraku too. He remarks that so far he has been unimpressed with what he has seen. So away we go, his assistant in the front with the driver and the three of us stuffed in the back seat—Mr. Engineer between the two women. It is difficult for me to comprehend why a noted tourist spot does not have a hotel, but we find no sign of one.

By the end of the trip, the pounding of my head has turned into a genuine headache—a bad one. So bad, that I end up behind the Roads and Buildings Guesthouse throwing up in the zinnias. Afterwards, the lady offers me a drink, for it has become common here for the business class to partake of alcoholic beverages. I have a difficult time convincing them that I am not the normal American lush, but they do finally allow me to settle for a plain sparkling water. As we sit out in lawn chairs, I try to appear to be joining in the conversation, but I am really trying to figure out what I am going to do. I think of little Nachiketas’ words, “I’ve been sent to hell, what good can come of this?”

With head splitting in two, I finally declare, “I am going to throw myself on the mercy of the Sisters at the convent. After all, they do have a clinic.” The engineer volunteers that his driver will drop me off there, so I bid them farewell with as much profuse thanks as I can muster in my condition.

Keeping my focus on each move that I have to make, I slowly drag myself up the path to the dispensary, now closed since it is after 6:00 p.m. Fortunately, one young nun, who is strolling in the garden, sees me, so I explain my situation to her. Before I know it, I am inside the dispensary lying on a simple cot, surrounded by four dear Sisters who are totally concerned about my condition. Dressed in their clean gray frocks with white aprons, they seem like little angels. In the end, they decide I must have an injection for the headache. I do not feel the need for such an extreme measure, but they are sure this is the right thing. Afterwards, Sister Daisy, the manager of the retreat center and supervisor of the kitchen, comes over. She wants to bring me some food.

“Oh, no, please. I will not be able to keep down a single bite.”

“Oh, but you must eat something. You will not be able to sleep without food in the stomach.”

“Well, yes, I will. You see, we Americans don’t know that one cannot sleep without food, so we sleep just fine without eating.”

“Is that so?” she laughs, half out of self-consciousness.

The next day I am back to normal (well, almost), but spend a relaxed day hanging around the quite cool confines of the dispensary. The two nurses, Sisters Takala and Adelaine, are passing out rice and ground soy powder to a group of tribal women who have assembled in front of the dispensary. I note that the burlap bags are printed in bold letters: Product of The United States of America. I muse for a moment over the incredible distance these bags have come to be here in this obscure mountain village. Of course, it does feel good to know that the food has arrived here, thanks to charitable Catholics in The United States of America. What is that place anyway? God, it seems so far far away—not just in miles.

I ask the Sisters if the natives know how to use the soy powder, since it’s definitely not a staple in the diet here.

“Oh, they will just add it to their other dishes or put it in their babies’ milk,” the Sisters assure me.

Then I inquire how the tribals here feel about getting a handout. Sister Adelaine assures me that they are so poor they will take anything. In fact, they are quite ingenuous in finding ways to make money off the system. One nearby village has been electrified three times now, they inform me.

“How can that be?” I question, recalling that bribes are required to get power connected in even a residence.

However, the nuns tell me that a government program gives electrical power to all the tribal villages, in this area anyway. In the village they were speaking of, the electricity was installed, but, eventually, the government official in charge was transferred. At that time, the men disassembled all the transformers, wiring, poles, light bulbs and sold them in a large town. Then they complained to the new official that they were long over-due for electricity as promised. So they got all new equipment—until another new official arrived a few years later, then they repeated the scenario. I knew that milking of the system in rampant by those on the top in all the government projects, but this was the first time I had heard of those on the bottom using it.

That evening I volunteer to help in the kitchen. Sister Daisy is under a bit of pressure since the convent is in the middle of a retreat for about twenty young aspiring nuns. When they have time between classes they help with the food preparation and clean up too. Since she is from Kerala, Sister Daisy immediately recognizes my mundu/vesthi, two-piece sari, which is only worn in that state. I have fun impressing her with my half-dozen words of Malayalam because no one else here knows a single word of her native language.

One afternoon I get an opportunity to visit a small tribal community. I accompany Sister Ancy Thomas, the nun who had invited me “to visit,” and Sister Vincinte, the leader of the retreat that is now in progress over to a small botanical garden. After we stroll around admiring the abundant flowers that are flourishing in this cool climate, we walk over to the little tribal village beside it to visit a young woman known to the Sisters.

