Chapter Thirteen

Settling into Another Reality

My next stop is Hampi, a wonderful historical site from the Vijayanagar Empire. I was there in 1979, en route from Bombay to Kerala. At that time, someone had told me that the great Kanchi Sankaracharya, one of India's most respected spiritual teachers, was here on a pada yatra, pilgrimage on foot. In fact, I was able to meet the Acharya (teacher) when he camped in Hampi. Everyone thought he was in his last days then, but he lived another twenty years, to be over one hundred years old.

However, the event that remained in my mind from that trip to Hampi was the night I spent at a Jain ashram. There I encountered a Jain woman saint and several nuns. Although I know very little about Jainism, these four women appeared to be living an authentic spiritual life. Hampi is rural India personified, so I will be in a spiritual and rural environment to further my observances, as well as continue with my daily meditation. It's a perfect time to return there now because Hampi is quite convenient to Bangalore. After I drop a packet of editing in the mail "speed-post," I head for the site of India's last indigenous empire.

Because of a five-hour wait for a bus to make a 30-minute ride, I arrive at Hampi about 2:00 p.m. Yesterday I arrived late in Hospet late in the afternoon so I spent the night. I conjectured that I could catch an early bus to be able to arrive at the ashram conveniently at an early hour. However, no early bus was available. No one seemed to know when the buses come or go, they just waited without complaint.

About noon, I lunched on a couple of bananas and a packet of biscuits; the usual fare found at a bus station. Actually, one bus arrived about 11:00 a.m. bound for Hampi, but it was so crowded that I would have had to ride on the roof. A kind gentleman advised me that another bus would be coming soon and it should not be so crowded. But it was as it should not be. Taking pity on me, a couple of experienced locals pushed me on the 1:00 p.m. bus. Away I went, standing with my suitcase between my legs.

S lowly, I huff and puff, following the dirt road up a rocky hill with the sun burning down on the back of my neck. The ashram must be just around the curve. No, not this one, there's another incline and another curve up ahead, I sigh. As I struggle around the next bend, I am confronted with a landscape of stone buildings, like army barracks. "Hello, hello," I call out, but I receive no reply. Then I realize they are all deserted. Not a single person is to be seen—all remains silent and empty. Using my suitcase for a seat, I rest for a moment. Then gathering my last bit of energy, I haul it over to store under an open stairway, so that I can go on ahead to investigate.

I continue up the hill and around another curve. I see absolutely nothing familiar. Yet this must be the place, for the directions I received to the Jain ashram were precise. Besides, it is the only ashram on this side of the road; I remember that much from my previous visit. At last, I approach a large iron gate with a prominent arch overhead. I spot one small boy in the courtyard, but he does not reply to my question. However, upon seeing me, he takes off; to find someone, I suppose. Meanwhile, I turn back to retrieve my suitcase, not realizing that it is totally safe.

Prakash comes running after me. His English is limited, but adequate for the occasion. "Hello. Hello."

"Is this where the Jain Mataji lives?" I inquire.

"Yes."

"I met her here in 1979, but the place has really changed, I don't recognize anything."
The many buildings have turned the lovely hillside into a concrete jungle. To make matters worse, all the left-over building materials have been dumped along the roadside in ugly heaps of rubble. I stumble over some loose bricks as we turn to retrieve my suitcase.

"No management," Prakash declares, with the typical whirling of the hand, the gesture of the south Indians that means "no, nothing."

Surely, I have witnessed a portent of things to come. In my travels, I have found that life in an ashram is as distinct as the personalities of the preceptor of the ashram. This one will be no exception.

After we lug my suitcase up the hill and back into the courtyard, Prakash leads me down a long cool passageway. There I find the Mataji sitting on an Indian bed with two large dogs by her side. I explain to her, and the small group sitting around her, that I had stayed here over night in 1979.

At that time, the Mataji had given me a real boost in a meditation. She had asked me to repeat a mantra with her that created something like a vortex, which I felt as I was about to disappear into. But I held back because I did not want to miss the one and only bus out of Hampi that day, or I would have missed my connecting bus and train. I will not attempt to justify that decision. I am sure there was also an issue of lack of trust, since I had just met her.

Obviously, I remembered the encounter and wanted to check her out. However, she was not the only influence that urged me to come back to this place. When I was here before, I met three wandering Jain nuns. They were exceptional women in every respect. They were just beginning a pilgrimage across south India, begging their food, and staying in chaudris, or temple shelters. They had invited me to join them. I was quite interested in doing so, but the time just was not right for me. Again, I now hoped to meet these three nuns, or learn something about them.
The Mataji does not recall my previous visit, but everyone agrees that she must be the same Mataji I had met here before. I explain to her that I have been staying in different ashrams, usually for one month, so that I am able to settle into the ashram routine and meditation practice. She agrees (through a translator) that it would be fine for me to stay here for one month.

As I am rearranging myself to sit more comfortably on the floor, I put my hand on her iron bed to steady myself. One of the dogs growls ferociously and the other immediately joins in the fray.
"Don't touch!" chimes a female voice. I do not know if she is referring to the Mataji, the dogs, or, surely not, the bed, but I sure kept my hand to myself after that.

Ordinarily the Mataji closes her doors right after lunch for her afternoon rest, but today she has guests from Gujurat. After ten minutes, everyone adjourns to their quarters for a rest. As we are leaving, Jyothi, a charming young woman, introduces herself. She shows me to the ladies' hostel, hands me a straw mat, and tells to pick a spot on the stone floor. As permanent residents, Jyothi and Lakshmi, an elderly woman, have one side of the room, while I join the two Gujurati guests on the other end. The hostel is one huge room with ample windows, giving plenty of light and fresh air.

I never need an alarm clock, for Lakshmi is awake and banging stainless steel utensils before sunrise. There may be some method in her madness, but it continues to amaze me that the utensils are not scarred. Although she washes her dishes after each meal, they are all rewashed in this ritual to start the day afresh. She has to hand-carry buckets of water from an outside faucet for the dish washing and to fill her large water pots for the day's cooking. The loud banging of the door fills in the gaps between the pot banging. She attacks the duty with a vengeance that leaves one in awe of her stamina at sixty-five years of age. By 6:00 a.m. that task is over and she starts sweeping the floor with the same fervor.

Even with the noise of the pans and doors, plus the hardness of the stone floor (fortunately, I brought my thinsulite backpacking pad with me), I still have to give my body a nudge to get it to vacate its warm spot and to start moving. First, I plug in the heating coil to boil water for tea. By the time I have finished in the bathroom, the tea is steeped. While sipping the black, bitter liquid, I quickly dress and run a comb through my wet hair. I land in the meditation cave sometime between 5:45 and 6:15 a.m.

This cave was the meditation place of Mataji's guru. She had her living quarters built right up beside it, so you have to walk down a hallway beside the cave to get to Mataji's room. The cave is warm, usually quiet and peaceful. Except any time I get into a half-way tranquil state, the hallway doors slam, which gives my nerves a real grating. The entrance doors stick in such a way that one has to be pushed and the other pulled to open them properly. I figured out this combination on the second day, but others who have been here for years remain content to beat the doors as hell to get them open. On the other hand, I have at least five mosquitoes circling and dive-bombing me at any given moment. There goes the peace I thought I was experiencing, I have to smile. The Buddha sat under a tree for weeks in this same India—how did he ever do it?

Each morning, I sit on my little carpet square until the Mataji comes in about 7:00 a.m. I figure I may not be achieving anything sitting quietly in meditation, but at least I am not contributing to the chaos of world for this one hour of the day. Others, including Jyothi and Lakshmi, arrive to join the Mataji as she performs the ritual worship of the marble statue of her guru and the little marble idol of Chandra Prabhu, the eighth sage of the Jain lineage. In temples in the South, the idol is often black, representing the dark, mysterious, inconceivable. Here the idols are of white marble, which is common in the North. The ones here are of men, not gods. To allay any misunderstanding, I follow the everyone with palms together as we pay respect to each statue. Then everyone gets on the floor to bow to Chandra Prabhu. I am really working on changing my mindset about all the Indian bowing. The Indians bow reverently to anything—everything. How many have bowed and touched my feet?

Yet, it is such an ego crusher for me to bow to a piece of stone. It's the attitude that counts, I remind myself. Everyone bows here; even saints bow right down to the ground. When I bow, I reverently bow to that unfathomable mystery that pervades the universe, and to that same mystery within myself. If I had known this Jain saint, I am sure that I would comprehend that he deserved this symbol of respect.

After the ceremony, everyone troops over to the temple for another service. This temple also has been constructed within the past ten years. The Jains, along with the Hindus, have adopted the disarming practice of ringing a bell in the worship service, long and loud. It is intended to get the attention of the deity. I conjecture it would frighten off any deity. Anyway, it certainly would wake up any sleepy-headed worshipers, so it does serve a purpose. Truly, this temple bell is the biggest—and the loudest—in the country. They have achieved the ultimate. I do not know why religious people have to be so competitive about such things—the highest steeple, the largest altar, the loudest bell. Anyway, I am sure it will take my nervous system hours to recuperate. After the first morning, I do not return to the temple, and no one mentions it. Each morning, I head in that direction, following dear crippled Jyothi, as she limps and half-sprints to keep up with Mataji. At the fork in the path, I head over to the ladies' hostel to get myself organized for the day.

After the temple service, everyone reconvenes in the kitchen, just across from the ladies' hostel, for breakfast. I always linger afterward to feed the little sparrows bits of cooked cereal I have saved for them. This is my true vocationdfeeding birds. However, I have been informed that there is no money in it. Nevertheless, I do note that the birds have not bought into the "by the sweat of your brow" system.


When I finish breakfast, I grab my daypack and take off to explore the temple ruins in the vicinity. One morning I decide to take the strenuous route up and over the hill to the Hampi Bazaar, instead of going by the road. As I descend the hill in front of the temple, I am aware of the passage of time. The granite steps have been worn smooth by the many bare feet that have tread this path in the past. Pilgrims traveling from one temple to another, troupes of dancing girls who performed at the temple festivals, mercenary soldiers who guaranteed the safety of rulers. I wonder if the temple elephants tread this path or did they take the longer, easier route along the river?

At one time, shops, homes of nobles and shelters for pilgrims lined the wide road that runs down to the temple. One can only imagine the festive spectacle when the idols went out on festival days in their royal chariots. Now the buildings are a shamble of granite pillars, connected with make-shift thatched roofs.

As I wind my way to the temple bazaar, I pause to attempt to untangle the rope of an ox that has the poor fellow immobilized. It cannot even lower its head to eat. The rope is so tangled in the bushes and with itself that I am making little progress when, suddenly, its owner, who was napping nearby, rouses and yells at me. I guess he thinks I am trying to steal his animal. It would be impossible to explain to him, even if I were to speak his language. He would have no concept that I am concerned for the comfort of an animal. After all, he is sleeping on a chunk of bare granite.

At the intersection of the river road, I stop to buy bananas from a six-year old vendor. He is so small that he is sitting on the cart to be able to reach is produce. He greets his new customer with a smile and appears even happier to have the opportunity to practice his English.

"Three bananas, one rupee," he tells me with a chirpy voice.

"I'll take six."

"Six," he repeats thoughtfully.

"Yes, six. So two rupees," I help him out.

"Yes, two rupees," he smiles after a pause to check the calculations on his fingers.

He takes his hooked machete and slices a carefully counted six bananas off the stalk. After recounting them, he hands them to me.

"Six," he verifies with a smile at his successful transaction.

I stick them in my shopping bag and continue toward the temple. Just down the road, the wide dirt shoulder serves as the dooryard, chicken pen, cow stall and playground for the dwellings lined along it. For the last block, a row of decent buildings, used for shops and homes, border the route to the temple. As I approach the crossroads, I spot the toothless fruit seller, but not before she spots me. She is waving at me and motioning to me to come over to her street side shop: a burlap bag and one round basket. She hands me one papaya—small and squishy ripe. Here there is a fruit in season nearly every month. Papayas and watermelon are peak in April. May brings the delicious, juicy, sweet mangoes, although you can still get some in June along with the wonderful chikku. Then in July the guavas are ready, both the pink and white varieties.

" No, not today," I start to walk away.

She gets up and gestures for me to wait. As she hobbles off the bones of her thin bottom are practically visible through her threadbare yellow sari. While I am waiting, I walk over to the nearby green coconut stand. When she comes back, I wave at her, so she will not think I have deserted her. When I return to her burlap bag, I see she has cut up the crummy papaya and is selling it by the slice to a couple of eager young boys. Then she holds up the papaya that she has fetched from her hut. I take it and give it a careful look because the skin looks strange; almost as if it has been frozen—impossible in this heat. And I am positive there is not a single refrigerator in all of Hampi.

"Pakka [good, ripe]," she implores when she notes my hesitation.

"Pakka—nai," I express my doubt in my 12-word Hindi vocabulary. She pantomimes cutting it open to show me. I nod in agreement. It is okay, but now we both spot a big overripe bruise.

"Kitna?" I inquire, but the boys who paying for the slices have distracted her. She does not hear, or at least does not answer.

"Kitna?" prompts the tall, dark lady who is selling roasted peanuts, heaped on a burlap bag, with a rusty tin can for a measurer. She must be afraid the fruit seller will lose her customer.

I get more attention in Hampi than an ordinary foreigner. I experienced this same phenomenon on my first trip here, but now it is quite prevalent. The population here has quadrupled in the last ten years, so there are more people to react. Wherever I go, I hear, "Indira," or "Indira—kee jay," [hail to Indira]. The praises tell me two things: Although Indira Gandhi was quite a controversial Prime Minister, the people here must have liked her, and that I vaguely resemble her when I am in a sari. I always wear a simple unbleached cotton one; whereas she always appeared in white, since she was a widow. Also, we both are small women and have streak of gray hair. In other words, I may get a little preferential treatment from these simple, rural folk.

I finally purchase the papaya for four rupees, fair to both of us. Back at the ashram, I share it with Jyothi and the crippled cow with the dangling foot, who gets the piece with the bad spot.
Our lunch is simple fare of rice and dal, which sometimes has a morsel of a vegetable. Since we never have any fruit, I pick up bananas regularly at the Hampi market to share with Jyothi. This poor fare is why Lakshmi always cooks for herself. She gets her groceries from Hospet, so always has plenty of fruit. I would not consider cooking because of the time spent shopping and cooking and carrying buckets of water for washing dishes—there would be no time for anything else. Occasionally, I have a vegetable attack and go over to the Trishul Restaurant to have lunch with the Singhs; they have lots of good vegetables. Since it is off-season here, I get to visit with this lovely couple also.

After lunch everyone escapes the heat of mid-day and takes a nap. With my early rising and strenuous hiking all morning, I am always ready for a nap. However, the kitchen is directly across from the hostel. The kitchen crew are cleaning up the pots and pans from lunch, producing such banging and clanging that it is impossible to relax, much less sleep. In addition, they are forever fussing and hollering among themselves. At least that's what it sounds like. I cannot say for sure because the Indians are not inclined to speak in low voices under in any circumstance. Every afternoon I have this overwhelming urge to go over and yell at them for yelling. Now isn't that what makes the world go round? I censor myself.

Consciously, I let my frustration go; then I walk over and say "shanti, shanti" [peace, peace] to them. They only hush for a few minutes; so it is not worth my trouble. One of the helpers is a real screamer. I named her "Shanti-bai" [peace-sister] because, as I explained to Jyothi, all her shrieks serve to remind us how nice peace is. Someone must have told her what I said because she now smiles when she sees me.

Anyway, I pull a cotton sheet over my head and hope for the best. At least, I have finally mastered the art of sleeping with my entire head under a cover, same as the people on the streets. Like them, I am forced to do so because of the flies by day, and the mosquitoes by night.

Immediately after my nap, I am off again to explore the many ruins, but I make it a point to be back by 4:30 p.m. when Mataji comes out to feed the monkeys. She has a bag of little sweet bananas and a tin of peanuts in the shell to give them. The monkeys eagerly gather around her for this free hand-out. As they approach her one by one, according to their own pecking order, she carefully doles out the goodies. Usually, they just fuss a bit among themselves—you were first last time, you got more than me—type of behavior. But occasionally, one of them gets aggressive with the Mataji and tries to grab the peanut tin out of her hand. She keeps her cool, and kind of draws back with a chuckle. However, she sensibly keeps her hands covered with a heavy cloth for protection. Only the Rhesus monkeys come for the treats. The Gibbons, with their handsome beards, are around here too, but they always keep their distance, sometimes watching from a nearby roof-top. Mataji says they are impossible to tame.

After the feeding of the monkeys, we go to dinner because Jains are not to eat after the sun has set. Following the usual rice and dal, we gather in the cave to sing bhajans, devotional hymns; not one of my favorite pastimes. I would skip it, but Mataji tells me I must come to "bhakti," devotion. However, I am relieved that everyone has a soft voice, for often there is a screamer in the group, who just ruins the atmosphere for me. Since the bhajans are all in Gujurati, I do not understand a word. They are less repetitive than the Hindu bhajans, which make singing them even more difficult for me. I am able to mouth along, reading from a book written in Hindi, the devagiri script. Both Sanskrit and Hindi use the same script. To me they are quite sensible; if you know the alphabet, you can at least pronounce the words correctly.

While everyone regroups over at the temple for the ceremony there, I remain in the cave to use the time for a short meditation. It's a good feeling to settle into a peaceful silence after all my running around during the day. Then everyone troupes into Mataji's room for satsang for an hour maximum. Satsang literally means, hanging out with sat, the Truth, usually with a spiritual teacher; or it can mean simply being in the company (sang) of other sincere seekers. Our conversations always remain in the mundane reality. As far as I can discern nothing is ever mentioned about the Jain religion.

Even though we are free quite early, I never leave the compound after dark. I find that the temple verandah is a nice quite place to sit to enjoy the silence of the night. The stars stud the high horizon of this mountain midnight. Was that the blink of a fire fly or a nod of a shooting star? The moon has already set. Silence breathes deep in the quiet darkness.


After I am settled into my routine, one morning I mention to Prakash that the tea always tastes terrible. "I wonder what they do to it. Is it really fit to drink?" I question him.

"No management," laments Prakash with his usual hand twirl. "We have no milk for the tea because they will not take the cows to breed. So we only get two and one-half liters of milk a day from six cows, and the dogs get two liters of that. Yet, they pay that herder to come to take the cows to pasture every day."

"The dogs drink all the milk? But they are grown dogs," I comment. My mistake, I should have asked, if this is not milk clouding up the tea, what is it?

But it was too late, Prakash is explaining, "They're only a year old. Mataji had a pet dog for years, but it became quite old and died. She was so overwhelmed she wept for days on end, would not even eat. Everyone was very concerned over her health, so they brought her these two puppies. She got well immediately. Since then she waits on those dogs hand and foot. She even moved to the floor to sleep to give them her bed."

"She sleeps on the floor, so the dogs can sleep on the bed?" It's a silly question; everyone else is sleeping on the floo. Why not the Mataji?

"And anyone who complains about the dogs. . . well, don't try to find out," he advises me further.

One morning, I feel like going over to the hillside to catch the sunrise before meditation. A hint of mist still is hovering over the valley when I arrive. Suddenly, the sun appears and throws its glow around mountainside. Its tardy rays brighten the green valleys. Fog lifts from my mind sky. A brown kite forgets its search for food as it rides the rising wind. With a contented smile in my gut, I return to the ashram gates where I receive a jolt.

The big sign at the side of the entrance gate clearly states:
No loud noise, no spitting, no menstruating ladies.

Oh, dear, at this very moment, I am in the throes of my period. I honestly had not seen the sign on the day of my arrival; I do not know what I would have done had I seen it. It is likely I would have proceeded exactly as I did, since I have no concept that a period renders a woman an untouchable. This is one part of the different mindset that I choose to ignore. However, it has been argued that at least the Indian women got three days off each month. Since there is no garbage collection in these small towns, I have been throwing the tampons on the hillside covered with thorny bushes outside the bathroom window. At least, I have left no evidence. Well, I will leave in the morning, I reassure myself, this place did not turn out to be what I remembered, anyway.

That night a group of businessmen arrives from Hospet. Obviously, they furnish the money behind the operation. With much effort, they all sit on the floor with us for evening satsang. Their wealth has visibly gone to their stomachs; they have to heave and strain to get up and down. I listen as they have a slightly heated discussion with Mataji, in Gujarati, of course. I am just hanging out, not really paying much attention.

Suddenly I become aware that they are talking about me. Finally, one of the gentlemen asks me in English when I will be leaving. I tell him that I am planning to leave in the morning. He says that is good because guests are allowed here for three days only. Then he reports it to the others, but Mataji objects. She says that she has given permission for me to stay a month. I sit quietly, but mentally praying very loudly, God, get me out of here.

The next morning I go for my usual meditation. After Mataji's rituals, she motions for me to follow her into her little room. Jabbing downward emphatically with her index finger, "You stay!" she states in plain English.

Well, she won the battle with the Gujurati businessmen; no householders lording it over her. Good for the Mataji! Then I realize, oh dear, but I lost. I just do not know how I will manage to stay here for a month. You have lots of incredible ruins to explore, I console myself.

Chapter Fourteen

Exploring the Ruins of Past Glory

Each morning I can't wait to finish breakfast so I can set out to explore the ruins of the surrounding countryside. This area comprises the Hemakuta Hill shelf, an active spiritual center before the establishment of the Vijayanagara Empire in 1336. Several Jain temples on the hill were constructed around the 9th century. An inscription in the main Virupaksha/Siva temple refers to its construction in 1310. Its large proportions indicate a sizable population of worshipers

Originally, Virupaksha was an indigenous deity associated with the Tungabadra River that flows beside the temple. The Hindus had their own method of proselytizing—a totally non-violent technique. When they came here, they honored Virupaksha and added his name to their long list of names of Siva. They sealed the contract by placing Siva's traditional Nandi, a gigantic bull, at the end of the road.

Vijayanagara: "the place of victory" that became the ruins of hope. It had been a dream made manifest; a Hindu stronghold against the invading Moslems and the atrocities they had a penchant to perpetuate against the Hindu infidels. The city was surrounded by a wall of thick granite blocks, as granite was, and still is, very plentiful here. Every hillock and every valley were ornamented with its own temple. Pilgrims from all over the South came to renew their faith in the gods who had, at least for several centuries, seemed to have forsaken them under the Moslem regime. The beautiful Tungabhadra River that still winds through the valley was harnessed for extensive irrigation works to saturate the fertile soil of the valleys. But the dream did not endure. Now Hampi is an archaeologist's paradise with ruins of temples, palaces, bathing pools, guard towers, and even a ten-stall elephant stable.

Let's face it: kings have always had it good. The archaeologists contend that Solomon's harem was much larger than his temple. While it is true that in Hindu India the most ornate structures were built for the gods, royalty lived well too. Interestingly though, there are no ruins of indigenous palaces before the British era. In around 200 BC, a foreign traveler did write of the ornate luxuries of a Mauryan palace. I assume they built their royal homes of perishable materials, while the gods got the imperishable stone.

One morning I set out to visit the complex of ruins of the royal quarters. I take some fruit and biscuits with me and tell Prakash not to expect me for lunch. I walk even though it is quite a trek, but I can return by bus. I finally reach the crest of the hillock that gives a view of the valley looking toward Kamalapur. Where I stand, the sun is under a cloud, so it casts a veil of subdued light across the granite boulders and old walls of the citadel, accented with deep gray shadows. The topsy-turvy stance of the boulders tells of a violent history; wars, earthquakes, volcanoes. The pounding wind and rain have rounded the edges of those not yet pushed downhill. You have to capture this scene with a wide-angled vision. I have my camera with me, but a photo would just show piles of stone. It cannot capture the expanse, the feeling of being so far, far away, the taste of fresh air against the crumpled ruins of the past.

Excavations were started at this site of the homes of the former monarchs only fifteen years ago. The most intriguing building is the Lotus Mahal, or the Queen's quarters. The vaulted ceiling has a lotus carved in the center. A beautiful pool, lined with steps of smooth black slate, is believed to have been the bathtub for the Queen. The ruins are refined, but I keep getting the feeling of the desolation of today, rather than the luxury of yesterday. The treeless flat plains give one a sense of an empty, stark, dry reality. It's believed that the invaders took six months to completely sack, burn and destroy everything in the royal city and its satellites—right down to the last tree.

Entering the near-by town, I check out the museum, which houses some interesting sculpture and coins. The guide informs me that inscriptions found at Hampi indicate that this area was settled in the first century. When I am ready to return to Hampi, I immediately spot a big sign, lettered in bright red, "BUS STAND." Seemed like good luck at the moment; however, it is not the bus stand. In spite of the fact that the sign is freshly painted, this is the "old" bus stand. The "new" bus stand is one-half kilometer north with no sign at all. A lot of people sitting on a crumbling wall marks the spot. However, I make a mental note of the "BUS STAND" sign, as the post office is there.

After the first week, I am compelled to search out every nook and cranny of all the temples. I feel so happy and free roaming around the countryside, exploring the ruins. The large number of small structures is unbelievable. There are even some miniature chapels here on the ashram hill. I wonder if they were used as family shines.

