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Chapter One Arrival in an Ancient Land I am finally returning to sacred Bharata, an ancient land that has endured since before they wrote the Bible. I return with a prayer of thanksgiving, yet with an addendum to beseech the gods for strength to endure. The expressions of the Creator are limitless in this nation that was named and defined by its foreign invaders. The inhabitants called their land Bharat after a great king of yore who ruled with divine wisdom. Bharat was the father of the people; they were his children, the Bharatis—the "children of light." I plan to explore the quieter, simpler world that exists off the beaten track, a world that reveals layer after layer of times long past. Since I have traveled here before, I know to expect anything at the airport. But I am surprised, the Madras customs' official only wants to know if I am carrying video equipment. After a quick trip through the passport line, with my visa stamped, I exit through wide double doors to encounter hot, steamy, dark air hovering over a sea of brown faces. It's normally dry here, but the monsoon season has recently arrived with lots of humidity. I have never seen so many people in an airport—especially at midnight. Maybe I have just never seen so many people, period. A friend is sending a car to pick me up, but I do not know the driver. I take a deep breath and sigh my usual "how am I going to figure out this one out?" Just at that moment, I am taken aback as I spot the words "NANCY PATCHEN" waving among the placards touting hotels, limos and resorts. Hey, that's me—what a relief. I wave as I push my way through the crowd toward the sign. The two men holding the placard quickly grab my suitcases and strap them on the roof of the car. I climb into the back seat, and off we roar into the darkness. I sigh deeply, thankful for such a smooth entrance into my upcoming adventure. We make a quick trip down quiet, wide streets, lined with white plastered houses, surrounded by flower gardens and whitewashed walls. In contrast to Bombay, Madras seems sane and safe with its soft street lights and wide avenues. I smile and relax in contentment as I spot one tiny star twinkling between the gray storm clouds. Since I have been awake for at least forty hours (I never could sleep sitting up in planes), I am relieved to find that my friend who sent the car lives south of Madras, near the airport. When we arrive at his house, he has already retired. I am glad; for I have miles to sleep before I can hope to be a social or intelligent being. But first, I step outside under the stars to say hello to this ancient land. I smile as I breathe in the air; for I have many happy memories of my past travels. Five years have passed since I resolved to return here for a prolonged stay, but at last I have made. I cannot help wondering what this trip will bring. A smile spreads across my face at the unknown prospects. As usual, I have to sleep through an entire day and night after my arrival to be able to recuperate from the twenty-four hour flight. For some reason, the planes for India always depart at midnight, so I always board the plane after a long day of hectic packing. This time I am lucky; somehow my sleeping ends one morning at 5:00 a.m., perfect timing for Indian schedules.
So the next day, rested and eager to be settled, I take off for the tiny domain of Pondicherry, which is surrounded by the southern state of Tamil Nadu. My friend, Suddha accompanies me on the journey in order to visit a friend there. Since we are in no hurry, we take the scenic route down the east coast, the very coast that Marco Polo visited 700 years ago. Clean white sand and towering palm trees continue to dominate the scene. Only a few clusters of cement, block houses sprinkled along the beach bring one into this century. About forty-five minutes into the trip, Suddha has the driver stop the car, so we can get out to watch the sunrise as the fiery disk emerges from the endless sea. He comments how seldom it is that people in today's world have the time to witness the beautiful blessings of nature. I agree with him. Personally, I have arranged my life to include many sunsets; it has made a big difference for me. Although I do love sunrises too, I have to admit I tend to dream through them. However, it will be easier to catch them here since the warm mornings make it easier to get out of bed—especially when you know you are going to have a long lazy nap during the hot afternoon. After passing Mahabalipuram, an interesting village with tiny ancient temples enhancing the sandy beach, we leave the coast and turn inland. Due to the scarcity of traffic, the road narrows to one lane, even though the area seems more populated. Every few miles we pass through a small village of mud huts with palm-thatched roofs. Towering palms, which give the fronds for the roofs and the coconuts for the diet, surround the villages. The fronds are carefully woven, then lashed together to crown the simple mud walls with an artistic touch. Near the villages, large pipal trees spread their branches over the narrow road, providing shady footpaths for the villagers. I settle back to relish the abundance of nature's lovely lush garden floating past us. A smile radiates from my face; for I feel so content in this leafy, green tropical world. I am home at last. Between the villages, we see patchwork fields of green paddy. I have never seen a field laid out in perfect squares and rectangles here. The rice is planted in a maze of tiny plots—all totally asymmetrical, and of different shapes and size—outlined by curving dikes. The local villagers do not mind the traffic through their idyllic paradise; they are ready for it. They lay out their harvest of paddy on the road, in such a way that the passing vehicles thrash it as they drive over it. By the way, rice is not rice until it is removed from the husk, until then it is paddy. Suddha tells me that it is fortunate that it is only the beginning of the harvesting season, so there is not too much paddy on the road now. In the height of the harvest (January), the roads are covered with it, often so thickly that it presents a hazard since the stalks can wrap around an automobile axle. The villagers have even put large stones along the pavement to prevent vehicles from pulling off onto the shoulder to avoid being exploited as a thrasher. The local farmers are now scattered along the highway to tend the thrashing operation: placing and rearranging the paddy, then removing the spent stalks. The women sweep up the rice grains with their short brooms, made with the stems of a tall grass, and flat baskets made from bamboo strips. When we have to slow down to a crawl because of the thrashing operation, several of the women notice me, drop their faces in an embarrassed demeanor, then start twittering and giggling. The children are less intimidated by the unusual sight; with broad smiles and bright eyes, they wave in spontaneous glee. I love these innocent villagers who remain the backbone and the heart of India, for the population is still eighty percent rural. As I smile and wave, we speed on, past large plantations of cashew and mango trees that stretch out between the villages. Although we left the shore of the Bay of Bengal, we pass lots of saltwater lagoons with cranes, herons, ducks and flocks of smaller birds. The migration of the water birds from the North is reaching its peak. Everywhere I travel here the lakes, ponds and lagoons are filled to the brim with birds during the winter months—from Siberia, everyone says. It sure makes me wonder what Siberia is like in the summertime. Around the lagoons, a cottage industry of the local folk is visible. One-foot-high dikes divide the shallow water into small sections for drying of the seawater to extract salt. When the salt dries, it is heaped into ten-foot cones, then protected from the rain with tents made of woven palm fronds. Surely, this tropical terrain with its extravagant flowers, birds, butterflies and flowering trees is one of the things that attracts me to India. Nevertheless, you only see such sights in the mountains and in the coastal regions of the South. Much of India is desolate, somewhat like the Southwest of the U.S. Even this region can be unbearably hot. We are getting relief now due to the rainy season. Everyone is thankful that the seasonal rains have started on time to bless their winter crop. When the monsoon arrives the earth sings. Palm trees dance, flowers burst forth, naked children play, frogs croak—in unison with the singing of the earth.
Chapter Two Living in Ganesha's Shadow As I sit mesmerized taking in the scenery, the two and one-half hour journey passes quickly, considering we were traveling at 40 m.p.h., or less, the entire time. I am all eyes as we enter Pondicherry. At first, it appears to be a normal Tamil Nadu town: shops, cows, bicycles, colorful plastered houses. Then we cross a river-or is it just a large sewage ditch-and enter another world: tall white-washed walls that reach right to the edge of narrow sidewalks. The French rulers of Pondicherry founded this community. At one time the French had quite a chunk of the Indian east coast. However, when they had had to fight it out with the British (both using armies of native Indians), they lost everything but a couple tiny territories, one of them was Pondicherry. The French then gave up their weapons and settled for more intellectual endeavors, creating this tiny tropical paradise in the process. We drop the Suddha off at his friend's home. He gives the driver instructions to Usha's address: just around two corners, by the Ganesha temple. I phoned her yesterday, so she is expecting me. As we are driving slowly down the narrow crowded street right next to the temple, suddenly Usha appears, right by the roadside with a bunch of purple water lilies clutched in her hand. I have never seen her with short hair, so I have to take a second look to make sure it is really her. At that moment, she spots me in the back seat of the car and makes a flying leap toward us. I jump out of the car and we exchange long hugs with squeals of joy, a happy reunion after ten years. She directs the driver to back around the corner where we struggle to get my suitcases out of the car. It seems that it is not the driver's duty to carry suitcases; he declines to help us. I have not tuned in to these details yet, but it must have been the Suddha's servant who loaded my suitcases this morning. And are they heavy-including reference books, portable typewriter, decent paper. "Come. Come and look at our view," Usha runs up a staircase. I quickly give the driver a tip and follow her to the living area that is a large open space on the second floor. "Look, if you lean just a bit, you can see the sea." We hang over the railing to catch the view just as a breeze starts to stir. Sure enough at the apex of two rows of white buildings is a strip of turquoise sea and the bright blue sky. The scene captivates us as we linger in silence for a moment. "You just have time to wash up. Mary will have lunch ready for us in ten minutes." Usha is down the steps and out the door before I even get to the bathroom. Where is she going in such a hurry, I wonder. My mind is taking things in slowly; slowly, but clearly, like scanning to look for a known landmark in this unknown terrain. "Look, I haven't forgotten. Your favorite coconut water!" Usha comes rushing up the stairs, bearing the ambrosia of the tropics. "A green coconut! Oh, how I have dreamed of green coconut water. So we have ilanir right here in Pondicherry?" Although coconut palms are common all over the South, some places you cannot find them for sale because everyone has coconut palms in their yards. "Yes. You shall drink ilanir to your heart's content every day." "Oh, surely, I am in heaven. With a temple at my doorstep and ambrosia to drink every day." Usha has a rattan dining table and chairs in the large, shady alcove. We are so busy talking that we hardly notice what we are eating. Just as well, Usha's servant is a terrible cook. Usha apologizes and promises to cook a great dinner for me tonight. You cannot beat the enchanting setting though. Our view overlooks the decorative temple gates, which are embraced by tall swaying palms. However, there is a test that I must pass before I enter these gates. Aradhana (many houses have names) is being furnished to Usha by her boss, Maggie. Since housing in the cities is sparse, and often expensive, it is common for a company to furnish living quarters to its employees, but it is unusual to furnish a home to a secretary. Maggie is an influential person in Pondicherry, more precisely, in the ashram here. She held the prestigious position of secretary to The Mother, Sri Aurobindo's famous French disciple. In addition, Maggie is a talented author in her own right. She has hired Usha as a secretary, or scribe, as she prefers to call her, to help with her current writing projects. Obviously, we have to obtain Maggie's approval for me to stay here with Usha. I am glad I have rested; for my command appointment is the very evening of my arrival. Off I go at the specified hour to tap at a little turquoise-blue door in one of the tall white walls, which is in a block owned by the Ashram. Maggie, cool and petite, answers the door in person, since her servants have already gone for the day. As I step up to the open door, I take a quick moment to take in the place. You can hardly tell where the garden ends and the house begins. Without any social niceties, Maggie invites me, "Come on in. Let's sit and meditate." I am a little surprised, but this is India-anything goes. When Maggie hands me a thin cotton pad to sit on the polished cement floor, I realize she is more Indianized than indicated by her spacious home, big bathtub and bevy of computers. I have been practicing sitting cross-legged to prepare myself for this trip because I know Indians sit on the floor a lot; nevertheless, I practiced with a thick cushion. Here I am given a pad, not even one-quarter of an inch thick, exactly like Maggie's. With quiet sanctity, we seat ourselves on our little woven squares and close our eyes. We must have sat for some thirty minutes, long enough for both of my feet to fall asleep and my ankles to turn red under the stress of the hard floor. Sweetly and softly, Maggie's voice ends the session and I rearrange my legs, hoping they will rouse themselves before I have to stand. As it turns out Maggie had an inspiration during the meditation. She has a draft of an old manuscript that she had written some years ago and had put away in a cabinet. By happenstance, she came across it just the other day. When she spotted it, she wondered if it were a sign that it was time to get it polished for publication. Since I am adept at word processing, she flashed during the meditation that I might be able to help her by typing the manuscript on to computer disk. I tell her that I will be happy to spend a couple of hours a day typing her manuscript. So I guess means I am welcome to stay at Aradhana.
