I will have plenty of time to find India’s Switzerland since it is still morning when my train arrives in Beawar, the nearest large town. After inquiring the direction to the bus station, I set out on a short jaunt that turns out to be much longer than I had anticipated. The route takes me right through the middle of town, past the parade ground. I find it crowded with school children since it is India’s Independence Day. I pause at the back to see what is going on, but unfortunately I soon become the center of attention. I am thronged by male teenagers, and I do mean thronged. Fortunately, a policeman sees my plight and escorts me out of the mob. I hurry on my way.

When I arrive at the bus station, I cannot find the town “Koothada” listed on the roster, so I circle around back to look for an office. There I find a large room with doors wide open. A group of about six men seated around a small table are engrossed in a discussion that I sense is not urgent business, especially when they all turn to my direction when I enter the room. While I have their attention, I explain to them that I want to go to a small village, named “Koothada.” One man gets up to bring a chair so I can sit down at the table with the group. Uttering not one of the questions I usually get when I meet a stranger, they drop every concern and concentrate solely and completely on the task at hand: “Where is Koothada?” After some lengthy banter in Rajasthani, they all agree: “We do not know of such a village.”

I give them the little additional information I have: “I was told that it is near Bhim, but I can reach it by direct bus from Beawar, a journey of about 23 miles.” Still no note of recognition on their faces, so I continue with my last scrap of information: “Mr. Poonam Chand Singhwi Sajjan lives there.” This comment triggers another lengthy discussion; after which, they finally decide on the village that fits my data.

Unfortunately, I had written the name down incorrectly, creating somewhat of a stone in the rice, as we say here. The name of the village was Kookra or Kookda. These irregularities occur because of the transliteration into English. Since a workable system was never devised, all sorts of variations exist. A good example is that “Panjab” is incorrectly pronounced “Poon-jab” in English. Whoever translated it figured that the Hindi “pan” is pronounced like the word “pun” in English, so “pun-jab.” Then for no apparent reason, we turned the “pun” into “poon.” This is only one of many puzzles, especially when you hit the double consonants of the Indian languages.

The conclusion is that the bus I want will leave at 1:00 p.m. Suddenly, one of the gentlemen remembers that the driver of that particular bus should be in the station at this very moment. Someone runs to bring the driver. Since he doesn’t speak English, the others report to me, “Yes, we made the correct decision. Sri Singhwi lives in Kookra.”

Having successfully completed our business, I get up to leave. “Sit!” I am ordered with the usual hand signal for “wait.” They tell me tea is being brought. Well, this is a new twist, I smile to myself. Usually, tea is served before one is even allowed to state one’s business; here it appears when the concern had been completed successfully.

Soon I am on my way—over hill and dale—to Kookra. After a short walk down a dusty path, lined with white plastered houses, I reach the Singwi residence. He is now retired, living with his wife, a son and daughter-in-law. They greet me and invite me in, just as if they have been expecting me. I explain to them that I had met their son in Mt. Abu. He had told me of his wonderful village. He insisted that I must see “India’s Switzerland” before leaving India.

Kookra—“India’s Switzerland”

“So I have come for a few hours, or a day, I really do not have a plan,” I assure them. I am carrying such a small suitcase that it will not look as if I am anticipating a long stay.

Although it’s already 2:00 p.m., they are just eating lunch when I arrive. When they insist that I join them, I dig in. Since I had only eaten my usual travel food of bananas and hard biscuits today, I have no trouble relishing the rice with spiced dal. Then I am told to “take rest.” I have learned that when in India do as the Indians do. If I do not “take rest,” it will throw the whole household off kilter, for they would feel obligated to stay up to entertain the guest.

Nevertheless, someone must have been carrying messages during the rest period. Immediately after the rest, I am told to “take bath,” for we are going to meet someone. I figure I have to meet the village head, or someone like that. After I bathe and change saris, the son escorts me down a path across a green field to another section of the town. I am surprised to note that he is carrying my suitcase with him, but I say nothing.

Soon we enter the gate of a white-washed high-walled home, apparently the nicest and biggest in the village. After crossing a large open patio, we go up a narrow staircase to the second floor. On the shady verandah, I see a striking woman, dressed in pure white cotton. She must have some spiritual status as several villagers are sitting on a rug spread in front of her. When I am introduced, I get the feeling she was expecting me. With her mediocre English, she welcomes me and asks me a few questions about myself. After some fifteen minutes, the son gets up to go and tells me goodbye.