I find the finest carving is abundant in the largest temples. At the entrance of the Achutha temple, there is a wonderful life-sized carved relief of the Goddess Ganga. Determined to get a great photo, I calculated just the moment that the light would be perfect on it, but it clouds over just five minutes before I arrive. In another temple I find a robed friar in carved relief; a reminder that these temples were built in the 16th century, after the Portuguese arrived on the southwest coast in 1498.


One morning necessity impels me to go to nearby Hospet: I need a haircut and glue to fix the flapping sole of my sandal. En route, the bus is packed—as usual. However, a milkmaid with her full can of milk and a bag of one dozen eggs gets up and gives me her seat. I hesitate, but she absolutely insists. She will not sit back down. Buses are more expensive here and I wonder what profit she can make from her milk and eggs when she has to pay six rupees for her transportation round trip. So when I get off the bus, I hand her 3 Rps., which is the bus fare. I know she will not accept a handout, but I can at least pay her fare, since she had to stand. She refuses, but I explain, "for your ticket," knowing she will understand the word, "ticket." She smiles and takes the money with her palms placed together to thank me.

On a curbside, I find the local cobbler, who actually speaks English. He carefully uses a match stick to pick up a tiny dab of glue, smears it along the sole, then holds it tight for a couple of minutes. He then asks me for 10 Rps. "That's half the price of the sandals. I bet you do not get that from everyone else," I chide him.

"The glue is expensive," he counters in English.

Undaunted, I pick up the can and show him the 2 Rps. price printed on the label. I give him the 10 Rps. anyway. His life could not be easy.

However, I make up for the loss at my next stop, for I get a real bargain at the barber shop. Entering into the cool dark hut, I attempt to show the barber that I want my hair to be about three inches in length. He must have thought I meant cut off three inches. Anyway, I get a scalping—for only 7 Rps. So this is a 25 cent haircut, I tell myself as I take a long look in the wavy mirror. At least, I will not need another haircut for a long time, I observe.

When I return to the ashram, the Mataji is horrified when she sees my cropped hair. "No, no. We women must keep our hair long," she informs me.

I know the Indian women wear long hair, but I thought it was for beauty. Is she implying belief in the Samson phenomenon?

"Well, I have found with the heat and traveling, it is better for me to have short hair. However, not this short. Believe me, my ego is having a fit. I won't be able to look in the mirror for months," I explain to her through Jyothi's translations.

The next day I skip my nap and take off for the Vittala Temple, which lies farther than my usual route. I walk along the road, thinking that if I have enough time I will return on the longer route along the river. As I am meandering down the dirt road, watching for any new plant, bird or tree, two small boys approach me on a little donkey cart. They get down and invite me to sit inside. Since I am quite content walking, I try to desist, but they will not take "nahi" [no] for an answer. In their eyes, they are only here to help the elderly lady. Wishing to please them, I board the small cart with my legs dangling off the back, and away we go. All goes well until we reach an extreme incline; I mean extreme. They both get off the cart, and I start to follow them.

"Baito [sit down]," one of the little fellows commands me in a sharp voice, as he whacks the seat with his tiny hand. I have my orders! He is so cute, I can hardly stifle my chuckle. I am to remain seated while they carefully inch the donkey forward until we are on level ground again, then away we go. Soon we reach a clearing with a small path to the right. They stop and indicate that this is the route to their home. I get off the cart and reach into my purse to give them a few rupees.

"Nahi, nahi," they protest as I try to hand them a couple of bills.

"Baksheesh," I say with a smile, using a word every Indian understands.

"Nahi, nahi," they repeat with little shining faces of happiness as they run down the lane with the donkey and cart following.

I continue only a short distance to the courtyard of the Vittala Temple, definitely the crown jewe; of the Vijayanagara group, and the best preserved. Although hard granite does not lend itself to intricate carving, the art has reached its zenith here. The large columns of animals seem ready to pounce on the unbeliever and seen appropriate in the heavy stone. In other instances, the artists achieved more painstaking feats, such as the musical columns. Each large column is carved from a single stone into sixteen slender, round columns. When struck each column sounds a different tone. Another unusual feature is a chariot, again carved from granite, including the wheels, being pulled by elephants. There are several separate buildings, including a large hall for the temple dancers.

I return along the river where I find the "king's balance." Each year the Brahmans who took care of the temples were awarded the ruler's weight in gold and gems for their services. The river bank is solid granite, worn smooth by the river and weather. Ruins of many small temples dot the route. A small cave, decorated with the traditional red and white stripes used to mark a holy site (in the South) is said to be the spot that Sita dropped some jewelry when she was kidnapped by Ravana. Epic history has it that she dropped personal affects all along the way as she was carried across Bharata to Sri Lanka, so Rama would be able to follow her. From the cave, one can see some stone pilings in the river, the remnants of a bridge. Neither the British Raj nor the new raj has found it economical to rebuild a bridge here.

AOn my return, I take a shortcut at the back of the ashram. There I discover a tiny meadow protected by a semi-circle of trees. I pause to lie out on the tiny patch of grass. Tiny white butterflies, wings tipped with red, circle above. White star flowers hover in shadow of a huge boulder—too shy to reach the bright sun light. The pines whisper hello, as their long branches tremble in the breeze. Old friends nod and smile in this peaceful glen.

One day I head in the opposite direction and take a short cut over a hill today and find a wonderful bathing tank with a tiny stone shrine in the middle. Already discovered by the weaver birds, they have decorated it with a dozen hanging nests. Since there are stone steps going down to the water, I sit to take in the incredible beauty, created by both human hands and nature. A sudden gust of wind catches and lifts a cloud of yellow butterflies. The lily pads raise off the water. A breeze blows away the past; a ray of sunlight creates the present. So who am I anyway?

Chapter Fifteen

An Ancient Kingdom

Across the river from Hampi is a small, old, traditional village with the ancestors of the rajas of Vijayanagara Empire still living in it. One has to cross the river by basket; yes, in a round, woven basket, so big that it holds four of us in addition to a large motorcycle. On the other shore, although there is a road, I reject it and head toward a small temple at the foot of some hillocks. From there I take a path that skirts the hills until I spot some remains of stone walls and fortifications. Beside a small temple I find a small pond filled with lovely miniature-flowered hyacinths, so thick the water is not visible. The flowers are so tiny that each stalk to holds a couple of dozen of the florets. I squat to admire the huge bouquet of purple-blue surrounded by deep green grass.

Then I wander on until I notice some dilapidated temple ruins hanging on a hillside beneath a gigantic granite boulder. Below them is a ridge that could possibly be a dam. Sure enough, as I cross over the ridge my eyes behold a large pond full of pink water lilies. It's not even 10 o'clock in the morning and I have seen bouquets of lilac water hyacinths and pink water lilies. Whatever the rest of the day brings, I can hardly complain.

Then I catch a whiff of a wonderful fragrance permeating the air. After investigating, I find its source: a scraggly shrub with tiny insignificant flowers. A couple of unusual blue-green birds catch my eye, but I do not get a good enough look to be able to find them in my bird book.
As I enter the village, I ask for the residence of Sri Ramadeva Raya. According to the directions, I only have to make a turn and follow a shady path. Sure enough, I find the right house, but he is not at home. An elderly gentleman informs me that he had just left five minutes before to inspect the fields. He will probably return in an hour or so.

When I return to the main road, I am approached by a woman with the look and dress of a gypsy. However, her clothes are very clean; the white skirt and drapes that form her blouse are sparkling white.

"I've been looking for you. They told me there was an English woman here, dressed in a white sari," she speaks with such profuse enthusiasm throwing her arms into the air that I taken aback. By looking at her and her animated manner, I am not sure if "they" are spirits or humans.
However, Mira turns out to be a sensible, kind, and lovely person. She is from Belgium and has lived here for seven years. Actually, there are about ten Europeans staying here permanently, who make their living from selling ganja, marijuana, to the tourists who visit Hampi. She is curious why I am here, as "they" also told her I was asking for Ramadeva Raya.

On her advice, we have our cup of tea in the shack where they boil the water with a wood fire, instead of a kerosene burner—it tastes better. When we are settled, I explain that the gentleman in the book shop in Hampi Bazaar told me that meeting the local raja was a must, for he is quite interested in spiritual subjects. For this reason, I traveled over to Anegundi via a basket to take my chances on finding him at home. However, I missed him by five minutes, as he had gone out to inspect the fields—it is rice transplanting time. The 45 minute delay waiting for the basket boat had made the difference.

Then she tells me her story. When he had come here ten years ago to visit, she had taken up with a young sadhu, and ended up living with him. Although he enjoyed the feminine presence, he was a serious spiritual practitioner. Every day he repeated hundreds of mantras and performed certain rituals. Actually, she was a big help to him because he had more time for his religious duties since she took care of the cooking detail. They lived in one of the old temples that was in pretty good shape except it was rather breezy in cool or rainy weather since it was open on three sides. Although her family could hardly comprehend her new lifestyle, they did keep in contact. So when her mother got a small inheritance, she shared it with her daughter.

Mira and the sadhu took the gift, a windfall when converted to rupees, and spent it to wall up the three open sides of the temple, ending up with a decent abode for themselves. However, just a year or so ago, the sadhu became gravely ill and died, leaving her alone. Since then she hooked up with a second sadhu. Again, he was not one willing to settle for ganja and sex, but had serious spiritual aspirations. He has a meditation hut in the Himalayas, but had come to this area for the winter. In the spring, she had gone there with him, but the torrential rains in the mountains were more than she could take. She stuck it out for two months, but had recently returned here to her old temple home.

After an hour passed, Mira walks to the Raja's home with me. The elderly gentleman is still on the porch. She knows him and introduces him as the Raja's father. However, he never held the title. His brother was the regent, but he had no sons. If the king has no sons, a nephew will inherit the title. This custom fits the joint family culture, in which cousins call themselves brothers and sisters. This practice was prevalent throughout India; however, it was a custom the British eliminated, so that they could take control of any throne without an heir.

When the Raja return, Mira takes off and his father retires to have his lunch alone. Ramadeva is a dignified, handsome man in his mid-forties. He tells me that he had intended to live the life of a sannyasi. In his place, his younger brother had taken on the responsibility of taking care of the family property and producing an heir. Unfortunately, the younger brother was killed in a motorcycle accident two years ago. At that time, the elder brother was suddenly propelled into taking over the duties of a householder, including overseeing the family properties. They must not be extensive because there is no sign of wealth in the home. To complete his responsibilities, he married and now has a one year old son.

He tells me that the older generations of the town look up to his family and come to him when they need some advice in their worldly affairs. Whereas, the younger generation is not particularly interested in the tradition of consulting the rajas of yore with their problems.
Since its lunch time, I excuse myself, but he insists that I stay to eat with him. We discuss various spiritual subjects; he is also a J. Krishnamurthi fan. He admits that he is definitely suffering from lack of mental stimulation here.

Then I ask him if there is any property for sale in this area. He assures me that some is available, but since it is so fertile, and it is being irrigated by public works, the price is going up. I can get decent land for $2,000 per acre. Of course, I have in mind only enough for a personal vegetable garden. I have visions of a small group of friends getting together to have a retreat place. I spot one fenced lot that is a tiny paradise complete with mature coconut palms and a pond with pink water lilies. Enchanted, I take a photo to send back to friends in New York City to try to entice them to a retirement in paradise.

A few days later, I decide to return to find the spot where Mira lives. I take a different route by crossing the river at the temple; only to find that my basket boat karma is getting worse. I walk through quite a few cultivated fields to reach the Sarovar Tank, the sister pond to the famous Sarovar Lake at Mt. Kailasa in the Himalayas. My white face attracts the eye of a local swami, who runs after me. Since he speaks English, he starts showing me around the ruins in that area. Down the road, we climb a hill to view a group of three very small temples. Amazing, one is a cave that is as cool as if it had been air-conditioned. He cannot explain the phenomenon, but there seems to be a large crack that the cool air is coming through. Anyone can move in and just live here, he tells me. There is even a door with bolts installed so one can lock up one section. During the tourist season, he actually rents it out to tourists at a daily rate. There is a catch: one has to carry water from the bottom of the hill, but it is not too far, he explains. A nice Indian sadhu had been living here, but a German girl arrived with lots of money. She taught him the fine arts of ganja smoking and sex, then they went tripping off to spend her father's money.

Everywhere you look the hills are filled with lush green meadows and valleys. I just love it; I am really thinking this is a place to consider to live. During our tour, the swami finds two tea stalls where we stop for tea, made by kerosene flame, however. When we pass a vegetable stand, he suggests tells me if I will purchase vegetables, he will cook lunch for us. I am in a good mood from the lovely tour, so I agree. After purchasing a large bag of tomatoes and potatoes, he remembers that he needs some oil. I purchase the kilo size, plus a couple of other small items he needs.

An intelligent, interesting fellow with plenty of savvy, he had lived a householder's life as an engineer. Then when his children were married and settled, his wife went to live with one of them and he became a swami. While we sit and talk, he cooks a tomato rice dish, which is quite good. After we finish eating, although I volunteer, he insists on doing the dishes. When he goes out to bring in water from the well to clean the dishes, I place a 20 Rps. note on the table. When he returns I tell him I have to go, but I left a small dakshina, donation, for him. He runs over to the table, and picks up the note.

"Is that all?" he exclaims.

"Yes, that is actually all I have left with me. I don't carry a lot of money around."

"Oh, well. I will go back to your quarters with you so you can get some more."

"That's not necessary. I really don't want to give any more."

"But when the foreigners come here, they give me such generous donations."

He pulls out his guest book and starts leafing through the pages to show me who has been here—mostly Europeans. They have signed his book and left their name and address. After each entry is a notation of the donation they gave, usually about 400 Rps.

"That's great that you get such generous donations. However, these people are only here for a short vacation. I have come for three years, so I am on a budget."

He does not get my point, or at least acts like he doesn't, for he continues washing the dishes hurriedly to go across the river with me. So I tell him in a firm tone that I am sure I have no extra money to give him because I will be at the Jain ashram for a month and want to give them a decent donation. Then I walk out in a hurry. Fortunately, he does not follow me.

My luck, the basket is on the other side, so I will have at least a 30 minute wait; this morning I waited over an hour for it. Resigned to my fate, I sit and watch the water flow. Where does the water come from? Where will it disappear to? Will the same drop of water ever pass this way again? The rushing water cuts deep into the red soil, leaving wide sandy banks. Butterflies gather on patches of cool, wet mud to pump themselves with moisture. I lie back and pretend that I can flutter across the river like a butterfly.

Then my basket boat karma really gets bad; words fail me in recounting the fiasco. The problem begins when, just as the basket arrives, it starts to sprinkle. The oarsman wants to wait, but I tell him, "Let's go, we can make it in ten minutes."

Obviously, we all know the rain pattern here; it's going to get worse. I was right, in ten minutes it starts pouring. The boat man makes a shelter for us by turning the basket over. So I am stuck under a basket for an hour with two men; one of whom punches me in the breast with his elbow; that is, until I show him my fist. And that was not the worse part.

When the rain slacks off and we make it to the other shore, the hill that we have to climb has become a slippery, slimy mudpie. My sandals were not made for this particular challenge. Seeing the two men doing okay with their bare feet, I take my sandals off, but I still slip and slide. Finally, I am at the mid-way point, with no hope of ever reaching the top. Just at the moment, I am ready to slide back down the hill to wade along the shore to see if I can find a better spot, the boatman takes pity on me. He somehow grabs my hand and helps me out of the slough of despond. I stop at the first public water faucet, take off my sari and wash the caked mud off it and my body. Dressed in a full-length petticoat and blouse, I can hardly be guilty of public exposure, and I cannot get any wetter.

I somehow manage to rewrap my sari and drag myself over to my usual stall for a cup of hot tea. As I am sitting there sipping the hot, sweet liquid and breathing deeply, my attention is diverted by a commotion across the street. The monkeys are on a rampage. At least a dozen of the largest males are lined up across a roof, teeth barred, making a terrible racket. The females are jumping back and forth from tree to roof. Finally, I see the problem. A couple of teenagers are trying to trap a baby monkey. Actually, they have it trapped on a screened verandah and are now trying to get a rope on it.

Somehow I pick up my bag of soggy bag of bones and wind my way back to the ashram. When I approach the ladies' hostel, I am surprised to witness the same scenario. Prakash and the cook have trapped a baby monkey in the kitchen—and have a rope around its neck. Over a dozen large males and countless females are on the high wall opposite the kitchen, complaining at the top of their lungs. Prakash tells me that they want it for a pet and asks me what I think. I advise him to let it go because it is actually a juvenile, so big that I doubt it will ever accept any training. After some ten minutes, the noise stops, so I guess he released it. God, what a strange day.

Chapter Sixteen

Material for a New Mindset

My month is almost up, so I am eager to get out of here before my unclean time cycles around. It has been a good month in many ways—a real leisurely time. I have meditated every morning and evening, no levitations, but I have had some peaceful moments on my little pad. Daily I have explored the wonderful temples and countryside. In spite of the inconveniences, I have felt content most of the time.

Oh dear, Jyothi just told me that Guru Poornima, a special day to honor the guru, is coming up and that Mataji wants me to stay. The truth is she ordered that I have to stay for the up-coming celebration. Jyothi has already queried me about my age. Since I am 50, she naturally assumes that I am not fertile, as Indian women have a tendency to start and complete their menstrual cycles at a younger age than European women. She even said when she found out my age, "Oh, then you don't have to worry about secluding yourself for a week from Mataji, like the rest of us."

This was not the only clue I had to the severity of the rule. One evening in satsang, Mataji was virtually yelling at Prakash; she went on and on. . . and on. I thought it was quite unusual for a such a saint to be so disturbed. He must have stolen something, I conjecture. Later when I am able to inquire from Jyothi what the ruckus was about, I find out that Prakash "allowed" a young lady to enter the temple during her menses.

"You mean it is Prakash's responsibility to question all young women who enter the temple. Aside from the fact that he is often away running errands for the ashram, a young Indian man, especially a bachelor, can hardly be expected to do such 'dirty work.''"

Jyothi, my ally and informant, just stares at me with a "how should I know?" look, and sensibly defers making any comment. Jyothi is crippled from a car accident in Bombay when she was sixteen. She is a beautiful woman of about forty with lovely salt and pepper hair down to her waist. Due to her handicap, she was never able to marry. This discrimination against women and men who are not able to bear children is prevalent in all castes and creeds. I recall a gentleman who once described his daughter's marriage arrangements to me. He told me of his anxiety because the prospective groom had been in a car accident, but seemed to have recovered completely. Nevertheless, he assumed his parental duty and requested a private conference with the young man to ask him if the accident had affected his virility. "I didn't like doing it, but I had to," he had concluded.

I am surprised to find out that Jyothi may have been here when I visited in 1979. When I question her about the three nuns whom I had met who were starting out on a pilgrimage across south India, I find out that she was traveling with three nuns at that time, as their assistant. She always went ahead of them to make arrangements for their meals and lodging because they could only eat food from kitchens in Jain homes. Whenever possible, they slept in chaudris, pilgrimage shelters, of Jain temples.

In spite of my misgivings about my approaching physical malady, I feel obligated to stay and make the best of things. It would simply be too rude to walk out the day before Guru Poornima; the day that honors Mataji. And I would have missed quite a celebration.

I did it again! If I had left when I planned, I would have gone through the whole month without a major faux pax. Since everyone is getting ready for Guru Poornima, I had moments of feeling useless. However, I found out why it's better that I just remain useless. One evening at our evening satsang with Mataji, Jyothi is preparing the cotton wicks for the extra butter lamps necessary for the ceremony. When I volunteer to help, she shows me how to take a little puff of cotton and twirl the top of it to make a little wick. I pull off a little puff, but the little wick just will not form for me; the cotton seems to stiff. So I just automatically spit on my fingers, as if I were threading a needle, and give the cotton a successful twirl.

"No," Mataji's voice stops me short.

It's funny. Without a word said, I know exactly what I did wrong. You do not spit on items intended for worship. Sure makes sense to me. Truth is I had already learned this lesson. Once when I was in the Himalayas, the ashram manager there arranged a ritual in commemoration of Krishna's birthday. We were all to offer a flower, so I was handed the loveliest rose to give Krishna. Immediately, earthy me, I put it straight to my nose to inhale its heady fragrance. Fortunately, a friend saw me and chuckled, then motioned me aside. She explained my mistake and gave me another flower. You cannot offer anything to the Lord that has had its fragrance sniffed out of it by a human nose—a heathen one at that. So I should have remembered that lesson.

People begin arriving from all over India, particularly Bombay and Madras. All the empty buildings and cottages fill to capacity. As it turns out, devotees who only come here once or twice a year have built these quarters. Most of them hope to retire here someday. Since they are from the city, they speak perfect English, so I am able to communicate easily. One friendly lady from Bombay asks me how long I plan to stay. I tell her I will be leaving right after the ceremonies.

"Oh, you should stay here longer while you have free time. It is such a wonderful opportunity."

"But it is difficult staying here. It is just so noisy since the ladies' hostel is by the kitchen, plus pilgrims are constantly coming and going."

"You should ask Mataji to give you separate quarters."

"How could I ask for special treatment, when Lakshmi and Jyothi who are older women and have served Mataji for so long have to stay in these quarters?"

She sort of smiles, purses her lips, and looks down without making any comment.

Mataji lights up with all the devotees surrounding her. During the evening ceremony and bell-ringing in the meditation cave, she becomes playful and starts trying to push people over. When she approaches me to break the boredom, I do the same thing to her, lightly, as she passes by. I figure someone else may as well have some fun too. At first, she is quite startled, then she realizes that I am only playing too. So we have a hip-pushing contest, but I let her win.

The following day is poornima, full moon, bearing several surprises even for the cynic. To get into the spirit of things, I even go the temple and withstand the terrible banging of the big bell. First thing after breakfast, there is to be a big ritual. Mataji is present, seated at the end of the altar table. I am right in the big middle of the crowd, eagerly awaiting to see what she will do because I have been told to expect a surprise.

All of a sudden, one gentleman gets up and starts saying something in Gujurati. After he speaks for a few minutes, someone else speaks up with some comments, then another. I keep waiting for the ritual to begin, but the talking among themselves continues. Finally, I squeeze to the door to step outside for some fresh air. After ten minutes, a gentleman comes out and I inquire when the ritual will start.

"But it has been going on for almost an hour," he replies in perfect English.

"But I was present up until ten minutes ago, and there was no ritual."

"Oh, yes. It is actually an auction."

"You know that is what it sounded like to me, but I thought it was the projection of my western mind. Now, could you kindly explain to me how an auction is a ritual."

"We support various charities, so we bid to give donations to the charities."

"I see..."

"Yes, the highest bidder gets the punya [merit]."

Before I can question him further, although I have no idea what I will ask, he begins to question me about my stay here. As it turns out, his daughter is a regular resident here. She has gone to her family home in Rajasthan for a couple of months for a period of intensive meditation and fasting. I express my disappointment at not getting to meet such a sincere seeker. I do wish she would have been here, so I would have had a companion for meditation each morning. I can easily understand why she went home for serious meditation—she did not like those banging doors either.

By that time, everyone is filing out to have tea. Afterwards, Mataji will conduct her part of the ceremony. So fifteen minutes later, we all pack back into the cave room. Everyone starts singing bhajans, while Mataji drifts away into a light trance. All eyes are on her as she begins to lightly rub her heart area. Within a few minutes, a bright yellow-orange powder starts to emerge, then accumulate. She has arranged her sari phalu [the end that falls over the shoulder], so that the powder falls into it.

This miracle of producing powder out of thin air is rare, but not unheard of. The powder, or sometimes ash, is supposed to have a special healing quality. Of course, I question, would anything produced out of thin air necessarily be magical? Although many believe that the ancient yogis could do such things, they doubt anyone has such powers today. In some cases, there is evidence that it is a trick. I did have a first-hand report from a gentleman who traveled with a swami from Mysore who produces ash. The gentleman did find a large stash of ash in the swami's suitcase. The swami caught him, accused him of rummaging through his suitcase, and was furious. The gentleman contends he only intended to help the swami pack as he was running late for an international flight. Anyway, after that incident, they parted company.

However, everyone here is sure that this powder is special. From my front row seat, I can see no evidence that there is any deception. Mataji has no sleeves to hide it and the powder is bright orange, so I would be difficult to conceal without staining everything. We all line up for Mataji to rub some on our foreheads. Afterwards, we troop off for lunch. No rice and dal for lunch today-we are served an array of delicious dishes, including a couple of desserts. A special cook is here to prepare the feasts for the two day celebration.

"Come, quickly. Mataji is calling you," Jyothi is signaling me. I follow her back to the cave to find everyone gathered around the little antique Chandra Prabhu idol.

"Look at the milk coming out of it," they push me up front and center. Sure enough there is a milky substance coming out of both eyes, and also seeping from the heart area. I can plainly see the liquid oozing out of the stone creating a regular drip running down its body. I am sure it would be impossible for this to be set-up because there is now at least a cup of milk accumulated in a stainless steel tray at the feet. Admittedly, the idol is washed daily with milk and other liquids, but they roll off the marble. If anything remained, it would surely evaporate in this hot, dry climate. Anyway, this type of stone could not absorb so much liquid. I have to admit that I am witnessing an extra-ordinary event.

