All residents have their own realm of responsibility, in which it appears they possess a good deal of freedom. One of the swaminis is in charge of the kitchen; another oversees agriculture and gardening. Another swami coordinates and supervises construction of all the buildings, while Sahaja administers the whole operation, as well as giving classes. He plans to teach a class in Sanskrit and another on one of the philosophical Vedanta texts soon.

Sahaja has the inspiration that my responsibility will be taking charge as the director of his new Nature Cure retreat. My protests that I know nothing of Nature Cure fall on deaf ears. At his insistence, I begin reading Sharma’s handbook on Nature Cure. I am always interested in natural health techniques, so I am open to the system. Although developed in Europe, Nature Cure is quite well known in India because of its most famous proponent, Mahatma Gandhi. The principal tenet is cleansing, both inside and out, using baths, enemas, and fasting with liquids. Several of Gandhi’s young disciples later complained of having to carry all his tubs and bathing paraphernalia on their long treks. According to Sahaja, Nature Cure is rational fasting. The fast gives the body an opportunity to rest and regain its own innate strength.

The first few days the two younger swaminis attempted to speak English as much as possible as they were eager to practice. The truth slowly emerges that, even though they were professors of English at a small university before donning the orange robes of renunciation, they have never spoken with a native English speaker until now. This autumn they are planning to teach an English course to all the English teachers in this district, charging a sizable fee, so naturally they want to use the opportunity to speak with me as much as possible. Soon their enthusiasm dissipates, and they begin to converse in Tamil. I am beginning to enjoy this “non-involvement”; it makes life easier. Besides, when they practice English by repeating my words, I cringe every time I hear them echoing my southern accent. I write to a friend that she is going to have to come soon to save everyone from my southern twang.

Non-involvement may be apparent, but certainly not “non-action.” As my first project, I throw myself wholeheartedly into gardening. Spring is the perfect time of the year for it. They have a huge pit for compost and manure, but it’s never been watered or turned—and would be impossible for me to do so since it is mostly just dry stalks and straw. So I start digging it out and distributing it over a large garden plot. The others are not enthusiastic about my project, but manage to make only a few barbs. I understand their problem is seeing me do “dirty work,” but I pretend that I do not know.

Soon another group of guests arrives at the ashram who are planning to buy land in this area to create a Gandhi Village. One of them is an organic and natural gardening expert, so he assures Sahaja that what I am doing in the garden is perfect. Sahaja gets all enthusiastic and hires laborers from the village to dig out all the debris from the pit and distribute it over the existing garden. I watch as the human bull-dozer takes over. I had been enjoying spreading a dozen baskets of compost every morning. If I had an acre of land and a barnyard of manure, I would spread it out a wheel barrow at a time, probably taking six months to do the task, while enjoying the exercise. Even in the land of ox carts, I am out of sync.

The next morning, the guest gardener comes running to fetch me. The laborers dumped the compost up against the stalks of a lot of small fruit trees and curry plants, so he is afraid their stalks will burn from the heat of the compost. So we work all morning pulling the straw and manure away from the stalks to save them.

One of the projects of the Gandhi Village will be to have a repository of all the original, non-hybrid varieties of Indian fruits and vegetables, which are fast being replaced by the influx of hybrids from the West. Using hybrids means importing chemical fertilizers that bring new diseases and pests that have to be combated with insecticides, usually purchased from the West. There is now an underground movement to reverse this process. The logic is simple: Lands exist here that have been farmed for over 2,000 years. This land is still arable and fertile due to native methods of natural fertilizers, crop rotation, and letting parcels lie fallow for a season. In U. S., there is land that was once arable, but is now useless, after less than 200 years of crops. Now who should be teaching agriculture to whom?

