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We seem inclined
to place the world's sages in the immemorial past, so that our logical
minds can dismiss their histories as myths with a few embellishments.
Nevertheless, even in modern times, every century Bharat has engendered
many incredible spiritual sages; most of them are in the predominate religion
of Hinduism, but, remarkably, they exist in both Islam and Jainism also.
Already we have met two Hindu sages, Sri Aurobindo and Sri Ramana Maharshi,
who both died in the early 1950's.
I was quite intrigued to learn that there had been a Tamil sage who lived
in a village near Pondy in the early 1900's. Revered by the local Christians
and Moslems as well as the Hindus, Swami Ramalingam taught that ALL reduces
to Light; therefore, there can be no real difference between substances,
whether they be physical or mental. Note that the Hindus always include
mind and emotions in the material world.
A poor Brahman boy, the future saint, Swami Ramalingam practiced meditation,
along with memorizing and chanting of the Vedic scriptures. One day, when
he must have been in a relaxed state, he looked into an ordinary mirror
in his room and saw the image of a deity. An ordinary person may have
thought, "gee, I am going crazy," or "someone is playing
a trick"; thereby, dismissing the event. However, his level of consciousness
was raised to such a subtle level that he realized that he and the image
were one. They were one and the same. He was the deity in a grosser manifestation.
That realization removed his veil of ignorance to such an extent that
he began receiving extraordinary revelations. On special occasions, he
was invited to give lectures to his elder brethren. What I saw of his
writings were quite off-the-wall: Long discourses recounting all the many
universes, galaxies and worlds, including how they were created and connected.
Long, long lists—any audience other than elder Brahman brethren would
have "slept off," as we say here.
One bright day, when Swami Ramalingam was still a young man, in his mid-thirties,
he realized that no one had understood a word he had taught. Further,
he reasoned that they were not likely to do so in the future. He told
everyone that he had ascertained that his work was ineffective to them,
so he was just going to bow out. In the immitable style of Hindu sainthood,
he told them he was going into his little hut (without food or water)
and not to disturb him for thirty days. Indians being Indians could not
abandon anyone, certainly not a saint, certainly not for thirty days.
After only two weeks, a couple of devotees broke into the hut. They found
no one there. The police were called in, but thorough investigations revealed
no body, and no evidence of foul play.
Indian history is replete with such stories. I visited a temple outside
Poona in 1979, where Shivaji, the most revered Marathi [one from Maharastra
state] saint of all time, had ended his life by disappearing into a stone
that still remains in the temple compound.
Since the site of Ramalingam's miracles is close, I take a bus from Pondy
to Vadalur where he lived. First, I visit the small museum that has small
dioramas that portray the major events in his life. Then I sit quietly
in the small chapel to wait for the daily service at 11:00 a.m. To a small
audience of only six, the priest begins the ceremony by removing one of
the seven curtains, or veils, that obstruct the eternal divine light.
Since this is an ordinary day, only three of the curtains are removed.
Only at the winter solstice are all seven curtains removed to reveal the
Eternal Flame.
I decide I better eat before getting on the bus for Kumbakonam. After
treading up and down the main street row of shop-stalls, really hovels,
I finally enter the most likely hole-in-the-wall cafe. Of course, I am
the only female customer. I explain that I want vegetarian food.
"Not possible," I am told.
"That man has some vegetables; just give me of those," I instruct.
"Oh, yes, that is possible."
"Then give me some rice too."
While I eat, I chat with the friendly proprietor and a couple of the diners
in kindergarten English.
As I am leaving the cafe, a man is entering. I am taken aback because
he looks at me with such disdain that I think, this must be a true
"maha-chauvinist."
"She
comes from the ashram to eat meat in a Moslem hotel," he plainly
voices his complaint as he disappears behind the door.
I had not realized that these were Moslems. Neither had I realized that
you only ate meat in Moslem hotels. His assumption that I am from an ashram
must be because of my simple unbleached homespun sari; others have drawn
the same conclusion. I wonder if his comrades inside will inform him of
the ordeal they went through to give me a vegetarian lunch.
I nearly miss the express bus for Kumbakonam. Not because I am late; I
have been waiting 30 minutes when a ramshackled, beat-up contraption arrives.