They say this phenomenon occurs regularly on special Jain holidays. I happily accept my ration of the ambrosia, sipping it with a mixture of sanctity and merriment. My mouth is silent, but my mind is running: If the ambrosia is so wonderful, what has it done for the people here who have been sipping it for years? Jyothi and another resident remain physically handicapped; Lakshmi is angry; Prakash is frustrated.

As it turns out Mataji has a teenage daughter, who also comes for a few days. I am surprised to learn that she was actually raised by my roommate, Lakshmi. Mataji was married and leading a happy householder's life when her husband suddenly died. Since she is the emotional type, to drown her sorrow, she began coming to this ashram to her guru, who lived in a cave—no buildings at that time. She soon decided to leave the world and live in the ashram, leaving her daughter to be raised by Lakshmi's family, who were also devotees of this Jain holy man.

Several young girls, about 12 years of age, are also here for the celebration. They want me to accompany them to the local Hindu temple, which they like to visit. As we enter we see a sign in English: "Please keep off the plantains from the sight of the monkeys." Translated, it means: the monkeys will grab any banana they see. Once at the ashram I witnessed them grabbing one from crippled Jyothi. Although this temple does not have as many wonderful sculptures as the later temples in the area, this one is a huge maze. Somewhere in a back corner, the girls show me the spot where you look through a crack between the granite stone to see the temple gopura, tower, upside down. They tell me that this temple is pictured in their physics' book because of this unusual phenomenon.

They also relate to me a story they read in their elementary school reader, approximately sixth grade. Once upon a time, there was a woodcutter who lived in India. Every day he went to the forest to cut enough wood to last a day for himself and his neighbors. After he had worked for an hour or so, he relaxed under a sprawling tree until the heat of the day had passed. Then he loaded up his donkey and headed home for a leisurely evening talking and playing board games with his fellow villagers.

One fine day, a couple of American entrepreneurs approached him. "Look, this is a huge forest here, worth lots of money. All we have to do is cut all the trees, then we can use the lumber to build a big sub-division. Why, you will be rich. Then you will be able relax and enjoy life."

"But that's exactly what I'm doing now," replied the woodcutter.

The next morning I pack my bag and am ready to leave on the early bus. I bid good-by to dear Jyothi, whom I will surely miss.

"Please come back and stay with us again. We can arrange for you to live here," she entreats me.

"Jyothi, you know I have had a good stay here in many aspects. I really value your friendship. You have been so kind and helpful. You know, I really don't think I will return to a place where the dogs sleep in a bed, while the people sleep on a hard granite floor, the monkeys eat the only fruit, and the dogs drink all the milk. I can't explain it, but it's just too wacky. I still have to have some rhyme and reason in my physical reality. I'm not a saint like you."

She blushes, then laughs. With a smile, she hobbles out to the gate with me, insisting on carrying my bag of books, purchased from the local book vendor. Then I take my last hike down the dirt road to the bus stop.

As I am walking down the road, I ruminate over the past month. I have said that one reason for my travels in India is the experiencing of a different conditioning, to attempt to look at the world through a different mindset. I am certainly getting material to challenge that task. Mostly, I am amazed that this place was so different from what I thought it would be from my previous visit. The only activity here that could be considered spiritual was the singing of bhajans, which falls under the category of devotion, whereas I am more interested in the path of knowledge. I had reason to believe there would be some type of study, for the three nuns I had met before were quite scholarly, as well as sincere seekers.

Although the life here may not have suited me, it is perfect for others: Jyothi is totally happy here. And she does have options; her family is quite wealthy. Watching Jyothi's kindness and devotion to Mataji, as well as to me, was surely a gift I received during this month. Under all the physical difficulties she had to deal with, I never heard one complaint or saw even the hint of a frown. Maybe she truly is the saint in this place.

Chapter Seventeen

The Peaceable Kingdom

Back in Bangalore, while I am re-evaluating what I want from my trip here, Hari hands me a booklet by a Swami Nirmalananda. He is a sage who lives in a sylvan setting in B. R. Hills. Located in the northern Nilgiris at the end of a road from Mysore, Biligiri Ranga remains a primeval forest. Actually, as the crow flies, it's not that far from where I was in Kottagiri. Although Hari had not met the Swami, he told me that the local newspaper had run a series by Swami Nirmalananda, and that he appeared to have been influenced by J. Krishnamurthi. Somewhat intrigued at the possibility of living in a forest setting with a scholarly swami, I sent a letter off to B.R. Hills.

Dear Swami Nirmalananda,

I have been a student of Vedanta—major influences are Swami Chinmayananda and J. Krishnamurthi—for 15 years. I have an understanding of the concepts, but frankly I have had difficulty applying them in the "real" (unreal) world. Therefore, I have come to India for a period of sadhana. First, I am looking for a peaceful setting for meditation, and, secondly, satsang with a genuine teacher. A friend mentioned your ashram as a good possibility and gave me your little booklet "To Live to Benefit Mankind," which I find aligns with my point of view about doing some service. However, I still have my own mental house-cleaning to accomplish, although I have been working at it for years now.

I have just returned to Bangalore from a month's stay in Hampi. I am assisting with the editing of a spiritual magazine, so I will have to be here in Bangalore for the next ten days. I am hoping that then it will be possible to come visit your ashram, if you are in station, and have a simple accommodation for sleeping and food. Of course, I will be able to pay a reasonable donation for such. I would like to stay for at least one month because I think it takes several weeks for one to assess the Guru and for the teacher to assess the student. I am 50 years old, and don't have time, energy or inclination to waste your time or mine.

I receive a reply, almost by return mail. Yes, I will be welcome, the Swami assures me. Further, he mentions that the accommodation will be sparse, but adequate.

Two weeks later, right at dusk, the bus makes an "unscheduled" stop to let me off right at the dirt road that leads to Vishwa Shanti Niketan, the ashram of Swami Nirmalananda. By the time I trek one-quarter of a mile, lugging my suitcase, heavy with books, I am wondering if I will be able to look and play the part of a guest.

For I am truly exhausted. The 7:00 a.m. bus would have taken five hours, but it was "under repair." It was not until 8:30 a.m., after I had been told at least a dozen times, "It's coming now," that they decided to cancel it. That meant I could take the 9:15 a.m. bus—a seven hour trip, as it follows a more circuitous route—or I would have to wait for the 1:30 p.m. bus to get the five-hour direct route. Considering the long delay I had already endured—the clock had flashed 6:05 a.m. as I entered the station—I opted to take the longer "scenic" route.

However, I discovered Karnataka is not all that scenic. Its beauty is tucked away in hidden valleys, but overland on this journey, and on the one to Hampi, I found the landscape is mainly dry desert, dotted with only a few scrub bushes. By the time we reached the scenery of the foothills, I was barely hanging together. The monsoon is sparse this year, so it was an extremely hot journey.

We took a 45-minute lunch break, which meant that we would arrive at 5:15 p.m., not at 4:30 p.m., as indicated on the computer at the ticket counter. But I could not complain, I needed a break. I only allowed myself a cup of hot tea and a couple of small bananas as my stomach was beginning to feel strange. The bus station and town—I know not its name—were too dreadful to remember, so I will spare you the details. Suffice to say that the out-door toilets sat quietly awaiting a cleaning by the monsoon rains. I suppose that's why the latrine shed did not have a roof.

As soon as we reached the hills, I got some relief as the temperature dropped considerably. Suddenly there was no sign of human life for miles. We must have passed through an animal sanctuary as I spotted several elephants near the road. The man across from me spotted a couple of beautiful deer, sambuars. The driver slowed almost to a stop, so we could all get a good look. Later we went through a small clearing with a couple of buildings where I spotted two juvenile elephants tied along side the road. I got a good look at them because the moment we passed I had my head out the window barfing up the recently ingested tea and bananas. Under these circumstances, I cannot say I fully appreciated them, so I made a mental note to return. The winding mountainous road really was getting to me. I got out my homeopathic remedy pouch and took a dose of my trusty Nux Vomica (motion sickness remedy) and settled back for a relatively relaxed last hour of twisting, uphill roads with my stomach dancing in sync with the bumping, jumping bus.

As I enter a gate and follow the walkway to the Swami's stone cottage, it is so dark that I can hardly make out the surroundings. However, I am quite encouraged by the sound of falling water in the background. From the wide porch, a skinny, clean-shaven Swami greets me and motions for me to come inside.

He is all smiles, giggles and cackling laughter, interspersed with oohs, aahs, and haas. Only when he picks up a clip-board and starts to write, do I realize he has not uttered a single word during the two minutes of his greeting. I did not know that he practiced mauna, silence; evidently Hari did not know either because he had not mentioned it.

"There was no 7:00 a.m. bus today," I explain my late arrival.

"Aah," the Swami affirms, as if he already knew.

Before I know it I am seated in front of the Swami, who scribbles on his pad, "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please, that would be great."

"Milk or sugar?" he writes.

"Just a little sugar. I think black tea may help settle my stomach."

Seated on a plain straw mat, I sip the hot, sweet tea. But the truth is, I still feel like a lump of left-over oatmeal. Then the Swami suggests I take a bath. When I happily agree, he directs me to the bath house. Actually, after traveling, an Indian woman would not even have had a cup of tea before bathing. When I enter the adobe hut that serves as a bath house, a large bucket of steaming water is sitting there waiting for me. Hot water. . . there is hot water here! I have not had a hot bath since I've been in India. And the bathroom is warm and cozy! Then I spot the stove, modeled of adobe, with a few embers still glowing in it.

However, I find that the water is so hot I don't think I can bear it. When I look around, I can find no faucet for cold water to cool it down. Naturally, I am already undressed when I discover the water is too hot, so I decide to grin and bear it. Surely, my tired muscles will appreciate the heat. And do they ever. The hot water trickling over my tired, cold body is like a miraculous salve. My body consciously inhales the vitality from each mugful as my pores suck in the warmth of the hot liquid. So this is what bathing is about, I think.

I do feel slightly better; at least I can now pretend to look alive if I make a conscious effort. Returning to my straw mat, I watch the Swami darting around, dealing with the making of fresh bread and other details with a servant, the same one who prepared the water for my bath. The Swami wears a faded orange robe over his thin, taunt body, which appears to be quite spry. Only the short gray stubble covering his head indicates his 62 years. There are two approved hair-styles for swamis: shaved head or never cut.

At last he sits down on his tiger-skin pallet and poises himself for conversation. First, I ask him about his practice of mauna.

"By speaking too much and indulging in unnecessary talk, we only create an atmosphere of noisy insanity," he writes on his pad.

"Yes, I do realize that mauna is a good discipline. It keeps us from getting carried away with so many issues, most of which do not matter anyway. . . and in any case, we often cannot do anything about."

"Aah," he nods in agreement. "Silence is the Temple of Truth."

Then the Swami suggests some yoga exercises, "since I am tired after the long, tedious bus journey."

"But I think I am so tired that I don't feel like I can even move."

"Oh, yes. You'll feel much better afterward. Then you will sleep well," he assures me.

I am not convinced, but am willing to give it a try. The Swami and I chant "Om" three times, then do a series of simple exercises that move and stretch, but do not contort, every single limb and muscle, including the eyes. Having survived that ordeal, I now get dinner. I am not sure about eating either, but I simply do not have the energy to object to food offered by an Indian. They somehow imbue food with such sacramental qualities that it is the greatest insult to fail to offer food to a guest; topped in gravity only by the guest's refusal to eat the offered food. He serves me some homemade whole-wheat bread with jam. As I watch him, each act seems to be carefully calculated and precisely executed—exactly one tablespoon of jam per slice of bread.

It's only 8:00 p.m. when he asks the servant to show me to the guest cottage. I am so relieved to be able to go to bed early, but it turns out this is the Swami's usual hour of retirement. Daily he awakens around 2:00 a.m. because he thinks this quiet and peaceful time is best for meditation.
The short bio of the Swami in the brochure he had sent me spoke of his austere life-style and specifically stated that he took no tea, coffee, chili pickles or dairy products. Heathen that I am, I brought a big supply of tea bags with me, along with my electric coil. So when the Swami offered me tea this evening, I was surprised.

Even more so, when the next morning, the Swami arrives at my door at 6:00 a.m. with a cup of steaming tea. He makes me taste it to make sure it is okay. It is fine, except the Indians boil tea, so it is a bit too strong. Not that I complain; how often does someone serve me tea first thing in the morning? I find a bush with some small nimbus (limes) that I use to dilute and lighten the dark color. With the tea, the Swami also hands me a note telling me to be at his kutia, hut, at 8:00 a.m. for yoga exercises.

While we workout, I look through the open door and see speckled doves feasting on the grain that is put out each day for them. Eventually, I will be delegated the honor of putting out the bird seed. The feeding area is surrounded by various varieties of orange trees, with a lots of taller, native trees in the background. This is truly the forest primeval. Dare I hope that I have found the idyllic spot I have been searching for—a natural forest and a swami who understands English.

After breakfast, the Swami tells me that I am free to do as I please until lunch. Immediately I streak out for a walk behind the ashram where I thought I heard a waterfall last night. I was mistaken; the sound I heard is caused by a curious phenomenon. As I exit through the gate at the back of the grounds, I am on a mammoth granite ridge that extends as far as I can see in both directions. From this spot, one can see back to the Karnataka plains; on a clear day, one can probably see Mysore, the nearest city. However, one would not be able to enjoy the vista long because the wind is constantly whipping along here. Strangely, it's not blowing at the ashram only 50 feet down the hill; we only get the noise that sounds like a rushing waterfall at night.

At his usual 11:00 a.m. lunch time, I am back on my straw mat as the Swami serves my plate with plain, boiled vegetables and rice.

"I'm not used to being served by a Swami," I comment with a smile.

"We consider you our child, so we treat you as your own mother would," he stops serving to write on his pad. (I'm sure he means Indian mothers, but it seems irrelevant to enlighten him on the subject of Western mothers.)

Since I have been in Pondicherry, he asks about Aurobindo, particularly if he is known in America. I tell him I had never heard of Aurobindo when I was in U.S. Then I add, "I loved the ashram area though. Certainly, I admire The Mother and Aurobindo; he had such an incredible intellect. However, the phenomenon that surrounds them continues to remain a mystery to me. How can people idealize dead persons who taught immortality? You know I like to think feel that we have to keep our logic in tact, even in our spiritual quest."

He takes his clip board and taps me on the head. With a smile, he utters his affirmative, "Aah."

"Yet," I continue, "even insensitive me feels a wonderful, peaceful silence around that ashram. It is something extra-ordinary."


In the mornings, I am up before dawn, for I do not want to miss anything. I set up a little station on the corner of the veranda: a meditation cushion, bird book, notebook for inspirations and insights, and a book by J. Krishnamurthi in case I start feeling dull. As I watch a few minutes before sunrise, the sky begins to turn gray on the mountain crest. The bulbuls announce this first sign of light with their melodious songs. Soon I hear a dozen birds chirping from different directions.

From on my cushion, the nice symphony vibrates my heart and puts a smile on my face. Fifteen minutes later the small yellow-breasted wrens contribute their rapid cheep, cheep, cheep. A shrill call of a large bird, probably a koel, resounds through the forest. The swishing of the trees swaying in the wind on the ridge adds a soothing background beat. The occasional darting of a bulbul to catch an unsuspecting bug is the only movement I note. I breathe in the peace of this luminous perfect now.

At times my eyes close in meditation; at others, they are open to encompass nature's drama. Thirty minutes pass before it's light enough for the speckled doves to awaken and add their cooing. Soon they are fluttering about, moving from the high branches where they roosted for the night to the branches of the smaller citrus trees. They seem to be cautiously checking out their feeding ground. The slightest noise or movement on the walk sends them in a cloud back to the higher branches. A small striped squirrel scampers up to breakfast on the grain. A pair of pied wagtails land under the bench along the pathway, but prefer to remain silent. Four crows fly by, assuring that their presence be noted with their loud cawing.

By seven, the cooing of some thirty doves drowns out any other sounds. Their chorus soon fades away as they occupy themselves with eating ragi, a native grain. English speakers call the round, ash-gray colored grain, which turns dark brown when cooked, millet. Ragi constitutes the major diet of the tribals throughout this region. Singing a melody taught them by their grandmothers, the women grind it into flour, mix it with water, boil it, then form it into large balls that are eaten with a chutney, if available.

Iam content to spend the whole day outside, sitting on the veranda for an hour, then walking around the vicinity until yoga at 8:00 a.m. After yoga, breakfast and a bath, I return to the veranda to read and take notes, for I am thinking about a possible writing project. In the afternoon while the Swami is napping, I leave the ashram and head down the road. Just like in Hampi, I am impelled to be up and exploring, and I am not disappointed. The village is spread out over several miles with small pockets of habitations here and there, so there is a lot to explore. Ten foot lantana bushes decorate the roadside with their bright orange and pink flowers. However, they are not intended for show; their thorns and thick growth form an impenetrable barrier to protect the homes from wandering wild beasts.

But the best part is off the beaten track. By the third day, I have scoped out the surrounding territory and am ready to take a trek into the forest. As soon as the Swami has closed his door for his nap, I head out back. I walk along the ridge, then catch a trail going down into the forest.
The shade is so dense that I find only a few plants and flowers growing on the ground. Most of the trees are broad-leaved evergreens or varieties of bamboo. Soon I spot a couple of orchid plants in the trees—too high for me to see very well. Then suddenly I see them hanging in every tree. However, I am disappointed that none of them appear to be in bloom.

At one point, as I am going along a path, I see the tail-end of an animal—who saw me first. So I am only able to observe its rump; reddish fur on its body with a slim black tail like a cat. Further, down the trail I surprise some of the local tribals, about eight men and women, carrying large logs of wood. Needless to say, they are quite started to see a white face in the jungle, but smile and reciprocate my greeting of "namaste."

The next morning, the Swami tells me I should not be going so deep into the jungle. Well, news certainly travels fast here, I take mental note. I do not bother to ask him how he knew my whereabouts.

"I do not feel there is any danger. I didn't see any ferocious animals. Only one small fellow that ran before I even could get a good look at it." I describe what I had seen, but he cannot identify it; neither can anyone whom I later ask.

"We never go into the jungle. There are bears that can crush you to death. They come here on the ashram grounds to eat the fruit off the tree behind your cottage."

"I haven't seen any."

"It has already finished fruiting this year. Remember you are my guest. I can't be responsible for you if you go into the jungle."

"So the guru who teaches Vedanta, which clearly states 'I am not the body,' is concerned for my physical body?"

He laughs and lets the subject drop.

So I am totally free from noon until 7:00 p.m. when we again go through the yoga routine. I am so grateful that I have so much quiet time to myself. . . and it is quiet here. One evening as we eat our daily bread and jam, the Swami asks, "Are you lonely?"

"No, I am fine. With my walks, books and meditation, I feel totally content."

He notes on his pad, "Now because of this asthma which I have had for several years, I have asked Swami Brahmadev to stay here. But for years people asked me: 'Aren't you lonely here?' I used to point to The Above. So how could I be alone?

"There is real joy in abiding in the Self. But as I have to deal with all and sundry for anything and everything, I don't get enough time for a quiet atmosphere; in spite of our ashram being in such a quiet and peaceful spot, much better than other ashrams."

"I can affirm that it is much quieter."

Every morning I meditate alone on my cushion on the veranda. In the evenings, we meditate together for about 20 minutes after yoga. He makes helpful suggestions for my meditation practice. He stresses keeping the mental gaze at the heart center rather than on the breath or at the forehead.

He writes, "When the mind is focused on the heart, then we are in the thought-free state. When any thought arises, one must sacrifice this manifestation of the masculine intellect to the feminine heart. When the feminine heart and the masculine mind are united, there is bliss."

"So is this what you mean when you write 'fuel the fire and fan the flame'?"

"Aaah," he grins as he taps me on the head with his clipboard.

"What exactly do you mean by 'heart'?" I ask him.

"True love, feelings and compassion for all beings. The thing is to have a translucent mind and an attitude of love and compassion for all."

"So it is a state of being?"

"Yes. Remember, Nancy, we do not create peace. Peace comes uninvited to a quiet, tranquil mind. Even the Christian fathers of the desert tradition said: 'If you are without thoughts, you are without sin.'"

In spite of Swami's apprehensions about my treks through the jungle, I continue to take off immediately when he closes the door for his nap. With my one-hour morning walk before yoga, and the three hours in the afternoon, before a week is up, there is not a road or path in the extensive village complex that I have not investigated. I just love the jungle and have discovered a huge boulder that I can climb upon to sit and read without danger of some animal sneaking up behind me. As I turn around to leave, I come face to face with a tree branch that supports a row of big orchid plants lined up its entire length. I am sure it is a type of dendrobium orchid, but I have not seen it anywhere else. Unfortunately, it is not the season to see them in bloom. I will have to return in the winter to see that beautiful sight, for thick stalks from last years' blossoms are dangling from both sides of the limb.

Every afternoon I am wandering around exploring trails, made by animals. Then I land on my big boulder for an hour or so. From this perch, one day I encounter the most beautiful parrots with a purple splotch on their heads. I cannot even find them in my bird book. As I quietly watch, I realize most of them are hopping through the branches of a certain type of tree. They remind me in size and spread of a redbud tree, but the flowers are orange clusters of sweetpea flowers, which must give some nectar to the parrots.

Although I love my treks through the forest, I also enjoy my time spent with the Swami. In addition to our informative conversations on spiritual subjects; we have our love of nature in common. After dinner one evening he hands me a paper on which he has written a tribute to his dear pet, Bambi. The baby deer had been brought to him to nurse, for no one knew what happened to its mother. The Swami had kept it by his side, feeding it from a plastic bottle. Even now, he displays great joy when he speaks of Bambi; he must have been a very good caregiver. Bambi grew up and, although not restrained, she chose to remain in the protected confines of the ashram. However, one day tragedy struck; Bambi was killed in an accident.

"By a car?" I question.

"Aah." He grabs his pad. "She was too trusting; she did not know to fear cars since so few come this way."

The Swami is now involved in a project to install a commemorative statue of Bambi in the garden beside his cottage. An artist in Bangalore is making the sculpture. Another artist came to the ashram to do a clay sculpture of the Swami. The bust will be cast in bronze and put along side Bambi's statue.

As the Swami requested, I read over the inscription that is to be chiseled in the stone at the base of Bambi's statue. I make one small suggestion, but the Swami decides he likes it better the way it is, so it is ready to be submitted to the stone engraver. Quite satisfied, afterwards, he is sitting and humming. He has a habit of humming no matter what task he is doing. "There should be this type of nursing a melody in you all the time," he notes.

One evening the Swami is making preparations to light the oil lamp. Just as I am thinking, after he is accustomed to my presence, perhaps he will allow me to light the lamp, he motions me over and hands me the matches. When I spent time in Kerala, I always appreciated this simple daily ritual. I carefully adjust the little cotton wicks, so they will not go out or burn the peanut oil too fast. As dusk descends on the mountain top, I ignite the first light of the night. My life has always been without ritual or ceremony. I begin to cherish this one quiet moment of conscious action each evening.

Chapter Eighteen

Clouds over Paradise

This morning brought more fog, rain, wind. I do not think it is foggier, rainier,windier than the previous four mornings, but the accumulation is beginning to take its toll on my psyche. I am not the only one complaining. The cabbage roses along the sidewalk are not able to open their bright pink faces because their petals are rotting. The electric power, usually off from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. for conservation, has been off for the past 24 hours, which has certainly has contributed to the dismal atmosphere. There is not even enough light in my room to read; that is, unless I open a shutter to let in the wind and fog.

One afternoon a charming woman, about forty years of age, shows up at my door. She had just returned from a visit to her family home in Bangalore where she happened to see Swami Brahmadev. He told her that there was an American lady at the ashram and that she should go and meet me. Nagamani lives just down the road and oversees a house and property owned by her family. Since it is the rainy season, they are in the process of planting coffee on what they hope will be an income-producing plantation. After we share a few mundane details of our lives, she gets up to go. I suggest that if she stays another thirty minutes the Swami will be up from his nap, so she can see him.

"Oh, no, I don't want to see him; that's why I came by when I knew he was asleep. He got so angry with me the last time I was here because I forgot to bring him a telephone book from Bangalore."

"That's strange. There's no telephone here."

"No, no. He wanted it so he could get the addresses of all the wealthy businessmen in Bangalore. He wants to mail them requests for donations for one of his projects."

"Do you suppose it is for that bust of himself? Once he told me the artist was donating it, but another time, he contradicted himself. I suppose there will be the expense of casting it."

"I don't know. He's always cooking up some project that he needs money for. When he completed that Ganesha temple, we thought he would leave us alone about donations for a while. Then it was the Bambi statue; then his own memorial bust. Actually, he already collected for both of them some time back."

My daily bath has become a welcome ritual that I look forward to, especially, since it has turned cold. The bathhouse is the only heated room. Mahadev, the servant boy, sets the big copper pots of water to heat for our baths. The heat from the fire makes the room quite cozy. Evidently, I took too long the first day because the Swami told me that he was glad I took such a long time cleaning myself. However, in order for him to keep on schedule, he decided that he would bathe first in the future.