As we enter a narrow lane, I see a row of one-room huts with thick mud walls, which are only 3-feet high. However, the peaks of the thatched roofs are some 10-feet high, then nearly reach the ground. The Sisters tell me that the Government gave all of the tribal families in this area a plot of land and 1,000 Rps. [$60. U.S.] to build their homes.

Halfway down the lane, we enter the hut of the friend, who happily greets the Sisters. After a few moments, my eyes start to adjust to the dark, smoky environment. First thing, I notice a bundle on the rope bed. Just at that moment, the young woman goes over and picks up a tiny baby.

“Only a few weeks old,” Sister Vincinte informs me. After we admire the baby, the Sisters ask her about her husband’s job, for he is been having a problem finding work.

While they are talking, I take a look around the hut, about 16' x 20', which is ample space for three people by Indian village standards. The thatch of the high-pitched roof is stained black from the smoke from the indoor wood hearth, used for both cooking and heating. I do not see any sign of a chimney. Since we are at a high altitude with freezing winters, I ask if they get cold in the winter. Sister Ancy Thomas translates the young mother’s reply for me. She says the low-hanging roof is especially designed for this climate. In the summer, it gives shade from the hot sun and keeps out the cold wind in the winter.


On Sunday I am elated to learn that the Sisters watch the Sunday morning broadcast of the epic, Mahabharata. The serial has been playing for at least a year, and is still going strong. The major drama is enacted on a battlefield, so it is definitely not a passive piece. But quite a piece it is, over one hundred thousand verses, twice as long as Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey put together.

This epic is the history of mankind; more than that, it portrays the heart of humanity. It contains all the worldly, moral and spiritual knowledge gleamed from the ancient sages. However, the truths are interwoven into a portrayal of history, so that it can be understood by the common people, in contrast to the terse obscure verses of the Vedas. Even so, legend has it that when the gods actually weighed the traditional Vedas on a balance against the Mahabharata, the epic came out as heavier—in wisdom, of course.

I have been watching the program now and again as I travel through the country in homes and in ashrams. I even saw it on a train station platform as I traveled through South India. Since it is performed in North India’s Hindi language, with English subtitles, I was probably the only one there who understood it. However, even if they do not comprehend a single word, everyone knows the story. The characters are alive in the soul of the Indians.

Set in a tense moment in India’s history, the narrative centers on the dynasty of Bharata, the progenitor and first king of the Bharatis—sons of light. At that time in history, the kings and armies were divided between two descendants of Bharata, who are both vying for the throne. One represented dharma, or the moral, ethical power, whereas the adversary represented adharma, or the negative, egoistic forces.

I particularly enjoy it because it is full of small details of the religious traditions. We do not know how lucky we are with Moses’ meager ten commandments. The Hindu lawgiver, Manu, gave each caste hundreds of injunctions. All men are not created equal. Being the more evolved intellectually, the higher castes have many more responsibilities and duties than the lower castes. Aside from their many responsibilities to the king and society, the Brahmans are instructed how to conduct all of their worldly duties, right down to the details of their personal life: how to bathe, when to bathe, how to eat, what to eat, when to eat, even regulations on defecating. Actually, the intricacies of their code of laws indicate that they were much more evolved than the peoples of the Western world. Only a very conscious people could carry out these rules. Moses did not even have a hope that the Western barbarians could carry out a measly ten rules—and I suppose he was right.

Not a rupee was spared for the weekly television serial. Every episode is a visual feast for the eyes. All the actors are decked out in silks, satins and heavy jewelry. I do not know where they found the fellow that plays the Lord Krishna’s part. Krishna was supposed to have loved butter—his movie representative is truly a luscious buttercup! I have sure never seen anyone like him in the streets of Bombay. Whereas beautiful women are countless here, handsome men are a rarity. Perhaps this is a cog that keeps the arranged marriages rolling. I do not see much promise for liaisons based on sensual attraction to the men here.

While on the subject of Indian males, I will also mention that the men here were never told that “men (or big boys) don’t cry.” Throughout the epic, the men shed tears and demonstrate affection among themselves. In general, the Indian men are physically soft and flexible, evidence of the development of the feminine aspect. I even noted these same characteristics in their mentality, especially their sense of humor. In a magazine article in which I wrote on the elephant god, Lord Ganesha, I gave the Indian male a good cut. I commented that the middle-aged Indian male starts to resemble Ganesha-”pot-bellied and thick-skinned.” Rather than taking offense, they loved the criticism. Wherever I travel, the men only seem to comment on that one article, telling me how they enjoyed it.