I hesitate, this can't be the express bus. To be sure, I step onto
the bottom step and state that I am waiting for the express bus to Kumbakonam.
"This is the express bus," the driver assures me.
Oh, dear, this is the express bus, I resign myself and climb aboard. Expecting
the worst, I am pleasantly surprised. The bus actually has the lounge-type
seats of the long distance buses.
"But there are no empty seats."
"In the back," the driver directs me.
"Madam, here's a seat." An elderly man of ample girth has commandeered
one and one-half seats for himself. The two men behind him are now pointing
to the empty half of a seat and insisting I take it. I squeeze in and
close my eyes. I will not be able to see anything out the window, so I
may as well relax.
When we arrive in Kumbakonam, I take one look out the window and panic.
All I can see are simple mud huts. I doubt I will be able to find a decent
place to spend the night here. I better stay on this bus, find a town
with a hotel, and come back tomorrow, I resolve.
"Does this bus go on to Tanjavore?" I inquire of the seated
passengers.
"No, you'll have to change buses."
I accept my fate and descend the dusty steps into the chaos of passengers,
buses, bicycle rickshaws and chuck holes. Upon spotting a big "INFORMATION"
sign, I immediately perk up. Well, well, this is a new twist—information
available at a village bus station, I heave a sigh of relief. Then I approach
the dark hole in a wall and inquire of the two men sitting on rickety
folding chairs if they know of a Swami Rama. They debate back and forth
for a few minutes, but nothing concrete emerges from the banter. Next
I ask about the tourist office. Again some discussion follows in Tamil.
"Oh, yes—good. You can take an auto to the tourist office where
you can get information."
Forget the swami for now, I tell myself. I will be content with
info about a hotel, for I still can see nothing but thatched-roofed huts
in every direction. One of the men kindly escorts me to an auto rickshaw
and tells the driver in Tamil to take me to the tourist office. We zoom
off as if he knows where he is going. However, we arrive at a large residence.
I
remark innocently, "No, the tourist office."
Only then does he insist, looking me straight in the eyes, in his broken
English, "Tourist office idliya." No tourist office!
And he is right, there is no tourist office in Kumbakonam. It's most likely
he helped me avoid a hassle, for service at the tourist offices is notoriously
poor. The joke among the foreign tourists is that it is a case of "no
chief and too many Indians."
So I am quite content that he has found what looks like a place to stay.
Certainly, it's a step in the right direction. I pay him and he disappears
around the corner.
When I enter the large, wide verandah of the comfortable, clean bungalow,
only one person is visible: a sadhu-type, with his matted hair in long,
wild jadas and red paan-stained lips, seated cross-legged
on a wooden bed near the entrance. Fortunately, he speaks enough English
to tell me that rooms are available here and the owner will return in
30 minutes.
The lodge faces a huge bathing tank—as big as a city block. At the
four corners and the four mid-points of each side are small peaked pavilions.
I cross the street and sit on the bank of steps near some women who are
bathing, washing clothes, and dipping their babies in the cool water.
Their system for public bathing without exposing themselves is well worked
out. I watch one woman out of the corner of my eye as she first removes
her blouse, while she holds the sari around her body. Then she pulls her
petticoat up over her breasts and secures it by tying it tightly. Next
she drops her sari inch by inch as she enters the water. She soaps—mostly
exposed parts—then leaves the water with the wet petticoat clinging
lightly to her body. One lady takes a turmeric root and rubs it on the
wet granite step, grinding it into the bright yellow paste that she applies
to her face. They are so engrossed with their tasks they do not seem to
notice me. It's such a lovely spot. I resolve to come back in the morning
to feed the tiny minnows that are nibbling at my toes.
Meanwhile, thirty minutes have passed, so I return to the lodge. The owner/manager
has just returned with a small boy carrying a satchel of books. They both
gaze at me with a blank stare. When I ask about a room, he immediately
declares, "No, no. No rooms available," and exits into a back
room behind a closed door. I see that I am dealing with a brick wall—Brahman
style, so I pick up my suitcase and start down the steps.
On second thought, I pause and turn to ask the sadhu who is still sitting
on the day bed, "Sir, do you know of a Swami Rama here in Kumbakonam?"
"No, I don't think so," he honestly seems to ponder the question.