Large trees, planted in hidden gardens behind high white walls, line the streets. My favorites are the big jasmine trees that dangle bell-shape white flowers over the sidewalks. We detect their sweet fragrance long before we can see them. Daily we pass several huge pipal trees that I come to know and love. As I stand and admire their huge branches canopying the street, I often muse: How many birds and insects have these trees housed through the years? One little creation after another has completed its life-cycle meandering up and down and around this maze of branches; this was the only world they ever knew. Within a
few days I settle into a regular schedule. Usha leaves for Maggie's early;
so, after our morning walk, I settle in to writing and editing for a Bombay
magazine. Then in the afternoon, I work a couple of hours on Maggie's
manuscript. In the early evening, I take advantage of being so near Aurobindo's
ashram and go over a group meditation. By the time I return, Usha is back
home. She dominates in the preparation of dinner because she is such a
wonderful cook. I am content to help with the chopping of vegetables and
the stirring, following her instructions. In contrast, from our verandah, we witness the swirl of activity caused by the presence of our little neighbor, Ganesha, the deity of the temple. Daily women arrive in their colorful silk saris with gold borders, escorted by men in white cotton, dressed in their Indian compromise: a white European-style dress shirt with an Indian dhoti wrapped around their waists. Keshava, a real live elephant, ambles down the street collecting coins with his trunk. After he takes the coin in his snout, he reaches overhead to give it to his mahout, who rides on his back. Then he gives a blessing by touching his trunk on the donor's head. Keshava definitely gives me an opportunity to confront my primeval "he's bigger than me" fear. I love the way he scoops up the coin out of my hand, but the tap on the head afterwards throws me into paroxysms of anxiety. Every time, I have to challenge and chide myself to go through it. Actually, my fear is not totally unfounded. Although temple elephants everywhere greet thousands of worshippers every day without any incident, an occasional accident does occur. Recently, a famous movie star was walloped on the head by a temple elephant, one whom he considered his special pet. A week later, the actor died from the injury. Since we are in the middle of the Tamil festival season, a solid gold chariot takes the deity out for an evening stroll through the neighborhood at least once a week. Here, as in most processions, the main idols stay at home, but stand-ins are temporarily vested with their powers. Everyone lines the road to take a blessing, while many walk along side the golden chariot. A young priest informed me that it was made in England by the Queen's craftsman some fifty years ago. From our balcony, we have a great view of the coming out of the deity to start the procession. However, the downside is the deity has a late curfew, and returns home long after we have gone to bed. Without our supervision, the tall chariot often tears down our telephone wires, even though one attendant carries a long pole with a hook to lift any sagging lines up out of the way. Although small, and not particularly ornate, this temple is quite famous among the Tamilians, so it is included in all the pilgrimage tours. In addition, all the latest model cars, buses, tractors, and lorries pass the portals of the temple. Actually, the temple was specially built to accommodate them. They can drive right up and park in front of the wide entrance, so that the priest can run out to wave some flaming, smoking camphor over the hood to bless the vehicle. The trucks, buses and cars come from all over Tamil Nadu, since many drivers will not transport their first cargo or passengers until they have come to this temple to receive Ganesha's blessing. Parrots, crows, mynas, cows, goats, hawkers, beggars and lepers complete the colorful, noisy, rushing crowd. It seems as if the whole world exists right at our door step-and maybe it does. Early one morning, when I open the door for our daily walk, I discover a beggar sleeping on the walkway, using the one step as a pillow. Upon hearing the door, he starts, takes one look at me, and bolts like he has seen a ghost. He leaves behind his worldly possessions: one tin can with a couple of short dirty strings and a rubber band. I leave the can there, but he never reappears to retrieve it. Another day, a young boy shows up on our doorstep. Although Usha attempts to talk to him in several languages, he does not utter a word. Judging from his small size, we think that he must be from the South. Even Usha cannot guess his age since many Tamils can pass for eight even when they are fifteen years of age. Our outcaste sweeper, who lives on the street corner diagonal from us, signals that she has food to give him. When he falls asleep before dark on our little patch of yard, Usha goes out and puts an old woolen shawl over him. The next morning, all we find is the crumpled shawl laying on the curb. We never see him again either.
"Oh, Nancy. Haven't you seen them run over the nimbus with their vehicles?" "The cars and trucks run over the nimbus? I hadn't noticed that at all." "Yes,
that is the sacrifice. You know that these trucks and buses are dangerous
to humans- "Whatever works, we say.... but does it work?" I interject. "They believe it does, so that probably helps." "Not if they drive like idiots." "You have a point, but, relatively, there are few accidents in India." "It's true. In all my travels, I have never seen one." By the time we return home from our morning walks, the whole area has become a turmoil of pilgrims, hawkers, beggars, lepers, lorries, buses, cows, and honking horns; all vying for their place-although no one is going anywhere in these narrow streets. This tamaasha (melee, but Indian-style) lasts without pause all day long. However, peace returns quickly after the temple closes at 10:00 p.m. when the big overhead lights are turned off. Since they will be at 4:00 a.m., the street people immediately settle down beneath their rags. It is our favorite time to sit out on the verandah soaking up the cool breeze that sweeps up from the sea every evening. We seldom talk; we are content to stare at the stars and soak up the silence. But sometimes the cool dark quiet does not last. I have witnessed several scenes of the Indian drama from that verandah after midnight. One night the police came with night sticks and roused all the beggars and sent them packing. Uniformed officers crashed and broke all their clay cooking pots and tossed any other belongings into a pile in the middle of the road. Hidden in the dark shadows of the verandah, I watch as everything goes up in flames. The next morning, the beggars are all back in their places, business as usual; just as if nothing had happened. Except for our sweeper, she is in such a tizzy over the broken pot-her only cooking pot-that Usha gives her an old aluminum pan to replace it. She then sets to work sweeping the porch and walkway with her big smile, toothless and red, stained from the paan she eats. She is an hour later than usual because of the tragedy, for she usually has the small porch sparkling clean each morning before we get up. Usha surmises that she was not born an outcaste, but was rendered one by her handicap; she is a deaf mute. Because of her handicap, an arranged marriage would have been impossible. We assume that years ago she joined the street people and married a leper. They have one daughter-delivered on the street-who has fared better than her parents. She is married, lives in a small mud hut in a nearby town, and has a darling little boy. He comes to spend a week on the sidewalk with his grandparents a couple of times a year. When he
is here, the sweeper rushes forward with the boy to get my blessing whenever
I pass. I have a lot of difficulty with this Indian custom, so I divert
their attention by carrying a packet of English biscuits or a piece of
candy to give him. Then I pat him on the head, which passes off as a blessing.
Because of him, I begin to carry candy to hand out to all the little angel-faced
urchins I meet. Once a year, our sweeper and her leper husband go to visit
their daughter. They are gone only a few days; for they have the best
corner at the temple and do not want to forfeit their claim. I am told
that if a new beggar shows up, he is often run off by the resident beggars
because they do not want to share their holdings. A regular disturbance in the night is the pounding made by the little orange-frocked sadhu [hermit] smashing nuts for her paan. She is our only temple sadhu, a term applied to the various renunciates who wander about, living off the offerings of others. A tiny gray-haired woman, she always dresses in orange, although no one really thinks that she has taken the vows of a sannyasi, or renunciate, which would qualify her to wear the orange cloth. It's possible that she donned this color of the swamis in order to get bigger donations; it has been done before. She is quite agile and always picks her prey carefully. She heads straight for the most affluent-looking devotee. If the offering proffered is not up to her expectation, does she tell him off: long and loud. I cannot understand her Tamilian tirades, but her tone of voice tells plenty. Many Indians, including our sweeper, are addicted to paan: a combination of betel leaves, areca nuts (supari), calcium paste, tobacco, and various other condiments according to individual taste. The chewing of this paan, believed to assist digestion, has long been a tradition, for there exist many beautiful antique silver boxes to hold the various condiments. Even a poor villager will carry a metal box with little tins filled with the various fixings. The betel leaves are fresh and can be purchased at any tobacco stand. The betel leaf is spread with white calcium paste and sprinkled with the areca nut pieces. This combination makes the awful red color that you see on teeth and lips and in the streets—also in the elevators in Bombay. Areca nuts are so hard that they have to be shaved with a knife or broken into pieces with a nut cracker, again many artistic ones exist. However, our sadhu uses the country method—pound them to death. Every week or so, she has a supari attack in the middle of the night. Crash, crash, crash, beats her hammer. When I just cannot take it another minute, I crawl out of bed, take my flashlight and shine it down right in her face. She takes the hint and stops. If a bus load of pilgrims arrive in the middle of the night, our street is the best place to park to wait to be first in line when the temple opens at 4:00 a.m. They blast bhajans (spiritual songs) on their boom boxes, pee in the gutter, and make all sorts of racket. They never quiet down until the moment I think: it's so late, I may as well get up. Even if there are no pilgrims, one of the vendors at the temple stalls always shows up before 4:00 a.m. to get ready to sell the camphor, fresh limes, incense and flowers for worship. First thing, he turns up the volume on his cassette player to the highest blasting capacity. I keep threatening to run out in my night gown and teach him some English—you know, the dirty words—but at 4:00 a.m. who has the energy? While I am taking in the parade of nightly local color, Usha is sleeping soundly. She has given up on fresh air and has closed all the shutters to her room and turned the ceiling fan up to high to drown out the noise. All Indian houses have lots of open windows, but they are equipped with solid wooden shutters to keep out the monsoon rains and the summer heat—and noise—along with iron bars to deter the beggars, robbers and especially monkeys. I eventually get so tired from sleepless nights that I have to barricade myself inside and turn on the fan too.