"Should I give you a nice rough cloth to rub down with?" he notes on his clip board. Before I even answer, he disappears and returns with a square bright orange wash cloth and hands it to me.
"But don't ever put it in the bucket with the hot water," he cautions. The "unclean" of the china cup phenomenon rears its head in diverse ways.

While we are on the subject of cleansing, with a rather casual look on his face, he writes, "Do you do the Ganesha mudra [hand position]?"

"I have never heard of the Ganesha mudra," I confess.

"You have to cut the fingernail of the middle finger of your left hand [the unclean one] very short. You use it to clean out your rectum each morning."

"You clean out your rectum each morning with your finger....?" And he is worrying about a wash cloth in a bucket of water?

"Yes, you need to keep the colon track as clean as possible."

"Somewhere I did read an article connecting a clean colon and spirituality. Frankly, I did not give it any attention. But I don't think it mentioned this particular technique."

"You must do it daily."

For several mornings I have noticed that the servant ladies give the Swami a foot massage. Since the Swami's asthma is getting progressively worse with the bad weather, I show him a reflexology foot chart and volunteer to work on his feet. I massage them for some 15 minutes, giving particular attention to the lung area. To my surprise, afterwards, he insists upon reciprocating.

He seems to grab my foot with too much fervor, but I remind myself: I am not the body. Then I close my eyes and try to relax because the massage is much too vigorous to be enjoyed.

The next evening is unusually damp and windy. Because of the moisture, the Swami is wheezing so badly from asthma that he does not even attempt to do the yoga exercises. Fortunately, today he received a package from a devotee in Bangalore containing some ayurvedic medicines for asthma. He is wondering about taking them, and I advise him to do so immediately. Then I relate to him Vani's successful story of curing her asthma with herbs.

"Anyway, you have nothing to lose," I console him. The truth is that he is wheezing so badly, I am concerned whether he will make it through the night.

Lo and behold, the next morning he is fine; only an occasional cough remains. He does continue to take the herbal concoction three times a day as prescribed. The following morning at yoga, you would not have known he ever had asthma. He remains well during the entire month that I am here in spite of the cold damp rainy weather, which refuses to go away.

In the evenings after yoga, we continue to exchange foot massages. Later, he wants to show me a head massage technique that he learned in Japan. Grabbing me around the neck from behind with one arm, he begins to scrub my head with overwhelming vigor. Again, I have to remind myself continually, I am not the body. I feel as though I have put myself in the hands of a psychopathic killer. However, he refuses to allow me to massage his head. The next night, he is extremely sleepy, so we skip the head message session. In a way, I feel relieved, yet there is something strangely appealing about this stimulation to my brain circuitry.

"Which do you like better, the yoga or foot massage?" the Swami asks me one evening while we are munching on our daily bread.

"Well, I probably like massage better, especially the headscrubbing, now that I have gotten used to it. I think it stimulates my brain—something that I certainly find it beneficial on these cold lethargic days. But I think that the yoga is probably better for health, that's why it's so hard for one to keep it up alone."

"Yes, even I will go for long periods without doing the yoga when there is no one here to do it with. It does help to have company. You must find someone to do the exercises with when you return home," the Swami suggests.

"I have my own theory of how to distinguish a good habit from a bad habit. If it's easy to get and difficult to break, then it is a bad habit. If it's hard to get into the routine, and is broken easily, even by missing a single day, then it's a sure sign that it is a good habit. Now would our esteemed Swami like to explain to me why nature works against us in this way?" I query him.

"You must remember the role of the three gunas: dull, active, calm. One or the other will always predominate. No need to be concerned about which one is playing its role in your life at any given moment."

After a thoughtful pause, he continues, "Are you humming like I suggested? We must continue to feed the fire and fan the flame."

"I fear that when I sing because I am feeling dull, I am trying to escape from the dullness. Krishnamurthi says stay with the feeling until it dissolves."

"Don't escape. Just be with the dullness, and sing anyway. Don't be concerned if the dullness is there, or if it goes.

"Live one moment in that thought-free state, then the next one moment, and continue one moment at a time. Remember what I told you, the Christian fathers said: 'If you are free of thought, you are free of sin.'"

Plop. Plop. Plop. My rubber sandals slap the asphalt road, wet from last night's rain. Elephants passed during the night and left their unmistakable turds: tank shells of dried roughage with every ounce of juice sucked out. A young child waves to me from a small thatched hut surrounded by maize. Only green is visible up ahead, decorated with pink and orange lantana. A bird greets me every four or five feet. I stop to admire a wild variety of tiger lily that is half yellow and half orange. Upon a closer look I discover that a tiny yellow-breasted honey-sucker is clutching the stem; he is almost buried inside the blossom.

The ashram and village are surrounded by deep trenches, ten-foot deep and ten-foot across, to protect them from the elephants. One villager told me that the elephants are only here during the summer (March, April, May), but no one else seems to agree with him. However, everyone does agree that the elephants only come out to forage at night, so it's not likely that I will see one.

Occasionally, a local farmer comes to bring fruit to the Swami, so I take the opportunity to find out more about this area. He cultivates mulberry leaves to feed the silk worms at a local silk factory. The gentleman tells me he has to sleep on his property at night since he cannot afford to have elephant trenches dug. He uses a lantana and cactus fence to keep out cows and even larger animals. In spite of the fact that the elephants are supposed to be deep in the jungle during this season, they are coming to drink every night in a small pond across from the gate, the most vulnerable spot in his fence. He has to be on the alert to divert them as they would destroy his whole crop in just one feeding.

"Sir, just how do you divert elephants?" is my obvious question.

"Oh you just scold them, then they will go."

I am not convinced, "How do you scold an elephant?"

"Oh, you just say, 'Haahh, haahh,' and turn them aside."

However, the elephant trenches do not ward off the tiger, bear, panther and leopard that also roam these hills. Unfortunately, neither do they slow down the marauding wild boars that visit the neighboring maize fields every night. Each morning, I see stalks of maize strewn along the road. The tribal people, including the young boys, take turns beating pots all night to frighten off these hungry, destructive creatures. They even got into the ashram grounds once and uprooted a couple of small banana trees.

One disadvantage seems to be developing from the Swami's return to health; he has more energy for his various projects. He is putting together a booklet, named "Flowers," which will contain a collection of his ideas on various subjects. He envisions this wisdom as his opus magnum and has a special cover in three-colors on glossy stock already printed and waiting for the text. One evening, he gives me two articles on "happiness," which he has previously published and has decided to include in Flowers. He asks me to go over them, as he wants the English to be perfect. From previous editing projects here, I know that he only wants confirmation that what he has written is great. However, in my quick scan I do find a couple of small corrections. One article includes the sentence: "When one comes to feel the serene joy and sense of limitless freedom, he or she feels too ill to bother about anything else in life."

I comment that "ill" does not seem to convey the intended meaning, that perhaps "content," or "detached" would be more appropriate. I go on to mention that the problem is since the normal meaning of "ill" is "sick," the reader might be confused and assume a negative connotation. The Swami jumps up and runs to a locked cabinet and pulls out a thick dictionary. Upon looking up "ill," he pores over the long list of possible meanings, then slams the book down in front of me. Accompanied by his usual groans and grunts, he points to a meaning that is number seventeen: "unpropitious."

"Sir, you can hardly expect your reader to know the seventeenth meaning in some obscure dictionary," I comment, although he is gesturing and aahing that "ill" is the right word. "Anyway, as I'm sure you know, 'unpropitious' only means 'inauspicious.' If you want it to have a positive connotation, as I think you do, it still does not fit your context. Perhaps, 'detached' is more appropriate."

He then thumbs through his dictionary huffing and puffing in an excited manner to look up "detached," as if the whole world depended on it. He finally comes up with "disinterested," which we both agree fits fine. The thought does flicker across my mind that my life was easier when he was "too ill to bother about anything else in life."

Previously, I spent all day outside, until 7:00 p.m., when I went for yoga and dinner with the Swami. Now I listen to the groaning of the wind in the trees on the ridge and recall that when I first arrived I thought it was the rush of a waterfall. However, someone is happy with the weather. The frogs are out chirping their spring song. They are everywhere. One morning I discover a small frog in the toe of my muddy tennis shoe, another behind the broom. Yesterday, one hopped through the drain in the bath house to join me while I was bathing. The drain is a horizontal hole to the garden outside and is plugged up immediately after use.

On the third day of my voluntary incarceration in my room with shutters closed to deter the wind, rain and fog, the Swami asks me, "Do you feel cold and lonely there?"

I explain that I am used to being alone. However, I am beginning to feel dull and lethargic without my usual long walks. Wrapped in my down sleeping bag (remember, this is August in India), I end up spending the whole day reading. Fortunately, I packed along some books because the Swami's books remain in locked cabinets. So far, I have read a collection by Aldous Huxley and a sociological study on a south Indian village.

One afternoon when I bring my stainless steel tea tumbler back to his veranda for washing, the Swami is out on the porch sorting lettuce seed. One rarely finds lettuce in India, but this is the perfect climate to grow it. He asks if I will come back in 15 minutes to help plant the seed. I agree, but as I turn to leave I inadvertently knock one of his wooden sandals askew. Automatically, I start to carefully push it back into place with the same foot that knocked it.

"Uh-huh," he thunders his disapproval. He grabs his pad and scribbles: "You are not to touch them. Especially with your feet."

"But, Swamiji, I inadvertently knocked the sandal, so I am only putting it back where it was." Then I mischievously bow toward the sandals and then touch my heart a couple of times, imitating the gestures of the native women.

"I've seen swamis get very angry when someone even touched their sandals," he retorts.

"So have I," I respond sweetly. He keeps his head down so I cannot see his face, but I bet he is laughing. His anger is always short-lived.

One of the Swami's ideas for meditation is to meditate with the eyes open. His reasoning is we should be able to be in a state of equal-mindedness through the activities of the day. You can see in such a way that the universe looks through you. Another way he describes the practice is looking at the world with the innocence of a baby.

After sitting in meditation, he asks: "What impressions do you get looking at my face?"

"Very calm, very peaceful."

"Apart from that, do you feel that I am experiencing something inwardly?" he inquires further.

"I'm not really perceptive enough to judge that."

"We must live as an instrument of God's peace. 'Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace' were the words of St. Francis. To live in a state of perfect harmlessness and non-interference is living peace. In Sanskrit there is a saying: Dukha vasam; sukha prati; that is, 'the ending of sorrow is the attaining of happiness.' One does not have to work for happiness; it is enough to end sorrow."

"In this world 'ye shall have tribulations' whether you are enlightened or not?" I suggest.

"Yes, but it is different. When your mind is as transparent and cloudless as empty space, where is any suffering?"

"So all I have to do is lose my mind. Sounds threatening to an American."

"Christ said: 'He who loses shall gain.'"

Having exhausted our thoughts for the moment, we sit in silence, which we often do. We feel no need to communicate and are content to be with our own thoughts—or silence. After some time, the Swami picks up his pen.

"Let me speak [write] my heart to you, Nancy. My only wish is that people should be able to grasp our universal teachings and live good and noble principles in their day-to-day lives. Excepting this, I have no plans, no ambition, absolutely no desire for name and fame.

"Since you have read our writings and have crossed our path, please take this as your own mission in life and try to do your best in fulfilling this mission as yours, not mine."

"But, Swamiji, I don't want a mission. Although I am so grateful that Swami Chinmayananda came to California so I could come to know Vedanta, in the end, I really have to question these swamis who spend all their time running around the world, trying to save souls. Some of them are becoming as unpeaceful as the Christian missionaries they imitate. More and more, I am realizing that your peaceful life, far from the maddening crowd, is the best solution for me."


Every afternoon, I have to carry an umbrella to put out the seed for the doves. I can no longer see them through the open door while doing the yoga exercises; only little billows of fog creeping into the door are visible.

I really miss my walks; furthermore, I need some exercise. So one morning when there is only a light mist, I borrow the Mahadev's big umbrella to go out for a walk. Not a creature is stirring. Everything is silent; only an occasional call of a lone bird echoes in the gray forest. Even the tribal village next to the ashram remains quiet. For fear that a downpour may start any minute, I do not dare enter my favorite haunts in the jungle.

The yellow butterflies that usually dot the tall lantana bushes are not to be seen. Where do all the butterflies go when it rains? I have to stick to the paved road as the grass is glistening with rain drops. Although I walk for almost an hour, not one person or vehicle passes me.

In spite of the gloomy weather, the Swami remains his cheerful self and our daily discussions continue. In addition to his spiritual pursuits, the Swami likes to keep himself informed of current events. He subscribes to Time magazine, as well as several anarchist publications. But his worldly education is not complete.

"Is AIDS transmuted by oral or anal sex?" he inquires one day. After taking a moment to recover from the shock, I give him what little technical information I have on the transmission of AIDS.

"I understand that oral sex is quite common now," he continues.

I am feeling a little queasy, so I cut him off with the comment: "I don't know; I never asked anyone." Then I counter his questions on sex by asking him if he has ever been intimate with a woman.

"No! Never!" he insists with a stern hand signal.

"But you were in Italy for three years in the British army and did all that traveling later. You were not yet a monk."

"But I was very shy. . . . Besides I was a Puritan. My own guru—he was enlightened all right, I'm sure of that—but he had this weakness."

"When one takes the vows to become a sannyasi (swami), does one state that he will remain celibate?" I question.

"No, not at all."

"So technically speaking, when a Hindu Swami has sexual intercourse, there is no breaking of any vows?"

"No, he is not breaking any vow, but that does not mean that his behavior is condoned by the majority. However, most will not condemn him for the behavior; they just accept the fact that he has a weakness," he explains.

"I can see that is nothing to condemn per se. Yet somehow I feel that there is something intrinsically wrong with it. I know it can be my Puritanical conditioning; perhaps, I'm wrong in being critical of what is simply human behavior."

One evening a young man, around twenty years old, arrives from Bangalore to stay for a couple of days. He had met the Swami on a hiking trip here last year and had returned to visit him on several occasions. This trip Sunil brought a poem by Lao Tze in which the Chinese master had commented that, though he never moved from his hut, the whole world came to him. After reading it to us, Sunil comments that it reminds him of our Swami. At that moment we are eating our usual bread and marmalade dinner.

"So you too think our marmalade is better than the store-bought mixed fruit jam? Is our bread better?" the Swami overtly fishes for compliments.

Before we can answer, he continues, "Every word in that poem is applicable to me. Will it be a good idea to print it on our new 'peace on earth' slip?" He turns to me as he finishes writing.

"I don't know. Don't you think it might make you look egotistical—saying, 'look at me; I'm like Lao Tze.'"

Surely, he knows by now: If he asks for my opinion, he will get it. I keep hoping that he will quit asking, for even the gods know I can never keep my mouth shut.

"So I am living that life already, so there is no need to say so. Don't you think just sitting here [like Lao Tze], I do more good than going around the country 'disturbing the peace of others' like all those traveling swamis. Don't you think I live more like the rshis?"

"But each has his own place in the worldly samsara—each according to his own nature, as Lord Krishna put it. There is where I think Swami Chinmayananda is so wise. He says we must take our unique innate talents, which ordinarily would be working toward one's personal material gain, and put them to work in service of humanity. That's what he has done so incredibly in his life. If he were sitting up here alone all these years like you, he would have cleared the whole forest with his dynamic energy. Yet this life seems to be perfect for you. Both of you have truly found an environment that is perfect for your vasanas, innate tendencies, in the world."

"Well put: Each has a little place in the world," he writes.

"Except me, it seems. You are doing what you do best and he is doing what he does best. You both are very encouraging models that there are people who have exactly matched their situation with their vasanas. That's what I wish I could do," I observe.

"As long as you are in the world, in whatever profession, there is exploitation of others. The life of the sannyasi is the only exception. If we are given to, we accept; if not, we do not grumble."

"Of course, there are all types of sannyasis in India. It is not like one has to fit into a mold. There is not even a standard robe, and certainly no Pope or board to dictate orders."

"You're right. When I traveled around India I saw a lot of variety. I even spent a day or two with those beggar-sadhus in Benares. They begged their food, then brought it all together."

"Already cooked or uncooked?"

"Already cooked. Unless a sadhu is confined to one place because of the rainy reason, he only takes cooked food. They mixed it and ate it. But after I ate the concoction, I started vomiting. It was awful."

"So you were in Benares too?" I question.

"Yes, I traveled all over India before I settled here."

"Do you know of some sect in Benares of which it is said that they eat the flesh of the corpses in the cremation ground? I understand that it is to imitate Lord Siva, the destroyer deity," I question him.

"Now that sect is almost extinct, since they are also celibate monks. There used to be a similar place in Gujurat state. These types are called 'agora panthi.' Agora means 'horrific'; panthi means 'one who walks that path.'"

"So they renounce life by focusing on how horrible it is. I've heard in some parts that it's even considered best to take the sannyasa vows at a cremation site. It's amazing the myriad of ways life has manifested in Bharata. Of course, it's partly because the old never changes. The new is always being added on, impinging and expanding, but the old remains intact, even though there is definitely no pressure to conform to the mold."

After a moment's thought, I remember another curiosity. "What about those nagas who run around with only a few ashes smeared on their body? Have you ever had any contact with them?"

"Of course, I know of them. They practice the breath of fire, so that keeps them warm. No doubt, it gets awfully cold in the Himalayas where they live."

"Is it a really a spiritual sect?" I question him.

"Not what you would call spiritual, for they have no philosophy. But by conquering their physical bodies, they often develop certain siddhis, supernatural powers. They can use their siddhis to help others in danger, or in illness, I suppose."

"From reading Swami Rama's Living with Himalayan Masters, I surmise there still be some incredible yogis living in the Himalayas. Not that one would be able to find them, or even be able to know who is authentic or not."

However, it's clear that I will never become a yogi. I am meditating less since I can no longer sit out on the veranda each morning. That environment was really agreeing with me. I make a mental note not to return to the Nilgiris in August. Instead of the sitting meditation, I try to keep a meditative mind, or what I would call an expanded alert mind, whenever I am walking, even the short trip to the out-house. Each day the Swami asks about my progress with meditation. One evening when he asks how I am progressing, I reply, "Quite well, almost blissful. But, Swamiji, I definitely do have a hang-up. Really at times I feel incredible waves of bliss, but only when I am alone. I will never let another person see it. I keep it a private matter."

Chapter Nineteen

Contradictions and Inconsistancies

After two weeks, Swami Brahmadev arrives back at the ashram. By now I have heard enough about him from the Swami to be curious. A young man, about thirty-five years old, I find him quite kind, friendly, and intelligent. Fortunately, it is not raining on the day he arrives, so he can easily move his possessions from the guest cottage where I am staying to his new cottage. The charming structure, a circular shape with unique boxed windows—with glass—was specially designed for him by an architect friend. The Swami had complained to me about the expense of building the cottage, for Brahmadev had ended up spending twice what he had originally estimated.

As Brahmadev is packing up his belongings, I leave the door open because I think a young monk would not want to be behind closed doors with a woman. I am surprised when he insists that the door be closed. When I question why, he assures me there is a danger of snakes and scorpions entering if the door is left open. Then he expresses concern as to whether the electrical connection to his kutia, cottage, is functioning yet, as he has to have an outside light.

"What for?" I innocently inquire. "I haven't needed to turn my porch light on a single night."

"Well, you should, in case any snakes or scorpions are there."

As he is leaving with his last load of books, he turns toward the Swami's glass-doored, locked bookcases that line the back of the wall.

"I don't understand why a Swami would have such a collection of dolls," he comments.

"They seem to be from all over the world. I bet he collected them when he traveled after the war," I venture an explanation.

"But why would he want to keep them?"

"Contradictions and inconsistencies; that's India," is all I can answer.

That evening just as I enter the Swami's kutia for our regular 7:00 p.m. yoga exercises and dinner, Brahmadev gets up to leave with the comment: "Swamiji allows no one in his cottage after 7:00 p.m. under any circumstances."

Since I am accustomed to arriving at 7:00 p.m. for yoga and dinner, I stop still in my tracks. The Swami motions me to sit down, so we go through our usual routine.

Physically, Brahmadev is quite a hunk of a man. Like any good Brahman should, he rises while it was still dark for his daily ablutions. Each morning when I go to the out-house, I can barely discern his form in the predawn fog, as he does fifty push-ups against a stone bench.

Brahmadev is a swami in the Arya Samaj, Society of Aryans, founded in 1875 by the north Indian Swami Dayanand. He aimed to transform Hinduism from within by removing such extraneous, and often difficult to rationalize, elements as the Puranas,the epics that tell of the exploits of the various deities.

He also created a ritual whereby persons can be converted to Hinduism. This was not for the purpose of proselytizing, but a necessary measure to enable Hindus to be reinstated in good faith back into their own religion. Many had converted to Islam for political expedience or had crossed the "black waters" (left the sacred soil of Bharat) for education, as both Gandhi and Nehru had done; however, these two dignitaries remained outcastes for the remainder of their lives. Gandhi could not even enter the home of his aunts or uncles, brothers or sisters after returning from England.

Today the Arya Samaj has originated many community projects. Brahmadev just officiated at a mass wedding of young couples who would not have been able to marry because of the high cost of weddings and dowries. The organization furnishes the hall, the priests and provides a feast for the occasion.

I truly admire Brahmadev for the social work he is doing. Again, it seems he has found a life that suits his personality and incredible energy. He does not waste his energy hiking in the forest, like I do. When he finds out about my expeditions into the forest, he is aghast. He begins to call me Swamini Abayananda, "the fearless one." It is both a joke and a compliment, for it is written that one who can overcome all fear is as good as enlightened.

He has only been back two days, but I have already noted that Brahmadev is quite talkative, and quite curious about everything. One day, referring to the Ganesha temple in the ashram compound, he asks me, "I don't understand why a sannyasi has a temple."

"Oh, he must think that he's helping the tribals."

"Nancy, they don't worship Ganesha. They just worship a stone in a field, or that tree. Don't you know about their sacred tree?"

"Yes, I do know of it, although I haven't visited it because the Forest Officers caught up with me through Nagamani and told me I have to have an armed guard to go there. I'm sure the tribals never have an armed guard!"

"I know. The officers also told me to tell you to stay out of the jungle. They have been very frustrated because they can't speak English to tell you themselves."

"Renunciates with temples; sacred trees with armed guards. Contradictions and inconsistencies; that's India for sure—but it wasn't Bharat."

Every day my tropical paradise continues to wilt. The bright blue morning glories are usually open by 8:00 a.m., but when I pass by at noon to return some editing to the Swami, they have already given up on the day and remain crinkled up. Brahmadev happens to be sitting with the Swami when I enter his kutia.

When I hand the paper to the Swami, Brahmadev asks, "What is that?"

They then begin speaking in Kannada, so I assume the Swami is explaining. Later Brahmadev tells me, "Swamiji, told me it is none of my business, or rather, none of my karma [work].'"

I take note that the Swami observes mauna only in English. But not entirely, one afternoon, I happened upon him speaking in English with Mrs. Rao, the wife of the temple priest.

I had met her last week when I needed to mail some letters. I took the main road up to the tiny Post Office beside the temple. To make ends meet financially, the head priest of the Ranganatha Temple, Sri Rao, also serves as the local Post Master. Interestingly, he seemed to know who I was.

"We are all wondering how you are managing to stay with that Swami who wears his anger on his nose."

"So you have had some encounters with him?"

"Oh, yes. He is very demanding about his mail service."

"Well, at times he is challenging, but I think that he has his heart in the right place. He just gets carried away with his projects."

I had not noticed, but evidently Sri Rao had sent a young boy to his house, for his wife appeared to invite me to their home for a cup of hot milk. When I step into their modest home, I know the sacrifices many Brahmans are making in "secular" India. Not that the temple Brahmans in the villages ever had much wealth, but neither did the worshippers. However, the priests used to have respect as the scholars, teachers and advisors in their communities.


At this time, sixteen pages of the forthcoming book, Flowers arrive from the printer. The Swami had been plying me with questions about printing, publishing and pricing. Now he asks me to look over the pages and make a list of any corrections I would recommend. Dutifully and carefully, I read the pages. Then I write a letter to the publisher with a list of my suggestions. When I read it aloud to the Swami and Brahmadev, they both enthusiastically agree with my suggestions—they declare the letter is perfect.

"Tell him [the printer] I concur with all points," the Swami notes on his pad. But when I ask for his typewriter to type it out, he gives me his "not now" hand signal.

Later, when I ask again, I add, "Should I just send my handwritten copy?" as I am getting the distinct feeling that he does not want me to touch his typewriter.

Finally, he scribbles: "It is too late to do anything about it."

"No, Swamiji, these are just the proofs; they can still make changes. They would not have sent them to you to check if it still were not possible to make changes. They can definitely change the paper stock from this cheap stuff, so thin that the impression of the letters nearly cuts through. It is incompatible with the nice glossy cover you have already printed."