"He is an old man, over 90 years old, and is a Punjabi."
"Oh, yes. You must mean Ram Sadhu. He stays on the other side of
the river in Kottaiyur. You can catch the #1 bus around the corner. It
will take you straight there."
"Thank you very much, sir. This is very helpful." For once I
have a feeling I won't have to get a second opinion.
When I turn the corner, I am most happy to see a row of several modern
hotels ahead on the dusty road. The first one I pick is only 30 Rps. per
night, just my price. When I reach my room, I immediately take a cold
bath—no hot water in the afternoon—and lie down for a rest.
It seems as if I have been on the road for days instead of hours. I
can find the holy sage first thing in the morning, I tell myself as
I drift off.
At sunrise the next morning, I return to the tank with puffed rice to
feed the minnows. They practically take the food right out of my hand.
Two kingfishers, the black and white variety, entertain me with their
great diving feats: spot a movement, hover in suspension, hover, hover,
hover—now, plunge. They emerge with a silver sliver of a fish in
the beak; they never miss.
I later find out that this is the famous tank. According to legend, a
kumbha, a large water pot, happened to appear here after a big flood.
Lord Siva pierced the pot with an arrow, allowing its contents to flow
out to create this sacred tank. A big festival commemorates the occasion
every twelve years, when the waters of the Ganges are said to flow directly
into the tank.
After savoring my favorite breakfast of idlis and coconut chutney
at the hotel, I figure it is late enough to drop in on an ashram. I inquire
from the desk clerk the whereabouts of the #1 bus stop and am directed
to a flag pole up the street. After a short wait, I squeeze onto a bus
that contains at least fifty people beyond its capacity. As always, I
announce my destination loudly to the driver, then to the collector and
surrounding folk, so they will tell me where to get off. Up until now,
this technique has proven infallible.
The bus follows along the Kauveri River, south India's sacred river. Some
thirty minutes later, a general rustle rolls through the bus when someone
suddenly notices that we were one-half kilometer past Kottaiyur and I
am still on the bus. The driver makes an unscheduled stop and I am pushed
through the throng and out the door. I am encouraged at what I see, for
the area along the river is quite lush with palms and bamboo groves.
Upon inquiring, a man on the street points me toward the Ram Sadhu ashram.
Then he orders a young boy who is playing nearby to escort me. The urchin
accompanies me over a little bridge, down a path, past a jog in the road,
to the gate of a school. Then a couple of students guide me to Ram Sadhu,
who lives in a compound behind the school. We enter a small garden of
hibiscus and other flowering shrubs, skirted with white-washed huts and
tall shade trees. The sweet odor of jasmine drifts through the air. As
I inhale the fresh air, both physically and mentally, I open myself to
the upcoming experience.
The children call out, and a brahmachari comes out of a hut. They
tell him that I am looking for Ram Sadhu.
"Have your breakfast first," he invites, motioning me into the
nearby thatched hut, which must be the kitchen.
"Thank you. I've already eaten."
He bobbles his head and the three of them accompany me to the Sadhu, who
is sitting on a cement bench in the shade of a large tree. Ram Sadhu is
a very sturdy man, still quite muscular for his age. The ring of gray
hair circling his bald head and his short untrimmed beard are both gray.
With his chest bare, he only wears a faded short orange dhoti around
his hips.
After we are introduced and exchange "namastes," I briefly
explain to him my situation, since I have no idea how much English he
understands.
Then he looks straight at me and says in English, "The spiritual
life is to be lived. It can't be talked about. You can stay here with
us one," he hesitates, "or two days. Then you can see what I
mean."
"I will have to go back to the hotel to get my things. I can go now
because I also have to find a bank and change some money to pay the hotel
bill."
"What's the hurry? You have time to sit and rest. I'll show you to
your room." He calls a hefty Punjabi gentleman to bring a bedroll
for me. We enter a one-room cottage with a tiny porch that will be my
home for the next few days. He rolls out the thin wool blanket and straw
mat over a solid wooden bed.
"You just relax, that's all."
I leave at approximately 11:00 a.m., so I will be sure and have time to
go to the bank and check out of the hotel before noon. I am not sure if
it is an Indian, 24 hours after check-in, or European, 12 noon, style
check-out time.