Why an elephant-faced god? Couldn't the ancient sages have foreseen that the day was coming that would produce a specimen of man whose scientific knowledge and evolutionary theories would not countenance that an animal-in whatever form-could wield power over the concerns of human beings? To comprehend it, one has to understand the Hindu theory of energy fields in the human body. The energy flow that connects these chakras, "wheels" of energy, is called the kundalini, or serpent power. The source of the energy is the first chakra in the lower pelvic region. Those who are able to see subtle energies perceive a red lotus flower with two petals and a white elephant in this lowest-but fundamental-energy center. So one could say that the elephant represents the prime mover in the individual. There are many stories of the adventures of Ganesha in the various Puranas (epics). A favorite one tells of Ganesha and his brother Subramanya reaching the age of puberty. They are both steamed up to get married, but their parents present them with a challenge. The first son to circle the world will be the first to be wed. The elder Subramanya takes off in a cloud of dust, while Ganesha seems to dally for a moment. Then he calmly and reverently pays homage to his parents, none other than the illustrious deities, Lord Siva and Parvati, by doing pradakshina, "circling" them three times. Then he meanders over to lie down under a tree for a nap. The courtiers of the royal family, even the royal couple themselves, are perplexed at this strange behavior. How can Ganesha hope to catch up with Subramanya, who, flying high on his divine swan, must be already half-way around the world? Nevertheless, Ganesha appears totally unconcerned about all the murmurs and laments. Finally, after some time, his brother comes winging in and declares his victory. "I have arrived first," he shouts, not seeing Ganesha, still lounging in the shade of a tree. "No, I am already here. I was first," pipes up Ganesha. "That's impossible, you could not have beaten me," declares Subramanya; for, instead of a beautiful swan, Ganesha only has a small mouse to carry him around the world. Then Subramanya finds out that Ganesha has never left the premises. He rants and raves, and calls for justice. "No, no. You are mistaken," Ganesha proclaims. "Mom! Dad! Come over here and help us settle this dispute." Fortunately, Lord Siva had not been called out of station to do his tandava dance, which destroys the wicked, so he is available to arbitrate the dispute between his two sons. "Now exactly what is the trouble?" he patiently inquires. "Subramanya is accusing me of duplicity. He says I did not circle the world to win the race. In fact I did circle it-three times." "But, son, you have been lying here under a tree. How can you contend that you won the race?" "But, father, don't you recall? This very morning I worshipped you and mother with pradakshina three times." "Well... Yes... You did. But what does that have to do with the race?" "The goal of the race was to circle the world. Correct?" "Yes, that is correct." "You and mother are in essence the world, even the universe. Correct?" "Yes..." "So when I circled the both of you, I circled the entire universe. And I did it three times." His divine father had to admit that his younger son had indeed circled the world three times and had won the race. It was not a matter of duplicity, but of cleverness. In addition to this astuteness, aided by his brawny forehead and brain, Ganesha has become favored for his sheer strength. His ability to remove obstacles, either to material plans or spiritual goals, has put Ganesha in the place of honor by today's worshippers. Although I feel no personal connection, it is somehow a solace to know that the little solid silver Ganesha is practically at our feet-since we live on the second floor. I love to pass through the temple gates and get a glimpse of his form, shining above the crowd of worshippers who form a constant kaleidoscope of movement and color. Many times I feel that my cells are alive and singing in this strange milieu, as if I am part of a swirling, whirling colorful mandala. I feel so wonderfully comfortable with the flow of my life here in Pondicherry that I have not minded staying longer than I planned. Chapter Three Renewing Old Acquaintances
After two
months of simple, peaceful living, I return to Madras to attend a lecture
series on Hindu philosophy by Swami Chinmayananda. Madras, the capital
of Tamil Nadu, has the distinction of being the starting point of the
last invasion of India—by the Europeans. The settlement and fort,
established around 1640, are still in tact; St. Mary's Church is the oldest
surviving British construction in India. Many made their fortunes at this
trading center, including an early governor who amassed enough wealth
to endow Yale University. With its European moorings, Madras has none
of the architectural treasures seen throughout the rest of Tamil Nadu.
Nonetheless, it is the most Indian of all the large cities, in its slower
pace of life, absence of high-rise buildings, and an unpretentious populace.
Situated right on the east coast, it is flanked by sandy, white beaches
and wafted daily by pleasant sea breezes. The Kuvam River, which bisects
the city, has been renamed the "Black Danube" by the locals,
for obvious reasons. I had met
Swami Chinmayananda in San Francisco in 1976. Quite impressed with the
ideas he taught from Hindu philosophy, I had decided to go to India. Actually,
I specifically had the idea that I could do some volunteer work in one
of the Swami's charitable projects. One of the most popular spiritual
teachers in India, Swami Chinmayananda has declared that his mission in
life is to convert Hindus to Hinduism. Since the Hindu culture was inextricably
bound up with its religion, the loss of the culture—due to European
influence—has put a real strain on the deeper understanding of the
religion. Nevertheless, Bharata was not only known for her material wealth, her sages were held in high regard. They were definitely known to the ancient Greeks. Although we do not know if there was a direct communication between them, Pythagoras was a contemporary of Buddha. Buddha's philosophy was in response to the degeneration into dry intellectualism of sankhya philosophy, the world's oldest system of thought. Some conjecture that Pythagoras traveled to Bharata, for some of his theories appear to be influenced by Vedic thought, particularly his metaphysical theories, including transmigration. Pyrrho (c. 312 BC) definitely traveled to Bharata to gather knowledge. His skepticism is associated with the questioning nature of the philosophical section of the Vedas. Just as the European world took their "Arabic" numerals and the concept of zero from the Indian mathematicians, they also gleaned ideas for their philosophies from the Vedic seers—without giving any credits.
While studying Hindu philosophy at Sandeepany school/ashram, I had met thirty young Indian men and women who were studying the major texts of Hindu philosophy for an extended course of two and one-half years. From that group I now have many wonderful spiritual brothers and sisters. At that time I met Swami Shuddananda and Swami Paramatmananda, who are both teaching in Madras. So one day we meet for lunch at Shuddha's teaching center. Although they are both in their thirties, they are having an encouraging success teaching educated Indians, many of whom are over twice the teacher's age. I enjoy seeing how they have matured and developed as teachers in the ten years since I have seen them. Shuddha has been going to U.S. annually for the past few years. This year will be giving a course in a graduate school of psychology in San Diego on an interesting theme: the mind as perceived by the Hindu. The Hindus divide what we normally call the mind into two parts: the mind (manas) and the intellect (buddhi). The mind is considered to be the servant or file clerk of the intellect. To illustrate this role of the mind, Swami Chinmayananda tells a personal story, which he claims is true. When he was attending the university, he shared an apartment with two other young men. They pooled their resources so they could hire a servant to cook and keep things in order. The first morning the servant was on the job, one of the young men came rushing out of his room, ordering, "Quick, run me some bath water. I'm late for my class." Just as the servant turned to follow the instructions, a second one called from his room, "Shankar, fetch me some hot tea right away." Then the Swami explains, "I came out of my room, gave the boy a rupee note, and told him to go fetch me some cigarettes." The boy stood there stunned. What could he do? He could not be three places at one time. He just quit and walked out—then and there." The Swami goes on to explain, "So this is the way we treat our mind-servant. We think we want this, then we think we want that, then we change our mind again. How can the mind serve us and grow in dynamism if we don't allow it? Taking the role of the director of the corporation, we must focus it on one task, assign it the action and allow it time to complete the job successfully. Afterwards, we can congratulate ourselves on the success, then move forward with another task. With this plan, you are sure to attain success in whatever endeavor you choose." Another point the Hindus emphasize when analyzing the mind is its dynamic nature. To illustrate this point, there is a story of a noble and wealthy monarch whose greatest desire was to understand the spiritual truths and become enlightened. One day he got the news that a famous sage was passing through his kingdom, so he sent an ambassador to bring him to the palace. After the sage had been fed and given time to rest, the king summoned the sage to his private quarters to ask him to fulfill his heart's desire. He requested that the sage give him a mantra, sacred incantation, that he could repeat, so that he would be able to experience his divine nature. The sage explained that he could give him a mantra; however, he could not just hand out one to anyone. First, the seeker had to be tested. The test was simple: the king was not to think "monkey" for ten consecutive days. So the first thing the next morning, before the king went for his bath and prayers, he thought: Now what was it I was supposed to do? "Not think monkey." So he had thought "monkey." Never mind, tomorrow he would remember not to think "monkey." The next morning, the same thing occurred, so the king had to had to give up, for it was impossible for him to remember not to think "monkey." I think this concept explains Saul's conversion to St. Paul; he was thinking about Christ more than the Christians. The Hindus have a similar case: a famous poet had been a robber who continually and regularly deprecated Lord Rama. In the end he was converted and translated the epic of Rama's travails on earth into Prakrit, the language of the people. We have more modern examples of priests and preachers being programmed with the “no sex” idea. In concentrating on what they were supposed to avoid, it was inevitable that sex was on their mind. Therefore, the mind is for thinking and creating things; it cannot think no-thing.
Frankly, I am looking forward to getting back to my quiet routine in Pondy, so I opt to sit out in the yard with Mr. Nambiar away from the smash of hot bodies. I am always glad to get an opportunity to ply him with questions as he has lots of India stories. He and his brother design and build factories for extracting vegetable oils from seeds, a business started by their father, who had been a respected pillar of the Madras community. In his youth, the elder Nambiar had left Kerala to go to far-off Delhi to attend the university. He was of the Ksatriya, warrior, caste, so his education was only for ornamental purposes. After earning his degree, it was understood he was to come back to live in the family home. However, it was obvious to him that the Brits were not as generous to the native aristocrats as the kings of yore had been. Ksatriyas did not work for wages; in fact, they did not work, except when called upon to protect the kingdom. Otherwise, they remained content to oversee their property, which consisted of at least one village. With the foreign government, new avenues of revenue had to be instigated. Since the duty of a military officer could be extended to include administering justice, many had entered into the British court system as minor judges. Of course, it goes without saying; these native judges could never rule in a case involving a Brit. While, on
the one hand, the British appeared to belittle India's caste system, they
used advantageously to put themselves on top. Even the lowest file clerk
of European blood was above the most erudite Brahman scholar—in the
courts, in the schools, in travel, in the clubs. I realize that the phenomenon
still exists when I walk right into an exclusive private club in Bombay
without a question; whereas an Indian would never get beyond the front
gate without having to prove his membership. Due to Maggie's connections, I had been lucky to hitch a ride to Madras in an ashram car that was sent to the airport to pick-up a friend arriving from Paris. However, I have to find a bus to take me back to Pondy. One day I stopped by the tourist information office on the main street to ask about the bus schedule to Pondicherry. They leave every hour on the hour, I was told. So after lunch, I take off for the bus stand. When I arrive about 2:45 p.m. in plenty of time to catch the 3:00 p.m. bus, the ragged porters inform me that I would have to wait until 4:00 p.m. for the express bus. Express bus, why didn't the tourist office personnel tell me that there are express buses? I opt to go on the local bus rather than wait over an hour in the Madras bus station. There is no bus station, not even a shelter; just buses parked helter-skelter on a huge, dusty parking lot, which is full of chuck holes, scattered with rocks and rubble, and perfumed with the rankest of odours. Well, what can one expect when there is no public restroom? The local bus definitely travels the scenic route. After an hour, we leave the main highway and pass through rural India. The terrain is not as lush as along the coast, so the villages do not look so affluent. These villagers work and eat and love as they have for centuries, untouched by the changes in emperors, viceroys, or prime ministers. As we enter every village, we encounter the village deity. In these small villages, it is often a big clay horse, standing ready for the deity to mount and ride whenever help is necessary. As in many rural areas, the locals have their own unique culture. The villagers believe that the spirits in the other world influence the affairs in this world. Therefore, the obvious thing to do is to have a benevolent—very powerful—spirit, to protect the village. The chosen one is Ayyanar, who is awake and vigilant, particularly in the dark of the night. In this region, I am only seeing the basic red clay horses, but some villages have garishly painted ones, standing some eight feet high. Larger villages even have the mustached and armed Ayyanar seated on the steed, or standing beside it ready to mount. The quality of the rendition is not an indication of the actual affluence of the village. It is often dependent on a native son who succeeded in the city and wanted to reward the deity. Located nearby the village deity is a thatched hut where a Brahman priest performs a daily ritual for the welfare of the village. However, the real action takes place after the Brahman has gone home. On special occasions, behind a makeshift tent, an animal, usually a chicken, is sacrificed by a local sorcerer. One of Mr. Nambiar's stories dealt with the such superstitions of the rural Tamils. He often travels out to the sites where factories for extracting oil are being constructed, in this particular case, in Tamil Nadu. Mr. Nambiar, an educated and sensible person, tells me he actually witnessed a ghost attack the plant foreman, virtually taking him down to the ground. Mr. Nambiar explains that he did not see an apparition; however, he did see the foreman being knocked about like a rubber ball. The management of the new plant took the easy way out; they inquired in the village what to do about this particular ghost. Oh, yes, the villagers acknowledged there was a ghost in the village. Their solution was simple: they put out a plate of food each night, then the ghost would not bother them. To this day, the officer set out a plate of food each evening at the main door of this modern factory. But that's not all. The locals are terrified of machines; machines are after blood—just like cars and buses want blood. If the machine wants blood, give it blood. So a ritual is performed in which a rooster is killed and offered to the machine spirit in place of human blood. "No one will set foot in the factory until this ritual is completed," Mr. Nambiar assures me. "You just pay the local priest; he makes all the arrangements and performs the rituals. We just turn our heads and look the other way. But the ritual is necessary if you are going to operate a factory in Tamil Nadu. Otherwise, no one will work for you."