"You don't know what you are talking about. You are talking like a mad woman," he scribbles on his pad. Then he jumps up and runs to one of his locked cupboards and pulls out the evidence: a stack of printed pages. The Swami has the first half of his book, 500 copies, already printed up in his cupboard. He's right; nothing can be done now. However, I fail to see that I am the one who is mad. But I'll reserve judgement.

Brahmadev has brought one welcome change: The food is better. He cooks a special dish for us at both breakfast and lunch. When I ask Brahmadev how it is that a traditional Brahman boy knows how to cook so well, he replies, "I like to be proficient in everything. In that way, I do not have to be a slave to anyone."

Later the Swami informs me that Brahmadev had been a chef in a luxury hotel in Delhi before taking the orange cloth of renunciation. The next morning while we three are having breakfast, the Swami chants a Sanskrit verse that sends them into peals of laughter.

Then he writes out the translation for me:

"In regard to offerings:
Decoration is pleasing to Lord Vishnu,
Lord Siva enjoys a bath,
Lord Sun prefers prostrations, and
Brahmans like food."

Brahmans love food; that is the reason that one gets the best food in the Brahman hotels," the Swami explains.

At that moment, Mahadev comes in with some uppama for me cooked by the ladies. Yesterday I happened to mention that I liked it, not knowing that the ladies make it for their breakfast every morning. The Swami told them to make some extra, so I could have some too.

Uppama is made from sooji, India's cream of wheat, but this batch has a strange brownish color.
"Well, I don't think this is Brahman uppama," I remark.

"She does have a good eye, doesn't she?" laughs Brahmadev.

Uppama is one of my favorite Indian foods; it's great for breakfast or tiffin, a snack. It does keep in the frig well for a day or so, but, like all Indian food, it's best fresh. And it's easy to make. For Brahman Uppama:

Measure 1 cup of cream of wheat.
Roast it dry in a dry skillet over a medium low heat for 10 minutes, or until you can smell an aroma coming from it. Stir it constantly so that it doesn't brown.
Remove cream of wheat from skillet and set aside.

Meanwhile, put 2 1/2 cups of water with 1/2 tsp. salt into a sauce pan. Bring to a boil.

Place in warm skillet over medium heat:
3 tablespoons oil, preferably coconut oil
2 tablespoons of urad dal (available at Indian stores)
4 tablespoons of chopped raw cashews

After one minute, add
1/4 tsp. whole jira (cumin seed)
3 tablespoons shredded coconut
3 tablespoons white raisins

When ingredients are slightly browned, add:
4 or 5 fresh curry leaves (available at Indian stores)
1 cup roasted cream of wheat

Immediately, stir in vigorously the 2 1/2 cups of boiling water
Add more water, if needed, to make a soupy paste, without any lumps.

Cook and continue stirring until water is absorbed and the mixture takes on a dry, clumpy texture (about 3 minutes).

Cool for a few minutes, then stir in
1 tablespoon chopped fresh coriander leaves

Enjoy!

Neither Brahmadev nor the Swami will eat food cooked by the tribal ladies. Mahadev has to cook food for the two swamis because he is a Brahman also, although from a lower sect. His family lineage is the caste of temple servants who perform menial tasks, such as polishing the lamps, tending the cows, and cooking the prasad.

I comment that their concepts are just the opposite of ours. The Swami has the fresh vegetable salad (an influence from his European days) cut up by the tribal women, who may not have clean hands, so we would be hesitant. However, we would have no problem eating food cooked by them, since it would be sterilized by the heat.

I know that this prohibition of eating food cooked by a lower caste person comes from the belief that the subtle vibration of the cook enters the food through Agni, fire. There's even a story about a monk who had dinner at the home of a wealthy devotee. Somehow the guest could not resist the temptation of stealing the gold goblet that held his water. Five kilometers down the road, he came to his senses, retraced his steps and returned the goblet to the owner. He apologized and explained that he just did not understand what came over him. When the owner investigated the cook, he found the true culprit. The cook was really a notorious thief who cased his victims by working as their cook. His "thief" vibrations had entered the food that the monk had eaten.

Brahmadev enlightens me further on the eating habits of some Brahmans. It seems at a temple in Brindavan, the birthplace of Lord Krshna, the priests compete for the record of who can eat the most burfi, a candy made of condensed milk and sugar. The record now stands at 15 kilos consumed at one sitting. The challenge: any pandit who eats 2 kilos of burfi receives 500 Rps., afterwards he receives 500 Rps. for every additional kilo consumed. The connoisseur who managed to gorge the 15 kilos earned 7,000 Rps. for his efforts.

"Of course, he would have vomited it up afterward, I was told," Brahmadev concludes the story.


One evening the Swami again consults me on the wording of the donors' names on the stone slab that will be part of the base of the Bambi statue. His face lights up at my suggestion, giving my head his usual tap of approval with his clipboard.

Then he writes: "You have some very good ideas, and I appreciate them. However, I do not have to use your suggestions. That printing was already done; you were foolish to say it wasn't."

What can one say; there are many things that can invoke silence. I calmly get up, carefully roll up my mat, then pause to wish him "sleep well."

But the peace doesn't last long, the next morning the Swami comes running down the walk flaying his arms and hopping about in such a way that it looks like is his tail is on fire. The Indians often use the expression "hopping mad"; I am now beholding "hopping mad" in action. Since he does not have his clipboard with him, he cannot communicate the problem, but I do surmise that I'm the guilty party. When he points to my stainless steel tumbler on the window sill, his squeaks and squawks increase. I had inadvertently dropped the tumbler a few minutes earlier and he heard the crash from his porch. He motions and points out a dent in it; actually, there are several. From my veranda, I can look past the Swami and see the servant women lined up like three little birds, grinning from ear to ear, but I manage to stifle my laughter and take a serious stance.

"Swamiji, we sannyasis are not concerned about such small matters as a dent on a tumbler." I turn to my door as I say, "I have that editing of the brochure finished; I'll get it for you."

I end up appreciating this practice of facing another's anger, almost daily now, because I have always been one to quake at authority. Strangely, I am never affected by the Swami's anger, beyond the momentary shock. Since I am not emotionally attached to him, I do not mind what he does. I watch and am amazed that I do not react, nor feel any need to react. Then of course I am quite content doing my own thing: reading, meditating and walking, since it has started clearing up every afternoon now. I hope I can take this "accepting what comes without trying to change it" attitude home with me.

In the evening, I hear the chatter of many little birds and go out on my veranda to investigate. The tiny sun birds are settling for the night. They must be in a mating mood because they are darting, dipping and fluttering in pairs like butterflies. One swoops down to the ground and picks up a dry leaf almost as big as itself. I stand and watch in awe until they disappear into the brush at the edge of the compound. I never see them again.

A few days later the sun is shining in the morning. I don't want to miss a minute of it, so I take off early. The soft breeze in the trees is a cheerful, bristling background to the lovely melody of the bulbuls. Nature has painted these birds drably in gray, white and black, but in a moment of artistic abandon has added an accent of red at their ear and under their rump. Judging from the fresh dung on the roadside, the elephants must have taken over last night and used the road as their grand trunk highway through the full length of the village.

The intermittent sun and forceful wind have already dried the path through the jungle, except in the deep shade. I go along humming while feeling in my heart "what a beautiful world this is." As always, I have a keen eye out for birds and animals. I get so carried away that when I return the Swami has given up on me and already started doing the yoga routine.

I quickly sit down and start the exercises, while looking out the open double doors. "Oh, Swamiji, it is so nice to see the sunshine. Let there be more sunshine in our lives."

That evening, when as usual the Swami asks me how my meditation is progressing, I reply with a grin, "Definitely better today since we have some sunshine. Do you think enlightenment may be dependent on sunshine?"

"Yes. The sunshine of happiness. Just like the clouds seemingly cause depressing weather, our minds become gloomy because of the three predominate moods [dull, active, calm] that predominate at any given moment," he comments on his note pad.

"And the sun is always shining in spite of the clouds," I agree with him.

Normally, I leave his cottage immediately after breakfast, but one day I hang around to help get the vegetables peeled and chopped, ready for cooking, since lunch has to be ready by 11:00 a.m.

"Swamiji, you are as busy as a one-armed paperhanger." I comment.

He usually chuckles at my Americanisms, but today he's too busy to bother. It's Saturday, so the local sadhu has already been here for his weekly donation of rice and dal. The masons who are building the cupola for the Bambi statue have come, eaten breakfast, and are now having coffee before starting their work. A family of tribals just arrived asking for food. The Swami is putting together some puffed rice and ready-to-eat dried dal on a plate to offer them immediately. He then personally places some provisions in the burlap sack they are carrying.

He allows no one to enter the store room, not even Mahadev. He daily picks out the vegetables to be cooked, measures out the rice, oil and even salt from his pantry. Since no one can touch the tea leaf or sugar, he always makes the tea personally. This is the first time I've been able to eye-ball his stove, electric, made in England. It's the only evidence of any British influence I've seen in B. R. Hills since I've been here.

Somehow all the sunshine and promise of my own cooking inspires me to song. I begin singing my version of "Lord of the Dance," while swaying and moving my hands as I sing. Then I begin to repeat the verse and start twirling in the tiny space of the kitchen. The Swami is delighted with the show and bobs his head and starts to clap his hands in tune with the melody.

"Dance can be sadhana too. It is an expression of ecstasy. Remember to keep a silent song alive in your heart."

I am tripping lightly as I leave his cottage and face the sunlight. I spread my arms and take it in. Ah, yes, enlightenment must be dependent on sunshine—that is why there are so many saints in India. It's all this wonderful sunlight.

I return to the kitchen at 10:45 a.m. to cook the vegetables. But just at the moment the green beans are at the bright green, crispy stage, some guests arrive. They must be important because the Swami is beaming, cackling like a bird, and rushing around putting out straw mats. He's really at his best receiving guests. He even puts his special marmalade on the bread he serves as prasad, blessed food, then generously passes out his precious bananas that he usually dispenses one by one.

I tell him I will go ahead and eat since the vegetables are at perfection. Familiar tastes on the palate. . . sheer delight. So give me some sunshine and crispy vegetables and I'm happy.

That evening after yoga, as usual we sit peacefully in silence for some ten minutes. Then he queries me, "Tell me, Nancy, are you enjoying your stay here? Nothing is lacking. Our daily routines, food, yoga, etc. All okay?"

"Yes, but I did really love to taste my own style of cooking: crispy vegetables instead of cooked to mush."

He responds via his pad, "Oh, my heart leapt with joy when I saw you dancing and singing. I felt you were dancing in ecstasy like an angel—not on earth at all—soaring high in heaven."

"Yes, but only in front of you. I've never dared allow myself to be blissful in front of another person before," I confess.

He has not allowed me to massage his feet since our dispute about Flowers. Or was it when Brahmadev arrived? Anyway, since he is in such a good mood, I ask him if he wants a foot massage.

"No, no," he insists.

"If you don't let me, I'll touch your sandals and hex them with my unclean foreign vibration," I tease him, as I roll up my mat start to leave for the guest cottage.

He cackles gleefully at my joke. He does have a great sense of humor and takes my occasional cantankerous remarks in stride. After all, he is having to make many adjustments himself. Like the night I clipped my nails in his room. I honestly did not know nail clipping was an unclean act. I was just waiting for him to finish in the kitchen, so I pulled out my nail clippers. Actually, he survived the clipping of the nails without a total hemorrhage. It was when I got up to throw the clippings outside that he came unglued—"hopping mad." Could you have imagined that one should not throw nail clippings, or any other trash, out after dark? Nor could have I, so I ignored him and told him not to be superstitious. After all, I couldn't keep such unclean trappings in my lap while I ate. In short, the Swami deserves plenty of credit for accommodating me in ways that I shall surely never know.


The following evening, the Swami is standing at the door of his cottage when I arrive for yoga. I had put the end of my sari over my head because of the cold wind.

As I enter, I mention, "In Hampi, everywhere I went, people would call after me: 'Indira.' I don't know why they had such a fascination for her."

"She was only playing with power. There is a Sanskrit sloka [verse]: Power, pregnancy, taking a loan, intercourse between dogs, in the beginning much joy and pleasure, but at the end so painful—even ending in death."

"Well, I've heard a lot of Sanskrit verses, but that one takes the cake." I can't keep from laughing aloud, although I doubt it was meant to be funny.

Later during our discussion time, the Swami starts writing, "You are already enlightened, but you do not realize it. In fact, you are face to face with God; yet you do not realize it. Be nothing; then you are everything."

"I know why I don't realize I'm enlightened. It's because I don't think a simple, ordinary, plain Jane like myself can be enlightened. I think it happens to someone special, very special."

"To know that there is nothing to gain, nothing to change, that is wisdom," he replies.

"But Swamiji, it can't be that simple."

"We only have to realize we are seeing God all of the time."

"So give up the idea of a great mystical union?"

"What is mystical union when all is THAT only?"

"That is a great answer," I chuckle gleefully. "You're right. For there to be a union, there must be two. So that's why Adi Sankarcharya and the Vedantins emphasize non-duality. So really the enlightened have to deal with the same nonsense in the world as everyone else. It's just a change of attitude?"

"When rains come both the enlightened and unenlightened get wet. But the enlightened never get bothered. The rain comes; the rain goes."

"Okay, okay—I get it. If I say, 'I am enlightened,' it only shows my egoism. But if I say, 'I am not enlightened,' I am not speaking the truth."

"Aah."

Chapter Twenty

The People of the Sacred Tree

One morning the Swami tells me, "Sivamalliappa will take you to the temple."

"Swamiji, you know I am not a temple person. Plus I visited Chidambaram, so I've seen the best."

Since my past influences have been from two intellectuals teaching the philosophical ideas, I really have not had any contact with the more prevalent religious practices of the Hindus until this trip. Although the temples and deities are not a part of my personal spiritual journey, I have been open to investigating and learning about this phenomenon. Obviously, they have been a major factor in giving millions of people a common identity for thousands of years, so they must have some value.

"Just go and see," the Swami insists.

"Okay."

"You will have to take a coconut and incense."

"They will have a stall to buy it there?"

"Aah."

Sivamalliappa, a local boy who runs errands for the Swami, arrives early the next morning to accompany me on the short hike to the temple. I purchase the proper materials, a coconut, incense, bananas, and a flower mala, garland, from a little old lady on the temple steps. Tiny, wrinkle, and stooped, she glows as she weaves the malas of snowy white jasmine and bright fuchsia bougainvillea. Just using flowers growing around here, she has created one of the most beautiful malas I have ever seen. Carefully, I carry the splendid garland, certainly fit for a deity, as we begin our ascent up the 392 steps to the Ranaganathan temple. The entrance is not particularly ornate, but the deities must be made of precious metals. I surmise this as my bare foot hits the thick loop of iron at the threshold. Then my eye catches the heavy metal chain that must fit through the loop to secure the door against thieves and infidels.

I consciously place my bare feet on each granite step, worn smooth by the many pilgrims who have passed this way. After stopping to take in the tall wooden columns that decorate the entrance, I hesitate because most temples have a specific route to be followed to the main deity. Generally, Ganesha is worshipped first, in order to remove any obstacles to the success of the worship. Next in line is the consort of the main deity, since nearly all Hindu deities are in pairs of masculine and feminine. Only then is the worshipper mentally prepared to behold the main deity. I follow Sivamalliappa around and perfunctorily follow his instructions of when to hand over incense and coconut to the priest, when to give the bananas and mala for the consort, when to take the ash, and when it is polite to leave.

Some temples do emit a perceivable quiet vibration imbued through the centuries with chanting of the priests and devotion of the worshipers, but I do not detect anything special here. However, this temple, like many in South India, has a feature I can certainly appreciate: a grand view. In one direction I can see all the forest-covered hills down to the plains toward Mysore, on the other, the rolling hills, terraced gardens, and the lake where the elephants come to drink in the summer. After his foreign tour, Swami Vivekananda commented that in Europe and America when one finds a scenic spot on a mountain top, they build a hotel; whereas, here in India, the Hindus erect a temple on these places of special beauty.

Even after our disagreement over the Flowers publication, the Swami gives me a new assignment to write out a little inspirational slip that will accompany an official peace slip. I balk, insisting that he knows what he wants to say; furthermore, he is totally proficient in English. Further, I protest that it is foolish for me even to attempt to create something that he can do better.

My objections are arbitrarily overruled. The Swami insists: "I know that you are the right person to do it."

Immediately, he gives me a list of suggestions of what he wants to be included in the piece. When he arrives with my tea the next morning, it is accompanied with a note of a couple more additions for the peace slip.

Since the weather has turned nice, I am back on my meditation pad for the two free hours in the morning. I am so glad to be back in my little peaceful place in the world. In my restless moments, I open my eyes and take in the beauty of nature; the waves of the undulating green against a blue sky. I feel content just observing, instead of hiking until I exhaust myself, which had become my pattern.

Early the next morning, while I am brushing my teeth on the verandah—Indians do not brush their teeth in the room for toileting or bathing—Mahadev arrives with a note. The Swami requests that I write out a nice piece, "incorporating all the main points by 4:00 p.m."

I dutifully try to organize the notes that expand every time I see the Swami. Finally, I complain, "Swamiji, you have given me four or five pages of handwriting to be condensed into a piece for a 3 by 4 inch card. Now this is not an ordinary assignment. Look, Swamiji, you know what you want to say and how to say it. Why don't you just write it out yourself?"

NO. He insists with a barrage of squeals and squawks. It appears that it has been ordained in heaven that I will write it. Then he scribbles out another one-half page of instructions.

During my short walk before breakfast, I start listening for the hum of Om in my heart. I discover a new trail with a small pond. A wonderful mountain pond—deep still calm reflecting water. I spot tiny frogs and tadpoles, swimming in its obscure depths. A breeze blows a design of fragile wrinkles across the liquid surface. Black lacy dragonfly wings glide by. I feel a sigh of contentment ripple through my body. A gentle breeze threads a string of remembrances of past contentment.

When I get up to return to the ashram, I find several iridescent black sunbirds feeding on flowers. It's going to be a good day today, I think as I look out the door during yoga to watch tall branches dancing in the wind, while the lower limbs only quiver.

Afterwards, during breakfast, the Swami gives me a pep-talk and another sheet of instructions. When I have to face him at lunch, I again mention moving the two new lines or the introduction will be longer than the piece itself.

"Who will condemn us for it?" he rebuts my suggestion.

"You're right. I don't suppose anyone in India would condemn anything for being too long. I remember it was a common occurrence when Swami Chinmayananda was the guest speaker at different organizations, like the Rotary Club, that the person introducing him often took up half the time. On one occasion, a man, speaking in a native language that not even the Swami understood, took up the whole time."

"Nevertheless, I am concerned that the type will have to be so small that no one can read it. Do you think everyone will have a magnifying glass available?" I am relentless.

I work all afternoon with stops and starts, but cannot get all the disconnected pieces into one nice bouquet. I note that the project has me so stressed out that I have not even meditated all day. One thing is clear: this damn peace slip is causing me to lose my peace of mind. I wonder if this is a lesson for me. The Swami is truly a special person, but not even he can remain quiet in this peaceful abode. He is actually spending every waking minute fussing over his "peace slip."

Finally, I get the ideas summarized. First and foremost, it is supposed to portray the Swami as a personification of the two teachers whom he considers the greatest sages of this century: Ramana Maharshi ("savage-type dress," "non-conformist") and J. Krishnamurthi ("hippie-like message").
Then I summarize the main points he wants me to incorporate about him personally:
1) He accepts whatever chance may bring.
2) His life of harmlessness seems to be a silent revolt against the existing evils of society.
3) He guides others to contact, recognize the peace in their own hearts.
4) A spiritual person has to live away from world.
5) Greed and competition create conflict in the society, that, in turn, produces war.
6) He purposely rejects the gadgets of society.
7) Like Krishnamurthi, he thunders against the pretensions of life.

Other important points to add:
1) The Swami's lifestyle is the most intelligent way of living in this world of greed and competition.
2) After spending a lifetime working as a slave for others, for the sake of food and shelter, what have we accomplished at the end of a lifetime?
3) Realizing this dilemma, the Swami sits in a peaceful hut, quietly humming in peace with the universe.

At 6:00 p.m., I go to his cottage early with the stack of pages, half-pages, and small notes he has given me. "Swamiji, here are all your notes, along with a summary of all your ideas. I just cannot put it together into anything that flows nicely. I've tried, but for me it is impossible."

The Swami is very quiet and never looks at me directly during yoga or while serving supper. We do not meditate as usual after yoga, for he immediately jumps up to bring my bread and milk.

As it turns out my last day at the ashram falls on a special holiday: Ganesha's Day. As I am leaving Swami writes, "Tomorrow morning please come and help Brahmadev in the preparations for the holiday meal. Please volunteer yourself and ask what you can do to help. He has to prepare special items for us: jackfruit pudding and the vegetables. When Mahadev cooks the vegetables, they have no taste."

"Now that is true. No matter what vegetables Mahadev cooks, they all have the same taste: zero. I wonder what his secret is?"

By 8:00 a.m. the next morning, the front verandah is astir with a big production. Five tribal women, Mahadev and an extra boy are busy working. It is pickle-making day too . Limes are cut into four pieces. A burlap bag's measure of red chilies is roasted over the wood in a huge iron skillet fire, ground on the stone, then added to the limes.

I approach Brahmadev to help him with the vegetables. He corners me, "Did you see that? Why is a Swami making all those hot, spicy pickles? Even his brochure says he does not eat chilies."

"Anywhere contradictions and inconsistencies abound, they become the norm. I'm simply not going to be bothered."

For the Ganesha celebration, the Swami has invited the school children to the temple for a ritual and prasad, blessed food. Their little bright faces line the sidewalk waiting for the priest to come out with the sacred flame. Problem is, although the sun is shining, the wind is blowing so hard that he cannot get a damp (due to the rains) match to stay lit long enough to light the camphor. I do not know who the poor fellow is; I have never seen him before—nor afterwards. Anyway, I volunteer to help, by trying to block the wind. Somehow, in desperation, I end up with the matches in my hands, and finally light the camphor. We both take a deep breath to regain our composure. But our timing is perfect. Just as the priest begins to "show the flame," the Swami arrives with puffed rice for me to hand out to the children for prasad, blessed by the Swami.

At dinner that evening, the Swami is still cold as a Siberian icicle. I feign that I think everything is normal.

He notes on his pad: "When will you be vacating? Brahmadev needs the room by 7:30 a.m. tomorrow morning because the painters will be starting work by then."

"No problem. I told Mr. Rao at the temple guest house that I would be there early. He said that was fine. Then I will be in Bangalore for two weeks in case you need me to check anything at the printers."

"Naah," he gestures with a grimace. "You did not do the work we gave you here," he writes on his pad.

"Swamiji, as we both know I helped you continually with your editing projects. I am sure that my not having the capacity to do this last assignment will not cancel out the other help I have given you. I'm sure you are not that kind of person."

As I am speaking he is looking down, but I detect a smile on his face.

"Good-bye, Swamiji, I'll drop by and see you before I leave Biligiri Ranga (B. R. Hills). I realize I cannot repay what you have given me in kindness, tender-loving care and spiritual guidance."


At dawn's first light, I am ready to start carrying my suitcase up to the temple guest house. I manage to carry my small, but very heavy, suitcase—containing my books—down to the main road. Then I luck out. Just as I reach it, a group of local men, probably tribals, are walking by. I gesture and pantomime (I have had some expert lessons from the Swami lately) to get one of them to carry the suitcase for me. Then I show them a 10 Rps. note. They bobble their heads; they have understood. Then they banter among themselves to decide which one gets the job. Then a young strong one steps forward, hoists it up on his head and away we go for the twenty minute hike.

Coming back down the hill at full speed since I am empty handed, I head for the local restaurant for breakfast. Once Sivamalliappa and I had tea in the outer room where there are chairs, but I go into the dining room where the floor is plastered with the traditional cow dung paste. I know it's hard to believe, but I have never once seen a fly on a cow-dung paste floor—and I have watched carefully. The lovely fluffly idlis, doused with fresh coconut chutney, are served on a green banana leaf. The owner/cook and his spouse are delightful, typical of the gentle simple country folk that you find in villages all over India.

"Madam, may I inquire where you are from?" a gentleman stops me with a question. It is the gray-haired man who I passed on the road earlier.

"I am from U. S."

"You greeted me so nicely with a 'namaste' when I passed you this morning, but I did not know how to respond appropriately—with a good morning, a bonjour, or what," he responds.

I often greet the villagers as I am walking as it disarms their shock at seeing my white face; in addition, it usually brings big smiles to their faces to be acknowledged. I particularly noticed this gentleman because he did not have the look of a local. However, his simple dress, a quality cashmere sweater that was worn at the neck and sleeves, along with his unshaven face threw me off. I forget that, traditionally, Brahmans only shave once a week. There is an injunction against touching a razor; actually, I think it's just the cut hair, just like cut fingernails. By the way, this means that the barbers are polluted and are the lowest of the lowest caste, even lower than the dobhi, washerman. The barber travels around once a week to the villages. The shaving takes place under a tree, since the low-caste barber (along with the shaven hair) would not be allowed to enter a home.