"I've
come with my things, Swamiji," I greet him as I hand him a small
box containing sweet laddhus and a salt snack.
"Bless you, my daughter. Now you just relax. You are that very God,
so how can you worry. There is none other than that One, so you must be
that God."
"Now that is exactly what I find very hard to believe."
"But it is so, my daughter. That is all you need to know. But to
know it one must live alone."
"Alone?"
"Yes, alone in solitude. It is the only way."
Again, he guides me to my room and asks if I need anything.
"No, no nothing at all," I assure him.
Each afternoon there is a satsang of the four or five men who live
in the small compound. I have no idea what to expect since everyone here
speaks Tamil. A learned Brahman, Sri Siva Ramakrishna, gives a commentary
on the Tulasi Ramayana, which he has translated into Tamil. I understand
not a word, but I do not mind. Quite content to be in such a beautiful
place with such good company, I try to meditate for the entire hour. It's
good practice for my ankle bones, sitting on a cement floor with just
a light blanket for padding.
After the class, Ram Sadhu tells the manager and the other two men present
that I am a spiritual seeker whom he has invited to stay in the ashram
for a few days. Further, he tells them, "we will serve her in whatever
way we can."
I have noticed that Annaji ["elder brother" in Tamil],
the manager, wears a bandage on a couple of toes. Later the Brahman explains
to me that he had once been a leper, therefore, an outcaste. This had
been during the time Ram Sadhu was living alone in the near-by woods,
so he took the young man in and healed him with herbal medicines. Various
devotees were always seeking out Ram Sadhu, asking if they could help
him in any way. After Annaji was healed, Ram Sadhu suggested that some
of them help the young man set up a service project in the community.
At first he passed out flour and rice to the poor from a small hut. Over
the years, using the money from the devotees of Ram Sadhu, the hut expanded
into the orphanage for 100 boys. Later he added an elementary school that
also included the village children. Ram Sadhu was persuaded to come live
in the ashram some ten years ago when he was 87 years old. By then, the
forest in which he had continuously lived "alone" was cleared,
the land plowed under, and planted in crops.
That night after dinner, I hear a rap at my door. When I open it I am
surprised to find the Sadhu. Earlier when I left the kitchen, I noted
that the lights were out in his cottage, so I thought he had retired early.
"Is everything okay?" he asks with a beaming smile.
"Oh, yes. Everything is fine."
"Do you need drinking water?"
"I have some."
"And there is water available for your morning bath?"
"Yes, everything is fine."
"Okay, my daughter, you rest well."
Returning
to the ashram, I choose the high path along the river. To my delight,
behind the temple I discover a lovely pond complete with blue hyacinths,
water lilies, and a new variety of water bird that can walk over the hyacinth
leaves. Charmed by the natural beauty, I determine that this is the perfect
spot to come and enjoy nature after my early morning meditation and yoga
session.
The next morning I trip lightly over to the pond with my little straw
mat in hand. I find a semi-decent path down the sloping bank to the pond.
On my way, I note little piles of droppings scattered about in the various
short weeds and grass. Since the ants have converted them into little
hills of crumbled dirt, I pay little attention to this ever-present evidence
of human proximity. Fortunately, I find a strip of clean, dry grass where
I spot some long-toed birds walking on lily pads, near, but not too close
to frighten them. Spreading my little straw mat on the grass, I sit down
to space out.
The water lilies, patiently waiting the touch of sunshine, are only partially
open. The hyacinths are completely closed, for they evidently require
full sun to wake them up. On the opposite shore in a dense bamboo grove,
a kingfisher sits in alert contemplation and waits for a ripple in the
water. Although he does not display such dramatics in fishing as his black
and white cousin, he is definitely more colorful. In the shade, he appears
to be a royal blue. However, when he darts out into the sunlight, he reveals
a dazzling iridescent turquoise, the same as the peacock. When he fishes,
he swoops and skims the top of the water, not daring to plunge into the
water.
Although I have to venture several footsteps out into the mud of the pond
to do so, I manage to pluck a splendidly fresh white water lily with a
fringed yellow center. Clutching my prize, I start to climb the slope
to the main path that skirts the river. As I do so, an elderly man on
the main trail starts yelling something at me. I am quite taken aback.
