Bangalore, the capital of the state of Karnataka, is familiar territory for me—and it’s my favorite Indian city. My first visit here was in April of 1978, when the city was decked out in pink, orange, yellow and purple flowering trees, plus my favorite, the fragrant champak, a variety of magnolia. Giant mimosa trees stretch their branches over the avenues, turning the pavements into shady archways. Sad to say, in just ten years, the scene is changing. So many trees have been cut down for buildings to be put up, that the naturally temperate climate has begun to warm. Fortunately, Bangalore still maintains some wide expanses of open spaces: parks, cricket fields, military parade grounds. Unfortunately, one cannot enjoy them freely when taking a walk because there are gaping holes in the sidewalks.

I had met Usha and Hari here in Bangalore on that first visit. At that time he was a promising young swami in the Chinmaya Mission, and Usha was a teacher in a Chinmaya school in Kerala. Swami Chinmayananda was enchanted by this intelligent, vivacious young woman, and immediately set out to entice her to become volunteer worker in his organization. Hari, then Swami Harinamananda, was also taken by her, but, unfortunately, for a different reason. Here it is ten years later, and the ramifications of their marriage are still in motion. Only a few Indians are sophisticated enough to forgive a fallen swami, or the woman who “caused” his fall. Unfortunately, their marriage has not survived the various social and economic pressures that have befallen them.

Although we arrive at noon, Usha has very little time, for she must return to Pondy in the taxi we came in—at no extra cost. However, she takes time to escort me to the Aurobindo Bhavan and speaks to the manager to arrange a room for me there. Aurobindo Bhavan used to be the summer home of the king of Nepal. After India’s independence, he could not afford the high taxes in the democracy, so he made a charitable donation of the large, rambling two-story house to the Aurobindo organization. They are using is for a center to give classes and retreats. This is familiar territory to Usha; she lived here for two years when Hari was the manager. He was hired as a director, but he was very disappointed with the job as the board vetoed every plan he had for classes and programs (except one). He finally concluded that they simply wanted someone to unlock the gate every morning and lock it every night. He was bored and she was restless. They were given free room and board, but Usha loves lots of saris, linens and books, and she did not want to deprive her son of a few luxuries.

Aurobindo Bhavan—Former summer home of Nepalese King

She landed a good job at a near-by university. The board members were furious; they claimed they needed her full-time on the premises. Usha roared (literally) at their expectations that she should remain on call when they had not wanted her to do anything for two long years. Well, she did lead a bhajan group for a “bunch of old ladies” once a week, but she could continue to do that. Hari probably could have patched up the damage, but he did not want to stay either, since he was wasting his talent too. He did have a small reserve from an inheritance and Usha had a good job, so they packed into a small two-room apartment, where Hari still lives. Hari now makes a few rupees teaching classes on the scriptures for a fee. Usha felt it was best to try to support herself, rather than supporting the entire family, although she plans to eventually be able to support her son. While Akshay is with Hari, his sister pays the school tuition.

Even though Bangalore seems quite cosmopolitan—broad avenues, modern movie theaters, even great Chinese food—there are subtle glimpses of the old India. For instance, the Banana Leaf Restaurant, where food is served on a banana leaf instead of a plate, reeks of old Brahman India. They use the disposable banana leaves to solve the unclean dish’s problem. However, the owners have taken a step further into the traditional past. On either side of the entrance gate, you will see a white pumpkin cracked in two, sprinkled with the omnipresent red powder, called kumkuma. The remainders of a ritual in which they would have invoked the goddess of wealth for success in their restaurant business. The kumkuma is used in association with Devi in her role as creator. In line with the ever-present contradictions of Indian belief, the menstruating woman is condemned as unclean, whereas the red powder representing her fertile blood is used profusely in ritual. As far as I can discern, it symbolizes creation, as well as the force behind creation.

In spite of the modern buses and wide avenues, you will also encounter the sacred cow in the streets. The Indians have a riddle that is intended to suggest the mystery of creation: How does a black cow eat green grass and give white milk? In Bangalore, it’s even more of a puzzle. How does a black cow eat brown cardboard, white newspaper and other trash along the city streets and still manage to give white milk?