When I comment on his command of English, the dignified gentleman explains that he had studied in England. At that time, his family had been the Diwan (ruler) of this entire region. The center of the district was at Yolander.

"Oh, so that is why there is such a palatial, although dilapidated, residence in Yolander. I saw it when I was there and thought it must have been the home of a raja or nawab. So you lived there when you were a child?"

"Oh, no. My grandparents had lived there, but we lived in Bangalore. It was more convenient for education, and was more comfortable. Mother would come to Yolander if there was some special occasion that required her presence and for the annual revenue collection."

The next day we meet for tea on the verandah of the guest house I am staying in. First he tries to convince me that I should not be staying in the temple guest house. "It's too quiet," he insists. I tell him it's fine for me since I love quiet, but he seems unsettled about it.

In every part of India, from the jungles to the deserts, indigenous tribal peoples exist who are considered to be the original inhabitants. Of totally diverse customs, they have remained outside of the mainstream of the society and culture. They are the adivasis, or first [adi] inhabitants, in contrast to the harijans, or untouchables, who lived in the populated areas, thereby suffering more exploitation and discrimination. I take the opportunity to ask him about the local tribals.

"Now these Soligas of this region are called a scheduled caste?"

"That's correct. That's the term for the tribals who have always lived isolated outside the society. However, because farmers are clearing their forest for tilling and planting of cash crops, they are being forced to come in contact with others. Obviously, the tribals have no deed to the forest they have lived in since no one knows when." he explains.

"So without getting any benefits, the tribals are losing their forests that have sustained them through all the empires, wars and plagues. The Soligas subsisted principally by hunting and gathering?"

"At least in the last century, they were planters of maize and raghi, their millet. They used a method so that they continually moved from one place to the other, so they never depleted the soil. Neither did they cut the large trees, but always made an effort to save them."

"So that's why so much natural woods still exists around here."

He goes on to explain, "Another problem is simple exploitation has begun even here. For example, huge tamarind trees grow in the forest. The merchants from outside have the Soligas pick all the pods for the market. Although he gives the tribals only a few rupees for their work, he may get a thousand for the crop from just one tree."

"I wonder if the tribals use the tamarind for cooking like the south Indians do. Since they don't eat rasam or sambar..."

"I doubt it. They have no idea that it could be of value to anyone. You see they are not accustomed to dealing with outsiders. When I used to come here with my mother in the 1920's, if they saw us, the Soligas would run away," he comments.

"Yes, the same thing happened to me the other day. A small child took one look at my face and started screaming as if he had seen a ghost," I tell him with a smile.


It's great to be on my own. First thing, guess where I head? Yes, the Soliga's sacred tree. To get the exact lay of the land, I take the bus to the tiny village where I had wanted to return to see the baby elephants. It turns out to be a summer home of an ex-raja and is now available for rental, particularly for groups who want a quiet retreat and want to ride elephants. After looking around, I turn back to retrace the route to the signpost that I spotted from the bus for Dodda Sampige, the sacred tree.

However, before I have gone a half-mile, I am distracted by a dirt road that runs along a ridge off to the right. There appears to be a clearing ahead, so I take off to investigate. I find only a couple of mammoth old trees that have fallen in the storms. As I turn around, I behold the most wonderful sight below me. There is a beautiful Soliga village with thatched huts and dirt lanes. Beautiful because it is laid out in exact rectangular pattern and sparkling clean. Made entirely of natural material, it's all surrounded with bright-green flora of the forest. I stand in awe at such simple grandeur.

My first inclination is to find a route down the ridge to visit it, but something holds me back. Here is one spot of human habitation that has never been invaded by an outsider. How can I, from a long line of barbarians [ie. Europeans/Americans], dare approach such a holy spot? Suddenly, I feel sure it would contaminate the hamlet immeasurably to have the vibration of a people who have fought among themselves in countless wars, even two world wars, to control the wealth of the planet. I suddenly realize the Old Testament must be a record of the arrival of the barbarians on the planet. We do not know where they came from, but we do know that they found people already here because Cain, Able and Seth found spouses for themselves. And we do know they brought war with them, lots of war—the Bible tells us so.

Quite contrary to that modus operandi, these Soligas have never fought with anyone. They have lived peacefully in this forest, never bothering anyone. . . or anything. In their tribal ethics, they consider cutting a tree as the greatest sin. In addition to their farming, they gather many roots and herbs for both nutrition and medicine, so, of course, they used techniques to preserve the stock. Unfortunately, the clans have a susceptibility for sickle cell anemia, for which they have not found a natural cure.

Literally, Soliga means "the one who came from within bamboo;" however, they have their own creation story. The deity Madeswara was passing through the forest, carrying a small Champak seedling. Setting it aside, he visited the nearby stream. When he returned, he found the tree had rooted, so he left it at that spot. That seedling has now grown into the two-thousand-year Dodda Sampige. The Soligas claim to be the descendants of one of this deity's two sons. So the Soligas are the children of the "Lord of the Great Champak Tree."

The deity is worshipped by placing smooth round stones at the foot of the tree. Among the stones are signs of offerings such as grains and flowers. To be in the presence of this sacred tree, which has been honored through the centuries, is completely overwhelming. To behold the wonder and beauty of this manifestation of nature is an act of worship. When I arrive at the tree, several Soligas have come to worship. They prostrate themselves at its feet and offer flowers. I follow their example, putting my knees in the damp sandy gravel of the river bed. The Soligas, curious and friendly, attempt to talk to me, but there's no hope for communication. By the way, I do not see a single wild animal either coming or going, so, as I suspected, the armed guard was not needed.

The next morning, I return to the jungle. First, I check to see if the yellow ginger is in bloom. The sun is shining and my orchid radar is at its peak. I find five plants, all easily attainable on felled trees or branches that have been blown down by heavy winds. Now there is only a gentle breeze to keep me comfortable, so I stop and climb up on my favorite boulder of granite. From my perch, I behold the wonders of this green, leafy paradise, then ponder how I ever managed to survive without it.

This morning on the main street, I met Brahmadev and he invited me to lunch since he is cooking today. En route, four or five cars pass me, for B.R. Hills is visibly astir getting ready for the Chief Minister's visit. When I pass the police station, usually totally dark and deserted, there are several officers loitering on the porch. One of them hollers down to me, "How long are you here?" I answer the query crisply, "Just a couple of days." I have certainly been here long enough to know to avoid police paperwork whenever possible. The officer waves me on. Since he speaks English, I surmise he arrived with the Minister.

I reach the ashram at the usual lunch time to find both Swamis all smiles. They are both eager to find out how I am faring at the temple guest house. And what am I doing for food? I assure them that everything is fine. Then Brahmadev expresses his concern and tells me that, had he been in station, he would have advised me not to stay there.

"You mean because of the suicide? Sivamalliappa told me about that."

"And you can stay in that room?"

"Wait a minute. He did not say in the room. He told me that a young couple jumped off the precipice that the temple sits on because the boy's parents would not allow him to marry a tribal girl."

"Nancy, there was another suicide in the guest house itself. I think he was a married man. He and his girl friend stayed at the guest house. I think they were dead in their room for several days before anyone even thought to check on them."

"That must be the room that is pad-locked. Mr. Rao's brother had been staying in the room I am in, so I'm sure it is not the same room."

Brahmadev is still not convinced, "Are you sure it doesn't make any difference to you?"

"Why would it? I don't know them. I'm sure the temple priests did the purification rites to send their souls to the heavens."

Planning to start a little garden, I brought the orchid plants with me that I had found in the forest. After we ate lunch, I pull some stems of leaves off a banana tree to tear into strips to use as twine. Then I carefully tie the plants to the branch of a tree. Since the rains are bound to continue, followed by the cool winter, I feel sure they will be able to establish themselves.

That evening from my verandah in the guest house, I can see the parking area at the back of the temple. I had seen a bunch of cars there, which are now gone, so I assume the Chief Minister of Karnataka has come and gone. So I go over to the temple to see how the state visit went. It turns out the Minister has not arrived—an hour overdue. The occupants of the cars I saw were looking for the Minister. The priests and a few other well-wishers are feeling bored after an hour's wait. So I tell the two fellows who are waiting to play their flutes to go on ahead and play now for our enjoyment.

Their music is truly wonderful. Of course, I begin to dance. The music is soft, so my dance is soft—twirls, swirls and dips. In years gone by, the devadasis (servants of the deities) danced in temples, so it has been done before. Everyone else begins to clap their hands with the music, so we have a lovely, spirited time, since it turns out to be another hour before the Minister finally arrives.

I step back into the background to observe as the horns toot and the banners fly to accompany the Minister as he troops around the temple for the traditional circumambulation with his entourage. Then he enters the temple for darshan of the deity. Only pausing a moment to stuff some sweet prasad in his mouth, he is quickly back out at the entrance gate to plant the customary tree, by flashlight, since it is now pitch dark. The word is spreading that he was late because he was at the Swami's.

The following day I go by the Swami's cottage, as he had asked me to drop by in case he had some task for me. I am feeling quite happy as I walk down the familiar dirt road with a tribal village on one side and dense shrubs on the other. I enter the ashram gate and wind my way up the concrete path. I check my orchid garden, finding every one of them adjusting to its new home. Truly peaceful moments surround this beautiful place—I have not figured out if it is because of, or in spite of, the Swami.

I find him all abubble because of the Chief Minister's visit to his cottage. "He stayed here for an hour. I served him tea, my brown bread and cake," the Swami jots on his note pad.

"What did he say about the road?" I question him.

The Swami looks at me as if he had been shot. He must think I am psychic, I muse.

"How did you know about the road?" he scribbles in a fury, then he quickly composes himself.

I just smile and reply, "Well, you must have mentioned it. Is the Minister going to cooperate after all that tea and cake. . . and your blessings? You did give him your blessings, didn't you?"

"Hum." He affirms. "He did assure me that he would be able to do something about the road."

The Swami only needs me to change the typewriter ribbon, so I quickly retread it, then take off for a hike. I saw no need to tell him he had written me one of his notes on the back of his rough draft to the Minister. Of course, I read it. He had requested the presence of the Minister at his kutia during his impending visit. In addition, the Swami had requested that something be done about the condition of the road to his kutia, assurting that its bumpy condition makes it inconvenient for all the pilgrims who come to visit him.

The same Chief Minister is in the news a month later. Poor fellow had a massive stroke. The next day Rajiv Gandhi, in his role as leader of the Congress Party, arrives in Bangalore, not to console him, but to ask that he step down immediately. Even the Congress legislative members in the Karnataka State Assembly are shocked at their leader's audacity. They form a coalition to support the Chief Minister until it is determined whether his health will allow him to continue with his duties. So politics in the world's greatest democracy roll on.

Chapter Twenty-one

So Many Stories

A couple of gentlemen came to Biligiri Ranga at the Swami's request. He wanted their engineering advice on the little cupola that is being built to protect the Bambi statue. They have volunteered to drop me off inYolander. Since they want to leave right after lunch, I meet them at the local mud-hut restaurant. They adamantly refused to have lunch with the Swami. I assume they have experienced his unsalted, boiled vegetables previously, but I don't bother to ask them.

From Yolander, I will catch a bus for Mysore where I will find plenty of buses are heading for Bangalore. They think I will save some time, but I am considering the benefit of having a couple of breaks. After an uneventful trip down the mountain, for this is the shorter route, they drop me off at the Yolander bus stand. While waiting for the bus, I sit to have my usual cup of tea in the local snack shack. To my surprise, in walks the Brahman whom I had recently met. He is going to Mysore also, so he will have plenty of stories to entertain me on the journey.

He and his wife had lived in Hospet, the uninteresting town I visited last month, where he was a manager of a factory. They raised two daughters, who are happily settled—or at least he hopes so. He tells me that one is married and lives in Bangalore, while the younger one was contracted to marry an Indian living abroad, in Amsterdam.

"Well, you know there was not enough money for us to go there with her, and the groom could not get time off from work. So we packed her up and sent her off—you know a 'home delivery.' We never knew exactly what happened there. But we found out later that she was not living with him. She got a job and stayed there though." He casts his eyes downward as he thinks of her plight.

Surely, he knows what happened, but probably hopes that I do not. In an often repeated scenario, parents send their son off to Europe or America for an education. In spite of their protests, he gets a job and remains there. In the meantime, he falls in love and marries. Later, afraid to admit to his parents that he has married a foreign woman, he submits to family pressure to take an Indian bride. Often, he returns to India and even goes through the wedding ceremony. When he returns to Europe or U. S., he tells his first wife that he has brought a servant girl from India to do the cooking and housekeeping. He can get by with it since the bride will be much younger than the husband, and usually will not be able to speak English. Unfortunately, the groom's reluctance to tell the truth is partially because his greedy parents are eager for the dowry that comes with the Indian bride—men living in the U. S. command a higher price. Of course, neither is he eager to cause his family to become outcastes in their community, as in the case of the woman I met earlier.

Hari's sister suffered this same trauma in the early 1960's. Fortunately, the arrangement was also a "home-delivery," so there had been no marriage in India. When she arrived in California, since she was intelligent and spoke English, she was able to figure out right away that the groom was already married. At the time, she also had a scholarship to study at U.C. Berkeley, so she went ahead with her studies and carved out a life for herself as a professor. The blot on her character, although it was not in any way of her own doing, could have never been expunged in India.

I am called back to the present, as the gentleman goes on, "We all were trained and educated in England. They were actually holding us back and making us think that it was impossible for us to study in U.S. A few people went to train for a year or two with General Electric, but they were exceptions. Although the States was not much until after the war."

Then I mention, "You know I heard the most startling story. J. Tata, the Parsi magnate from Bombay, did study in U.S., in Pennsylvania, since the Tata's were steel manufacturers. At that time, he visited Pittsburgh. He was shocked at the conditions he saw there. He took a vow that he would never subject his employees to such depravity. And he has kept his word. His factories have the best working conditions and employee support system, even medical service, in all of India. And all because he visited U.S. and saw the exploited workers. I think it's amazing."

"It is strange how unique influences form each one of us," he comments, then continues with his personal history. "These same conditions for laborers also existed in England, but we all thought everything there was superior. No one dared criticized anything British.

"I studied in England in Christian College in 1936-37, then in an engineering college. You know in those years, when we returned home from London, say for a summer break, we could never wear English clothes or speak a word of English in our own homes. In most homes, in the South anyway, there was not even chair or a table. We still sat on the floor on our straw mat for meals."

"Eating from a beautiful banana leaf."

"Yes, from our disposable plates," he chuckles.

As it turns out the ancestors of this dignified gentle-man had been the Ministers of a great Moslem Empire in south India. "My great-great-great-great grandfather was the minister of the monarch, Tippu Sultan."

"I knew this was the tradition in old India; the kings deferred to the spiritual authority and guidance of a Brahman minister. However, I did not know that the Moslems adopted this practice also," I comment.

"Oh, yes. There's so much we do not know, for we do not have a true history of Tippu Sultan [1750-1799]. He was quite liberal in his views; under him, there was no persecution against the Hindus. All the histories of that time were written by the British, in most cases, Scottish soldiers. They were not educated in research techniques or writing historical accounts, so the history books are quite one-sided in their point of view."

He continues, "When the British defeated the Sultan, they recognized his Minister's governing ability and offered him the position of Diwan [Minister] of the state of Mysore. He did not trust the British, neither did he want to be put in a position where he would be pressed into some battle. He declined and asked them for a small kingdom where he could live out the rest of his days peacefully. The kingdom that he received was Yolander Taluk [District]."

For the sake of time orientation, after he was defeated in the American Revolutionary War, Cornwallis was made Governor-General and sent to India in 1780. He was a competent General and scored a victory against Tippu Sultan, even though Tippu's army had been trained by the French in military tactics and included European mercenary soldiers. Interestingly, when Cornwallis was then made Governor-General, he was considered too liberal and sent back home.

I watch the sensitive face of this distinguished gentleman as he continues his story. "When the administration of Yolander Taluk passed to my immediate family, my father was already deceased. The district consisted of 28 villages; all the people were tillers of the soil. If there was a drought or crop failure, Mother would adjust the revenues through the income she had from her personal properties, so there was no burden on the villagers. Mother died when I was about twelve. Then my elder brother took over, but he had a problem since he could never collect as much revenue as the government wanted."

"The British government?" I ask for clarification.

"Oh, yes, the British. By that time, around 1930, the Diwans were little more than officers to collect revenue for the British. My brother told them to take over the collecting themselves, which they agreed to do for a period of three years. Then they told him, 'We've collected as much as possible. If there is anything more, you can collect.' But he declined the offer and told them, 'No, you continue for three more years.' He just hated being pressured by them to press the poor villagers for more.

"At that time, a dispute came up about the ownership of a couple of acres in the village of Chamrajnagar. The government told him that he had to furnish the deed to prove that property was his. Well, that piece of property had been in the family for over 150 years—no one knew where any official papers were. Probably, there never were any papers at all. Everyone knew whose property it was. Somehow, I never understood how, because I was studying in England, but, somehow, they connected the ownership of that property with ownership of the temple."

"Yes, I knew that the British imposition of the concept of private ownership of land and their deeding system totally changed the relationship of the society of the villages. It happened in America too with the American Indians. Well, it even happened in Britain. When they developed plowing with a horse, the nobles ran the peasant tillers off the lands their ancestors had lived on for centuries. But that change happened in India back in the early 1800's."

"True, but they didn't pay much attention to the outback villages until the 1900's. It was the agricultural lands that gave a profit for taxation that they were concerned with. You see, in the beginning, there was the looting of the stores of riches of the many rajas and nawabs and the money made by the British merchants and traders. All these funds went into hands of individuals and did not contribute to the revenue needed to run the country, most of which they had conquered by the late 1800's. So they had to organize their taxation system better for money to run the country. Their system meant a switch from the traditional goods and produce to coin for payment. These two factors—deeded private property and payment in money—totally destroyed the cultural base of India."

"I see your point. But even today there are squatters on the steps of a friend's mansion on Malabar Hill in Bombay, so maybe the Brits weren't totally successful in their private property ultimatums."

He chuckles at my observation, then continues, "The British left, but India can never return to what it was. I'm not saying there weren't injustices under the old system, but you knew who was cheating you and who to go to for justice. Everyone was responsible to someone, and also responsible for someone. It was a give and take. The British claim they introduced the justice system in India. What a hoax, under their system, everyone was cheated by a monstrous government for whom no one took any responsibility."

The bus stops in a small village and several Tibetans board the bus. I look at my companion with a question mark on my face. He informs me that there is a Tibetan settlement in the Nilgiris, on the next road over from B. R. Hills.

As the bus starts up again, he goes on with his personal story, "Since my brother could not produce a deed, the government took over that couple of acres, and they took the temple too. He was terribly upset that the Ranganathan Temple was taken over like any piece of real estate. He tried to fight it. But who could he appeal to?

"He was a devotee of Lord Ranganathan himself, but more than that he felt it was his personal responsibility to keep the temple sanctified. It was the only temple in the area for the villagers to come to petition the Lord Ranganathan for their needs. To lose the temple to the administration of foreigners was such a blow to him. Soon after, he became insane; so bad that he had to be institutionalized."

I remain silent as he takes a moment to regain his composure. "I was called back here from England because of my brother's illness, but there was nothing I could do. So after a short time, I returned to England to complete my studies."

He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, "Really, his life had been taken from him; he no longer had a reason to live. He later died in that mental institution."

I remain silent, what can I say... so many stories, so many hardships imposed on such kind-hearted people. Even though I have rationalized and explained why they have been able to endure through the centuries, still I can never really comprehend it myself. I am in a somber mood although I put a smile on my face to bid the gentleman good-bye at the bus station.

After a break for a cup of tea, I will just hop on the Bangalore bus. Although Mysore is a lovely town, I will not bother even to spend the night here since I have been here several times, even for their famous Dussehra, festival of lights, celebration. The ex-Maharaja still lives here in his spectacular palace built in the early 1900's. The most notable feature is the darbar (audience) hall, which is large enough to accommodate dignitaries arriving on elephants. In addition, there are several notable spots nearby. Tippu Sultan's capital and fort are only seven miles away in Seringapatam. The Keshava Temple, said to be the most exquisite temple in India, is 25 miles away in Somnathpur. I have not seen it yet, but I am happy to have something to come back for.

For the trip to Bangalore, I happen to be seated by a most congenial young man. He and a good friend have started a computer company in Bangalore, specializing in both hard and software. They are both Brahmans, intelligent and sharp-witted, who expected to have a college education and achieve high status in their field of study. However, they were unable to continue their higher studies because of caste discrimination. At the technical universities they wanted to attend, there were only three seats available to Brahmans. Those seats would be fought over viciously by those who have the most power and most money. Not having the resources for such a contest, they are manifesting a successful business without the degrees. I end up making a new friend and having a reliable place to borrow a computer to work on the magazine.

A few weeks later, I am invited to their office to celebrate Dussehra, which is celebrated throughout south India, a commemoration of Shakti. She is the feminine energy, from whom all material wealth flows. So all machines—computers, motorcycles, cars—are decorated with flowers and smeared with sandalwood paste with a dot of red kumkuma. Then there is the traditional feast of sweets. Gulab jamans (I call them gulabis) will ever remain my favorites. They are a small round doughnut made of mostly of condensed milk, deep fried, then soaked in sugar syrup with a hint of rosewater and saffron.

Now that I am on my own, I take the first opportunity just to sit and think. I really feel in the midst of uncertainty. It has not been easy to find my ideal ashram with serious meditation and study. Surely, I am living through my own personal experience of Rassalas, the Prince of Abssynia. It was always one of my favorite works in English, but I never intended to live out the scenario personally.

Now why did I come to India? I ask myself. First, because of curiosity; I will always want to peek behind the curtain of the unknown. Also, I am intrigued with the idea of having a totally different mindset, a different way of looking at the world. I have to think about these ideas and see where I am. Admittedly, I do experience a certain aliveness and freedom alone in the mountains. But in the city—I was not back in Bangalore thirty minutes when I was calling a auto-rickshaw driver a "bastard" (he doesn't know what I'm saying). He was trying to charge me double the meter price.

In the meantime, I always have work to do on the magazine, but soon I will have a treat. In a week, Swami Chinmayananda will arrive here for a ten-day lecture series. He is truly my spiritual guru, for he was the one who has most helped me in the attempt to "remove the darkness" of ignorance, which I would call simply "unconsciousness." I have no inclination to be dependent on him, and he would not allow it if I wanted. When I am not with him, I enjoy being free and independent. Nevertheless, every time I meet him, I am again overwhelmed with his being. He is incredibly radiant and joyful. That was what attracted me to him as a teacher, when I met him in California in 1976. While I watched him giving a lecture, I noted that he was just exuding joy; he truly was enjoying what he was doing. That's what I wantwas my conscious thought.

When Swamiji arrives, there are a couple of American women traveling with him. One appears to have become a bit attached to the Swami. She evidently does not know how ruthless he can sometimes be. He sometimes tells us, "Don't hang on to me. I'm not a mule guru carrying anybody on my back." Because of the two women and one European man who has joined us, we become involved in a discussion of a subject that is not normally brought up in satsang with an Indian guru. We ask, "What is a guru?"

Through our studies, we know that the scriptures specifically note the qualifications of the guru: "one well-versed in the Vedas and well-established in the Truth." The Swami emphasizes that the teacher must give equal importance to the intellectual teaching of philosophy, as well as a sensible practice appropriate to the student, whether it be meditation, teaching the scriptures, or serving in the community. Someone mentions that it is getting harder to find such a qualified teacher these days.

"Oh, you think so? Well, it is just as hard to find a good student!" the Swami counters with a hardy laugh. Then he continues, "So many people want to follow a guru blindly, like dumb cattle in a herd. They want to sit in the guru's shadow and comprehend the light. It will never happen. Just like any other worthwhile endeavor, one has to employ intelligent evaluation when following the spiritual path.

"If you are waiting to be transformed by the touch of a guru, I'm afraid you will have to wait a long time. Self-redemption must ultimately come from within yourself. Any external props such as temples, gurus, books are only aids to help build-up your inner perfection."

"But, Swamiji, in America, we have some real quacks for teachers."

"One need not be so critical. Teachers are needed on every level. Can we say that the elementary school teacher is a quack because the graduate student no longer has any need for learning the alphabet? No, we need those who teach at the lower levels to bring the student's understanding forward, so that they can move up to the higher levels."

While we are on the subject, I formulate a question regarding my quandary about a guru's moral behavior. "Swamiji, I know that in Hinduism good and bad, right and wrong are much more flexible than in the Western religions. However, I find myself questioning the behavior of some of the gurus, particularly those who have migrated to the U.S. and Canada, in regards to having sexual relationships with their women students."

"You are correct; we cannot say that the behavior is wrong in itself because he is not actually breaking any rule or vow. However, the guru's behavior must be morally perfect, since the students are bound to imitate the teacher to some extent. If he is immoral, then the students will copy his bad habits, thinking these things do not make any difference; yet they may make a difference for the student. So the student is misled and does not make any progress."

I comment further, "I guess it is the secretiveness that bothers me. It just seems such a contradiction that someone who expounds Truth is sneaking around enjoying sensual pleasures. Why are they secretive? I think everyone should enjoy sensual pleasures any time they want if they have a consenting partner. I guess this is why it is such a quandary for me."

