The scintillating heat that surges across India in early May will scorch the blouse right off your back, so I plan to spend the hot summer months in the higher altitudes of Mt. Abu. To reach the mountain, right on the border of Rajasthan and Gujurat, I have to cross the major plains of the subcontinent over to the northwestern wing of the country. Since it is rather remote, it only had status as a minor hill station. Some English did summer there, but it was not as popular as Simla in the Himalayas or Ooty in the Nilgiris. However, the former Rajasthani ruler, whom I met in Rajamundry, promised me that I would find plenty of trees there.

So I am off again to explore new scenes, hear new ideas and meet new people. India has never let my curiosity down when it comes to unique encounters. Even the train journey is no exception. My traveling companion is a young man, a Rajasthani—through and through. There are several clues to this identification, but the most apparent is that he tells me that his grandmother has a chest of gold jewelry, which she will gift him when he marries. Only Rajasthani grandmothers will be so flush with gold. He plans to use it to start a business. However, he has several other interests: the most pressing one being how to get me into the sack.

His argument has some merit. He is twenty and has been a virgin long enough. Recounting how he had seen a nude woman for the first time—in an American movie—he expresses his delight and astonishment at this most unforgettable experience. My brain rattles with the fact that, in Indian movies, they do not even allow a kiss on the mouth, yet they do not censor out the nude scenes in foreign films. Contradictions and inconsistencies.

However, my personal ruminations are short-circuited by a juicy story he begins to recount. Several of his friends had a sensual interlude with two Swedish nurses when they had come to Mt. Abu for a two-week vacation. The dear ladies taught the teenagers everything, he insists. Alas, and alack, this orgy took place while my present companion was out of town, so he missed out on all the fun. Now I am supposed to play the role of two young hot Swedes!

I explain to him that I am over twice his age, definitely old enough to be his mother. He insists that does not matter, the Swedish women were at least ten years older than his teenage friends. Besides, I do not look a day over thirty, he insists. Obviously, the boy will not need his grandmother’s gold; he is destined for great success as a diplomat. However, I do manage to resist the flattery.

Then he takes a thick wad of bills from his shirt pocket (carrying money unprotected on the chest seems to be a custom in these parts) and he tells me will be able to hire a taxi to Mt. Abu tonight and get the best hotel. With that, I see I have to change my tack. With a straight face, I request that he please explain to me why I would want to go to bed with an inexperienced baby like himself. Luckily, the comment does calm his enthusiasm long enough for us to reach our destination, where he quickly disappears into the dark.

Since we arrived at the Abu Road train station after mid-night, it is too late to find a hotel, and the retiring rooms are filled. As I enter the station office to get assistance, I read the large sign posted by its entrance:

          For complaints regarding corruption,
          Please contact the Chief Vigilance Inspector
          Rly phone 294, Free of charge.

I feel better already—what can go wrong when I have a vigilance inspector on call? Upon hearing my plight, the railway officer calls the peon, who carries a long string of keys on a frayed rope around his waist. The officer tells him to put me up in the first-class waiting room. I follow him to a large room, where he points out a wooden-plank bed. As he leaves, he demonstrates how to lock the door from the inside to secure myself. From outside, he waits to make sure I lock the screen door properly.

Unfortunately, a few hours later, a loud knocking on the door awakens me. It is the peon with a young German man and an Indian gentleman. They end up talking all night because the Indian wants a job in Germany. Oh well, at least I got a couple of hours of sleep.

On the morning I arrive at Mt. Abu, the sun is sparkling on the mountain top that was washed clean by an early monsoon shower last night. But the next day, I awaken to a wet gray morning. I am disappointed since I know that it usually rains here in the afternoons. If it rains in the morning, what will the afternoon bring? I lament ominously.

