I arrive back in Pondy during the full bloom of the loo—hot winds from the west. This is where I began my journey over a year ago—and I stayed for three months, so I am in familiar territory. I go through the usual hassle at the bus station to find a bicycle-rickshaw driver who will charge me normal rates. They really make a killing here with the foreigners arriving daily. Sometimes I give up and climb into one of the jitneys, the tiny local buses, but it’s very uncomfortable due to the crowded space with a suitcase.

The inconvenience is short-lived, and I am delighted to be back home—at least that is how Pondy feels to me. Pondy fills my Soul. It has good food for the body, friends for the emotions, libraries for the intellect, and quiet vibes for the spirit. I have often thought, if I ever get to retire in India, Pondy is the only place where I can possibly be comfortable enough physically and stimulated enough intellectually.

I go straight to the Cottage Guest House. Although I have not written for a reservation, I know there will be plenty of rooms available in this heat. The visitor population slows down considerably in the summer, but Pondy sustains me even when it is too hot. I always feel good when I arrive back here. It continues to be a comfortable home base for me. However, even quiet sane Pondy is caught up in the commotion of Rajiv Gandhi’s assassination.

I just have time to shower before having a hearty and healthy lunch at the ashram: brown rice and dal with vegetables, served with lots of fresh yogurt—yogurt is cooling to the palate and stomach. Afterwards, I head for my friend Usha’s home to let her know I am back and to find out the latest news from her.

Fishermen on Pondicherry beach

Her new servant answers the door and lets me in. I am hardly inside when Usha calls out the strangest greeting: “They already know that it was the C.I.A.”

Usha’s mind always works faster than mine. “What was the C.I.A.?” I question.

“Rajiv’s assassination. They know that the C.I.A. was involved. The belt that held the explosives was so sophisticated, it could have only come from the U.S.”

I do not relish finding myself in a position in which I feel compelled to defend the C.I.A., especially in a third world country. Merely commenting, “Well, what will they come up with next?” I leave the “they” nebulous on purpose. I must be understanding; after all, I remember all the rumors around the Kennedy assassination.

It turns out that the “sophisticated” belt had been stitched by a tailor in Madras with one of those non-electric-sewing machines, which is operated by a foot-pedal. The tailor had custom-designed the special pockets to insert the explosives obtained in Singapore. I somehow glean from all the accusations, attacks and counter-attacks that the woman who wore that belt was a Tamil Tiger. She had managed to get close enough to Rajiv to detonate it by offering him a huge flower garland.

The Tamil Tigers are a group from Tamil Nadu who settled in Sri Lanka during the last couple of centuries to be used as indentured field workers and house servants to the native Singalese populace. The Tamilians were not treated well by their masters; not even the masters deny this fact. Eventually, the laborers developed a social consciousness and a group identity. The fact that they had been segregated and allowed to live only in restricted areas facilitated their ability to organize. They began clamoring for a separate state for Tamilians within Sri Lanka, which incited some armed confrontations with the masters. Therefore, quite a few Sri Lankan Tamils are now living in refugee camps back in India—in Tamil Nadu the home of their ancestors.

No on-site arrests were made at the assassination scene. Fearing a second explosion, the four hundred policemen hired for extra security had taken off running for cover the moment they heard the first blast. However, the authorities were able to determine the accomplices almost immediately. The Tamil Tiger boss had sent a photographer to obtain a record of the event. As fate would have it, he got too close and was blown to smithereens too, leaving his photographic record behind.

The Tamil Tigers objected to the Congress-I Party because they backed injunctions again shipping of weapons into Sri Lanka for the Tamil terrorists to use, but that still does not seem reason enough to prompt a kamikaze woman with a belt of grenades to kill Rajiv Gandhi. Since I am now in Pondy, I do see a newspaper and the TV news occasionally, but there is total silence on why? When I question anyone about it, they act as if I do not know what I am talking about-—like the Tigers do not have to have a reason.