On another
occasion, I was on a bus when I politely asked a man, who was too well
dressed to be an ordinary local, to put out his cigarette that was blowing
smoke in my face. It was one of those rank home-style bedis, made from
simply rolling a tobacco leaf. He ignored me with a smirk. The local men
who witnessed the scene reported him to the conductor, who made him put
out his bedi and move to the back of the bus. The express
bus trip from Madras to Pondy is a three hour ride, but, because of the
circuitous scenic route, we take almost six hours. When I tumble off the
bus, I feel as if I have toured all of south India—for a price of
only 12 rupees—less than one dollar. India is not as big as it seems;
the slow transportation lengthens the kilometers, so that they seem like
long miles. I finally arrive in Pondy at 8:30 p.m., two hours after dark.
To an unwelcome surprise. "The
swami is here," Usha greets me with a perky tone of voice, but the
dismayed look across her face tells another story. "THE
swami? Which swami?" "You
know, Nischalananda." "He's
back already. I thought the sadhu had wandered over to Kerala," I
reply with a telling sigh. He had stayed
here in Pondy for five days less than a month ago. At that time he stayed
in my apartment down the street—hardly a tree. During that short
visit, Usha provided all his meals at her expense. In many ways, he really
was a delightful companion. He has a great sense of humor, and his contagious
laughter rocked the house. Usha and I both enjoyed his company thoroughly,
except he was rather critical of many other swamis. I do not mean to insinuate
that we did not take in all the inside gossip about the holy men with
open ears, but, frankly, he seemed over-critical of several that Usha
and I both know and respect. We feel they are doing good social and spiritual
work, so we were rather cautious of his other critiques. However,
he is set in his basic opinion: Swamis are renunciates and should not
do any karma, that is, work. In spite of the common use of the word, karma
simply means "action"; therefore, it picks up connotations associated
with results from an action. When the swami is criticizing others he becomes
a bit aggressive and animated; however, there is usually a peaceful side
to his nature. Maybe we all could be at peace if we never had to work
and could just walk into anyone's house to stay as long as we pleased. Of course,
we both know, without having to mention it, that ever temple has free
shelter and food for sadhus—but very simple fare. "Another?
How long has the traditional sadhu who claims he simply wants to sleep
under a tree been wandering here?" I query. I am being
too critical; I should give him credit. He does wander down to the beach
every morning to sit on a bench and read the daily newspaper. Usha rolls
her eyes to the side room to alert me that the Swami is in the kid's room
watching TV "Already four days chalked up," she speaks with
a lowered tone. "Maggie gave him your apartment again." "No
problemanyway, it's really her apartment." However, it means I won't
be able to use the computer again, I think to myself. I returned from
Madras with a list of projects that I plan to accomplish. However, I can
always spend the time at the library for my on-going research on an ever
expanding list of intellectual projects. My loss
of the computer is a small inconvenience in comparison to the burden on
Usha. Nischala is a young, modern-day swami. No simple fare of rice and
dal, beans, for him, he expects his food to be cooked to order. Usha outdid
herself on his previous visit and cooked every delectable dish known to
her. Some of which the swami requested, although the ingredients were
quite expensive, and the preparation was labor intensive. So this is how
the "traditional sadhus" live, I observed to myself more than
once during that visit. Evidently Nischala does not believe his own "tree"
press. We hope he will not be expecting the same service this trip, since Usha now has the responsibility of taking care of a total of five children in her home. Maggie sends over a small tiffin carrier of cooked vegetables with brown bread from the ashram kitchen every evening to help with the meals, but none of the kids like it. This food falls into the category of left-over food, since it was cooked over an hour ago. The Swami won't touch it. You see he is also of the priest caste, a Brahman; therefore, quite particular about such things. Although technically a sannyasi, a monk, is supposed to leave his caste rules and duties behind when he dons the orange robe, some of the current ones do not accept the "take what comes to you unasked for" rule of the renunciate literally.
In all the
excitement of the holiday and guests, Mary has become so useless that
she has not even made the kids' beds when Usha comes home—unexpectedly—at
noon one day. I am sure Mary resents the extra work, but she does have
a tendency to take advantage of Usha's good nature. The only thing Mary
likes is running errands. Daily she spends hours on a trip to the market
for a few vegetables. It's hard to find a way I can really help Usha,
but I hit on the idea that I can do the shopping at the market, so Mary
will be free to do the housework. Maggie has sent one of her servants
over to do the laundry; therefore, Mary should have no excuse not to finish
the beds and cleaning. Nevertheless, Usha is hesitant to give me the task
since she fears the vendors will take advantage of a foreigner. Finally,
she agrees, but writes out a list of prices for me. I sometimes
feel that walking through a market here is like walking through the human
unconscious. The market has no order, no organization, no efficiency—just
one big cauldron of people, all of them totally unconcerned about accomplishing
anything any time soon. Dark stalls, florescent pictures of gods, heaps
of wares, tinsel garlands, stacks of burlap bags and, today, lots of mud
complete the picture. Each of the unlit stalls carries its own specialty:
One has grains and dals; another may carry only rice, at least a dozen
varieties, all unprocessed white. One stall will have just coconuts, another
spices; one may sell such staples as sugar, flour and tea. There is always
a special stall for the many variety of coffees, at least in the South.
The mind is overwhelmed, yet strangely alert, waiting to see what this
unconscious whirl will bring forth next. I finally
find the vegetable section outside the pavilions; the vendors are all
females, sitting on the ground with their vegetables piled in little mounds
on pieces of oil cloth. I pick out the ripest tomatoes, okra, banana blossoms
(still on stalk), beans, and fenugreek greens. Whatever looks freshest
is our fare for the next two days, since I opt to shop only every other
day. Then I search out the fruit stands in another corner of the market.
I select the wonderful tropical fruits; all sweet and juicy, just like
a fruit is supposed to be. I select a huge papaya, guavas, custard fruit
and Indian oranges; they taste like an orange, but peel like a tangerine.
Fruit vendors do take their carts through our neighborhood, but they often
only have apples and bananas to cater to the European tastes. I pick up
a bunch of coriander leaf, a few green chilies and a few nimbus to complete
my shopping for the day. I have no
problem with communication on prices—hand signals does it all. As
it turns out, I purchase everything at half the price on Usha's list.
That's how we discover that Mary, in addition to taking three times as
long as I did, has been charging Usha double the price for the vegetables.
She was able to dupe Usha because normally vegetable prices do go up during
the monsoon season due to difficulty in picking and getting trucks in
and out of muddy fields. Usha sticks with her because she says that all the servants are like this. Then one day, Mary arrives with a yellow face. "The decision has been taken out of your hands. The maid has jaundice," I inform Usha. "What makes you think so?" "Her face is yellow!" "Oh, Nancy, that's just the Tamils. They smear fresh turmeric paste on their faces. They think it lightens their skin and makes them look beautiful." So that ended the emergency.
Chapter Four Sacred Mountain at the Center of the Earth Since Aradhana is full of children and the swami has my apartment, I decide that it is a perfect time to take off for Arunachala. This holy mountain is associated with many saints, including Ramana Maharshi in this century. Luck has it that Maggie has a special appointment, so Usha actually has one day off. We are accompanied by an attractive English woman, who makes a yearly sojourn every winter to Pondy. She and Usha will return the same day, but I plan to stay for a week as the ashram has a good library that I can investigate for old books. The nearby town of Tiruvanamallai is a traditional one. When Ramana Maharshi left home to come to Arunachala Mountain in 1896, the huge temple was already ancient. This temple is dedicated to the tejo lingam, or the fire symbol, classifying the temple as a major pilgrimage destination, along with four other temples scattered about India that house a lingam (symbol) to represent the remaining four Earth elements: earth, water, air and ether. The landmark with its towering gopuras (entrance towers) stands at the foot of Arunachala, the mountain believed to be the abode of Lord Siva. Regularly, visions occur to pilgrims who perceive the mountain changing into the mystical form of Lord Siva sitting in meditation. Lacking such an experience, I have to stick with my intellectual endeavors. Even so, I have no luck in finding out any historical information about Arunachala, although plenty is known about the sage who lived where until his death in the early 1950's. While still a teenager, Ramana Maharshi had an experience in which he realized the impermanence of the world. He actually thought that he was going to die. With his alert mind, he was able to discern that his body was going to bow out, yet he was someone different who could discern the coming and going of the physical body. He then walked out of his family home without saying a word, only leaving a short note and never returned. A Hindu will tell you it was a spontaneous experience propelled by punya, merit, from a previous birth. I feel this explanation negates the fact that in this life Ramana was born in a family of Brahmans in south India. He must have heard the scriptures chanted and spiritual discussions among his father and uncles. I doubt the vision could have occurred to someone who was born in the home of a merchant who only thought of the deities when he needed help; whether it be for acquiring wealth or heirs. There is another consideration; any Hindu pandit, scholarly priest, will argue that Ramana's birth in a Brahman family was only the result of his previous incarnations. So we can conclude, he was born in a devout family where he would obtain the knowledge that would encourage the spiritual experience. After the sixteen-year-old boy arrived in Arunachala, he sat in samadhi, ecstatic trance, for several years. Fortunately for spiritual seekers, he slowly began to communicate with those around him, and during several periods even appeared to lead a relatively normal life. Through the years, many pilgrims who visited him recorded their discussions. By the 1930's, he was probably the biggest attraction in south India. Many foreigners also came to interview the sage, who radiated a holy silence. Somerset Maugham traveled here and used Ramana as the prototype for his holy man in The Razor's Edge, but changed his name to Sri Ganesha. In the 1930's, Paul Brunton's A Search in Secret India put Arunachala on the map for a lot of Westerners
The prize goes to a rather skinny young sadhu who had nimbus pierced by toothpicks, stuck up and down his arms. He also had a metal pick through his lips, but I did not look too closely. Little did I know that he was the only one of this type I would see in three years, or I would have checked him out closer. I never figure out where they all live; I suppose some may walk for miles for the food because I never see any of them living in the neighborhood. Anyway, they come daily with their metal pots to carry home food for the day. Their presence creates quite a spectacle. I sit out in the sun for several hours watching the sights, for I never would have suspected that the winter sun would be too much for me. Even so, I spend my first evening in my room in bed with a terrible headache. Although the first one of this trip, these sick headaches are not uncommon when I travel. The ashram manager sends over a doctor who gives me a homeopathic remedy for "heat stroke." Sounds like a likely diagnosis to me. Who could believe it? A heat stroke in January. The
rooms are actually plain little cabins with an attached bathroom—with
a flush toilet. After you bathe or wash your hands, if you hurry and run
around to the back you can see the gray water flow down a little canal
to a nearby tree. There are several sections of ashram housing, but only
a few in the confines of what is actually sacred ashram grounds. Since
I am of the female gender, my cabin is located outside the official perimeter.