I always take a couple of days to find the best eating spots. I tried and nixed the Chinese place the first evening; ketchup on noodles did not get it. The following day, I spot an outdoor restaurant on the main road with a reasonable number of Indians seated at it (in spite of the fact that it has started to drizzle again), so I choose it as a likely place to get good food at a reasonable price. The Rajasthani thali consists of chapatis, rice, kidney bean curry, potato curry, dal and a cabbage and tomato dish—all you can eat. The dishes are heavily spiced, along with lots of oil, typical of north Indian cooking; which is the reason, I prefer south Indian food. However, I am always ready for a change.

The waiters, or bearers, as they are called here, keep coming around offering me more of everything. I take a small second portion of the kidney beans because the new taste is welcome. Then they keep offering me more, until I state, “Gobi bas; aloo bas; rajma bas”—in other words, enough of everything. When they still do not leave me alone, I top it off with a “Khanna hogyaa” [food is finished], while laughing at myself for showing off my minuscule Hindi. If India had only one language, I would have been able to progress past the kitchen-survival stage, but there is a different language everywhere I go. In spite of my protests, the bearers keep surrounding and pestering me, trying to give me more. Only then do I realize they are shining me on because they like to hear my heavily accented Hindi.

The next morning I find myself sitting on top of a holy mountaintop with pouring rain. I heard it several times during the night too. The streets are rivers; the steps from the hotel look like a giant cascading waterfall. From the balcony, I can see the coolies leaping through the streets to avoid being carried away by the current. So I am “in” for the day.

Later in the day, I am able to take off to find the post office and library. Returning from my errands, in the cold and dismal gray, I spot a flame under a big tree. It is a tiny tea shop being run by a boy of about fourteen years of age. I enter the establishment that consists of two benches with a tarp strung overhead. I start to sit down, but discover that the vacant bench is very wet. A farmer, who has stretched out to take a nap, occupies the other. However, upon seeing me, he rouses, gets up, moves to one side, and pats the dry bench to indicate that I sit there. I love these simple people and respect their noble demeanor. Whenever I have the opportunity, I show friendliness to them within the limitations of not being about to speak their language.

Waiting for the water to boil, I have time to look around. An elderly woman, who must be the teenager’s grandmother, is washing dishes. Using the rain water that is pouring from a spout between the roof and tarp, she catches her dishwater, then uses the mud from the bank of the small drain for her scouring pad. The Indians use lots of innovations for scouring pads: ashes, coconut husks, sand or even a dab of mud.

She does not see me until she has finished her task and is drying her hands on her threadbare sari. Upon observing me, her hands go automatically together at her chest in the traditional greeting. Her face is dark and wrinkled, but she has a sparkle in her eyes. I return her greeting.

Anywhere you travel in India you will be able to find exceptional spiritual teachers. Even in little Bimili, in addition to Mataji Souris, there was a Swami Yogananda with whom I had discussions. Not surprisingly, several sages live here in Mt. Abu. Immediately, I am able to find a swami with Oxford English. After an in depth discussion on enlightenment, I ask Swami Maheshananda to clarify a couple of points on karma since I have been unraveling the nuances of its meaning lately.

I ask him, “In the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna states that we do nothing; it is prakrti [creative Nature] that acts.”

He replies, “Now what you do in this life becomes your prakrti [temperament]. It is not that God is ordaining without referring to your past. It is true that it is God’s work, but he ordains according to your actions. As far as Arjuna was concerned, due to his own disposition, he was destined to kill those men. Although it may seem he acted from hidden causes, it was his own actions that led to war. So God ordains according to what we have done in our present life—and our previous lives.

“For example, a soldier has been ordered by the king to fight. As long as he fights, he is not to be punished because he is doing his duty. But once he enters a city and starts plundering the ordinary houses out of his own greed, he is accumulating karma, for he is no longer doing what the king has ordered. So if you do action only with a selfless attitude because it is your duty, you avoid any repercussion, or karma. We are independent only in our reactions: we can be attracted or repelled at what comes our way. However, we are not independent in what the result is going to be.”

Further I question him, “When Krishna shows Arjuna his cosmic form, it is as if the action of destroying the enemy is predestined, that it has already happened.”