I do not find out the answer until months later when I am in Madras and spend a day with the Nambiars. Mr. Nambiar explains that since the Tamil Tigers were using weapons shipped from India, the Sri Lankan government pressured the Indian government to take some action to alleviate the dangerous situation. So one bright day, a unit of the “Indian Peace Keeping Force” shows up in Sri Lanka for a shoot out with the Tamil conspirators. An unusual problem arose when the Tamil Tiger terrorists used women and children to make a line of defense. The Indian army had not planned for this contingency, and just blasted through them, killing many—too many—of them. Evidently, video footage of the carnage exists, so it could not easily be forgotten.

“They were military men, carrying out a military action. They were not sensitive to the situation. The police units are trained to handle such a predicament, but not the military,” Mr. Nambiar concludes.

“So it was Rajiv Gandhi who ordered the unit of the Indian army to Sri Lanka to round up the Tamil terrorists?”

“Well, since he was the Prime Minister at the time, he was ultimately held responsible.”

Here is another aspect of Indian politics that will floor you. If this does not prove that India is riddled with contradictions—nothing will. The Congress-I [Indira] Party is begging Sonia Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi’s widow, to step into the high position of the party. An Italian woman, who never really wanted to live in India in the first place, and definitely did not want her husband in politics—this is the best candidate for the Prime Minister of the world’s largest democracy? It seems the Nehru Dynasty must prevail.

Even old timers of Congress-I are shaking their heads in disbelief: “How can they call this a democracy? Where has such a thing happened in the West?” When Sonia eschewed the offer, the party bosses considered putting her daughter into power. Fortunately for India, she is only seventeen, so no such foolishness was possible.

It’s blatantly obvious to everyone, including Sonia, that the Congress-I politicians want to use her as a ploy to keep in power. The Indian peasants love a hero/heroine, and she can get votes for them. Actually, this was how Indira Gandhi got her start after her father, Nehru, who died of old age, was followed by a successor, who died in office only a year later. The party bosses thought Indira would be their perfect “yes-woman.” However, I never understood why. While Nehru was still Prime Minister, Indira had single-handedly destroyed the Communist Party in Kerala in one short week right under her father’s eyes. However, everyone else seemed to be surprised when she turned out to be no party puppet. However, some did object, so the party split. That’s why the main Congress Party now carries the supplemental “I” for Indira: Congress-I.

To all appearances this Sonia insanity was contrived just so the party bosses could have a patsy to manipulate. Strangely, while it is the real reason, it revolves on an interesting tradition. Here’s the real enigma. Read slowly because you are not going to believe what you are about to read, but I assure you it is true.

Today, in male chauvinistic India, when the husband dies, his widow inherits his job. A widow has no other means of support; there is no insurance, social security or welfare. Her husband’s company is obligated to help her, whether he died on the job or not. I understand that sometimes a son can take over the position, if he is of age. I have no idea how long this practice has been in place, but it is an accepted practice today. Banks, factories, corporations, both private and public, honor this custom. Obviously, if hubby was a corporate head, the wife will not move into that position, but will have to take a lower position as a clerk, something more in line with her talents.

One of the wonderful Sunday classical movies, filmed in Bombay, portrayed such a situation. A gentleman who worked in an exclusive corporation died at a young age. After his cremation rites, his widow showed up to claim his job. The management was surprised to see her, which indicates a lot of women do not chose this option.

She did not have the particular talents that his job required. As a matter of fact, she had never held a job and had never intended to hold a job. Things went topsy-turvy because it was an all-male company—a strict policy. However, the management accepted that the tradition of hiring the widow was the greater of the two choices. So the story unfolds as the sweet, young widow carefully and charmingly works her way into a place of respect in the company.

A more poignant example occurred when Indira Gandhi’s youngest son Sanjay was killed in a plane crash while he was an M.P. (Member of Parliament). His wife Maneka wanted his job. In her eyes, his position, although he was publicly elected, was still her rightful inheritance from her husband. She and her illustrious mother-in-law, Indira, who was Prime Minister at the time, had a total falling out on the issue. Since Maneka was not even the minimum age for parliament membership, Indira won. Then she immediately appointed her other son, Rajiv, an airline pilot, who had no political experience or aspirations at all, to take Sanjay’s place—no election. Decidedly, a more democratic move.