"I've noticed they always seem to choose young, pretty women. It's not like they are attempting to have a true relationship as we think of it," chimed in one of the American women.

"That's right. If he decided that he wanted to have an open, equal relationship, no one would think twice about it," I comment.

This prompts the Swami to add, "So this kind of talk is the kind of gossip that the behavior generates. That's why the guru has to be above these things, or we will waste our time preoccupied with his escapades, instead of his teaching. It's human nature."

After a moment of silence, he mentions, "Actually, we will be covering the qualities of a person 'established in Truth' later in the week. In Chapter Two, Lord Krishna gives out the signs to look for."

Of course, we cannot wait, so we pull out our copies of the Bhagavad Gita. I have already read the chapter plenty of times, so I have a general idea, but I have never thought about any specific issue.

The European man begins to read, "One of steady wisdom is one who gives up all desires of the mind and delights in his inner divinity; who is undisturbed in misery and free from desires even in the midst of pleasures; who is free of all attachment, fear and anger; one who shows no particular affection to any one person."

"There we are; we have our answer," I comment.

"Good this is just what I wanted. You are all investigating and thinking for yourselves. You don't need me. I'm going to work on my correspondence," the Swami gets up and goes to him room.

Even though it is still extremely hot elsewhere, Bangalore remains a tolerable 80 degrees because of its altitude of around 3,000 feet. Every morning I take off to walk to Lal Bagh, a wonderful botanical garden. Hyder Ali, the father of Tippu Sultan, created this 240-acre garden over 200 years ago. This accomplishment certainly puts him high in my esteem, although he spent most of his life as a warrior dedicated to conquering more territory. Bangalore was just a small village ruled by a local chieftain when Hyder Ali arrived and decided to make it his summer quarters. I am sure every other ruler, including the British, contributed new varieties to the garden. There are even selections from the tropical areas of Africa.

I stroll through all the shady paths before I sit down to bird watch in my two favorite spots: the lotus pond and the bamboo grove. One day I actually see one of the incredible white Paradise Flycatchers with the long tail streamers fluttering among the bamboo clumps. I have only seen them in the Himalayas before.

But nature is not always so gracious. One morning I hear some crows making a big racket. When I approach, I see a small helpless baby owl hovering on a branch that is being tormented by the aggressive big birds. He is low enough that I could reach him, but I know that he will never allow me touch him, even to protect him. Although he is a baby, his beak and claws have developed noticeably. Knowing that I would have to have some type of equipment to make a rescue, I go over to the green house to try to find an attendant. I end up making a round of the entire garden, looking for someone, but to no avail. I feel so helpless. I finally have to give up and head for the library, leaving the little owl to its fate.

I usually have about an hour to stroll around the gardens, then I head for the library, which opens at 10:00 a.m. I spend most of the day collecting material. I have to copy it by hand into my notebook, since there are no copy machines for my articles in the magazine. Just as I am about to finish the up-coming issue, I get a nice surprise when Nagamani phones me at Hari's, where I am staying.

She is in Bangalore visiting her family, so they invite me to their home for lunch. I get to meet her sweet, dear mother, and her brother, Varadha, and sister, Radharamani, but not her father. He is a retired professor and lives with a student in Mysore where he continues with his teaching of private students. Nagamani's younger sister, a Sanskrit scholar and an enterprising woman, is a manager of a state bank. With this job, she supports the household. Of course, since the father is retired, he has no income.

Her mother tells me an unusual story of how Nagamani, meaning Lord (mani) of the serpents (naga), got her unusual name. Her great grandfather (father's side) lived in a village 30 km. from Mysore. One day a cobra appeared on the path where everyone passed each day. Strangely, it was just lying there and did not move for several days. It was a bother for the villagers to go around it, plus there was concern for the safety of the children. Nagamani's great grandfather took charge and grabbed the serpent by the back of the neck and took it to a spot away from the traveled path. While doing so, he noticed that cobra's tongue had a thorn in it, which he promptly removed. Then he put the cobra down and told it to go in peace.

Instead of leaving, the cobra turned back and circled the rescuer three times as a sign of respect. (It goes without saying that they were clockwise circles.) Then the snake raised its hood and bowed three times. The man was intuitive, so he understood the serpent to be saying: "We shall be friends and I will protect your family from harm from serpents for seven generations. Further, you are to name the firstborn of each generation 'Naga' (snake) after me. I will come and visit the home at the time of every birth." They followed the instructions; so, true to its promise, a cobra was spotted at Nagamani's birth.

The family is planning to take a tour of some of the pilgrimage spots in south India and have asked me to come along. I am quite eager for this opportunity because they know many unique places that I would never find out about. My only hesitation is that Varadha, who will be driving the car, is a bit reckless behind the wheel.

He also tells me an interesting story. Remember the Nadi Shastri who gave Vani and me palm-leaf readings? As it turns out, Varadha used to work for him. Soon after I was there, the shastri left on his trip to U. S. as planned. As he was returning to India, an American astrologer told him that he had a bad conjunction coming up. He advised Ramakrishnan to exercise caution as sometimes it meant death. "You don't know diamond from glass," Ramakrishnan chided the astrologer. "I have a lot of work yet to do. I am destined to be very famous." As fate would have it, Ramakrishnan died of a heart attack a week after returning to India.

Unfortunately, the Radharamani is not able to get off work as she planned, so the trip is canceled. I am disappointed, but Varadha tells me of an "enlightened" sage in Kumbakonam by the name of Swami Rama. However, I decide to take a mental break first. I set out on a tour of several of major pilgrimage spots on my own. I have not been inclined to be just a tourist, but for the next six weeks that's what I am going to do.

Chapter Twenty-two

Touring South Indian Temples

I love south India because it embodies ancient India. Yes, it's big, hot, dry and dusty, and, often quite rustic; yet some of these towns date back before the Common Era. Unlike the North, the South has not suffered the major ravages by the world's greatest conquerors, for the Vindya Mountain Range and Narmada River formed a barrier that protected the region. The Muslims and British were the only ones who managed to penetrate here. Fortunately, the Muslim conquerors arrived here late in their Empire era. By then they had lost their enthusiasm for destroying temples (although there are exceptions, including Hampi). Consequently, we find many awesome Indian temples still in a decent state of preservation in the South.

Notice that I said Indian, not Hindu, for south India is the repository of Dravidian culture. Over the centuries, the culture has developed in five distinct areas, each with its own language, writing script, dress and social customs. These regions are the four states of Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, and Kerala, although they were lumped together as Madras under the British Raj. At the present time, the archaeologists and scholars are hotly debating the Dravidian origins. There are two prevalent theories, one that the native people migrated here when the Aryans overran the Indu Valley civilization. The other is that Tamil Nadu is the north section of a much larger continent that existed long before the Aryans arrived; the southern part now lies under the Indian Ocean. In either case, Dravidian roots date back several thousand years before the Common Era. Regardless of the origins, one thing is certain, the Dravidians had their own unique culture: scriptures, scholars, deities, temples, priests and holy sages.

By the time histories were being written of the area, the Aryan Hindus and native Dravidians had mixed and matched in an immitatable manner. For example, in the great temple building period from 600 to 1600 AD, most of the large Hindu temples were build in the Dravidian style, or in some cases were built around earlier Dravidian structures. The indigenous rituals and deities remained the same, except they were awarded an additional Sanskrit appellation. Actually, the name Siva, the Dravidian deity, gradually replaced Rudra of the Aryans as the most common masculine deity. The common theory is that the Aryan invaders gradually moved south, absorbing the native cultures, both Dravidian and a variety of other clans. Again this assumption is being so hotly debated among the scholars that to even venture an opinion is to invite certain censure. The main object of the Indian scholars is to prove that Hinduism had no outside influence from foreign Aryans, who have been credited with writing at least a portion of the Vedas. Actually, the word "arya" is a Sanskrit word meaning "noble."

Taking pilgrimages to holy places is the great national pastime in Bharat, and it appears to have been so for centuries. The two major temple groups, definitely worth viewing for their wonderful architecture, are in Orissa and Karnataka. Three towns in Orissa, on the east coast, comprise one group. Bhuvaneswara was adorned with over 1,000 temples at its peak; you can still find over 500 fine examples that date from the 7th to the 11th century. Puri, with its awesome Jagannath, an ancient complex that supported 5,000 priests and staff, is said to be one of the monasteries where Christ studied during his "lost years." However, the temple was not built until the 12th century and is not accessible to foreigners. Like Puri, Konark, the site of the famous Sun Temple, is by the sea. This temple is second only to Khajuraho for its erotic art, as well as other fine carvings. Khajuraho is a favorite of foreigners for its lavish and explicit erotic art, as well as its dance festival in early March.

Traveling southwest to Karnataka, the temples at Belur and Halebid that date from 500 to 1300 AD are outstanding examples of stone sculpture at its most inspired. Nearby in Sravanabelagola, you will find Jain temples and monasteries, including the monolithic 50-foot "sky-clad" statue of a Jain saint. The remainder of the group from the Chalukaya and Hoysala Dynasties are farther north in Badami and nearby villages. While in that area, you can also visit Bijapur to view fine examples of Islam architecture, including a mausoleum second only to the Taj Mahal.

Since I have already seen most of these temples, I am going to limit my travels to Tamil Nadu, visiting the two eminent temple towns of Kanchipuram and Madurai. In general, although there are volumes of the chronicles of the gods and their incarnations, the Indians were not inclined to write mundane history. However, because the Tamilians traded with the Greeks and Romans, we do have some scraps of history of Tamil Nadu for the past 2,000 years. Throughout the centuries, a series of family dynasties ruled in a feudal-type system. Although the kings fought among themselves for power over land and populace, they also seemed to have contested among themselves as to who could build the greatest monuments to the deities.

The early dynasty of the Pallavas (500-900 AD) chose a tiny town near the east coast for the capital of their empire that endured for over four centuries. By the 7th century, Kanchipuram had developed into a major cultural center attracting artists, dancers, musicians, scholars and weavers of the famous Kanchi silk. The kings and wealthy merchants were grateful to the deities for their prosperity and built some 1,000 temples to venerate them. Many of the temples are worth seeing, for they are some of the oldest in India.

Kanchi, along with the temples of Orissa, were the principal centers of the devadasi phenomenon. The main temple had some 100 "servants of the deities" who attended the icon with fanning, dressing and honoring with lights. They also sang and danced for the deities' amusement. Just like the priesthood, the occupation was caste-bound, so the access to the gods was inherited from generation to generation. Undoubtedly, the caste had its heavenly beginnings.

Urvashi, a heavenly courtesan in Lord Indra's court, became infatuated with his handsome son, causing her to miss a step during a performance. Thereby the couple was banished from heaven to live on earth. Their offspring generated the devadasi community. In the mid-nineteenth century, one anthropologist wrote that at that time the devadasis were the only Hindu women who could read and write. Depending on the wealth of the patron kings, many of the women were endowed with large estates. In addition, devotees paid their respects to them, for they were considered living embodiments of Urvasi, the courtesan to the gods.

No doubt as the cultural milieu changed to foreign administrations these women fell on hard times to be exploited by the rich and powerful, so the tradition gradually declined. When the Indian government took over the Jagannath temple in Puri in 1955, a group of devadasis who were still performing there lost the last of their patronage. Many petitioned the government for a pension, but to no avail. The prevalent reports that many of them practiced what we label prostitution seems to be correct from what little information I can gather. However, there appears that there were no negative connotations in this society where anything goes. After all, they were consorts of the gods. Anyway, the Hindu sees everyone as god. . . so the devadasis served god in human form also. There are advantages to having an all-encompassing mind—and it's not puritanism.

When the Pallava Dynasty fell in the 9th century, Kanchi and its temples were left to languish without benefactors. Today, it is a very Indian town; however, the nearby town of Mahaballipuram, which served as a port since the first century, also has some excellent examples of the Kanchi era.


I head farther south for my next stop in Tanjavore [Tanjore], the capital of the Chola Dynasty, which ruled south India for three centuries (900-1300 AD). During that time, Tanjavore was the political, literary and religious center of the South. The principal temple holds a 206-foot Siva lingam made from a single 80-ton slab of granite. Foreigners are not allowed in the inner temple, but can observe the fine examples of Chola architecture in the entrance towers and pavilions.
The museums in the old palace of the Cholas make the trip to Tanjavore unique. The palace itself would hardly be worth the time, for it is in a bad state of disrepair. However, it holds some fine examples of the Tanjavore bronze sculptures, particularly of Nataraja, although you can also see fine examples in the Madras Government Museum. Nataraja, who is Siva as the cosmic dancer, is only found in Tamil Nadu, suggesting an influence from the ecstatic priests here. Or maybe they became ecstatic in order to imitate him.

For me, the real wonder here is an old library, with over 35,000 volumes, all in Sanskrit or Indian languages. They were collected by the Nayak and Maratha kings from 1600 to 1900 AD. The majority are handwritten; many are illustrated with delicate ink and watercolor drawings. Fortunately, a few are on display, so I can get a suggestion of the treasures this library holds.
The Cholas built exquisite temples in this region. Later while in Kumbakonam, I find the best examples to explore, for, like the temples in Hampi, they are no longer used for worship. The Dharasuram temple is only 4 km. from Kumbakonam, so it is easily accessible by auto rickshaw. A real gem is the GangaKondamCholaPuram right on the road between Vadalur and Kumbakonam. (That must be the record! These long words are usually compounds, so they break down into something manageable: Ganga-Water-Chola-Place). The huge tank was used to empty vessels of water from the Ganga brought to the Chola court by their vassal kings.

Still heading south, I reach Madurai, the example par excellence of Tamil Nadu's Dravidian temples. In my opinion, if you only have time for one temple, it should be Madurai, the temple dedicated to the Goddess Meenakshi. During the period from 600-1300 AD, Madurai, capital of the Pandya Dynasty was the true center of Dravidian culture, having supported three distinct literary sangams, academies. All the scholars and poets would gather for a convention to confer and exchange ideas. Of course, they were only concerned with spiritual matters, as were all scholarly works and creative endeavors. If any scholar had a treatise or a sage had an inspired poem, it had to be submitted to the test of merit. The method of judging was to throw the palm leaf tablets into the temple tank. Those that sank were considered worthless; those that floated were considered worthy compositions.

Along with their religious and literary patronage, the Pandya kings did not neglect worldly wealth. They were known to have traded with the Greeks and Romans, via the Arabian Sea. Madurai flourished under several dynasties until the early 1300's when the Muslim rulers penetrated the barriers of the Vindyas and Nilgiris to loot the prosperous towns in the South, including Madurai. Soon afterwards, Madurai was incorporated into the Delhi Sultanate.

Although the temple was built in modern times, its origins claim ancient connections to the deities. Even the history of Madurai has a mythological beginning. Once Lord Indra, the King of the heavenly hosts, had to do penance for the sin of killing a Brahman in an accident. While traveling in a forest near the Vaigai River, he suddenly felt a purifying energy field. Upon investigation, he discovered a natural "self-born" lingam, a symbol for Siva, under a Kadamba tree. He bathed in a near-by pond, then worshipped the deity with golden lotus flowers. Thus, he was released to return to his heavenly abode, but not before he erected a small chapel over the holy spot.

Sometime in the 7th century, a merchant passed that way and happened upon the old chapel. He reported the unusual phenomena to the ruling Pandya king. At the first opportunity, the king traveled to the place to worship, for the kings relished all the deity-power they would muster. Evidently, Siva was pleased with the worship and offerings because he let nectar fall from his flowing locks onto the devotee. The king promptly decided to build a suitable temple and to establish his capital in this place. But the old chapel was an abode of Siva, how did Meenakshi succeed in replacing him as the principal deity of the temple?

The next generation of the Pandya Dynasty had not been blessed with an heir to the throne. For the purpose of having a child, the royal couple performed an elaborate ritual, according to the Vedic instructions. You can imagine their surprise when a three-year-old girl emerged from the sacrificial fire. They had their heir, who they named Meenakshi—an incarnation of Devi, the female power. However, there was one slight abnormality: Their divine daughter had three breasts. At the moment of this discovery, a voice was heard, telling the parents that the extra breast would disappear when the child met her husband.

Since the princess was destined to rule a large empire, her education included all the skills of warfare. Eventually she became a very successful warrior, conquering many neighboring territories. Triumphant, she pushed forward until she reached Mt. Kailasa, the abode of Lord Siva. On the battlefield when her eyes met those of Siva, her third breast disappeared; therefore, she knew that he was to be her husband. After they were wed, they moved to Madurai where they ruled for some time. Their marriage is still celebrated in late April with a ceremony in the temple, followed by a procession of the divine couple around the town. After successfully producing a competent heir, an incarnation of their divine son, Subramanya, they were free to return to their heavenly abode.

It was several centuries later, approximately in the 12th century, that the shrine commemorating Meenakshi was built, supposedly by her own son. The custom remains that one first worships Meenakshi, then her consort, Siva. By the way, to make it easy, I have used their Sanskrit names, but they also have Dravidian names: Thadathagai (Meenakshi) and Sundareshwara (Siva) and their son, Muruga.


The Vedas do not mention the deities who are worshipped in the temples today, but speak in an abstract manner of the Infinite playing through various powers: fire, wind, water. Later Sri Veda Vyasa personified these abstractions into the deities portrayed in the Puranas, the Hindu epics. Then in one of those strange quirks of history, Buddhist monks visiting Greece in the early years of the Common Era saw the great sculptures there and brought back the idea of making sculpted images of the Buddha. At that time, Buddhism flourished in India, so statues of Buddha were installed in places of Buddhist worship. Later, the Hindus began to copy the idea and build permanent shrines for their own deities, instead of continuing to use the open-air venue of the Vedic rituals.

Legend continued to grow around the various deities as their devotees had unique experiences in direct encounters with them. It would be more accurate to say the thought energy of the worshippers reinforced the power of the gods. Hindu temples are alchemical laboratories to turn thought into matter, the objects needed for success in the material world.

While the modern Western physicists are working on measuring energy fields, the Hindus have been consciously creating energy fields for centuries. But not creating energy itself, the energy they focus into these spheres is the energy in and through all creation. So if a group of persons, such as priests get together, they can maintain the energy by using certain mantras that even make the energy field expand and become stronger. Then the energy field can be invoked for human use.

The foundation of the energy field is a set procedure. All of the great temples were built on a samadhi of a great sage to preserve and take advantage of the purified vibration created through his austerities. I understand that this custom was also practiced in Catholic Europe, at least through the Middle Ages.

Over the samadhi is placed a yantra, or a geometric diagram, that represents the deity of the temple. It is capable of focusing the energy field created by the sage. Then the stone idol, or transmitter, is placed above the yantra. Afterwards, a living saint installs the image with an "enlivening" ceremony. Then the idol is ready to radiate the energy in a concentrated dose to the worshippers, according to the worshipers capacity to receive.

The energy field will dissipate if it is not regularly energized with offerings, that is, the chanting of the mantras, holy incantations, by the priests. The offerings of people are for the priests whose duty it is to sustain the energy field. In addition, it is their duty to assure that there are no disturbances in the energy field. That's why foreigners and untouchables—who could not possibly have the right mental attitudes—are not allowed in most of the heavy-duty temples. One temple guard told me, with a club in hand, that they did not want scoffers in the temple. I doubt even he understood the importance of his job. Then too, the looting of the riches of the temples by barbarians continued through the 1900's, so that habit would not invite hospitality.

The possibility of dissipation of the energy fields is not my conjecture, it is verified by an interesting historical fact. Realizing that the populace were not ready for the philosophy of the incomprehensible Brahman, Adi Sankarcharya, the great philosopher of Hindu thought, did as much to renew temple worship, as he did to debate the nihilist Buddhist philosophers to bring them into the Hindu fold. When he traveled around Bharat in the 7th century, he found that many of the Hindu places of worship had fallen into disuse; therefore, he re-enlivened the idols by invoking the deity to return and reside in the stone image or lingam. Then the deity had to be "fed" and kept alive by the mantras of the Vedas. So it seems likely that if the Ark of the Covenant were discovered today, it would no longer have the power to destroy anyone who looked upon it.

Several American authors have described Hinduism as a renunciate religion. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Good lord, even the gods are married! The temples here were built specifically for getting and begetting. The scriptures ascribe four stages of life: 1) brahmacharya, student, 2) grahastha, householder, 3) vanaprastha, withdrawal for contemplation to the forest, 4) sannyasa, renunciation. So renunciation is the fourth stage of life, coming after one has studied, then had a good life of artha, kama and dharma: wealth, passion and duty. Kama definitely includes sex. The Brahadranyaka Upanishad gives explicit instructions on pleasing a woman; the Kama Sutra was written by a sage for the purpose of assisting the populace in experiencing "en total" their sexual nature.

In other words, after a person has experienced all that life has to offer, he can then let it go by renouncing—otherwise, there would be nothing to abandon. True, there are exceptions; a few young people decide to dedicate their lives to spiritual pursuits early in life. On these rare occasions, the parents are often adamantly against such an action. Even Adi Sankaracharya, who renounced the world at the age of eight, had to trick his mother into thinking he was dying before she would give her permission for his taking of the renunciation vows.

There is no judgment that the experience of one stage of life is better than another; all four contribute to an experience of wholeness. For example, the daily rituals that the householder performs have the subsidiary effect of focusing the mind to develop the power of concentration. This training is useful later in life, for a concentrated mind aids in spiritual goals.

So the success is insured with the power of positive thinking with an extra boost from an energy field of the deity. Whether you call it positive thinking, mind control, or devotion, the petitioners do have to tune their minds to the right station. The station is broadcasting Chopin, but the radio must be tuned to that frequency to hear the music. The Indians must be doing something right. Let's face it, most of India is a desert, yet it is supporting one billion human bodies—and uncountable billions of creeping and crawling and buzzing things.

Not all worshipers come to the deity to get material things. The peak experience is to have darshan, the vision, of the deity. Once the connection is made, the deities can bestow any desire upon the seeker. For example, the recent Acharya of the Sringeri Matha, monastery, told me that he had received enlightenment through the intercession of the Goddess Lalita, the deity of the monastery. Of course, he was a very advanced and pure soul in every respect, and I assume he had done reams and reams of the mantras for invoking her grace.

I shall always remember my short visit to Sringeri in 1978. I truly admired the Acharya and I feel that he was an influence on my returning to India. I am sure that observing his way of life was a prime factor in my desire to settle in one place with a good teacher for meditation and study. Had he been alive I would have spent the majority of time with him in Sringeri. However, fate gives us strange challenges. Just prior to this trip, I received the news that the Acharya had died of a heart attack.

Since I arrived in Madurai early in the morning, I am considering just visiting the temple and leaving that evening. But I encounter the strangest situation, one I have never confronted before in all of my travels. There was only one rest room open in the train station—the men's. I am in the South where in many households men and women even eat segregated! I do find a ladies' restroom, but it is padlocked. Obviously, I have to bathe and change clothes to go to the temple. Even if I wanted to shower in the man's restroom, it would be impossible to dress in the tiny stalls. The women always shower, throw on their petticoats, then exit to the waiting room to wrap their saris, or the 8-yards of cloth would get wet from the shower floor.

So I take off to find the station manager. He tells me that there is a platform officer who has the key; he may open the ladies' restroom later. So off I go to find the platform manager, but his door is closed and I see through the crack that the light is out. While I am wondering what to do next, the flock of little white-haired ladies in starched cotton saris, who are following me up and down the train platform, is increasing in number. They are in the same plight and are cheering on my efforts in their quiet way. After almost an hour, I return to the platform manager's office to leave a note on his desk. Lo and behold, he was asleep in his office all the time—that's why the light was out. So after a refreshing bath in the ladies' restroom, I check my suitcase and walk over to the nearby temple.

The high walls of the Meenakshi Temple envelop fifteen acres of elaborately carved pavilions, chapels, a huge bathing tank (where they used to test manuscripts) and even an art gallery. The elegant and elaborate carvings include scenes from the epics, hundreds of heavenly deities—voluptuous and robust—as well as many renditions of historical scholars and even the rulers who built, or added onto, this temple.

The temple is a holy maze; the separate chapels and decorated hallways are so plentiful that is no space left for the open-air patios I have seen in other temples. The four gopurams, entrance towers, typical of Dravidian style, are intended to protect the sacred site from intrusions, physical or mental. Each tower was built by various rulers in a different century from 1250 to 1650 AD.

Foreigners are not allowed in the principal shrines of Siva or Meenakshi. In many cases I have find that the rules are flexible, if one approaches the temple manager with the correct attitude and in the traditional dress of white dhoti, with bare chest, for the men, and saris for the women. To partake of the puja, worship service, a small fee is charged, so one can easily reach the proper authority through the priests who are selling the tickets. For a big puja, normally done only by Indians, the prices are quite high, up to 1,000 Rps.

I end up deciding to stay a couple of days so that I can spend more time soaking in the vibes of this place that breathes tradition and sanctity. To me, it's as if the temple is an old medieval town within itself. Exploring its passageways, I truly feel in another time and space. I feel connected to a beautiful past, envisioned and created by architects and stone-carvers, yet sanctified by the devotion and faith of thousands of worshipers who have passed here through the centuries.