Whoever believes that ancient India was bound by male chauvinism and caste should be aware of the role of Satyavati, a fisher’s daughter, in this epic. On her commands revolved the fate of the world, for she was the mother of the two most powerful men at that time, Sage Veda Vyasa (he was illegitimate) and the elder of the clan, Bhisma. The sons were duty bound to obey their mother’s orders, even though they personally thought another course would have been better. However, Bhisma did refuse her command to break his vow of celibacy to sire an heir to the throne. In his refusal, Bhisma put the traditions before the general good of the people. In the end, even Bhisma realized, times were changing; people had to change.

The “cream” of the epic appears approximately in the center. Lord Krishna, the Divine Incarnation of that era, gives out a discourse to the warrior, Arjuna, who is distraught at having to fight in a battle in which he will have to kill his own cousin-brothers. This discourse, seemingly for the buoying up of Arjuna’s spirits, is called the Bhagavad Gita (Song of the Lord), and is the cornerstone of Hinduism as it is practiced in today’s world. Its wisdom has been known and admired by many Western philosophers, including the Americans, Emerson and Thoreau.

The time had come to fight the prince and protectors of a throne who were not following the path of dharma. The many duties of a ruler are clearly laid out. His first concern is the welfare and prosperity of the people. Arjuna had been preparing for this battle against the adverse forces for over ten years. He had even journeyed to the heavenly realms to acquire some dreadful weapons.

First Lord Krishna reminds Arjuna of the down-to-earth, sensible reasons that he should fight the war. When Arjuna remains in doubt as to his duty, in verse after verse, Krishna extols the knowledge of action and non-action, that is, desireless action. Further, he explains, if the truth be known, it was actually the Lord himself who would be destroying the wicked. Just in case Arjuna does not get it, Krishna backs up his words with a cosmic vision in which he shows Arjuna that his evil cousin-brothers are being crunched in between Krishna’s teeth.

“So, you see,” explained Krishna, “I am the slayer. I have chosen and prepared you as my instrument for this awesome task. However, never fear. If you should decide you are not up to the challenge, I will find someone else to do the job.”

So Arjuna fought his battle—and won. In those days the good guys still won.

The actor who plays Lord Krishna in the serial was not just chosen just for his physical beauty. He plays the role, including the lengthy discourses, exceptionally well. I have to wonder how playing these historical and spiritual parts affected him and the various other actors and actresses. Sometimes even uttering divine words can initiate a flicker of remembrance of one’s own divinity. The Vedas say that this knowledge was inborn with every human as a birthright, so on occasion we can get an unexpected glimpse of the truth. As soot covers the light of a lantern, ignorance covers the light of our divinity.

Not only does the presentation have the power to influence the actors, it also impacts the minds of those watching it. The characters are real people who are torn by struggles, contradictions, compromises and dilemmas in facing life and searching for the right thing to do. As one watches week after week, the characters are powerful archetypes that come alive in one’s psyche. I can assure you that everyone in India wept the week that Bhisma was mortally wounded.

The entire production is exceptional, a real credit to the creative talent in India. The dialogue, music, sets, costumes are memorable. They have truly produced a masterpiece to guide and enlighten mankind.

When I express surprise that the Christian Sisters are interested in this treasury of Hindu thought, the Sisters explain that this epic is their Indian heritage. Naturally, they are interested in their country’s wisdom and wonderful sages. I do recall that when I was staying in a Jain ashram, several wealthy visitors went through a big rigmarole to have a TV brought to the ashram on Sunday, so they would not miss a single episode of the serial. Again, they felt Krishna may be a Hindu god, but the epic is their country’s ancient history. How old? Some scholars claim that it mentions stellar formations that date it some 10,000 years ago.

Sister Vincinte, a published author, introduces me to one of her associates. Sister Corona Mary has just completed a book on the subject of women, specifically using Mother Mary as a model. She develops the thesis that as a fully liberated person, Mary serves as a symbol of a true Christian. In an insightful overview of Mary and the Hindu goddesses, she shows how they are all players in of the Divine dream that portrays the dignity and destiny of humanity. In appearance, Sister Corona Mary is a gentle petite woman, but the historical research in her book proves her awesome intellect. Definitely, both she and Sister Vincinte are shining lights among India’s feminine spiritual leaders.

Since I do not want to continue to impose on the good graces of the convent, I have no place to stay. In any event, I am finding Arraku has very limited possibilities for my explorations. Nevertheless, I am so thankful to have met the Nirmala Sisters. Getting to know these special women has been the only viable experience of my four-day visit. I feel that with their openness, flexibility and intelligence, they bring a new light to Christianity. After inquiries, I decide to proceed farther into the mountains—although no one is sure what I will encounter there.