Another interesting landmark here is the War memorial at the Army Quarters on Victoria Road. Parked in front is the prize trophy: an American armored Patton tank that was captured from the Pakistanis in the 1965 war. In spite of the Pakistan Government’s aggression against India, and considerable crimes against its own populace, plus a continued nuclear experimentation, the U.S. persists in pumping money into Pakistan. Considered indispensable to the U.S./Afghan policy, Pakistan received an estimated at 600,000 million in 1988 alone. My practical inclination surfaces, so I ask Hari why the Indians were not using the tank for military purposes themselves. He replies that it is the lack of parts to repair American equipment. Its non-alignment policy, while reasonable to any logical analysis since China and Russia are on the northern border, has cut India out of many perks and bonuses that are available to Pakistan.


After I unpack and rest at the Bhavan, I stroll around the lake to Hari’s apartment. When I arrive, Hari greets me with a surprise, “Usha phoned to let us know she has arrived in Pondy safely. Also she wanted to tell you that Mr. Singh’s place in Kottagiri will not be available for you. He already has it rented.”

“Hummm. I was looking forward to a retreat in the Blue Mountains away from the summer heat. Perhaps, I will like Atheetha Ashram so well I want will to stay there for the summer,” I conjecture.

One day while I am in the Bhavan office, I notice an article in the newspaper about a local Nadi Shastri, Sri Ramakrishnan. He reads ancient palm leaf scrolls, supposedly that date back to Shukla, the son of the great Veda Vyasa, the compiler of the Vedas. Nadi Shastris are not rare in India; you will find at least one in every major city. Sri Ramakrishnan follows in the footsteps of his father, who was quite esteemed here in Bangalore until his death a few years ago. When I show the article to Vani, an American also staying at the Bhavan, she expresses an interest in getting an appointment too.

As soon as we arrive at his home, I manage to commit one of my Indian faux pas; that is, I ask for the bathroom. Now this is a traditional Brahman household, so they may have appreciated that the Shudra (lowest caste person) wants to bathe before approaching the master. However, when I open the indicated door to find only a faucet and a bucket, I realize my mistake. I want the toilet room. The daughter and I have a good laugh; she admits that she was surprised that I wanted to bathe.

After my personal needs are met, she escorts me into her father’s office. It is the first time I have seen any palm-leaf books up close. Each individual palm frond has been inscribed in ink, stacked neatly, then bound together. In some cases, the writing was done by cutting with a stylus. Sri Ramakrishna uses my birth date to find my particular page among the palm leaves; some nadi shastris measure your shadow to make the necessary calculations to determine the exact book and page to reference.

I am happily informed that I am going to live to a ripe old age of 90 years with happiness, health, and wealth. In addition, he tells me that I have a good chance for enlightenment in this life time. Now, in my 49th year, I am beginning a cycle in which I will be having cosmic visions to cement my faith. During my next cycle, from 56 to 72, I will be teaching, principally through writing.

Afterwards, he hands me a little slip of paper on which is written the requested donation of $50 U.S. He is going to U.S. next month, so he must be raising spending funds. I never carry that much money on me; I live here on less than $50 a week. When I phoned for the appointment, I asked his secretary the amount of the fee. I was told “Don’t worry about that, the important thing is that you get your reading.” I put a 50 rupees [$6.] note in the donation box and leave it at that. Vani is so irked that I think she did not give anything, which is justifiable under the circumstances.

When we compare notes afterwards, Vani and I both feel that he was too positive—too good to be true. He must have left out some bad stuff. However it’s notable that his dates for my past, including my marriage, birth of a child, and my first trip to India did fit. So who knows?
Since Vani is looking for a residence and needs help with extending her visa, he offered her a place to stay here in exchange for helping him with typing and editing of several books he wants to write. He had also mentioned to me that I might be helpful with editing of his upcoming book on the Nadi Shastra system.