That is how I find out that I am to stay here with the Jain sadwis (feminine form of sadhu). The one I just met is the mother; she has two young nuns traveling with her, who are her daughters. Their father also is a monk, but he always travels alone.

Sadwi Sheelprabha tells me that she and her husband had been living a normal householder’s life in Maharastra state when they met a Jain saint. He instructed them in the scriptures and meditation. Living a spiritual life appealed to them, so after some years of practicing meditation, they decided to retire from the worldly life and take the Jain vows. You cannot call them monastic vows because there is no monastery. Quite the contrary, they have to be traveling constantly, staying a maximum of three days in one place—except during the rainy season. For those three months, they must choose one place and stay put. This is also practiced by Hindu sadhus,— for it is difficult to obtain food and pure drinking water during the monsoon. Kookra is the place these sadwis— chose this year.

In general, the villagers consider it a great honor to serve and feed the ascetics. Especially someone like Sheelprabha, for she is quite learned in the Jain scriptures and gives spiritual discourses every day. Naturally, I ask her if she knows of the unusual Jain saint I met in Hampi last year, I am surprised to learn that she does not.

It is really difficult to describe these three nuns, dressed in their simple unhemmed white cotton skirts and shawls. Sheelprabha is the most gracious, graceful person I have ever observed. I could call her the most beautiful, but the truth is that she is rather plain physically. I do not know if it is a spiritual radiance or what, but she definitely shines.

Jain Sadwis—Sheelprabhu and Daughters

And it is not from Ivory-clean skin. Jain ascetics cannot bathe, neither can they use any mechanical object. The justification is to avoid killing any living creature, even bacteria. They even carry little fluffy white mops to sweep off the spot where they will be sitting and they wear little white cotton masks to avoid inadvertently inhaling an insect, thereby condemning it to death. In lieu of bathing, they take a small handkerchief and dip it in cool water, then gently rub it over their own skin to refresh themselves.

Since razors and scissors fall into the category of mechanical objects, they are taboo. Therefore, maintaining the bald head of the ascetic is a little tricky. Every year they have a hair pulling ceremony. They do not pull out the hairs one by one, but in small hanks. The girls, still in their late teens, swear to me that their mother is an expert hair-puller, so there is minimum pain.
When the parents first took the vows, the three daughters went to live with their grandparents. The youngest one, about fifteen, still lives there. However, since the rainy season coincides with her school vacation, she is now with her mother and two sisters. She tells me that she is also considering joining her family. It is one thing to take to the ascetic life after one has married and had children and tasted life, but quite another when one is only a teenager like these young girls.

Although we get shady clouds daily in the afternoon, the monsoon is really light in these parts this year. Actually, it’s an advantage for the nuns since one of them has to go out each day and collect their daily food from a designated home, as if she is begging. If it is raining, they cannot go out, even to collect food, so they do not eat that day. It is another one of those injunctions about bacteria on their skin having a rough time and drowning. To make things easy, I eat with a kind family across the complex.

I spend a lot of time with the sadwis. At first crack of dawn, we all head for the field with our mugs of water, just like the peasants all over India. No one in the city or country uses toilet paper; splashing one’s genitals with cool water does work just as well. I hate to think of the condition of the landscape if the peasants used toilet paper.

After a light breakfast, we go out for a long walk. The sadwis are accustomed to walking from village to village, so they easily keep up with me. In every direction, the countryside is beautiful with green grass and foliage, interspersed with smooth gray boulders. One afternoon we hear some young men singing. As it turns out, they have all gathered to raise the walls of a home of a friend. They are all singing as they do the work together. I know that in northern Maine they still get together for barn raising, but do the sing?

After lunch and a rest, Sheelaprabhu gives a discourse, which I do not attend due to the language barrier. However, it is well attended by the villagers. In the evenings, I always join them when they sit out under the stars and sing bhajans in a tiny village square. This section of the village was definitely built for security. The houses are joined together to make a two-storied wall that serves as a fortress. There are two entrances and both have heavy wooden gates with heavy chains, which now remain thrown to the side. In addition, the maze of interior pathways has several gates that must have served to slow down any marauders. All the tiny courtyards are open to the sky. I always look forward to the informal get-together and singing under the stars. The group always manage to get one song out of me. I am a mediocre singer, but they do not know the difference. They always appreciate any attempt I make.