Indira personalized and centralized power. Neither had her father Nehru been known for delegating power when he was Prime Minister. Now no government official will move without a whip; they are afraid to. Rajiv was not that type of leader; he was not really “Indian." He received his primary education at the American Embassy school in Delhi and was sent abroad for higher studies. He did not understand Indians or their culture; you are far enough into this book to comprehend that understanding Indians and their culture is no small undertaking—but you can't do it living behind four walls . When he was Prime Minister, Rajiv attempted to de-centralize power. However, by his time, corruption among the politicians was so rampant that it was difficult to find anyone worthy of responsibility.

Today, the pertinent questions remains: Why is a political party behaving in this manner? What happened to the definition given again and again in their Mahabharta: good government is equivalent to what is best for the welfare of the people. To understand why Congress has no allegiance to such an aspiring goal, one has to understand the origins of the Congress, formed in 1885—because it was never meant to be a political party with an ideology.

No one will deny that native Indian lawyers and industrialists conceived the Indian Congress for the explicit purpose of improving their financial prospects. All of them had been educated in the English systems of education. At first they were not particularly interested in Independence; they would settle for dominion status. They simply wanted a bigger share of the money that the British were making in India—enough to pay the Viceroy five thousand times the wage of the Indian worker. In England the Prime Minister made only one hundred times the average wage. The business of Empire was very lucrative.

The radical Congress member, Bal Gangadhar Tilak, became fed up with Indian Congress’ lack of attention to political goals. In 1914 he formed the Home Rule League for the expressed purpose of obtaining Independence. He wanted to get rid of the British entirely and establish a nation on the basis of Hindu culture. His ideas and techniques paved the way for Mahatma Gandhi’s movement. However, he was imprisoned for six years from the late 1920’s and early 30’s, a crucial time in the Independence movement. He died of ill health shortly after his imprisonment.

When Mahatma Gandhi came along and provided the new techniques, which reached the masses, Congress bosses welcomed Gandhi with open arms. They never would participate in Gandhi’s requisite daily spinning, not even Nehru. Nor would they spend a night in Gandhi’s ashram, which they dubbed a mad house. A more telling fact is that none of them were included in the famous Salt March. Gandhi carefully chose the participants and put them through an intensive training in the technique of satyagraha, adherence to the truth.

This point is too often forgotten in light of today’s politics. The Indian Congress party is a group of wealthy attorneys and industrialists out for their own good. This must be the key to how the British Raj became the Indian Raj.

Gandhi must have sensed the direction Nehru was going when he became Prime Minister. Shortly before his assassination, which occurred exactly one year after India’s Independence, Gandhi wrote a letter to the Nehru and Patel stating that the Congress had been an organization to achieve independence for India. Now that goal had been accomplished, they were to disband the Congress. They were to create political parties along ideological lines. Evidently, they did not agree. That letter disappeared, but it did surface in an old file several years ago.
Over spicy hot tea, once we get the news of political tamaasha (melee) out of the way, Usha is quite eager to learn about my adventures in Andhra.


“You know me, I’m fickle. I thought I was looking for enlightenment, but actually I was looking for the best cup of tea. I found all I need to feel blissed out is a great cup of tea—tea samadhi, I call it,” I teasingly report to her.

I met Usha on my first journey to India ten years ago. Usha was my constant companion when I spent three months in the Himalayas with Swamini Sharada Priyananda. Usha is an incredible person, very intelligent and extremely intuitive. However, her life in the world has been riddled with ups and downs. Recently, she has had another big change in her life. She is now working at a factory, the only job she could find. She is the quality control inspector in the leather goods department. With a job, keeping up a household, and caring for an eight-year-old son, she really is overwhelmed. But evidently not everyone thinks so.