These guests are planning to create a community with the principles of natural living and gardening as propounded by Gandhi. With Sahaja’s help, they are trying to buy a 125 acre plot near here. The purchase is complicated by the fact that this land was divided into small plots and distributed to the landless after independence, which means there are some thirty owners to deal with. This reconsolidating back into large plots is happening all over Tamil Nadu. Not finding it economically feasible to work such small holdings, the owners have abandoned them and headed for the cities. They will be eager to get any money they can from the sale, but finding the actual owners is the challenge. The land has water, a nice pond, and at least one-third is already irrigated. Since it borders on a forest preserve, we find fresh elephant dung on the property on our first trip. They make immediate plans to erect a tower to be able to enjoy elephant watching.

Several in the group have connections with the locally famous architect, Laurie Baker. From the way they talk, he may even come over to help design their dwellings. Actually, Baker is a designer, builder and contractor, all in one. They say he will not even design an edifice without considering its site and local resources: stone, brick, mud (adobe). Then he has his own trained team for the actual building, which he personally supervises. I did not realize that he was influenced by Mahatma Gandhi. He had met Gandhi quite by accident on his first visit to India from Britain. At that time he was a young man with an education in modern architecture. However, he was also a Quaker and had come to India on a project to help lepers, specifically converting old asylums into modern rehabilitation centers.

Since his projects were in remote, rural India, his creative mind became fascinated with India’s indigenous structures. Now he explains, “...I am only following principles evolved hundreds of years ago in this country.... There was so much self-expression, indigenous style, and unplanned variety those days. So much individuality.” This impression, plus Gandhi’s words to him, “The ideal house in the ideal village will be built with materials all found within a five mile radius of the house,” have been his guide. Since he settled in Trivandrum, Kerala, 25 years ago, he has produced some 1,000 homes and over 40 public buildings including churches, schools, hospitals and offices—all with native materials and natural ventilation. Although all of his projects are cost effective because of the emphasis on the appropriate use of local resources, he is particularly known for his low-cost housing for the poor. I am sure the presence of the Gandhi Village will add a new dimension to life at Atheetha.

However, I am a bit disappointed to find out that their project is principally a commercial enterprise—a vacation resort in the country for the wealthy from the city. They are all special people, so I am sure anything they do will be unique. Interestingly, since they arrived here, the early morning bell has started ringing again. Now Sahaja and the swaminis arrive every morning at 4:00 a.m. for yoga and mediation, along with the new guests. So I have my group support at least for the week that they are here. Afterward, the morning bell remains silent.


Sahaja personally assigns my next project. He wants me to design and direct the construction of a nice garden with pond by the office cum school building. No sooner said than done. I measure and sketch a plan, then write my son to send specifications on pumps for waterfalls, as well as some photos that I can share with Sahaja. I have spotted some beautiful smooth gray stones in the nearby creek bed that will be perfect. Just when I have everything planned, a big truck arrives with a load of the ugliest rocks I have ever beheld. I am a rock person; I love rocks. Until I behold these huge red-brown, dirty boulders, I had not realized that there were such ugly rocks on the planet.

“Here are your stones,” Sahaja informs me.

“Well.... those are not exactly what I had in mind. Usually stones for a waterfall are smooth and flat, not big jagged balls.” I had been eying some beautiful ones along the stream bed on my morning hikes.

Obviously, he chooses to ignore my comment, for he questions, “Now where were you going to put the waterfall?”

I walk over to the spot to show him that there is about a 3- foot slope in one spot that we can use to advantage. By adding some height by building up a knoll, we can get a 4-foot drop.

“But I want a ten foot waterfall.”

“But the land is practically flat.”

The swami says, “That does not matter, we will just dig the hole deeper.”

The swami has spoken. He walks off before I can explain that if you dig the hole deeper, you will get a deeper pond, not a higher waterfall. Never mind. It’s just as well, I tell myself.


Then there’s the Nature Cure Center to deal with. Every day there is the horrendous pounding of hammers, along with grinding of trucks, blasting from the construction of the new center. Sahaja asked me to design the set-up for each of the rooms. All of the furniture, including the bed, is to be constructed of a type of natural black stone. I make drawings of bookshelves, nightstand, etc.; but the swami says it’s not what he wanted. So he proceeds with his own ideas—which are good ones.