One day a young man, around twenty years old, shows up at our abode. When he arrived home from college, Prahalad heard the news that there is an American in the village and has come to investigate. His name tells me that he is a Hindu, probably a Brahman. Since I am about to set out on my daily walk, I invite him to come along. Because of the threatening clouds, the nuns are not able to join me today.

Although his family is from Udaipur, Prahalad is well informed about the local people. He shows me a weed that they squeeze to extract the juice, which is mixed with peanut oil to make a great hair oil; where as in the South, they use coconut oil. All Indians, male and female, oil their heads as protection from the sun. There is also a local strategy of putting a peeled onion under the hat to prevent sunstroke.

I was right about Prahalad’s caste. His father is the doctor of the village. In the North, in addition to the normal duties of teachers and priests, commonly the Brahmans were the doctors. Actually, he is the doctor for over twenty small hamlets, for he is the only doctor in a thirty mile radius. When I go to meet him, back over on the same path where Mr. Singhwi lives, I find the wooden benches, which line the verandah of his office, are crowded with poor villagers. Dr. Vyas is a true saint. He could be living off the family business, a marble foundry, but he had always wanted to be a doctor. Instead of setting up an office in a city and raking in the rupees, he has a low-paying Government job here in the outback.

Just how outback? I am informed that the village elders have had a meeting since my arrival. They are sure that I am the first white face ever to enter this village. I am surprised, considering the fact that I was also informed that this was a prime area for growing opium during the Raj. I take it to mean that the British operated their enterprise only through native agents.

Not only does Dr. Vyas take care of the patients who come here, but two days a week he packs up his black bag and takes off on his motorcycle down dirt paths to visit the hamlets not accessible by automobile. The Vyas family lives in a simple home with one large room serving as bedroom and living room with a small kitchen off to the side. The only sign of luxury is a television; one of three in the village. Of course, Mrs. Vyas invites me for dinner, so we send word back over to my usual dining place. They are living the traditional life of the Brahman. Their type may be few and far between in today’s India, but they still do exist.

On Sunday afternoon while I am visiting them for tea, I suddenly hear the sounds of drums beating and bells ringing nearby.

“What is that?” I inquire. “Is there a festival?”

“Oh, no. The villagers must be having one of their ceremonies for healing snake bites,” Dr. Vyas informs me.

Do my ears ever pick up! “Healing snake bites!? Where?”

“At that little mandir [temple] down by the bus stand. Haven’t you noticed it?”

I had to admit I had not. “But can we go and watch the ceremony? Will they allow a white face?”

“Sure, I don’t see why not,” Dr. Vyas encourages me.

Prahalad is happy to accompany me, so we take off down the path, only a few hundred feet away.
Although all the parties are present, the ceremony has not yet started. The fire pit is being prepared. The drummers and priests are gearing up. The father and mother of the victim are standing to the side holding their baby, who has been bitten on the bottom of her foot. Another spectator tells us that they had to take a two-hour bus ride to get here.

To the beat of the drums, one of the priests is working himself into a frenzy while another stands guard against the danger of a fall. Suddenly, the priest gives a wild shout and one leg  jumps up and locks itself back behind his other knee, so that now he is hopping around the mandir with on only one foot. He circles it three times in a frenzy of swoons, swoops and pins. He then puts his mouth on the wound itself, sucks, pits, sucks, spits, then repeats it one more time. The female drummer is pounding hysterically while the fire bellows black smoke over the whole scene. Then, in a momen— it is all over. The priest puts his foot down and appears completely normal. Gently, he hands the baby back to the grateful parents.

Afterwards, we onlookers sort of mill about. As we pass the baby’s mother, I smile, but make no gesture toward them. From previous experiences, I do not want to frighten them. However, it appears they are not superstitious, for she lifts the baby toward me. So I respond and hold the little black-eyed doll for a few minutes. Miraculously, she seems to be totally calm after such an ordeal. But could her passivity be due to the snake venom taking effect, I fear. I am relieved that the mother was satisfied with my cuddling her baby and did not expect me to give it a blessing.