I am told that women are not allowed to sleep in the ashram proper. In
perfect English, Panka Baba asks what I am doing here and where I am going.
He seems interested in knowing what is going on in Pondy. Briefly, I describe
the few public ashram activities I have attended.
The next morning, I get up early, ready to do pradakshina, circumambulation,
of the holy mountain. The winter sun rises late, so I plan to leave about
5:00 a.m. However, the call of a tropical bird awakens me earlier. I just
love the sensation of hearing a bird announce the dawn in the dark of
the night. Since I am awake, I get up, dress, and am ready to go at 4:30
a.m. Consequently, I end up walking for an hour and a half in pitch dark
on an unknown route. I quickly surrender to the beauty and silence of
the night. The moon set some hours ago, so the stars are diamonds, sparkling
across the intense blackness of the countryside. I have always enjoyed
driving at night, to soak up the star power, but I have never actually
walked any distance at night. This experience is turning out to be a pleasant
phenomenon. I cannot explain how contented and connected I feel, as if
I were made for walking under the stars. The journey traditionally ends with darshan, "beholding" of the Deity, at the temple. I arrive at 7:30 a.m., which is pretty good timing since I took a leisurely stroll, stopping to take in the beauty of the mountain, admire the birds, and drink tea under a ragged canvas shelter. I had really just gone on the trip as a lark to see the countryside and to see the various pilgrims participating in this tradition. In fact, I am surprised that I did not see one person on the entire journey. I expected that a lot of people would be by-passing this Sunday stroller. Afterwards, I feel wonderful. This trip is surely more than a lark, I think. The daily trip around the mountain is reputed to change one forever. One young Swiss woman, who has lived here for over ten years, swears that it changed her totally. Recently, she even took a trip back home to Switzerland for the first time since her arrival here and had a nice reunion and reconciliation with the western world. And she came back to Arunachala. Interestingly, later when I return here, I set out the first morning for the wonderful pradakshina around Arunachala. Although I still enjoy walking alone in the quiet morning atmosphere, the experience is just not the same. I suppose it is because of my expectations; I had a totally innocent mind the first time. Yet, there may be another factor. I always love new experiences. Wherever I am, I am always exploring new territory. I never retrace my steps unless I just cannot avoid it. I must admit I love experiencing new things, definitely more than writing about them.
Lord
Vishnu took the form of a boar and began to burrow deep into the earth
to find the base of the column. Whereas Lord Brahma took the form of a
swan and soared to the heavens in an attempt to reach the pinnacle of
the light. As Vishnu, in his boar-form, was rooting away, he fell into
an altered state of consciousness in which he began to perceive the Supreme
Light within himself. No longer concerned with an external column of light,
he allowed himself to melt into a meditative ecstasy. On the other hand,
failing to reach the top, Brahma saw a flower falling through the heavens.
He caught the blossom, then returned to Siva, declaring that he had plucked
the flower from the summit. Now this is where Arunachala comes in. Siva realized that his manifestation as a column of light was so dazzling that it was dangerous to behold. Therefore, he manifested as the sacred mountain Arunachala; thereby explaining, "As the moon derives its light from the sun, those who worship me here at Arunachala will obtain illumination. Arunachala is 'OM' itself in physical form. For the sake of the devoted, I will appear on the summit of this hill every year in the form of a peace-giving beacon." When I return to Pondy, Swami Nischalananda is making plans for his departure. He has been asked to head an important ashram in Udipi, but he persists in his dispersions of spiritual organizations. He is going to Mysore, as he has another devotee there who will put him up for a while—another young woman. She is married, but she works outside the home in an office. Since he does not have her office phone number, the swami frets over the train schedules. He wants to calculate his trip so that he will arrive just after 5:00 p.m., so she will be home when he phones to be picked up. Having spent hours in train stations, I become slightly impatient at the hullabaloo he is causing over the fact he has to arrive at just a certain hour. "What difference does it make? I've spent lots of nights in train station waiting rooms. It's no big deal." "Well,
I couldn't do anything like that," replies the sadhu. While there
is a tradition that a sannyasi, renunciate, should rest at a temple, pilgrimage
shed, Brahman's house or at the foot of a tree, the rules are from common
practice, not from a rule book. Every swami who has taken the sannyasa
vows is an individual unto himself and answers to no one. Of course, he
may consult with elder swamis, or the one who administered his renunciation
vows—if and when he pleases. Since the renunciation is for the purpose
of freedom, it does make sense that freedom is impossible with someone
lording it over you. "Don't come soon," Usha teases him in an impish voice, a variation of Tamil's most common farewell phrase: "Come back soon." Just at the moment Usha knew she could not survive another day, relief comes. The kids are being sent out to "the school." Maggie has met a young woman from Spain who wants to do some seva, service. So Rosa agrees to go out and attend to the children, in exchange for free room and board. The school is a result of a long-term project that Maggie's significant other, Nata, had started. I never inquired as to what attracted Nata, a wealthy Italian businessman, to Pondicherry for his retirement. Anyway, here he was, and he was bored. With the simple motivation of helping the poor folk in the area, he started taking bread out to the criminal village. When I first heard Usha and Maggie speaking of the "criminal village," I thought that the inhabitants had served prison terms, therefore, were now outcastes from society. This assumption turned out to be erroneous. From time immemorial, the populace of this particular village made their living as hired guns, so to speak, because they only had knives. They could not afford guns. Throughout the Tamil-speaking land if anyone wanted any heinous crime committed, and had the money to pay for it, this village was where they came to make a contract. With India's modern courts of law, things have changed and these people have fallen on hard times. Nata's little project grew to include constructing a shoe factory (only outcastes will handle leather) where the villagers could work and earn a decent living. Because the majority of the workers are, and always have been, women, Nata built a school for the children of the workers. When Nata died, Maggie took over directing the projects and seems to be doing quite an adequate job. She has even built a big home for herself and her favorite adopted daughter near the school. Now there are plans to start construction of a high school. Within ten years, the lives of these villagers have been transformed. When I visit the school, I find healthy, alert children, interested in their studies, yet happily sitting together for a silent meditation.
By coincidence, Usha and I happen to meet the culprit at an All India Youth Conference held in Pondy. The youth from the various Indian states have different languages and distinct customs, particularly wedding ceremonies, food, and often dress. Usha can tell where a woman is from by the design on her sari and by the way she wraps it. So these ten-day conferences, organized under the guidance of Vimala Thakkar, bring teenagers together in a "let's learn about each other and appreciate each other" jamboree. Vimala is a true daughter of Bharata, who I will have the privilege to meet during my sojourn. Since both Usha and the Communist are originally from Kerala, they happen to strike up a conversation. Naturally, Usha asks her where she now lives. That's how we find out that this is the very troublemaker who lives in the criminal village. Of course, Usha does not reveal her connection with Maggie, but nonchalantly asks a few pertinent questions. Oh, no, the Communist asserts that she has no intention whatsoever of interfering with the villagers' lives or disturbing the factory or school there. Upon listening to this political advisor, as the Marxist calls herself, explain her business in the village, one has to conclude she is doing little more than sponging off the local folk who are now enjoying a low level of affluence.
Chapter Five Sage of Many Facets Indian
cities do have some modern conveniences to make life comfortable, and
Pondy has all of them: good restaurants, stylish clothes, beautiful fabrics,
quality jewelry and crafts. Here the French and English even have their
homemade brown bread, marmalade and fresh cheese, which is hard to find
elsewhere, even in cities. Then we have the weekly French movie that you
definitely will not find anywhere else. Yet the simple amenities of the
small town are also easy to find; the bicycle rickshaws, fruit carts piled
with apples and bananas—and the green coconut vendor. She already
knows me by sight and picks up her machete to start whacking at the thick
green husk whenever she sees me approaching. She once made a mistake though;
a deep scar crosses one cheek. I now know that this must be Sri Aurobindo's Samadhi, meaning "tomb," but only when it is a tomb of an enlightened sage. The body of a sage has been converted to a higher vibration and is no longer considered gross flesh. Therefore, the body is not cremated, but buried. So the Samadhi of Sri Aurobindo has become a shrine. The ashes of his disciple, The Mother, were also put to rest in this same crypt, as I understand it. However, no one can be sure because there was so much intrigue at the time of her death. I am still trying to collect all the details of that story. Since it was early in the day, there were only a few people around. Prompted by Usha, I held a bouquet of roses in my hand to offer at the Samadhi. Just as I reached the marble vault to place it carefully among other the flowers, the roses were snatched out of my hand by an attendant. This act brings me back down to earth. I then saw that the flowers on the four-foot-high vault were carefully arranged in beautiful designs. So they didn't want anyone to mess them up, I surmised. A few devotees were bent over the Samadhi, as if saying prayers. "Those people were saying prayers all right," Usha fills me in later. "They go there to beg favors from The Mother." "The Mother grants favors?" "Well, that's what they believe. She was such a kind, generous person. To Indians, she was an authentic saint." "And Indians go to saints to ask for things. I thought they went to the temples to ask for things, and to saints to ask for enlightenment." "That may be the ideal, but India is a poor country nowadays. These people need help from the gods—from the saints—from anybody—to get through this modern ‘civilized’ life. You know what a terrible time I have had this past year. I was lucky to find Maggie or I would be living on the street myself right now." I shudder at the mention of living on the filthy streets of India. "So Aradhana was a gift from the gods." "We really don't know, but we hope so."