My real concern is that the bathrooms are too far away from the cabins. The swami says that cannot be helped. I have to conclude that only the swami/swaminis can have private bathrooms, for the rest of us share. So I recommend that at least a shade be put up over the walkway that goes from the cottages to the toilets. Since fasting is a major part of Nature Cure, I do not feel that an empty stomach and this blistering sun present a happy picture.

My plan for mosquito nets is also vetoed. The swami says the netting will cut off the fresh air necessary for health. Of course, we are all sleeping under nets or we would be dive-bombed all night long by hundreds of mosquitoes. I have even tried to find some old netting to rig up a refuge for my morning meditation. Since no one else is showing up in the morning, I end up just sitting in my bed for meditation to protect myself from the mosquitoes... and other creatures.
Sahaja and I remain deadlocked on the idea of my being the director of his Nature Cure center. On the one hand, I know he is going to be the one in charge. I have no illusions about his relinquishing any authority to me; he has not even considered my practical suggestions about shade and mosquito nets. On the other hand, I do not have time for another commitment.

Because the magazine was several issues behind when I arrived, I spend two weeks, including the one in Bangalore, out of each month totally focused on writing and editing. Finally, the truth emerges that Sahaja has plans to rent a big billboard in Bangalore to advertise the “Health Resort” with the American’s name on it to give it authenticity. I voice my opinion that anything that requires an American’s name to validate it is questionable at best. An irrelevant argument at best, but the fact that it could cause me to lose my visa status is not. My protests continue to fall on deaf ears. I do not even bother to voice my opinion about calling these primitive, although quaint, huts a resort.


After I have been here for less than three weeks, I have attained certain non-spiritual realizations:
1) No one is the slightest bit interested in my opinion, and anything I know immediately falls into the category of opinion, therefore, is immediately dismissed.
2) Further, there is no place on the planet that is going to be in line with my desires, wants and wishes, so I will have to bear it here or bear it some place else.

The truth is I have taken Abraham Lincoln’s advice: “We are as happy as we make up our minds to be.” I am not going to let anyone get my goat—for over five minutes anyway. All the speaking of Tamil continues to be good practice in non-involvement for me. My usual mode is to be very dedicated to knowing what is going on. In the beginning, I tried to remind the others to speak English when I was around, but now even hearing them speak my name in Tamil conversation no longer fazes me.

Finally, the day arrives that the pounding, grinding and hollering halt, leaving us in silence. That afternoon, Sahaja call us all together to inaugurate the Center. He has already informed me that I have to light the lamp during the ceremony. I am very hesitant because I am afraid it has some symbolic meaning that I have accepted the directorship. After the chanting of a prayer, the lamp is to be lit. Sahaja, always cool and collected, steps back and looks over to signal me. At that moment, a young woman rushes forward and lights the lamp! Evidently, she has some misgivings about the director being someone who does not know the language too. I sigh—that was a close one.

A small boy, Jagdish, becomes another one of my projects, unsuccessful, but perhaps not a complete failure. A year ago when Sahaja started building here, Jagdish came here with his parents. At that time his father was a laborer hired for constructing the huts, while his mother helped in the kitchen. After some time, his father took off. Then a few months later, his mother left too, abandoning Jagdish to the fate of growing up in the ashram. I do not know what their frustrations were that they felt the setting here was not adequate for them, for Sahaja says he pays “better than” fair wages. Although we can rationalize that they knew that their son would receive better care here than they could give, I think it is unusual for the lower classes to abandon a child. However, I am also sure they have a totally unique moral system imposed by their economic situation. The comments I make about the customs of Indians I personally know will not necessarily apply to the poor, who have their own rules of ethics and morals.

One of the swaminis has started a school here, starting with first grade this year. I am bewildered to find out that Jagdish does not attend the classes. When I question him, the swami says that Jagdish does not speak Tamil, since his parents came from Andhra Pradesh. In fact, no one in the ashram speaks Jagdish’s native Telegu. “Wouldn’t that be all the more reason for him to be attending classes in Tamil,” I suggest, making the greatest effort to allow only friendly tones out of my mouth. Further, I am informed, they have no idea how old he is, so they would not know what grade to put him in.