Perhaps he sells the water lilies at the market and thinks I'm stealing
his stock. But this seems quite a fuss over one flower.
Wait a minute. Now I remember that while I was sitting at the pond, I
could hear several groups of men pause, comment and move on. Having people
around is so normal that I had not given it any thought. The truth now
dawns. I have been sitting in the men's toilet. I see men come down to
the riverside in the early morning for their daily dump, but I guess this
group prefers grass to water. I must have forced quite a few to have to
pollute the river this morning. I do note that they did not use their
normal place because of my presence. In contrast, the men at the river
are quite uninhibited about baring their behinds to all and sundry. They
practically squat at each other's feet. Interestingly, judging from their
dress, the river dippers are the higher caste.
I had asked Ram Sadhu for permission to ask him some questions and tape
the conversation. So that morning, I start my query, "Swamiji, you
follow the Vedantic thought that all life is Brahman. So how can one know
what is best for the spiritual life and what is not?"
"Let the world be, we are talking about Life itself. Life is everywhere;
there are no differences in the Life. There is only one Life that appears
in different forms in the material world."
"Well, I can understand that, at least, intellectually," I reply.
"Only Life is always there."
"But to connect this body with that Life. When I try to make the
jump, somehow I miss the boat."
"But this body is in the Life. There is no jump to be made,"
he comments, then sits back thoughtfully.
"Do you think that when someone is enlightened, it is generally because
of their karma?"
He looks up, "Well, of course that is a factor."
"So we cannot say that enlightenment is due to self-effort in this
life time. It is because of karma, or past efforts."
"Not so, because enlightenment has nothing to do with this mind and
body."
"Yes, I do realize that," I reply in a studied voice. "Karma
only effects the mind and body. But I keep thinking that I should do the
'right' thing. That's my biggest mistake. I'm perpetually deciding what
is the right thing for me to do."
"It's all in your head. This is right and that is wrong. What you
think is right for you is wrong for others. The only 'right' thing is
that you must know your true Self." He pauses then continues, "I
am the Life. This idea must come up. That is the spiritual life. That
is all."
"Yes. That's really what has me puzzled. What exactly is a spiritual
life? I know some people in the normal world are as spiritual as those
in ashrams and monasteries."
"It's a simple thing."
"I know I am making it difficult."
"Eat and live in peace. Then you will understand your true, divine
Self. That, my child, is the spiritual life."
He gets up and scoots across the room indicating that the session is over.
Then he turns back. "As for thinking, I am this little, limited body,
this idea must go. I am the Life that exists everywhere, this idea must
come up."
Since this is my third day here, I also have my note of thanks all prepared,
so I take out the envelope and hand it to him.
Friday, December 14, 1990
Dear Swamiji,
I thank
you for these two days to relax and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere here.
Actually, you have not told me anything I did not know. I had reached
the same conclusion for myself in the U.S. and that is why I came to India—for
a period of serious sadhana, which I consider to be an absolute
necessity for my further progress. First, I went to an ashram near Bangalore,
but they were building a nature cure clinic and wanted the American to
be the director, plus there was other funny business going on there. So
I left, I did not have to leave America to find this sort of thing. Recently,
I've been roaming about. Certainly, it is partially because I do not have
the capacity to sit quietly. I do not want to blame anyone else. I would
like to be able to sit quietly for long periods of time, but until then
I will just keep moving along. Thank you again for your kindness and care
toward me.
Sincerely,
s/Nancy
Along with
the note, I give him the white water lily and a 100 Rps. note.
"Where did you find this?"
"If there is a lily pond anywhere around, I am sure to find it!"
"It is so beautiful. . . And what is this?"
"This is a letter to you."
"And this?" as he unfolds the rupee note.
"That is dakshina."
"Dakshina? I don't need any dakshina. . . Now you explain
to me what is in this letter; what you want to say. Afterward, I will
read the letter, then I will understand your mind."
So I relate to him the gist of its contents. When I am nearly finished
he interrupts me.
"Now? What about now?"
"You told me I could stay a day or two here, so I have now completed
two days."
"But now? What is your program now?"
"Now I have no fixed program. I am free. Well, except I do have to
be in Pondy on January 5 to pick up my visa renewal."