“No, not already happened. The cosmic vision was what Krishna had ordained to rid the country of the corrupt Kuru Dynasty. This scene was what could happen, a preview, but it is not a fixed film. Preordination, not predestination.”

I find my discussion with Swami Maheshananda quite insightful; however, the person I really want to meet is Vimala Thakkar. I am pleasantly surprised at the diversity of the women I am have been encountering. Not that women sages are rare here; there have always been great ones who have been revered by the populace. The thing I find most intriguing is their individual uniqueness. Mataji Souris lives in a little paradise that exudes holiness and never leaves her home except for an annual visit to the Ramana Maharshi ashram. On the other hand, Swamini Sharada Priyananda travels all over Andhra Pradesh teaching the texts of Vedanta, while managing an ashram and school of a couple of hundred members.

However, Vimala Thakkar is involved on the national scene, as well as having international repute. I like her ideas and have even written two of her quotations in the notebook I carry with me. “Unless one sees the sanctity of life, the act of living is meaningless.” Well, one could ruminate over the significance of that one for years. The second one is equally pertinent, “To be religious is to be able to see the Whole, and the Wholeness concealed in the particular.”

The first time I heard of Vimala was at a conference for teens in Pondy last year, arranged by one of her disciples. So in addition to her spiritual guidance, she is a preeminent social and political activist in India. She speaks at many political conventions with an orientation to finding ways to unite the country to give security to the physical person and give strength to the inner being. She often corresponds with India’s political leaders. Whether they take her suggestions or not is another matter.

Fortunately, I am able to get her address with directions at the Post Office. The next morning, I get up early to be organized to call on Vimala at mid-morning, the best time to call on anyone here. I do find her at home and, since she has few visitors in this remote area, she seems quite open to take time to talk with me. When I introduce myself, she extends her hand for a hearty handshake, which has a force not foretold by her small size.

She is quite an attractive woman, with a soft countenance due to snowy white hair and flawless bronzed skin, yet her small body has a sturdiness that emanates vitality. Her dress is a simple white sari. I had always thought of her as a student of Krishnamurthi, but I am pleasantly surprised when she tells me that Anandamaya-Ma, mentioned in the Autobiography of a Yogi, also has been a significant influence in her spiritual evolution.

I had met Anandamaya-Ma myself in Bangalore for her eightieth birthday celebration—a very elaborate occasion. One day I was quite elated to be invited to her quarters for the early morning ceremony by two Indian women. Unfortunately, it turns out foreigners were unwelcome. I suppose no one noticed when I entered the room, but at the completion of the ceremon, given each morning by her husband, he came over and virtually pushed me out of the room. Meanwhile, my companions had procured a ride for us in the van that was going over to the auditorium. However, the offer was canceled when the driver saw I was with them. Although I have seldom endured this behavior, people who were discriminated against in so many ways are bound to have some prejudices—so they get to get even.

So those two great streams of the estatically blissful Anandamaya-Ma and the intellectual Krishnamurthi would have to produce someone who is very special. However, Vimala tells me she had other important influences also. “My father was an educated man; he studied law. However, before practicing law or starting a family, he took a two-year retreat to Uttarkasi where he studied Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Christianity and Zoasterism—all the religions of India. He felt that to be a citizen of India one had to understand all these religious theories. My father educated all of us children—that was the wealth that he gave to us. I received an MA in philosophy.”

Then she goes on to say something of her personal spiritual quest, “When it became apparent that I was going to take to the religious life—I suppose I was about seven—my father called me in to have a talk. He told me that I should talk to all gurus and sages, seek their teaching and guidance, but never was I to surrender my freedom to another. So I do not have a guru, nor am I a guru. I have listened to and discussed with many sages. When I first came here to Mt. Abu in the early ‘60’s I had classes with Swami Maheshananda. He teaches the ten major Upanisads.”

“Yes, I have already met him. He seems quite insightful. You were fortunate to study with him to get a good intellectual foundation,” I comment.