“I am sure that the first grade is perfect for him; obviously, he has to start at the beginning,” I comment. Then part of the truth emerges, but surely not all. The swami says he needs Jagdish at the ashram entrance to open and close the gate. Because of the construction of the Nature Cure retreat, trucks are coming and going continually. Someone has to be there to monitor the gate or cows might wander in and eat all the lovely flowers.

Jagdish is entirely on his own. I see him in the mornings washing his clothes on the flat stones by the bath house. Using the gardener who keeps an eye on Jagdish as an interpreter, I tell Jagdish to bathe at night also because he is incredibly filthy after playing in the road all day. To pass the bath house when he is bathing is a real stitch. Jagdish likes to sing when he bathes. He never goes to the bhajan singing here, but he must have hung around and listened. He belts out holy songs at the top of his lungs, amazingly loud for such a small set of lungs. After his bath he comes to my room for a ten minute class in English.

Then I go off on one of my tangents. Since no one knows Jagdish’s birth date or age, I decide we should assign them to him. He can be seven and his birth date April 1; it’s coming up and easy to remember. I am going to Bangalore soon to finish up and mail the latest magazine issue I have edited. While in the city, I can get some Indian sweets, so that we can have a little party for Jagdish. The swaminis are all for my plans and even yell after me, “Be sure to bring plenty of sweets for us,” as I am leaving for Bangalore.

So I return to the ashram with candy, a couple of toys and some clothes. The main gift is plastic bat and ball so that Jagdish can practice cricket during the long hours he spends at the front gate. Just before lunch, Swamini Atheetha approaches me to inform me that the swami says we cannot have a party for Jagdish, that I better go speak with him.

Later I find the swami in the swamini’s room, sitting on her bed with the three swaminis gathered around.

“Nancy, you simply cannot have a birthday celebration for Jagdish. We are swamis; we don’t practice such things.”

“Of course, you don’t. Personally, I don’t consider mine a cause for celebration either. However, we are dealing with a six or seven year old. I fail to see the comparison.”

“But if you do it for him; everyone will expect it.”

“Atheetha, are you going to expect a birthday party?” I ham it up a bit to give myself time I take in the situation. I am finding it difficult to get into this issue.

“What about Chinna? We have never given him a party,” Sahaja reasons.

“But Chinna has made his own conscious choice to be here as a brahmachari,” I counter.

“But we don’t want to set a bad example.”

“Chinna is sixteen and pledged to a religious life. Frankly, he does not seem the type to get jealous of a seven year old. I bet he will be glad someone is giving Jagdish a party,” I answer him.

“Well, none of us are going to the dining hall at lunch today. We cannot participate in such things,” the swami says.

“Fine.” I give a disgusted roll of my eyes at the three swaminis standing there like a row of cuckoo birds.

Ashrams are the only place one can get free from labor with no complaints from family or society. Chinna and the cowherd are both examples of the exploitation of young people in ashrams, for they get no compensation at all for their work. Whereas Sahaja had told me he pays top wages “to be fair,” this would not include these young students. As brahmacharis, the boys do the labor in exchange for their food and a below-standard cot and blanket. They came here with the idea of seeking a training in spiritual life. However, they end up working from sunup to sundown, more than they would be doing if they had remained at home where they would have siblings and cousins sharing the work. I am not the only one who is disenchanted with the lack of spiritual practices. The cowherd mentioned to me that Sahaja had promised him daily yoga classes and meditation. Even the few times they have had morning classes, he has not been able to attend because that is milking time.

Chinna is the go-fer. I wish I had a rupee for every time the swami or swaminis stand on their porches and call “Chinna, Chinna”—sometimes two of them at the same time from two different directions. I am thankful they do not have a loud speaker system....yet. But it may not be long. A TV arrived today. Sahaja once told me that there were several laks of rupees coming in monthly to the ashram, and I do not see any evidence that he exaggerated. One of my major spiritual goals is to develop the capacity to achieve continual peace of mind no matter the external circumstances. I am sure getting some practice at that—but I wanted a place that it would be easy!