Up until that time he had lived a traditional Indian life, educated in England, then marrying to live a householder's life. Because of his activities, his wife spent a lot of time in her own family's home, which was quite common for young brides in those days. However, she was going to join him after he fled to Pondicherry. Strangely, she took ill and died en route. I continue to spend at least an hour a day typing Maggie's novel. The story is an interesting look into an aspect of Sri Aurobindo that normally is unknown. It turns out that during World War II Sri Aurobindo was making a concerted effort—psychically—to assist the Allies on the European war front. Evidently, both he and The Mother made contact with a certain American soldier, whom I will call Larry. For some reason, Larry had an unusual sensitivity that enabled him to see huge images of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother spread across the sky. When Larry asked his fellow soldiers if they could see anything strange in the sky, they reported that they could only see wisps of beautifully colored clouds. These images continued to be a source of inspiration to Larry to carry him through the grim circumstances of a series of war experiences, which are described in Maggie's novel. On one occasion, Sri Aurobindo actually saved his life, when Larry heard his voice warning him not to go near a box car. A few moments later the car exploded. Interesting story, however, the story of how Larry found out the identity of the heavenly apparitions I find more intriguing. Larry had intended to marry his sweetheart when he returned from Europe. Like so many soldiers returning from war, he became disenchanted with the life of material pursuits; more so, because he was haunted by the memories of the wonderful, saintly images. For all he knew, they were heavenly angels. Then one day he happened to be in a large library. As he was walking down an aisle, a book fell out on the floor right at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, and unconsciously flipped through the pages. There on the frontispiece was a photo of Sri Aurobindo, his heavenly guide. Needless to say, he was overwhelmed. So much so that from that moment, his whole life centered on plans to travel to India to meet the saint. Tying up all loose ends of his personal life, he even broke his engagement. He then spent all of his time and energy doing whatever odd jobs he could find in order to save money for the passage to India. As wretched fate would have it, by the time he arrived here in Pondicherry, Sri Aurobindo was already dead. However, The Mother was still alive and well. By that time, The Mother was probably more like a Queen than a mother. You had to have an appointment for an audience with her. Still, there were certain days at a specific hour that she appeared on her balcony to bestow her blessings on everyone. We can assume that Larry joined the crowd at all these opportunities for glimpses of her, for Maggie says he did become rather enamored of The Mother. I would even assume that after finding out who Sri Aurobindo and The Mother were, Larry may have even entertained the idea that he was someone special. He must have conjectured that the random falling of a book at his feet was a sign, an omen, of some great plan of which he was a part. Strangely, the story does not end so well. For some reason, The Mother just did not take to Larry at their first meeting; then she seemed to avoid additional audiences with him. She would give him no confirmation that he had been specifically picked by Sri Aurobindo, or if she thought he had just been hallucinating. In short, she did not want to talk about any war experiences. He did get attention from the ashramites, however, telling his stories of seeing the great saint and great lady hovering in the sky giving him solace in the dirty, damp, cold trenches of Europe. Since this novel is a firsthand report as Larry related the events to her, Maggie obviously gave him some consideration. Perhaps, if the book had been completed and published at that time, it could have bolstered his spirits. As the plot unfolded, he turned to the bottle and died a drunkard's death right here in Pondicherry. It is intriguing getting to know Larry, day by day, as I tap out his story on computer keys. Then I hear that the ashram management is arranging a program telling about Aurobindo's war efforts. Maybe Maggie heard of the plan and that is why she pulled out this old manuscript. It would not be the other way around. Whereas everyone loves and admires Maggie, the ashram management is not exactly excited about having her around. Having been The Mother's personal secretary in those last days, she knows too much. It's hard for me to imagine just what the ashram was like in those days. The Mother must have had some special powers, and I certainly have no problem with anyone using special powers to help others in any way whatsoever. Even though the philosophical path of Hinduism eschews such phenomena as dangerous to pull you down, I know in my heart that if I had any special powers I would want to help others. Admittedly, a problem with power and control can arise because the devotees may be waiting to be granted a favor, so they are afraid to speak up to question the master. Some stories indicate that The Mother stepped over the line at times. Sometimes she was quite a tyrant, for example, to her handmaidens over such simple things as dressing her in the mornings. The Mother was born into a wealthy family in France, of Egyptian and Turkish parents. Even at an early age, she had psychic experiences, such as visitations from saints and even mystical trances. However, she put that part of herself aside, married and had children. Interestingly, it was her husband who told her of the saint of Pondicherry, whom he had met on a business trip to French India. So she accompanied her husband on his next trip. When she saw the great saint, she was totally and hopelessly enamored. I think she made a couple of trips back to France, but came here to live as soon as she could arrange it. It was as if she suddenly came to her senses when she beheld in Aurobindo a reflection of her mystical, spiritual self. Slowly, I begin learning some details about Sri Aurobindo, an incredible intellect. Everyone here has a set of the big volumes of all his writings, but few understand them. Most have not even made an attempt to read them. That seems to be the reason most ashramites have moved their allegiance to The Mother. She was more down to earth. Well, even that statement must be qualified. She was down to earth in establishing the ashram, the school with its innovative curriculum, and the industries to make the beautiful handicrafts she loved. Nevertheless, there was nothing practical about her "teachings." Her memoirs, recorded by a European, given the Indian name of Sat Prem, often read like science fiction in inner space. Using the excuse that they were written by a European, they are not sanctioned by the ashram powers that be. Although Hinduism has its flexibility, I think the Mother probably exceeded the stretch test, not for the actual content, but for the flights of fantasy. Therefore, you will not find them in the ashram library or book shop. Actually, they are more difficult to comprehend than Aurobindo, so the censorship may be irrelevant. After
my daily trip to the library, I usually walk over to the ashram to sit
and meditate in The Mother's samadhi room. When Aurobindo died of kidney
failure, the burden fell upon her to test their immortality theory. No
one thought she was going to die. When she appeared to have "left
the body," they put her in this room to watch over her to be sure
she was not in a mystical trance.
The history of the Savitri is taken from the Mahabharata epic. Due to her devotion wisdom, she was able to save her husband from Lord Death. Therefore, she has a place of honor in the hearts of all Indian women. Every young girl knows the story of Savitri. In a subtle way—Westerners can never perceive—the Hindu culture has idolized woman. However, Aurobindo was more interested in the theme of immortality than wifely devotion, so he converted the story into a lengthy poem highlighting his ideas on the possibility of human immortality. The drama is spoken in Bengali, the native language of Aurobindo. Since I already know the essential story, I am able to follow along. The director has gone all out for the costumes and lighting effects, so it is visually pleasing. Here is the jest of the story: The elderly king and queen of Madra remained childless. As was common in those ancient days, when they had a problem, the couple went to the forest to live an ascetic life and pray to the Goddess Savitri for a child. After EIGHTEEN YEARS, the Goddess appeared and granted them the boon they requested. They returned to the palace for the delivery of a daughter, named for the Goddess herself. Although Savitri was an unusually beautiful maiden, she received no proposals for marriage from princes of the surrounding kingdoms. Her father told her to go out and find a suitable spouse for herself. (Yes, princesses chose their own husbands in the ancient days. However, the common practice was to call the princes to a big durbar, so she could take her pick.) In her travels, Savitri came upon a royal family, who were living in the forest. The honorable regent had been disposed in a court intrigue. The blind king and his elderly wife were being served by their young handsome son, Satyavan. It was love at first sight between the ruler and ruler. Both of their families agreed that Satyavan and Savitri would make a most handsome royal couple. But wait, there is a twist. The heavenly messenger, Narada, happened to be visiting Savriti's parents at the time. He affirms that Satyavan was a most honorable mate, but, unfortunately, he was destined to die in exactly one year. Savitri's parents were quite distraught and suggested she make another selection. In spite of the forecast, Savitri's heart was set; the marriage ceremony was performed. Savitri gave up her royal robes to go to the woods to live with her in-laws where she lived happily for 356 days (the Hindu year has 360 days). As the date of the impending death approached, she made her plans. As any Hindu woman would do for the sake of her family, she fasted for three days. On the 360th morning when Satyavan left for his daily routine of chopping wood in the forest, Savitri followed although she still had not eaten a bite of food. Satyavan questioned her behavior, for she had never gone with him before. Even his parents expressed their concern, but finally gave their permission. She was a determined woman. First, the young couple gathered some fruits and roots for dinner. Then when Satyavan started to chop wood, he was overcome with exhaustion and practically slumped to the ground. Savitri caught him just in time to place his head comfortably in her lap. When she looked up, sure enough, there came Lord Death, decked out in his blood stained robes with a noose dangling from his shoulder. Savitri tried to delay Yama (the Controller), but he was not dissuaded from his task. He quickly looped his noose onto the soul of Satyavan and headed south, leaving Savitri with a lifeless carcass on her lap. Carefully she set it aside, then followed after DharmaRaja. (Lord Death has many names: Kala = Time; Yama = Controller; DharmaRaja = King of Duty or Righteousness). "Go back. You can't go where I'm going," Yama admonishes her. "I must follow, for it is a wife's duty to go wherever her husband goes. I have just fasted for his sake. Besides I have earned the merit of having lived a life of love and devotion to my elderly parents; plus another one year of credit is due me for serving my husband's parents." DharmaRaja must acknowledge this righteous young woman; the king of righteousness is obligated to play by the rules. "I'll grant you one boon, but you must stop now." "I request that my father-in-law's eyesight be restored." "Let it be so," Lord Death avowed. However, Savitri is not dissuaded; she continues to follow them. He finally relents, "Okay, you may have another boon, but you must return. You cannot go where we are going." "I request that my father-in-law's kingdom be restored to him." "Let it be so." When she still continues to follow him, DharmaRaja becomes stressed. "Okay, one last boon, but this is it," he barks. In a composed tone, Savitri enumerates her last request: "May there be 100 heirs born to my father-in-law's throne." "Granted," Lord Death retorts, thinking that he is rid of her. When Savitri continues to follow him, the ancient fellow losses his patience: "You are such a worthy person that I am duty-bound to protect you, but you must turn back. You cannot go any farther." "But sir. You told me that my father-in-law's lineage is to be continued. Satyavan is their only son. They are too old to have children; therefore, their lineage has to continue through him." So Savitri saved her husband from the clutches of Lord Death. They lived a long, happy life thereafter. Savitri's devotion to her spouse was such that she was able to outwit humanity's ultimate adversary. Aurobindo used this story to emphasize his belief in physical immortality. Since Satyavan defied death, Aurobindo calls him immortal; therefore, his lifelong interest in Savitri.
That was the story, as told to me in 1978 by a first-hand witness, but you will not hear that story anywhere about the ashram now. The story now is a demon of a man took The Mother out to be buried before the three days were up. It was for that reason only The Mother did not resurrect. The same man became involved in the battle to win Auroville as the ashram's property; he lost that battle too. So there is no one left to tell the truth except Sat Prem, The Mother's personal scribe. He has told the story—in print. In her last days, he was not allowed to see her, but he tried to keep a line on what was happening. He found out much later that the male trustees were giving her a sedative to quell her hysterical outbursts. To Sat Prem that meant that the drug could have interfered with the natural transmutation process she was going through to achieve immortality. The ashram powers-that-be disposed of Sat Prem too, burnt his hut, and ran him out of Pondicherry. Some say they even got his visa revoked, so he had to leave India. In the meantime, he has grown old, but his writing is fresh and wonderfully innocent. Perhaps, he will be the one who remains forever young. I heard that he is back in India, staying somewhere in the Nilgiris, but the exact location is top secret. Maggie knows many details of The Mother's death—so much that she is ostracized from the inner circle of the ashram. However, she never rocks any boats and remains busy with her writing and social service projects, obviously content not to be wasting her time with ashram intrigues. Since she was not allowed to see The Mother either, she really has no first-hand information of those last days.
One evening I ask her, "Aurobindo was really doing his own thing, this supramental plane business. Is he considered a Hindu?" "Of course, he's a Hindu. He did develop his own system of thought, but he also wrote wonderful commentaries on the major Upanisads and on the Bhagavad Gita too." "Readable?" "Probably not. At least I have not been able to get through his book that I am now trying to read on yoga. They say that you don't have to understand his words, that just reading them puts you into another state of consciousness." "Well, that was true for me. The other night I picked up that book on yoga, it put me right to sleep before I finished the third page." I laugh. In Hindu thought, there are four states of consciousness: waking, dreaming and dreamless sleep; plus the underlying turiya, fourth, state, which can be described as the screen on which the other three play out their dramas. "I wonder how he saw the world. I know nothing about him, but I read once about an incident when he had an unique experience. Yes, I remember now; he did have a Hindu guru. His guru made Aurobindo sit alone in a room until he understood the nature of thought. After three days, Aurobindo perceived that the source of thought is not internal, that thoughts actually come into the mind from an external source, like arrows. It's a matter of like attracts like. The idea sure gives we proponents of free will a shutter. If it is true, it sure sets Western thought back to the starting point." "He did have a different view of the world. I guess that's why he sat up there in that room for twenty-five years—trying to explain his concepts," Usha replies to my rambling. "You don't mean that he literally stayed in that one place for twenty-five years?" "I mean he never left that small apartment..." "Not even to walk down the stairs to the garden for a little exercise and fresh air?" "Well, I can't say. You have to realize that the ashram has been built around the rooms he stayed in. It wasn't like this when he was alive." I am aghast. "You are telling me that the sage, whose main premise was karma yoga, liberation through action in the world, and who initiated the building of a huge ashram around him, sat in two small rooms for twenty-five years. On the other hand, Adi Sankaracharya, the great teacher whose main teaching was the doctrine of non-action, traveled around India by foot three times, debating all the religious leaders and revitalizing all the old temples. How in the world are we Westerners ever to understand the Hindus?" "You certainly never will if you want to nail everything down to one rule, chiseled in stone. Nancy, there are many realms of experience available to humans. You know that, or you wouldn't be here. In Hinduism there is room for one and all. A huge bouquet of many-colored experiences comes from the Divine—how can one experience be more valid, more important, more valuable, than another?" "Living in a world where one has eat to live, and work to eat, a world that is dominated by businessmen seeking profits for themselves only, I tend to forget that simple fact." "You certainly have a point there. That's why the Indians are running after money instead of living the simple, traditional life of our ancestors. And I'm not talking about ages ago, I'm talking about even fifty years back. Everything is so different now. Look at me; I can't live on philosophy. I'm having to work ten hours a day, seven days a week, for a roof over my head and food to eat. Don't ask me how you live a spiritual life in today's world. I sure don't have it figured out." I guess trying to figure out this dilemma is one of the reasons I am in India. I am aware that a part of me really wants to have a basic simple life, yet I truly do not know for how long I would remain satisfied without certain luxuries that I enjoy. I have noticed that somehow when I am the most peaceful, the material things do not seem to matter. It makes me wonder if my need to have more things is simply relative to my state of mind.