“Oh, yes, my classes with him gave me an important education in our classical texts. Then I was a student of J. Krishnamurti. I went to all his talks when he was here in India. For at least five years, I never missed one. Then one day I told him, ‘I understand what you are saying, so I am no longer going to attend your talks.’”

“‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am so glad to know there is one person who has understood.’ He then got up, went into the other room, and came back with a beautiful red rose and presented it to me.”

While we are talking, her secretary has been attempting to make a phone call, but the phone line is still dead after four days.

“Nothing works in India when it’s raining,” I comment.

“No, nothing works in India, period,” Vimala retorts.

“But somehow life goes on; it’s really somewhat of a mystery,” I observe.

“Oh, you’re right. A communist friend of mine from Estonia says he never believed in God until he came to India. After seeing this chaos, where the Government doesn’t function; the Judiciary doesn’t function; everything right down to the phones and electrical current is always out of order—yet life goes on. No one can understand why or how life continues here, in spite of the fact that no one or nothing works. After seeing this phenomena, my friend had to conclude, ‘There must be a God; that’s the only possible explanation.’”

After we both chuckle, she returns to her personal story. “My grandfather, on my mother’s side, was a great devotee of Swami Vivekananda. When we were small, he would take us to Belur where we all received the spiritual blessings of the great swamis there. So I really had these two great spiritual influences from both sides of the family, my father and grandfather.” What a wonderful way to grown up, surrounded by so much love and profound insight—well, it's the land of the "children of light."

Since I am convinced that it is never going to stop raining, I decide I just have to tolerate the out-of-doors as is. So the next day I start around the lake with an umbrella as some protection. However, I luck out, for I have hardly begun my trek when the rain stops altogether. About one-third of the way around the small lake, I encounter a series of small temples and ashrams. Many of which have taken advantage of some natural caves in the granite boulders.

Then I spot a swami right out of Samuel Johnson’s Rassalas. He has ensconced himself in a cave, to which he has added a stone wall across the entrance to keep out the cold wind. Now he is setting the stones to line the path to his cave, and mending some damage from the recent heavy rain. There is something about this scene that brings up some very pleasant memory. I stand there mesmerized trying to allow it surface, for so long that he approaches me.

I smile and greet him. Then I try to tell him he has a pakkha (nice) home, but that’s about the extent of our conversation, due to the language barrier. Since the owner is friendly, I walk up the path to examine his quarters better. Actually, there are two small caves. One has a couple of natural stone benches inside—nice quarter for the hot season. Across the opening of what appears to be a larger cave, a wall of stone and clay provides protection. A small door leads into this one room efficiency. Then I notice that the cave is electrified: One naked bulb hangs a foot above the yellow and green door. Another wire indicates that he also has a bulb inside. I bid the swami good-bye and continue around the lake.

Almost a week later I pass by the same spot to find the same swami still pounding on rocks and heaving them around. He is definitely Rassalas’ hermit, I laugh to myself, for surely I am looking at a mirror. You’re not the only one who cannot sit still for a contemplative life, I acknowledge.
Around the lake, plenty of birds dart and flutter to catch my attention. Soon I reach an area with thicker forest where I also spot a new friend, a yellow bird with a brownish gray and white speckled chest and a rusty head. He is searching for berries along the stone wall between the road and the lake.

My stay at the hotel is going well, for the hotel manager knows some English, so I can communicate my few needs. For some reason, that I have never understood—and probably am better off not knowing—most places here have two faucets in the kitchen. One is designated as drinking water. So I obtain a large plastic bottle and send it down each day for drinking water, although I know it could very well be same water that I have in my bathroom tap. Anyway, one day I need some extra water and run down to the desk with the bottle. At that moment, all the staff—the manager, desk clerk, the cook, the cleaning boys—are all standing around the desk. When I ask for water, the manager takes the empty bottle from me, he hands it to the desk clerk, who hands it to the cook, who hands it to the assistant cook, who hands it to the small boy who helps clean, telling the lad to go get the water.