When we return to the house, I question Dr. Vyas, “Now won’t you give the baby some medical treatment, just to back up their witch-doctoring?”

“No, it’s not necessary,” replies Dr. Vyas. “What they do always works. It’s been working before I was here, and it will still be working after I am gone.”

It was easy to ascertain that these priests were not your standard Brahmans, but it turns out neither are these aboriginal practices from time immemorial. This ceremony was a gift of a Jat king of the 1700’s. The Jats, as well as Rajputs, are the Ksatriya caste in Rajasthan. Somehow this monarch had been bestowed this particular art of healing by invoking Lord Tejaji. He passed on the knowledge as a gift to humanity. As it turns out, there are some dozen of these small open-air mandirs scattered throughout Rajasthan.

The next day when I am wending my way across the fields via the earthen dikes, I happen to see the priest who went into the trance yesterday. Today he is a farmer hoeing corn with his family, like any ordinary laborer. When he sees me, he comes over to greet me and calls his two teenage daughters over also. After he introduces us in Hindi, he signals me that he wants me to bless them. Oh, dear, I am to bless the daughters of a man who cures snake bites! Contradictions and inconsistencies. It does not compute, but neither do I want to show any disrespect. So I smile and place my hands on their heads in the traditional sign of a blessing. See there, you survived it, I tell myself. It really would be wonderful if I could truly bless these dear people.

In talking with the Vyas family, I discovered that there is a school in a third section of the village that I had not yet discovered. The next morning when I head in the general direction I find it easily. As I approach a rather large single-storied complex, I find a large room with an open door that looks like it may be the office. I stick my head in to ask directions. The moment I do I surmise that I have entered at the wrong moment.

“I see that you are busy. I can come back later,” I start to retreat.

“Oh, no. We were just finishing our discussion. Come in. Come in,” replies a dignified gentleman, definitely a Brahman. As I enter the room three or four village men, two of them quite elderly, rise to leave. The meeting seems to change its tone at my sight. The teenage boy who was the center of attention also gets up.

The gentleman who is officiating approaches the boy and looks him straight in the eyes, “The next time, we will call the police. You do understand that.” He is so short that he has to look up to face the boy, but he stands his ground. I am sure the boy knows he means business.

As the group exits, he turns to me, “How may I help you?”

“Are you the principal?”

“Yes, I am.”

I give my name and tell him just by happenstance I am visiting the village. Curious about the quality of the school, I just dropped by. “Frankly, I was expecting a one-room school for such a small village, but this is quite a complex.”

“Yes. We have children who come from all the hamlets around here. Some walk for five miles through the mountains to attend classes here.”

As we walk down the long shady verandah, he shows me various classes with lessons in progress. After the third classroom, I have to ask, “But there are hardly any girls in the classes. Only two or three in each class of twenty.”

“Yes, that is correct. You see the girls will be doing housework, so their mothers do not feel there is a need to educate them in the schools. They feel that they get their education at home. We probably would get a little better response if it weren’t for the long distance; however, in general, that is the attitude.”

As it turns out, the mountains are dotted with hamlets. One afternoon, I walk over the hill to the closest one. The first hut I encounter is that of the local leather worker. If I had not seen the cow skins, I would have noted the rank smell. His hut is on the outskirts, which is typical for his untouchable status. However, I am puzzled that he is located right on the path, which indicates I may be entering through the back door of the community. I wander down the lane that passes through a number of houses, scattered sparsely along the dirt path.

Then I see a stream in the distance that must be responsible for creating the expanse of green fields. From my position, the crops look like corn and wheat. I am standing on the side of a mountain that is solid granite, so not particularly easy to navigate. Especially with clay pots of water perched on one’s head, I think, as I watch the village women go by. The broken clay shards scattered about verify my conjecture.

Some children come to retrieve me to guide me to the home of a retired army officer. The gentleman is quite charming and seems quite comfortable talking and joking with the crowd of children who have gathered in his yard. It appears he has a certain status, so I wonder if he was one of the gentlemen in the school conference the other day. He serves me milk, which was prepared, that is, boiled and sugared, by his niece. He has no wife or daughters, so his brother’s family, in the cottage next door, provide him with meals.