She reports that she just had guests: three swamis and one of their students who teaches yoga in Bangalore. The student knows Usha’s estranged husband Hari. When Hari found out she was going to Pondicherry, he requested that she carry a toy to his son Vibhu and gave her Usha’s address. Big mistake.

The four of them landed up at Usha’s without any prior notice expecting free room and board for their four-day visit. Usha said she kind of protested by saying that there simply was not enough room. Never mind, she was told, they could sleep on the straw mats on the living room floor. And Usha had to provide their food too.

She gets used on the home front too. Usha’s maid’s sister has been in the hospital with inexplicable high fevers. The family did not feel she was getting proper care there, so Usha was delegated to go over to the hospital daily to charm the doctors, which she does quite well. Due to her suggestion, the sister is getting some drips (intravenous feeding), as she has not been able keep food on her stomach for days.

In addition, her dobhi’s (washerman) daughter is getting married. He has asked Usha to select the gold earrings for her wedding day. Usha cannot refuse him. In the first place, a low-caste dobhi would be too intimidated to walk into a jewelry store. Then he would have no idea what to select. These tasks are typical ones that any housewife customarily performs for her servants. In Bombay, a friend even gave her cook gold jewelry for his daughter’s wedding. I do not think that is unusual in the homes of the wealthy.

When I returned from Chintapalle, I carried a big bag of orchid plants with me that I had collected from branches knocked down in the rainstorms. I had planned to send them to a friend in U.S. I had already verified that I could mail them without any agriculture inspection problems since they do not grow in soil. Unfortunately, I had not calculated how much it would cost—over $30.00—one month’s rent at the guest house. I had to look for an alternative plan.

As it turns out, Suzanne, an American woman, is in the process of creating a garden in one of the compounds of the Aurobindo Ashram, which is composed of buildings that sprawl in and out of the streets of Pondy without rhyme or reason. I soon find myself behind one of the high white walls that I pass daily, tying orchid plants to the trees. This is not the weather for transplanting anything, especially plants from a cooler climate. However, every living thing seems to be a “survivor” here, so anything is possible. To help them along, both of us go by several times daily to mist them with water spray. Six months later when I am back in Pondy, I check in on them and find several have survived, happily sending out succulent roots to attach themselves to the bark of the tree. However, several others probably will not make it, they are looking pretty shabby. I feel a certain inner jubilation at having brought some beauty to this little garden.

A lovely sea breeze makes the evenings tolerable, but the days are difficult. Even in the mornings, I have to sit with a wet towel wrapped around my head and a fan whirling overhead as I catch up with correspondence or work on editing. The towels here are lightweight cotton, not thick terry cloth, so it’s rather like a scarf. I even wear the wet towel turban when I have to walk the block to the dining hall at high noon. Even though, I still carry an umbrella.

On my way, I stand amazed that even this one-block distance is a clutter of India life. First, one has to cross the drainage/sewage ditch that used to serve as the boundary between the French and the Indians. It seems the current officials have at last decided to cover the ditch with a thick cement top. For some reason that necessitates the removal of all the old slime, gluck and moss, which put off rankest odours. As expected, a team of untouchables, half of them women, are doing the dirty work. They are digging out the sludge with the standard bent shovels, then piling the muck on the usual metal bowls, then putting it on their heads to carry it off somewhere. Forgive me for not investigating where, for a young woman, who slipped and nearly fell into the black goo that lines the ditch, has attracted my attention.

I think, well, it will be nice to be able to breathe, instead of holding my breath, while crossing the bridge—but again I am applying logic where it just does not fit. The engineers left an open strip several feet wide on each side of the bridge, so the pedestrians can still get the full benefit of the reeking odours that reinstated themselves promptly after the sludge removal.

Just past the bridge all the green coconut water vendors are lined up right across from the post office. They do not have many customers now, so they are sitting beside their little pyramids of green coconuts and chatting. I have to make a wide detour around their bicycles that are piled up, blocking the road.