Chapter Twenty-three

Exploring the Coromandal Coast

My next stop, KanyaKumari, is at the tip of the Indian continent. At this one beach, you can see watch the sun rise from the Bay of Bengal, ride over the Indian Sea, then set over the Arabian Sea. The Hindus believe that one dip in this convergence of three seas can cleanse all mala, dirt, that covers one's divinity. Historically, this is the place where in 1892 Swami Vivekananda sat out on a rock island in the sea, meditated, then vowed that Indians would be freed from foreign rule.

Some Indian historians credit him with the start of India's independence movement. Now large boats ferry people back and forth to the rock, where one can visit the Vivekananda Memorial.
The Goddess KanniyaKumari resides in a small temple on the shore of the starting place of the Coromandal Coast that runs up the east coast. An incarnation of Shakti (the Goddess in her power mode), she wears a beautiful diamond nose ring. Legend has it that at one time the temple door opened toward the sea, but if KanniyaKumari eyed a ship, it was doomed to a watery grave. The locals say this included a British frigate that was carrying away her original diamond nose ring, stolen from her nose. Thereafter, the entrance to the sea was sealed shut forever.

Since there is not much else going on here, I go by the tourist office to see if there are any excursions to nearby scenic or historical places. A couple of unenthusiastic young men inform me of a tour that sounds worthwhile, so I sign up for the next day. The tour includes a summer palace of a Kerala raja, now in Tamil Nadu instead of Kerala (placing boundaries of states according to language groups caused these discrepancies along the border), plus a temple and an old British fort. From a display of brochures, I pick one up about a park where one can see tigers. I ask one of the young men if he thinks it is possible to see tigers there.

"No, you won't see any tigers there."

"Then this brochure is misleading."

"You can try it, but I was there for six months. My degree is in forest management, so that's where I was assigned for my work program. We mainly just dug ditches. I never saw one tiger in six months."

We talk a few more minutes, then I ask the right question. The graduate begins to tell me his "sad story" in regard to finding work. After graduation from a university, he was unable to find a position in the forest department. He took a stopgap job in a restaurant in Madras at slave wages while continuing to look for a better position. Someone suggested that he apply for a job as a policeman. Because of his unusual height for a Tamilian, over six feet, the police officials were interested in him. They even intimated that they would consider him for a position as an Inspector, one of the top dogs. The only thing was he had to pay a 100,000 Rps. baksheesh to the Tamil government. They even arranged for him to meet the Chief Minister personally. A movie idol, M.G. Ramachandran (called simply M.G.R.), had ruled Tamil Nadu's politics for years with his Dravidian Progressive Federation (DMK).

"Well, that's impressive. You even met M.G.R. himself. When I was in Madras, I even saw small shrines in his honor."

"Oh, yes. They sure impressed me."

"But you didn't have the rupees?"

"Actually, I could only come up with 80,000 Rps., so they told me that was okay. However, to get that kind of money, we had to sell my family's business. We had one of the souvenir shops here. It was my inheritance; it was everything my family had."

"And your parents agreed?"

"Oh, yes. This was an important job with plenty of pay. It was a quite an opportunity for me."

"So you paid the money?"

"Yes, I did pay it. Then the first thing I know M.G.R. is on his way to U.S. to have some surgery. The next thing I know, his government has fallen and no one knows me."

"You paid 80,000 Rps.—your family's entire fortune for that job—and suddenly no one knows you?"

"Exactly. So that is my sad story."

"Do you suppose it was your 80,000 Rps. that helped pay for M.G.R.'s trip to U.S.? Maybe you deserve some credit—even though he died anyway, you did what you could," I attempt to tease him out of his gloom.

"Well, this is what we Indians get for electing movie stars for politicians. This sort of thing couldn't happen anywhere else."

"Hummm..." I clear my throat, sigh, and roll my eyes. "I'm not really so sure about that."


I spend the rest of the day walking along the beach. On my return, I am attracted to some stalls with lovely shells at a very low price. You are not going to tote sea shells around, I command myself in order to resist the fine specimens.

Although the water looks tempting, and it's warm enough in November, I have declined going swimming. First I do not have a swimming suit with me, and I am not inclined to enter the sea fully dressed, like the Indian women do. In addition, this area is known to have dangerous currents, as does most of Coromandal Coast. While I was in Pondy, one ashram student was lost to Varuna, the god of the sea.

The most compelling proof is a report of a friend when she traveled here in 1975. At that time there was an American here who lived like a native sadhu. He moved from one holy place to the other, getting by the best he could. One could say he was enjoying the experience of life beyond materialism. When he found out that his brother in New York City was to be married, he begged the brother to come to experience the phenomena of India before his marriage. The sadhu reasoned that with wife, kids, house payment, car payment, the brother would never be free to make the trip. His brother agreed and joined the sadhu on a tour of some of the standard pilgrimage spots, including Kanyakumari. Naturally, the brother went into the sea for a swim; although probably not for religious reasons. His sadhu brother was with him, but had turned his head away only momentarily. When he looked back, his brother had disappeared—never to be seen again.

Until her passing away a few years ago, an Indian female sadhu lived on the beach here with a pack of dogs. She could always get free food from any local restaurant, as the owners always said they collected twice the receipts on the days that she dined with them. Hari had met her and said it was difficult to discern whether she was a saint, or a simpleton. In any event, all the pilgrims, and restaurant owners, considered her a saint.


Now I turn back north, traveling up the east coast, to Rameshwaram, another holy site on the Bay of Bengal. If you are traveling by car at a leisurely pace, you can take a break en route at Tiruchendur, a Muruga/Subramanya temple—a very Indian phenomenon. The Rameshwaram temple, built on a sandy island, dates back to the epic Ramayana, which chronicles the battle of the great king Rama. Rama had to come from the Himalayas to Sri Lanka to rescue his virtuous wife, Sita, who had been kidnapped by the demon-king Ravana. After the battle, Rama is believed to have come here to offer worship to Lord Siva to expiate the sin of killing Ravana. Although the epic predates history, the RamanathaSwami temple was not completed until 1700 AD, supposedly having taken 350 years to construct it. Seven-hundred-foot corridors, lined with hundreds of beautifully of carved pillars, surround the inner sanctum. The sight is impressive, but since the pillars are all alike; it is not as spectacular as other temples I have visited.

The main feature here is the purification by bathing in the holy waters. I find a guide who speaks decent English and pay him 50 Rps. for the tour. This is not an architectural tour like in Madurai, this is a tour to the famous tirthas, or holy waters. Again, all mala, dirt, will be removed from one who drinks from all of these tirthas. Since I was expecting some gardens with lovely, natural ponds, I am surprised, for all of the tirthas are wells, that is, cement-cast rectangular tanks.

As I follow my guide around, he draws a bucket of water from each one, then he pours some in my cupped palms for me to drink. The remainder, he pours over me for a holy bath. Halfway through, I am so drenched that he takes pity and only draws half of bucket of water. One tank is clearly posted, "Do Not Drink," in several languages, even English. "The water's not good," the guide tells me with a shake of the head. So I only take the bucket splashing at this one. I suppose this means that one streak of dirt remains—just enough to keep me human. However, I bet I am the only one who did not drink the water here today. The Hindus know that holy water cannot be polluted; they will drink it without ill effect. So in a dripping, but cleansed state, I approach the deity to receive a blessing.

After the temple tour in the morning, I eat lunch and opt for a short rest. As soon as the shadows begin to lengthen, I take off for a walk along the beach road. After a short distance, I am joined by a group of cheerful, young girls, about 10 to 12 years old, on their way home from school. They ask me the usual questions. As we walk along, one by one, they leave to disappear down lanes to thatched huts.

One bright-eyed girl takes particular interest in me. "Please come home with me," she begs.

I really have not gotten my walk out, but she is very insistent. In the end, I am sufficiently curious to find out more about Amali and her family, so I agree. She flies down a sandy lane in front of me to a gate of a wooden picket fence. We enter it, then enter another gate that leads to the house. The first thing I notice on the wall is a picture of the Virgin Mary, so I make certain assumptions. The mother, named Mary, is at home; she cheerfully greets me as if she expects Amali to drag home a white face every day.

After introductions, Amali takes me on a tour down to the beach, where she shows me where they used to live, a one-roomed hut. Now their house has three rooms, a separate kitchen attached, and a pleasant courtyard with a few flowering plants.

On our way back from the beach, we encounter Mary, fetching water from a small well. Amali explains that she prefers to use this small well, although she has to use a rope and bucket to draw the water, because the large well with the pump always has long lines this time of the day.
We wait for Mary to walk back to the house, then follow her to the kitchen. An open room on the garden side, it forms an L with the main house, but there is no doorway between it and rest of the house. Mary has insisted that I have dinner with them. I watch as she begins to stoke the wood fire to cook the meal.

Soon we are joined by Amali's older sisters, both school teachers, who speak decent English. They tell me that Mary would love to come to America to make money. I ask if she knows that there are many people in America who do not make a lot of money. But Mary is definitely not convinced. She is sure she will strike it rich if she ever gets there. While we are talking she is preparing boiled fish and a tomato sauce. The young women help with chopping the tomatoes and vegetables for the sauce, but only Mary tends the simmering pots. Of course, I am not allowed to do anything. It's a not matter of jati, caste; I am a guest. I wonder if a fisherman is higher or lower than a foreigner who has crossed the dark waters? Even in the fisherman jati, there are visible hierarchies. In this case, the head of this household is doing well for himself; he now owns his own boat. This new home with an extra-large outer yard is proof of his status in his own group.

The fish, a white firm-fleshed variety, is now cooked. Mary removes the fish from the pot and carefully removes all the skin and bones. The fish is ready for the sauce, I think, as she pours the red sauce over the white heap. As usual, I thought too fast, there is another step. Mary begins to squish the fish and the sauce together with her bare hands. Soon it is pressed into a croquette type ball. Ah, fish croquettes, she will now fry them, I think. No, they are ready to eat as is.
By this time, Amali's father has arrived home, but he does not enter the kitchen. He sits in a chair in the patio area to eat his dinner. We women sit on the kitchen floor for our dinner of tasty fish balls and fluffy steamed white rice. By the time we finish, it is quite dark, so I bid the kind family good-bye and wish them well.

The next day I explore the extensive beaches where I observe several varieties of crying sea birds. In the evening I look for a special shop because Rameshwaram is known as the place to buy crystal Siva lingams. I want to purchase one for the altar of a friend in Vermont. Directed to a certain store, I enter behind a dark curtain, where I sit on the floor in a circle around a short table with the male members of the family. Not wanting to misrepresent my intentions, I explain to them I can only afford a very small crystal.

Never mind, I still get the royal treatment. Tea is served before I can consider any possibilities. Of course, the men question me about my travels. After our tea is finished, a selection of small crystals is brought out on a dark purple cloth. The merchants display such concern that you would have thought that I was purchasing a diamond. They help me pick out a nice one that is totally flawless.

Although I arrived by train, I decide to take the bus since I will be heading to a town on the beach north of here. Thinking that the route passes along the coast, I am planning for an onslaught of scenery, sea birds and sea breezes. However, I had not counted on the highway cutting inland, so the terrain is pretty barren.

I reach Vailankanni by midday. Since the early monsoon clouds have disappeared, it's a very hot day, so I quickly find a room. After a bucket and mug bath, I rest until the worst of the heat is over. By late afternoon a breeze is wafting in from the sea, so I wend my way up a tree-lined walkway to the cathedral of the Holy Mother.

The tradition of a beautiful Lady of Health began here in Vailankanni in the 16th century. A young shepherd boy was carrying a gift of a pot of milk to his teacher. Suddenly, an unusual sleepiness overpowered him and he fell down in a swoon by a Banyan tree near a pond. He then saw a vision of a beautiful lady, holding a charming baby in her arms. Haloes of divine light encircled their heads. The divine lady then asked the boy for some milk for her child. Entranced by the vision, the shepherd boy offered the milk with reverence and respect.

At first the teacher did not believe the boy's story. However, when the half-empty milk pot began to fill, and even overflow, he returned with the boy to mark the place of the vision. This spot became known as "Our Lady's Tank," and developed into a pilgrimage place.

Some years later, at the end of the 16th century, there was another appearance of the Holy Mother. A poor lame boy was sitting under a spreading Banyan tree to sell buttermilk to support himself and his widowed mother. Again, the Holy Mother appeared and asked for milk for her baby. After the baby drank the buttermilk, she instructed the lame boy to go to a nearby town to a certain rich gentleman, who is said to have been Christian, and ask him to build a chapel for her. When the lame boy tried to get up, he found that his legs were healed. He hurried to the near-by town to tell the gentleman, who had just had a dream of the Holy Mother just the night before. So a small chapel with thatched roof was erected with a statue of the Holy Mother and the Divine Child. Because of the healing of the boy, the chapel became a major pilgrimage destination for the sick and lame.

In the mid-seventh century, a Portuguese merchant ship en route to China (remember, the Pope had given Portugal the eastern half of the world) was blown off course in a storm. The frightened sailors fell on their knees to entreat the Holy Mother to save them. They promised Mother Mary that they would build a chapel in her honor wherever she delivered them to safety. They reported that there was an immediate lull in the storm, enabling them to get to reach shore at—you guessed it—Vailankanni. One can imagine their surprise when they arrived at a chapel in that very town with a statue of the Holy Mother, which they immediately knew to be Mary. This miracle occurred on September 8th, the Feast of the Nativity.

Today's Indian Christians are sure that the early miracles of the Virgin Mary were performed for Catholics only. I think there is a possibility that history has been touched up a bit because Hindus have always been flexible about accepting miracles from saints of any religion. However, it is possible that there were Christians here since St. Thomas did travel to India to establish Christianity after the Ascension. A memorial to him, supposedly martyred (again possibly a Christian myth), is outside of Madras.

When the Portuguese arrived in Kerala on the west coast, they definitely found a Christian church. I had occasion to ask a Bishop there if any writings or records existed of the church before the arrival of the Europeans. I thought it would be fascinating to compare the teachings of St. Thomas that would have been untainted by Paul, Constantine, etc. Also, it would have been intriguing to know how Christianity impacted a people with a different history and mindset. However, the Bishop assured me that nothing—no records, no writings, no history—existed from the original Indian churches. I still wonder if he is correct. We also know that Marco Polo encountered Christians during his travels in India in the 13th century. He even wrote of St. Thomas' tomb.

That evening I join hundreds of pilgrims, most of them Hindus, in the main chapel for the healing service. The priest places a blessed wafer in a gold frame with a handle, rather like a hand mirror. Then he walks up and down the aisles, turning the wafer so everyone can receive the blessing. I do not know if there are any on-the-spot healings this evening, but the museum is full cases of silver parts and pieces of the body (the Mexicans call them "milagros") that people have sent in to commemorate their healings.

Later that evening, I join a program that is supposed to be a service and meditation. I know there will be no English spoken, but I have nothing else to do, so figure I may as well pick up the vibes. No one can deny that many Indians have a tendency to be verbose, but the speaker this evening is going for the long-winded awards for both the Christian clergy, in general, and Indian, specifically. For a while, I manage to sit peacefully doing my own meditation and just enjoying the space. Of course, we are all sitting on the bare marble floor, so after an hour my feet are feeling squashed and squealing: let me out of here. I look around to see how everyone else is faring. They are all doing very well; everyone else is sound asleep. Bless the Indians for their capacity to sleep in any situation. I smile as I wonder, which came first: the capacity to sleep through anything or the long-winded clergy? After another fifteen minutes of discomfort, the priest has not slowed down; he has not even taken a breath, so I beat a half-hasty retreat to the back exit.


Leaving early the next morning, I travel north for another unusual Indian phenomenon, this one Hindu. The bus takes off down a two-lane metalled (that's what they call asphalt here) road, shaded by tall, swaying palm trees. Small, clean adobe huts with large shady yards line both sides of the route. Here is the idyllic India that Usha and I have often dreamt of. I cannot wait to get back to Pondy to tell her that our paradise really does exist. Each yard is neatly swept, with a circular kovalam laid out at the door step. I think these are made of the traditional rice powder. I love this aspect of the Indian culture, giving a little gift of food to the animal kingdom each day. I practice it whenever it is practical. The modern Indians, living in cities, have totally lost this wonderful aspect of their culture, an appreciation and honoring of the natural world that sustained their ancestors for many centuries.

The modern Indian gurus who came to Europe and America were forced to massage Hinduism somewhat to suit the Western mindset. This included the Indian concept of reincarnation, which has no negative connotation to being reincarnated as an animal. There were many sages described in the Puranas who reincarnated as deer, or monkeys. Even today the sadhus in Rishikesh say the monkeys that hang around the ashrams were former sages, now engaging in play in a monkey's body. There is no negative implication at all; animals are wonderful.

Once Swami Chinmayananda was challenged by an American about the horror and impossibility of "coming back" as an animal after one had reached the pinnacle of life; that is, incarnating in a human body. The Swami put his answer quite charmingly.

"What's wrong with it," he bellowed in his husky voice. "We Indians might be born as a dog in America. Now that would be an improvement for most of us, you will have to admit!"

My bus soon reaches the small town of Thirunallar, the site of a famous temple with a shrine to Shani, Saturn. Although many temples have small chapels honoring the planets, this is actually the only temple I know of that is dedicated to a planet and its ruler. Here, just as in Western astrology, Saturn is considered a villainous influence, so it is thought to be expedient to propitiate him in some way. I am able to observe a big ceremony with lots of flowers, flames and incense, performed on behalf of a couple of gentlemen, who have evidently paid a decent price for one of the more expensive rituals.

But Shani is not this temple's only claim to fame. It also has a shrine with an emerald lingam, which is worshipped with a special ritual at 12:00 noon daily. Since I have to wait over an hour until noon, I look around the temple, which is small and not particularly interesting architecturally. I am thinking that this stop was worthwhile only because it was on my route north back to Pondy. I am definitely off the beaten track, so I have no idea how to get to Pondy from here. I approach the two gentlemen mentioned above and ask them if they happen to know of any public transportation back to Pondy.

"No, I don't think you will find any public transport from here, but we are returning to Pondy now in our own car. You are welcome to accompany us."

"Well, that sure solves my problem easily." Really, I am rather aghast, and grateful, that the only two gentlemen in the temple who speak English, therefore, the only two I can question, are actually going to my destination. This does not happen often.

"But, of course, now you see how Shani can remove obstacles."

"It's sure made a believer out of me," I laugh. "I hope it works so well for all of your desires too."

The ritual bathing of the emerald lingam is much less elaborate and quite short. Of course, I am most curious to see if it is really an emerald. No, it is not. It looks like polished marble, but it is green; well, greenish. It definitely is not translucent like an emerald.

Some time or the other, I suppose I have to deal with the Hindu lingam/phallic symbol issue, so I guess it may as well be now, while I am beholding this emerald one. Lingam has always been translated as a phallic symbol ever since the Europeans arrived, before their time I can not say. Honestly, I have never seen a penis that looks like this lingam; perhaps my research has not been extensive enough. However, to me it does look like the cone of a nuclear reactor.

The Hindu religion is full of symbols and symbolism. The translation for lingam is "symbol," so it is a symbol of Siva, thought or energy, as opposed to Shakti, form or force. Their union creates the universe, so using the representation of human parts is a valid method to show a union.
However, the mystics are aware that humans have a subtle body that is named the lingam shariram, or symbolic covering or body. I think the Siva lingam is the shape of our subtle body. Also, some Siva lingams are round or elliptical in shape, while others are very irregular. So I am not totally convinced that the Siva lingam is a phallic symbol. However, considering this is the culture that produced the erotic art of Khajuraho and the Kama Sutra, anything is possible.

After the ceremony of the emerald lingam, I wait for the two men to change into their street clothes, as they had put on dhotis for the rituals. Then we start back for Pondicherry just at lunch time. Before we leave the small town, we stop at a restaurant that has no sign and is totally off the beaten track. They serve delicious vegetarian food—the green beans are actually still green, and the yogurt is fresh and sweet. This is the type of place the natives know about, but I never would have found it.

My hosts are perfect gentlemen. They speak of their adoring wives, their precocious children, and their doting parents. Of course, they are quite interested in me: what I am doing here and what I think of India. As usual, I end up doing most of the talking, when I would have learned more by listening.

They easily find 27 Francois Martin and drop me off at the front door. Usha has moved to the other side, the Indian side, of the sewage ditch that once served to separate the French and Indians. She and Maggie had a parting of the ways. Since I was not here when it happened, I never get the details. Maggie must have completed Larry's manuscript, but she had several others in her mind. Among her literary endeavors, she has written the first of a series retelling the Mahabharatha in a literary style in English. Usha would be helpful, since she knows a lot of the Indian lore. That's not to say that Maggie does not. She has thoroughly studied, and understood, many of the Hindu texts.

Usha is recovering from the blow of losing her job and her lovely home at Aradhana. She was able to move only because Maggie compensated her quite generously by giving her a lump sum of money to settle in a new place. In addition, she paid the necessary deposits and donated a very old refrigerator. One look at it and I see why it is running all the time. The door does not close completely, so we can get that repaired quite easily.

As much as we both loved Aradhana, this place is really better in many respects; except the location, for one cannot beat having Ganesha as a neighbor. Here we do not get beggars on the porch, only goats. And they do leave a bigger mess; we end up putting a fence to keep out them out.

The couple, who own the house, live in France where he serves in the French military. It's a modified Pondicherry style: the bedrooms surround a large courtyard. However, the courtyard is covered to keep out the rain, instead of remaining open to the sky, as is common here. The kitchen is in the back with the traditional open-air wire screening. Two enclosed stalls are off to the side: one for bathing and one with an Indian-style toilet (you squat).

Usha has rented the second floor, which is one huge L-shaped room that serves as a living, dining and kitchen. The wall where she set up the kitchen also has the open-air wire screening. A decent marble bathroom with British toilet (you sit instead of squatting), a small bedroom, plus two verandahs. There is a tiny one out back and a large one stretching across the front.

The surrounding yard is a huge compound, filled with four or five mud shacks of squatters. Usha points out to me the carpenter who built my desk at Aradhana lives in one of them. On the other side is a large garden of coconut trees and a few shrubs with flowers. Across the front of this garden, connecting the large house with the neighboring building is a small two room cottage. The owner's sister lives there with her alcoholic husband and two daughters. The sister serves as an on-site landlord.

I plan to stay for only one week because Usha will have a student boarding with her who will help her with Vibhu, her son. With Maggie's help, he has been accepted in the ashram school. Since Usha is not working yet, we have a great week together—except for a flood—on the second floor!

Most Indian houses have a drainage hole in several places in the walls, so that you can virtually hose off the floors, which are usually marble or hard concrete. One night while I am sleeping on a cotton mattress on the floor of the living room, I am awakened by a terrible monsoon storm. Half-awake, I hear the sound of water near me, so I jump up to investigate. Water is pouring into the room through the drainage hole from the verandah, and is just about to flow over the threshold of the wide French doors. I quickly start grabbing Usha's beautiful straw mats off the floor while I call out to wake her up.

Fortunately, she takes one look at the flooded verandah and immediately figures out the problem. She grabs a broom, then runs through the water on the verandah, now half-way up her calves. While she is jabbing to clear the blocked drain on the verandah, I grab my mattress and all the large pillows, piling them on the dining table. At last the water stops creeping across the floor. I managed to force the wooden plug back into the drainage hole, so that it will not come out again. Evidently, the force of the water had just pushed it out.

Then there was the snake-lizard incident. Since I take my daily pilgrimage to the library, every morning I get up, fold my sheets and arrange the mattress like a daybed before I take off. One afternoon when I return, Usha is all a-flutter because she found a snake lizard under my mattress. She is particularly furious because she has told the servant regularly that she must turn and check the mattress every day. Evidently, this is an Indian thing—and now I know why.
Anyway, Usha had some spare time today and was doing some extra cleaning and arranging of cushions after the dampness from the flood finally dried. When she moved my mattress, out lumbered a large, 3-foot snake lizard. Fortunately, it headed right for the door to the verandah and was seen no more, she reports.

Somehow, I just do not want to get into the subject of 3-foot snake lizards. It does seem that it has possibilities for developing into a theme for obsessing. Nevertheless, I do ask, "How do you think it got up here on the second floor?"

"It would have just climbed up one of the trees by the verandah and dropped down."

Then, I poise the obvious question, "Do you think snake-lizards are poisonous?"

"Absolutely. Why do you think I have the servant turn the mattress every day?"

I did not know that; they only speak to each other in Tamil. I do know you have to remove and shake out your sheets every day to remove any small creepy crawlers. However, I just somehow refuse to let the incident disturb me because I know if I get into fear, I will have a rough time living here.

So I simply reply, "So I slept with a snake-lizard under my mattress last night? I bet he doesn't find such a warm spot tonight."

I could stay in Pondy indefinitely, but I keep remembering that in Bangalore Varadha told me that if I wanted to find a "true sage" that I should go to Kumbakonam. Now that I have gotten my impulse for travel out of my system, I decide I am ready for a peaceful retreat.