Chapter Six NataRaja, The Dancing Deity Since I am so close to Chidambaram, I take the opportunity to travel to the temple there. Dating from around 950 AD, Chidambaram is one of the ancient Brahman villages: No kings, no lay people, just priests doing their priestly duties for the welfare of the ruler and the populace. These temple villages often have many small temples, but here in Chidambaram there is only one awesome abode for the Deities. To be technically correct, there is another small temple on the edge of town that houses the Goddess. A European author called the temple dilapidated in 1963, and things have not improved. He also said the temple walls encompassed 40 acres, which may be an exaggeration. Anyway, the compound is huge. The roads, except for the circuit around the temple, are frightfully narrow. As there are no sidewalks, I feel as if I am risking my life every time step into the street. It is the usual Indian crowd—bicycles, cows, people, goats, and a few stray chuckholes—all harmless enough, if it weren't for the numerous lorries and buses, which always appear to be in a rush to make up for lost time. Although the town is shabby and the temple rather unkempt, many details of the temple are phenomenal. I enter through the east gate, enhanced by a gopura over one hundred feet tall. Stone carvings of the 108 possible poses of the traditional Bharat Natyam dance of south India cover a wide expanse of the hallway. After crossing a large patio, I enter a large hallway with carved stone pillars; actually, there are several such halls, each with its own unique decorative carving. In the center of the complex stand the main sanctum sanctorum. This is the only place in India where it is possible to behold all three deities of the Hindu trinity at one time: Siva, as the cosmic dancer NataRaja; Brahma, the creator; Vishnu, in charge of preservation of the creation. The Vishnu temple is quite large and actually part of a large temple platform. In his traditional repose, Vishnu faces east as he slumbers, lost in his cosmic dream—guess what he is dreaming. You are right: the creation. We—with all our traumas and dramas—are Vishnu's dream.
I am fortunate that I am here on a Thursday, the morning of the special ritual for the ruby NataRaja lingam. Siva as Lord of the Dance has its origins from a story in which Siva sought to cure the arrogance of some sages living in the Taraka forest. The seers were feeling proud of their spiritual attainments, while their wives were equally arrogant because of their chaste deportment. Through their austerities, the sages had garnered enough power to defy the gods. One thing about gods—they do not like to be defied; it is a common thread through all religions. So Vishnu and Siva set out to resolve the threat. Appearing as a charming young lass, Vishnu ran through the forest in a captivating manner. He was followed by Siva, who appeared to be a young man. In an elaborately sensual scenario, the young man caught the damsel and started putting the moves on her—something that Siva had lots of practice with since his wives tend to be demanding. The celibate sages lost it totally and were caught up in the passion of the moment, totally forgetting their spiritual austerities. Likewise, their wives forgot their virtues when they beheld the alluring young man. When the sages realized how they had been duped, they performed a grand ritual to conjure a serpent, a tiger, a fire, and a demon to punish Siva. Undaunted, Siva took on the challenge of the adversaries and conquered them all. Thereafter, he wrapped the serpent around his neck as an ornament, the tiger's skin became his underwear; he brandished the fire as a weapon, then danced in ecstasy over the demon. The place of his dance is Chidambaram, the center of the universe in everyone's heart. Of course, I plan to attend the special ritual for the dancing NataRaja. However, I am informed by my guide that I have to pay 100 Rps. for a ticket to witness the ritual of the ruby lingam. I had already paid him 50 Rps. for a tour of the temple. Expensive, when you consider it was more than the price of my room. However, I was not disappointed; the guide told me a lot of interesting information that made the trip worthwhile. So I tell him that I will think about buying the ticket, then I stroll off to question the priests if a ticket is necessary. "No, of course, not. Not here." The lingam, object of worship, is brought out enshrouded in a dark cloth. When it is uncovered, offerings such as sandalwood paste and milk are poured over it. Try as I may, I just cannot seem to lose my Western mind. I can hardly keep my attention on the ceremony for watching the Indians rush up to get a drink of the milk that runs off the lingam, then flows through a stone conduit down to where we are standing. Surely, the grace of the Lord will cancel any affect of the black and green moss I spot lining the gray stone spout. My mind cannot accept the reality and keeps repeating, what India needs is some good bacteriologists. The ceremony ends with a flourish as the priest lights a large lamp and passes it around the lingam so that the translucent ruby of the NataRaja image glows in all its glory. By the way, the demon on which NataRaja dances is the dwarf of ignorance. Siva is trying to keep it under control, so we can get a glimpse of our divinity; however, some Western intellects say that he is grinding down his wife. Hardly, he is the only deity who spends months at a time off-duty, while he catering to his wives' needs. The following night is the grand spectacle of the showing of lights. As I understand it, this ceremony is intended for the akaasha, ether, altar. With chanting and twirling the priests show the oil lamps. Then they bring out special lamps with many flames glowing at once, ending with one shaped like a Christmas tree of at least 100 tiny glowing flames. We view the beautiful sight, enhanced by the billowing, dense incense, hot burning ghee (clarified butter), and hard cold stone on our feet. In the flickering light, everyone's face glows with the delight. We seem to be lifted out of our little selves, if only for a moment.Interesting observation, since I do not consider rituals part of the true spiritual journey. Nonetheless, they can serve to brighten, lift and quiet the mind. One of the few Hindu temples that has escaped, so far, the iron hand of the Indian government, this temple complex supports a host of priests who are living below the poverty level. Although they belong to the highest caste, the majority of priests have lived the most austere lives throughout all times. When the British arrived with their need for clerks to interpret between themselves and the populace, the rahmins, being the most educated because they read the numerous scriptures, were to become the chosen few. However, the majority of priests remained apart from any British influence, just like these in Chidambaram. Then the Indian government imposed their idea of separation of church and state, which is definitely different from the American model. With the claim that the Hindu temple operations are corrupt, government officials have moved in to see what they can do about pocketing the large amounts of money collected in the temples. Unfortunately, they leave insufficient funds for the upkeep of the temples, and the priests, for that matter. They only dare do this in the Hindu temples, never the Moslem or Christian. Interesting phenomena to note how the Hindu religion continues to be undermined by the government, foreign governments in the past, but now the native one is not only following suit, but expanding their methods. This temple is run by a certain caste of Brahmans, the Dikshithars. To this day, not one of them has married outside their group. Of a unique, handsome appearance, the men wear their hair in a distinctive manner, twisted into a bun to the side of their head. Surrounding the temple walls on two sides are the homes of the priests. Since there are more priests than necessary, they have a rotation system for the daily duties. They also draw lots for certain special duties on holidays. Still there is not enough from the donation pot to go around, so many priests do rituals via mail. Usually they receive a small fee to do a monthly ritual for the welfare of a family. Then they mail the ash from the ceremony to the family to smear on their foreheads to partake of the sacred vibration imparted by the ritual. This practice of letting the priests take care of the spiritual life is not uncommon, particularly in the Vaishya caste, which consists of merchants, traders, and landholders. Their duties are such that they simply do not have time to perform religious rites. Throughout the centuries this caste, being the wealthiest, has been the principal financiers of all religious endeavors. I find the Rajarajan Hotel on West Car Street, the "cheapest and bestest"—only 40 Rps. a night for a decent room. The proprietors are kind and attentive. I am to discover that this is unusual for Indian hotel staff, who cater to their fellow Indians with the greatest of indifference. Right down the street, I find a place to get an omelet sandwich. In times past, since Chidambaram was inhabited only by vegetarian Brahmans, one could not have found an egg in the whole town, but democracy with all its freedoms has brought many changes to Bharat. When I board the bus to return to Pondy, I find out that the buses are not always in a rush to make up for lost time; sometimes there are other motives. I take off on the 12:30 p.m. bus—on time. But the bus stops two minutes later,, while we are still in Chidambaram. I watch the driver and conductor get off the bus. Puzzled, I go up and inquire as to what is going on. I am told, "It's lunch time. We have to eat to be able to work." Who can argue with that logic? So we passengers sit for thirty minutes while the staff have their lunch in the local restaurant.
Maggie greeted
these old friends with her usual enthusiasm, then sent them over to eat
at Usha's. We have six people for lunch who fall into this category. Since
Maggie is busy in her role as an ashram dignitary, Usha has the day off
from writing to spend in the kitchen cooking for guests. "Well,
I do feel that I am being pushed out of here. I'm sure it's time for me
to go, and I'm ready to go. However, had I been choosing, I would have
chosen to join in the celebration at the ashram instead of packing today.
Then I could have gotten packed up tomorrow and left the following day." "And what about that Spanish girl who helped her out with the children during the holidays. As soon as Maggie didn't need her, she would not help her with a visa extension. So Rosa ended up spending her entire vacation in India baby-sitting. I think she deserved a little consideration to prolong her stay." As it turns out, there is one advantage. Maggie is so busy with visitors that she decides she is not going to work the following day, so Usha is able to take the trip with me. She is eager to spend a few hours with her children, who are now in back in school in Bangalore. We plan to leave at dawn's early light, so that we will arrive by lunch time. Actually,
I had never intended to spend much time in Pondicherry. My plans were
to just visit with Usha for a few weeks, then head for a rural ashram
outside Bangalore. Immediately upon my arrival, I wrote Swami Sahajananda,
the teacher at the place where I planned to stay. However, his reply informed
me that he would be away for the winter on a pada yatra, pilgrimage on
foot. In addition, his three women disciples were all in Bangalore taking
a course in English at the university. Sahaja will not return until the
first week in April, so it does not make sense for me to go there until
then. So just when I am accustomed to life in Pondy, I pack up to leave. This world that once was so strange is now familiar. I know where to buy the best papaya, the freshest vegetables, ripe bananas, and all the spots to find ilanir. I can now distinguish the bell of the temple elephant from the bell of the rickshaw. I can recognize the horn of the milkman from that of the toy hawker, the cake man, and the ice cream man. The baah of a goat, the moo of a cow, the chirp of a chipmunk are no longer strange sounds. The vendors at the temple stalls all recognize me and give me local prices: four lotuses, one rupee; five water lilies, one rupee; three nimbus for my limeade, only one rupee. Yet I know there are many adventures ahead of me.
Chapter Seven Encounters with Tradition 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. 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, 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. 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." 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. 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.