“I can’t believe what I just witnessed!” I exclaim. This is a scenario in living color of how any task is accomplished in India. Honestly, I have seen a man sitting in a chair observing a worker laying some brick. In Pondy, an overseer always sits at the door to watch the girls clean the rooms in the guest house.

Then there are other cultural encounters. One night I cannot sleep for music blasting over a loud speaker at the polo grounds until 2:00 a.m. Well, at first there was music, then several lectures, ending with one that sounded very preachy, just like someone begging, extolling. It definitely sounded as if they were trying to sell something. It does sound like one, but it couldn’t be a Christian preacher, not in this outback, I assure myself, because the whole thing started out with some Vedic chants.

“What was going on last night that they were blaring noise half the night?” I query the hotel manager the next morning.

“Some program in town,” he answers.

“But what were they talking about during that last hour?”

“Oh, there were several religious functions, that last one was some Christian preacher.”

“Christian...? I knew it.”

“Are you Christian?” he asks me.

“You don’t think I would admit it after last night’s disturbance, do you?”

Will somebody please tell me how that Indian preacher has mastered the Christian intonations so that he sounds exactly like Elmer Gantry?

After a week, the full moon of July appears—it is the full moon that honors the teacher, Guru Poornima. I reminisce that it’s been exactly a year since I celebrated the occasion in Hampi. For the guru’s special day several people are coming here to give a music concert for Vimala. She invited me to join them. Someone has labeled music as the universal language, and I feel that is true. Good classical music of any culture can communicate a full scale of emotions. Not surprisingly, the Indians have even named them. The two musicians are teen-age girls who won first place in Gujurati state competitions in their age group. However, they only play music as a spiritual practice and recently turned down the opportunity to go to Bombay for a professional performance. Vimala definitely approved of their decision.

Before the music begins, she gives a short talk on the value of music in our lives. First, she emphasizes that the strains of music are healing. Since the creation ismade from sound, as well as light, playing and listening to music is a sadhana (spiritual practice) to purify the neurological make-up of the body, that is, to remove the imbalances.

She continues to explain that all sadhanas are for the purpose of purifying the physical/psycho-physical element of the seeker. Enlightenment is a by-product, or a corollary, of that purification. In the case of music, purification comes from both the sound waves, as well as the light inherent in the sound of spiritual or classical music.

When the musicians are ready to play, Vimala reminds us that Indian music is not listened to with the ears, but with the physical body. I seem to catch the knack of listening with the body rather easily. As I relax into the notes of the sitar, I experience that the sounds penetrate right to the heart. I feel grateful to be here today in such an uplifting atmosphere.


I have made a new discovery: thermos cooking. My stomach had begun to rebel against the heavy north Indian cuisine; plus the weather continues to be so bleak that many times I cannot get out because of heavy rain. The idea is great for cooking hot breakfast cereals—with no burnt, sticky pan to clean. The cracked wheat I find in the market here cooks in a couple of hours. I am really enjoying having a hot breakfast on these cold mornings. However, I am leery that my 220-volt coil will hold out with all the use. I doubt I will be able to find a replacement here. For lunch, I cooked carrots with butter and fresh chopped coriander, along with the cracked wheat—no spices. I am spiced out for now.

As the dreary days pass and the mold starts to grow on my suitcase, backpack and camera bag, I find that one of my favorite pastimes is thumbing through my travel guide. I am searching for the nearest place that will not have such a heavy monsoon, yet will be a refuge from the heat. I picked Pushkar as the most likely place.

Before leaving I go by Vimala’s to wish her farewell. After some general talk, I draw her into another discussion about herself. I am always interested in a person’s life story, specially these women who have chosen a spiritual life. It’s noteworthy how the influence of their fathers played an important role. She recounts that when she was only about twelve that she ran away from home to meet Anandamaya-Ma and to ask her for sannyasa, the renunciation vows.

“As soon as I arrived, Amma sent a telegram to father informing him that his daughter was safe in her care. Then she told me, ‘My dear, sannyasa is in the heart, not in some cloth. You continue with your studies. You begin with the heart.’ Then I was put on the next train home to my father, accompanied by a brahmacharini.”