Vani has led a unique life—lots of travel. Originally, she had gone to Europe to entertain in the American officers’ clubs, with an act of singing and playing an accordion. After she traveled all over Europe with her trunk of fishtail sequined gowns, she found out she could pick up work in just about any city in the world, so she took off in her Land Rover across Turkey, Pakistan and landed in Delhi. However, she was constantly plagued by a terrible, chronic asthma. Even though she was taking quadruple dosage of her medicine, the asthma was intolerable even in dry, hot Delhi. To escape the heat and get a rest, she went up to Kashmir and rented a houseboat. As it turned out, it was the worse thing she could have done, due to the dampness from the lake. She simply could not breathe, and felt that she was ready to end it all. She told the houseboat boy (the boats all come with a servant), “I’m going into the water; just leave me be.” He obviously could see her condition and perceived her intention to end the suffering.

“Madam, you come with me. The doctor can help you.” He took her to a Moslem herbal practitioner, who gave her some herbs at a pittance of a fee. In three days, she was running up a hill—something she had not been able to do in years. The most amazing part is the asthma, which she had suffered with practically all of her life, never returned—now thirty years later.

At times it’s nice to have a companion, but Vani turns out to be one who pushes her way to the front of lines and fights with auto-rickshaw drivers over 2 rupees (10 cents). She is so sure that everyone is out to cheat her that she even hand carries all her mail to a post office. There she orders it to be postmarked by hand before her eyes, so no one will steal the stamps. Every time we go out together, I come out on the short end financially because I refuse to bicker over less than 5 rupees. She is 62 years of age, and appears quite lost. She wants to find a quiet place to meditate, but no place suits her. I do have my moments of asking myself if this will be me in ten years.
While I am here, the Bombay Editor arrives in Bangalore and meets me briefly at the Aurobindo Bhavan. He is in a hurry because he is having lunch with several writers for the magazine. Since I edit their work it would seem appropriate that I be invited, but I am not. Although I am giving my best efforts to make their magazine as good as possible, my shadow shall never darken the threshold of a traditional south Indian Brahman home.

A Brahman friend in New York City (incidentally from Bangalore) thought that I might be invited to a Brahman home here because of my editing work for a Brahman magazine. We warned me if they offer tea to be sure to not touch my lips to the cup. In other words, I am to use the Indian method of drinking without touching the lips to the cup or glass; a technique I simply have not been able to master. In any event, if my lips should touch the china cup, the hostess would have to break it and throw it away. Technically, they would also have to clean the whole house from top to bottom after my departure, but few now bother with this detail. Considering that Prime Minister Nehru, a Brahman, would not have had the privilege either; I will consider myself in good company. He was a Kashmiri Brahman, which meant he was not a vegetarian, and did not know Sanskrit; therefore, he was on a lower rung of the upper caste.


During the week, the Aurobindo Bhavan sponsors various classes. Both Vani and I start taking the Hindi class. One Saturday afternoon, a Christian Father is to give a lecture on Buddhist meditation. I cut short my time at the library in order to attend. Watching and listening to Father Deepak, I know why I feel so at home in India. Not only is he teaching type of Buddhist meditation, he speaks of the love and inspiration he felt when he read the life of the Hindu saint, Sri Ramakrishna. He related that once a participant questioned him about the religious belief system involved in meditation, he explains that, for him, meditation is beyond beliefs and systems. Further, he informs us that he moves and mingles with anyone who has a broad vision of the Divine. “I have not built a wall around myself, saying ‘you have to come inside this structure for us to be able to communicate,’” he concludes.

If you were to study the history of Bharata, you could not conceive how the populace has survived in this land that has been overrun for centuries by vicious looters and murderers. My opinion is the broad, flexible attitude of the Hindus had to be their one and only salvation. This attitude supports the loose, flexible mind that makes true meditation possible.

In the presence of this broad-minded Christian, I have a wonderful meditation. Sometimes in negative situations, I am too sensitive to pick up another’s vibration. However, in this case, my sensitivity works to my advantage, for the priest emanates love, peace, acceptance. This peace of being one hundred percent present with my delighted self lasts for several days. I know this feeling and cannot comprehend why I let it go—but I do.

The best way I can describe it is that I truly see everyone lovely and divine in their own unique way. I am sure you would want to question me: What about the beggars? First, you do not see beggars in Bangalore. Nonetheless, if I were to see one, I would be able to see their divine light that is the essence in all of us. And I probably would not resist giving some donation to help sustain their physical reality.