He tells me that all the boys in these villages join the military as it is their dharma, duty, as Ksatriyas. Even though the Ksatriya caste consists of everyone from the king to the general to the foot soldier to the cook, the Ksatriya code is no small list of duties. Of course, they are fewer than the Brahman’s allotment of duties, but still a formidable register of do’s and do not’s, should’s and cannot’s. The caste system may limit some, but it also protects the ones who have less. The poor villagers of lower castes never had to fight wars. The duty of the Ksatriya was to protect them, not to exploit the manpower of the poor. On the other hand, when I lived in Vermont, I never met a poor farmer who had not been drafted into the military.

There is a big difference in what is expected of the castes. Since Brahmans have the greater knowledge, they have more responsibilities, and are meted out heavier punishments. A good example of the difference according to caste appears in the Mahahbharta. When four men were brought to the king to mete out justice for the crime of murder, he inquired as to the caste of each one before sentencing them. They happened to be of the four castes. The lower caste Shudra (service) received four years’ imprisonment because his intellectual understanding was not as developed. The Vaisya (merchant, landholder) received twice that sentence. The Ksatriya, whose duty is to protect the people, was sentenced to sixteen years in prison. Whereas the Brahman, the upholder of knowledge and truth in the society, received the death penalty.

To keep their skills honed, the Ksatriyas also like to hunt. In fact, during the past several centuries, it was their greatest passion when there was no war. However, Ksatriyas are not allowed to hunt now, Mr. Singh informs me. Recently, a tiger was taking some of the cattle in several nearby villages, but to shoot a tiger would have meant a heavy fine. The villagers had to contact the Forest Department, which sent out an Official to dispose of the marauder.

Because of the Rajput’s passion for the hunt, Rajasthan contains some of India’s greatest game preserves. The gem is the Keoladeo Ghana National Park at Bharatpur. The site was once a dip in the land, which only filled up during the monsoon season. To develop it, a Jat ruler diverted water from an irrigation canal, so that birds began to winter here—more migrants from Siberia. At peak migration, some four hundred species of birds can be sighted, with impressive numbers, like two thousand painted storks nesting in one square kilometer. During the Raj, twice a year, spring and fall, at least fifty British VIP’s were invited for a big shoot. The goal was to bag one hundred birds each in one day, mostly ducks and geese.

However, for number of birds, instead of variety, you could not beat Gajner Lake near Bikaner, now an official wildlife sanctuary also. It was a favorite with the British viceroys; even the prince of Wales hunted there on his visit to India in 1905. In those days, some one hundred thousand sand grouse drank at the royal lake. Lord Mountbatten was able to bag fifty in one morning’s shoot.

Undoubtedly, the tiger hunts were a favorite way to polish up the British dignitaries. The Ranthambhor National Park was also a hunting preserve of the rajas. The huge parcel has rivers that provide protection, food and water for a group of protected tigers, under the Tiger Project. Several people have told me that the tigers there are rather passive, so most people do see one on the jeep tours.

Kookra is truly so beautiful that I start imagining what it would be like to settle here in a little cottage. But what would I do? In less than a week, I am having some moments of feeling bored, and useless. Sometimes I feel it is apparent that I am just in India to rub out old battle scars from family, school, marriage. The peeling off the socialization and mental patterns seems to take place automatically and spontaneously in an environment that does not continue to enforce them. At home, my life was always a long list of things that I had to do. My theme was always, “Oh, I can do that.” Here nearly every day, I am confronted with some reality in which I have to say, “There is nothing I can do.” For example, the ancient maps and books in the school, the girls who do not attend classes, the flies I see on a baby’s face, the distances the women have to carry water, the inadequate gardening tools. There is simply nothing I can do.

My last morning in Kookra, I awaken to a quiet fresh green world. The birds sing, the trees shimmer, the corn grows, the breeze whispers. A perfect day for traveling. To my surprise, I receive an “official” sendoff. The elders of the village present me with a garland of paper flowers, then we take a group photo. I do not recognize any of them, but they knew of my presence (maybe from that meeting at the school). Afterwards, I pick up my bag and head for the bus. Tears are in my eyes as I board the bus. The young conductor refuses to take my fare, indicating my status as a guest in his territory. How can there be so many soft gentle people in this world? How have they managed to endure in a world where survival of the strongest with the biggest guns has been the perpetual game?