These days there is a new addition to the scene, for the postal employees are on strike. There are no pickets or picket lines. They have put up an open pandal (tent) and are lying in its shade. They are flopped about like puppies, with arms and legs spayed out across one another. The young men have a tendency to be very touchy, huggy with one another. It bears no sexual connotations, yet it requires a mental adjustment of my Western-formed mind to witness. But the world transforms to clean and white as I reach the tall fence that surrounds the dining hall, one of the mansions left by the French.


One morning I meet M. P. John on the street corner on my way to the library. He is quite an interesting person who is a Communist and Syrian Christian, that is, the Christianity believed to have been brought to India by St. Thomas. It was in existence in Kerala when the Portuguese arrived. M. P. John was the minister of a Syrian Church here in Pondy, but was finally ousted for his liberal views. Now he writes some pleasant nature poetry and produces a spiritual newsletter, which expounds his own opinions.

“Come,” M.P. John invites me to his home. “I was up early this morning and I just whipped out my editorial. Come and see what you think.”

I follow him through a trim gate and up the stairs of his son’s home. M. P. John had scored a nice profit on some property he obtained when the French left Pondy. He used the profit to help his son with a business and purchase of a home, in which he now has his quarters.

After I recount a few of my adventures in ashrams, he mentions that, although he admires spiritual renunciates and realizes the importance of their role in the world, he is dedicated to an ideal of doing something positive for humanity. He is particularly interested in bringing up the consciousness of the common man who dissipate their energy and creativity in fighting wars. He feels that manhood is in a natural evolutionary process that, although automatic in some respects, the process requires each individual to make a decision to take the next evolutionary step for himself.

He goes on to explain, “You see, my true interest is the evolution of humanity. The reason people lack satisfaction, even though they may have fulfilled all their needs, is the lack of a goal in life. Therefore, their needs keep expanding to keep them from facing the stark realization: All this material stuff really means nothing.”

I mention to him that I have been reading Swami Rama’s Living with the Himalayan Masters. Although it was written about renunciates, it concurs with his observations. I go on to explain, “Towards the end of the book, Swami Rama asked his Guru, ‘Is it possible for a man in the world to get freedom from all conditions of the mind, or does he have to live in the Himalayas his whole life to develop powers such as yours?’

“The Guru replied, ‘If a human being remains constantly aware of the purpose of his life and directs all his actions toward the fulfillment of that purpose, there remains nothing impossible for him. Those who are not aware of the purpose of life are easily caught by the whirlwind of misery.’ Those are certainly pithy words to ponder,” I observe.

Because of my meeting with M.P. John I missed breakfast at the dining hall, so I go over to the cottage restaurant. Happily, my favorite table is empty, the one that looks straight out over the garden and a gigantic mimosa tree. I sit watching the soft breezes paint with sunlight and shadows on its smooth trunk and lacy leaves. Yes, for me this lovely nature is all I need to be centered—
something between a smile and a prayer. I observe again and again that being in nature seems to connect me to my most expanded open quiet self. I begin recalling how I loved nature as a child. I can still vividly remember some specific trees and flowers, a bird’s nest, bees buzzing in the wisteria, a circle of toad stools.

Some years ago I had had the insight that it was time for me to expand my horizons and experience more of life. I have certainly done that. In my journey, I relish some encounters and kind of skim over others that I tend to classify as ordeals. Now I am thinking that for me the crux of the thing is to experience each incident of life consciously. Whether I am swatting a mosquito or admiring a butterfly; trudging through the hot sun or refreshing myself with a shower; reading a holy book or studying a train schedule. The ideal is to be totally present in each moment. The experience of sitting here relishing my breakfast of steamed rice cakes and coconut chutney, while taking in a lovely mimosa tree seem to contain all the meaning I need. Perhaps I will never have a “purpose” in life toward which to set my compass.