Chapter Eight Settling into my Rural Home
After three
weeks in Bangalore I take off for Talli, which I hope will become my ideal
home-—it's definitely in rural India. The driver of my long-distance
taxi was once a wealthy businessman; so he speaks English, a rare find
in a taxi driver. As we leave the cement block buildings of the suburbs
and enter the countryside, he begins to tell me the story of how he became
a taxi driver. Actually,
the young swami who founded this ashram was a catalyst for my desire to
return to India for a long-term stay. Swami Shajananda had been a fellow
student at Sandeepany, the school of philosophy in Bombay, in 1978. Since
my desire was to experience rural India, Swami Sahajananda's ashram seemed
to fit the bill for me. The way he described it, I had conjured up a picture
that would be the best of two worlds: meditation and classes in the mornings,
then some type of service project for the villagers in the afternoons. Each night
I take a stroll in the cool air, then lie out under the stars. Ah, yes,
there are certainly advantages to having no electricity; the brilliance
of the stars being one of them. Music in the background, muted by the
distance, contributes a soft background to the deep silence. A lone owl
soars by, pivots, then perches on a nearby fence post. It must have spotted
some little critter, as it keeps peering at the ground. I feel very content
and alive watching this creature of the night. The Indians, like the American
Indians, consider the owl a bad omen, but I think they are wonderful and
always enjoy the rare occasions when I see one. When I
first met Sahaja at Sandeepany, he was an expert in Nature Cure even then.
Since he was always helping the half-dozen foreigners with any medical
problems that came up, mostly digestion and dysentery, we all knew him
well. I saw him again in the Himalayas five years ago when he was taking
his renunciation vows to become a swami. At that time, he had already
founded and built his own ashram in Coimbature. With the idea of creating
a self-sufficient community, he had built a complex that included vegetable
gardens, fruit orchards, a dairy, student quarters and a retirement home
for the elderly; plus a school for the local children. I was quite impressed;
so when he invited me to come there to live, I thought it a great idea. However,
I am definitely experiencing rural India. I've seen my first cobra. I
am sure he saw me first, as I hardly caught a glimpse of him before he
spotted me and quickly slid off the path into the grass. I hardly had
time to be frightened. The workers just found a five-foot cobra skin,
so it is probably the same fellow. Sahaja says that to see a cobra is
very auspicious. If I am lucky, the cobra will show itself to me again.
He goes on to relate that it follows him around. No comment.
Chapter Nine The Swami Says All residents
have their own realm of responsibility, in which it appears they possess
a good deal of freedom. One of 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
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. Obviously,
he chooses to ignore my comment, for he questions, "Now where were
you going to put the waterfall?" 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. After I
have been here for less than three weeks, I have attained certain non-spiritual
realizations: 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.
Chapter Ten Dancing in the Mountains Just as
I am beginning to become disenchanted with everything including my personal
meditation practice, I have a pleasant surprise. Sahaja is going to Kottagiri
for a spiritual camp. Since I originally had the idea of spending the
summer in the mountains there, I ask if I can go along. Sahaja is quite
agreeable. Soon we are loaded in the ashram car and bound for the cooler
climes of a hill station. The car is an old Renault, which I label the
"silver streak," since they have spray-painted it shiny silver. When we
finally arrive in Kottagiri, I find it is not quite what I expected. Unfortunately,
because of the tea plantations, Kottagiri is not what it used to be. Chinese
tea was introduced into Britain in the 17th century and quickly became
a favored beverage. When the supply diminished due to failing trade with
China, the British turned to India, forming the Committee of Tea Culture
in Calcutta in 1834. Wild tea plants, a variety of the Camellia genus,
were found in the northeast region of India. However, the flavor was not
as pronounced as the Chinese variety. Finally, in 1842, Chinese seed was
obtained for a planting in Darjeeling, which produced a highly successful
crop. After two
weeks in Kottagiri, including four days on the road, we return to Talli
to prepare for an up-coming spiritual camp. Both going and returning,
we spend the night in Salem in the home of a delightful couple. The wife
is a sharp lady, a doctor, who runs a nursing home, which actually is
a type of hospital here. The husband is quite interested in homeopathy,
so we exchange notes on that subject. Also, extremely informed on Indian
politics and economics, he keeps us laughing with the latest jokes about
politics in India. Here's a couple of examples: "But
what lake? There's no lake here," questioned the official.
Chapter Eleven Spiritual Pursuits? Before
gardening in the coolest hours of the day, both morning and late afternoon
before the trip, which meant that I was hardly meditating. Upon our return,
I switched to emphasizing meditating daily, so now I am hardly gardening.
Although I loved the sunshine, fresh air and exercise, it seems this schedule
is more in line with my personal goals. Since no one appreciates my gardening
efforts anyway, it's not as I am contributing anything to the cause. One day
when I am walking across the extensive grounds, I hear a voice behind
me calling, "Amma, Amma." I could not imagine that anyone would
be calling me "Mother," so I do not even turn to see who is
being summoned. You can imagine my surprise when the elderly carpenter
crosses over to confront me with his palms together in the traditional
salutation of respect, repeating "Amma" again to my face. During
my regular trips back to Bangalore to stay at the Bhavan, I met a nice
young man who had recently taken his CPA exams. Since Sahaja is looking
for an accountant for the school and Nature Cure Center, I suggest the
young man to him. When Sunil comes out for an interview, he has to sleep
in the school office without a bed or mosquito net. When asked how he
slept the next morning, he mentions the mosquitoes. Swamini Atheetha replies,
"Oh, we don't bother about these things—after all we are in
an ashram."" Everyone
is getting ready for the camp, but there is an advantage. Sahaja told
me that he will be "revising" the texts that will be given by
the swaminis. First thing on the appointed morning, I go over to the meditation
hall, prepared to begin study of one of the traditional Sanskrit texts.
When I enter, he has not started yet, so I take a moment to explain to
him the difference in the British and American word "revise."
To us, what he means is that he will be "reviewing" the texts.
As it turns out, the classes are to be in Tamil, so, for me, it doesn't
matter whether he is revising or reviewing. On the
last day of the retreat, several people plan an entertaining program,
including several skits. Parvati gets a couple of the camp participants
to help her with one and solicits me to help with costumes. The crux of
it is an imitation of Swamini Atheetha and Sahaja—all in Tamil, so
I do not really know what is going on. However, it is obvious that both
the swamis do not like the spoof. Afterwards, I ask Parvati what she said
that made them so mad, but she insists that she does not know. The only
English-speaking couple agrees with her that the skit was just in fun.
Chapter Twelve Life in the Garden City
When we
reach Bangalore, we go straight to the Aurobindo Bhavan. Even if Bangalore
is losing reputation as "the garden city," certainly this area
is holding its own with its broad spreading trees and large lake. The
manager is always happy for the extra income: 25 Rps. per day. After we
get settled, the first task is to find a bus to Kottagiri for Parvati.
As it turns out, Vani, the American at the Bhavan, has just returned from
there by bus—two times—so she knows the ropes. Two trips were
necessary because she packs around so much stuff, including a kerosene
stove so she won't have to eat out, that it is impossible to handle it
all in one journey. The buses to Kottagiri are private lines; therefore,
they leave from some back street. The timing
of my return is perfect as Usha is here for two days to celebrate Akshay's
birthday. Of course, she gets a great laugh over my experience at Sahaja's
ashram. "Nancy, you are supposed to be the worldly-wise American.
How could you be so naive?" she teases me. "I don't know which
is funnier; your innocence or his giving himself away." A priority
is taking care of a filling that I broke while chewing on some peanut
brittle—that I had bought for Jagdish. I checked out a dentist in
a modern building that I pass on my daily walks to the library. I find
him quite competent with an office equipped with all the latest dental
apparatus, imported from Japan. He quotes me a very low price for a platinum
crown. His office is so busy that he even talks on his cordless phone
at the same time he is working on a patient's teeth. However, he does
take time to inform me that "you people" are more prone to cavities
than the Asians. I see Hari
almost daily. He is a great source of information and has directed me
to all the major libraries with collections in English. Typical of Indian
cities, spiritual discourses are given by a scholar or swami somewhere
every night. Each of the vernacular languages has its own spiritual texts
and literary works. They are usually interwoven, since most Hindu language,
art and literature are based on a spiritual life. The word for "god"
in Tamil literally means: "the source within." However, I am
fortunate that in the cities there are always swamis who lecture in English.
Of course, Hari knows everything that's going on, so we hop on his motor
scooter and wheel around town. Hari also
took me to visit a study group of some retired businessmen. Studying the
scriptures is a common pastime for the retired, especially high-caste,
men. I have never encountered so many bright-eyed, intelligent, dignified
gentlemen over 70 years of age in all of my travels through U.S and Europe
combined, as I have in my short time in India. There are no dirty old
men, no sexy senior citizens, no off-color jokes, no depravity. A religion
and culture that can produce such dignified gentle-men must have truly
something of value. One of
the best things about my stay at Sahaja's was the people I met who were
guests. I particularly enjoyed the people who were planning on developing
the Gandhi Village. One couple, the Bragarias, was young and liberal,
so we hit it off right away. When I told them about my writing and editing,
they volunteered that they had several computers in their office. I remain
very appreciative of this assistance. Subramanya Everyone
can appreciate we have had religious philosophers on the planet who have
espoused great ideals of the divine heritage of humanity in such maxims
as "That [Infinite] thou art" and "the Kingdom of Heaven
is within." Appreciate, yes, but are the ideas useful in a world
that leaves individuals no leisure to sit back and contemplate the great
mysteries of the universe? Fundamental
Ideal: The break-up of the small, manageable economic unit during
the recent past of India's history has eliminated the concept of community
support, while the fundamental ideal of the support through cooperation
of the gods and the family remains undisturbed. Fortunately, the rsis,
in their wisdom, had given several legs to the support system, so that
although one failed, the others remained. Many
Forms: No Hindu deity enjoys more divine lineage, or more earthly
duties, than Subramanya. He can claim direct parentage of such major deities
as Siva, Agni [Lord Fire], Parvati [Siva's wife], Ganga and Himavan [Lord
of the Mountains]. Skanda,
the God of War: In most of the Puranas, Skanda has prominence as a
warrior. In the various stories, his birth was a response to the need
of the deities for a commander-in-chief of their forces. At this particular
time in history, Siva, the traditional General, was occupied with various
other endeavors. The epics state that he had been copulating with Parvati
for over a month and everyone was afraid to disturb him. The key, in some
of the accounts, was that a demon, Asura Taraka, had to be killed by a
child. Therefore, Skanda plays the role of the child hero; a familiar
theme in the Greek tradition in which Apollo, Hermes, and Zeus all began
their careers as a child hero. They continued to maintain an identity
with the child-image even when they matured into wise old men. Muruga,
the God of Love: The Vedic Upanisads are intellectual treatises that
point to the Abstract. In contrast, in Tamil Nadu worship is expressly
for the purpose of transcending the normal consciousness, so that one
can enter another dimension and connect with the transforming power of
the Abstract. Therefore, devotional love is a prominent element expressed
in literary form as poems and songs to court the gods. Muruga has been
a favorite and is usually portrayed as having two wives through whom his
bliss and love are made manifest. Subramanya,
the Divine Child: The image of a divine child, as a personification
of pristine purity and perfection, is present in many religions. The child
is begotten in a supernatural manner with direct intervention of the gods.
In the case of Subramanya, he was born from the waters (Ganga), which
represent depth of consciousness. He was parented by fire (Agni), the
sentience in all things, but with the semen of Lord Siva. The divine child
neither ages nor dies, but remains untouched by time. He is frequently
associated with an animal, a symbol of his integration with the life of
the earth. Often he uses the animal as a vehicle for his travels as an
intercessory between gods and man.
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