“You were sure fortunate to have the influence of such great saints in your life.”

“Yes, I was fortunate to be born into a spiritual family. I knew from a young age, about six or seven, that I only was interested in the spiritual life and spiritual pursuits. So I was saved from getting involved in, and bogged down by, the world, then having to pull myself out of it. It was much easier this way.”

“I can certainly imagine, but not from first-hand experience. I had never even heard of a life of spiritual pursuits at that age. My life was oriented outward totally: How to make your way in the world—while managing to avoid God’s punishments, of course.”

Later, in the course of conversation, I mention that I had also visited Satya Sai Baba’s ashram, since he is THE Indian phenomena today. I end my observations with the comment, “I am sure some of his miracles are authentic, but I’m interested in transformation—that’s the real miracle.”

“But through your contact with Swami Chinmayananda and other teachers, you must have made some changes in these past years.”

“Well, yes, if you put it that way. I am less unconscious; that is, I am more aware of my feelings, motives, intentions, and inhibitions. Definitely, I am less fearful. Also, I am more conscious of other people and their journeys in life, which gives me a lot of compassion. But I am also aware of all the time I’ve wasted getting carried away with numerous projects, planning to have time for meditation—some day.”

“So now you feel you want to move to a deeper level of experience?”

“Yes, that is true. Yet, I value your concept that meditation includes the whole being—all of life. Intrinsically, I know this to be true; yet I remain hard on myself. I remember Krishnamurti said when he went on walks he never recalled having even a single thought. Whereas, I have so many.”

She replies, “Well, he may not be a valid measuring stick for you. K never studied philosophy. He only went through high school. He had not filled his head with so many ideas and concepts that we need to live in today’s complex world. Remember too that his every need was always taken care of. He never needed to deal with matters in the material world, like yourself.

“Your thoughts are the momentum of all your past physical and mental activities. It’s inevitable that you have many thoughts.”

“I have been aware that Krishnamurthi was always taken care of. It is true he did not have to work one day of his life. You’re right; he’s not really a model for someone like me, who will have to work to support myself financially for the rest of my life.”

“He was unique,” she remarks reflectively.

“Unfortunately, that book has recently come out about a long-term affair he was carrying on with his manager’s wife.”

“Yes, it is unfortunate. If there were any charges to be made, they should have been brought out while he was still alive, so that he could refute them.”

“That’s true, but there are stories that, when crossed, Krishnamurti could be ruthless. These sexual scandals have been a common occurrence with India’s holy men in the Western countries, although many are kept secret. I think this book brings out what has been bothering me about these situations. I have thought about this guru/sex thing because I want to be open. I do not want to be run by any puritanical conditioning.

“However, I have concluded that there is always another person involved. Shouldn’t these teachers be aware of the guilt—and just plain confusion—this secrecy is causing in their partners? Anyway, if they are seeing everyone equally, as the scriptures say an enlightened person does, why do they always pick the youngest and prettiest?”

Vimala laughs, but declines to make any further comment.

After a few moments of silence, I mention that in spite of the chaos, corruption, contradiction and just plain filth, India still continues to produce saints.

“You are very perceptive to be able to make that observation. In spite of all of India’s negativity that is so overwhelming, her spirituality is one great treasure that she continues to give to the world.”

“In spite of it all, that treasure endures,” I agree with her, as I get up to leave.

I feel truly grateful that I have met three special teachers—I consider Swamini Sharada that Priyananda is a sage, Mataji Souris is a saint, while it seems that Vimala Thakkar is actually both. Nevertheless, they all gave me the same personal advice. They say silence of the mind is the most important sadhana. Vimala told me, “It is the exposure to the silence that loosens the grip of the conditionings on the brain and leads to their becoming ineffective. It is the period of total silence, or non-movement of the mind, that activates energies lying dormant in us.”

India does continue to produce saints in spite of contradictions and inconsistencies—or maybe it’s because of them.