It’s not that I have not given it careful consideration. For years, I have been reading and studying: Is there meaning to life? The more I’ve learned the less I know. My mind is beginning to rebel from so much knowledge. Especially the heady pseudo spiritual books written by western scientists. In the first place they already know the Upanishads knowledge, so their expertise is founded on that ancient knowledge. Their concepts are just words, not something that they arrived at through their own experiences. On the other hand, Usha devours this stuff. When I went over for dinner one evening, she showed me the book Quantum Questions, mentioning that it is quite good. “I’m sure it is, but I have no quantum questions. Frankly, at this point, my only question is: When do we eat?” But I honestly do keep reading and studying—and pondering.


On the other hand, one thing I particularly enjoy about Pondy is that I get to socialize with friends who speak perfect English. Actually, English is their “first” language. For example, Usha’s family was from Kerala, so are Malayalam speakers, but worked in north India, so they learned Hindi. However, Usha was educated in English, so even though she speaks Malayalam and Hindi, she only reads English and Hindi well. Besides Malayalam, she speaks the other three south Indian languages of Telegu, Tamil and Kannada fluently because she has lived several years in the corresponding states of Andhra, Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. Her language skill is typical among the upper classes. Also bear in mind that all of the five languages mentioned above have an entirely distinct alphabet and script.

Unfortunately with her busy schedule, I seldom get Usha out of the house. Another friend Shanta is more available and is also delightful company. On the beach road, the Sea Face Restaurant is my favorite spot to hang out. I love the large balcony where we can view the setting sun shimmering though the tall palms and catch the comfort of the cool sea breeze. Besides they have the most scrumptious Manchurian cauliflower dish. Sitting with friends, good food and a tall beer, I feel totally complete and satisfied, as if I could not ask any more from life at this particular moment. My mind is full; my heart is full; my life is full. Is there more meaning than that to our existence?

One morning, Usha’s servant delivers a note from Usha stating that she just quit her job—another crisis. Of course, the job was great pay, but very demanding. I am sure working for an Indian male would be challenging in any case, but she is working for a north Indian male—worse still.
While I was in Andhra Pradesh, she took a break: a trip home to Kerala to visit her parents. Her mother is undergoing serious surgery and her father is in ill health. Although they did help with her wedding ceremony, afterwards, they hardly communicated with her, then total silence after her separation from Hari. She thinks they are now communicating with her because they found out she has a little extra money—information that they could only have gotten from her.

Anyway, while in Kerala, she got the bad news that her parents had sold the family home with its 30-acre plantation of mature coconut palms and cashews. Usha’s dream was to return to that land when she got her share of the inheritance. So that security blanket is gone. And I do think we need security blankets in this Kali Yuga.

In Hindu terms, the life on the planet is not in a process of evolution, but one of de-evolution or darkening of consciousness. The creation started with Krta Yuga, or the Golden Age, in which Vishnu incarnated as a wise sage to teach both man and gods the highest knowledge of the Vedas. We can assume the degree of degeneration that occurred because, in the second yuga, the Treta (Silver), he took the form of an emperor to destroy the wicked. In the Dvapara (Copper), he incarnated as Vyasa to codify the knowledge of the Vedas into four sections with various branches. At present, we are in the Iron Age, or Kali Yuga, which will end with the incarnation of Vishnu as Kalki, translated as “a headless rider,” who will clean up the planet and restore everyone to the path of dharma (righteousness). Since we now are in the Kali Yuga, the Indians often dismiss any trial or tribulation with “It’s the Kali Yuga.”

It is amazing to me that the Indians, who have neglected dating any history, have gone into the divisions of time like no one else. They started with a split second (one beat of an eyelash), then ended with numerous categories of time up to the cycle of yugas. The four yugas are repeated seventy-one times to make one period of Manu. At the end of fourteen such Manus, one kalpa, that is, one day of Vishnu, is completed, then a deluge occurs when Vishnu sleeps for the period of one kalpa, his night. When he awakens, the creation begins again with the same cycles repeating themselves. Well, that’s timelessness, Indian style.