"Then you stay here with us. It's peaceful here, you can stay here
and enjoy the true Life with us. Here we only live the spiritual life,
not the material life. The boys here said they will be happy to serve
you."
Tears well up in my eyes and start to roll down my cheeks. "I hope
I deserve it."
"My dear daughter, you just be happy here. There is no worry. The
Lord himself has sent you to me. He who creates will also maintain. That
is His duty, your only duty is to appreciate."
"Thank you, you are so kind."
"Of course, for you are my daughter. Now you have not eaten breakfast.
You must eat. Afterwards, we can discuss these little details."
After the Brahman's talk that day, Ram Sadhu informs everyone I will be
remaining with them, then reiterates that they should all serve me in
any way possible. I always manage to be at peace in the class in spite
of the unknown language, for I always challenge myself to sit for the
entire hour without moving.
It is not until the evening that what is happening begins to dawn on me.
Here I am at this moment: A result of 1001 past decisions, accidents,
missed opportunities, failures and successes, forces—seen and unseen,
wrong judgments and right conclusions, all dumped into a caldron to somehow
brew up the present situation.
I truly want to savor this lovely, precious, fragile life in all its splendor,
but with all my grasshopper-ant conditioning, I intermittently feel guilty
at doing nothing at all. We can't sing and dance today, as we must worry
for tomorrow—but tomorrow we are going to die! I have always said
that all I really wanted to do was enjoy the birds and flowers, feed the
animals, and walk in the woods. Here is someone telling me to do just
that. Will I be able to endure the peace? It is one thing to say all I
want to do is sit peacefully and enjoy the birds and flowers, and another
to be able to it.
When I greet him the next morning, Ram Sadhu smiles and pats me on the
head. "You enjoy the life here. The Life itself is God. Your body
is the temple, the temple for the divine Life. That's all I can tell you.
You must live the Life."
By the fifth day my daily routine is established. I awaken at about 4:00
a.m. (without an alarm—now this is a miracle), brew a cup of black
tea with my electric coil, steam my eyes, wash my face, then sweep the
floor and porch. The activity awakens me enough for meditation on my porch
under the spreading lacy leaves of the neem tree. I put a sheet
around me to ward off the cool early morning air, but I only sit on my
little straw mat, as my legs and ankles will hurt no matter what, so no
need to cause commotion over finding a cushion. When my mind really starts
running and my legs complaining, I get up and do some stretching exercises.
About this time, a cup of tea arrives from the kitchen. Thus fortified,
I continue my attempt to meditate until 6:00 a.m.
After meditation, I go indoors for fifteen or twenty minutes of yoga,
including surya namaskara, the salutation to the sun routine. By
sunrise I am out by the river to watch the sun's rays color the clouds
that stretch across the east. The clouds are plentiful as it is still
east-coast monsoon season. I poke and piddle around, looking for anything
unusual in the river bed, while feeding any fish I spot for my daily bhuta
yagna.
The scriptures ascribe five daily offerings. Bhuta yagna is to
offer food to our animal friends. Since most of the birds here are either
insect or nectar eaters, I have not had any success in attracting any
of them with food—except the voracious crows.
The Sadhu always locks the gate to the river after lunch while everyone
is resting and again at night. One day, just as he is locking the gate,
I scramble up the steps.
"I was feeding the fish—bhuta yagna—with some rice
leftover from lunch," I reply to his questioning look.
"Don't you know that it's a bhuta yagna when you feed yourself,"
he replies with a chuckle.
After my morning walk, I have 30 minutes to bathe and put my laundry in
the bucket to soak. Mosquito-buzzing time is over, so I open the shutters
to let in the fresh air. As soon as I am bathed and dressed in a clean
sari, I go to greet the Sadhu with a "namaste" while
he is sitting in his cottage reading the newspaper.
One morning, shaking his head in disbelief, then looking into my eyes,
he tells me, "So there you were in America. Now you've come all this
way and found me here."
"It's a miracle, isn't it?" I reply with a broad smile.
"We can never guess the ways of the Lord. We never know what is next."
Breakfast of rice gruel, sometimes mixed with dal, arrives at my
door about 8:00 a.m. After-wards, I sit outside on a cement bench in the
garden. I read and watch the little sun birds, which frequent the hibiscus
flowers. Since tea is always served after the meal, it arrives some time
during this hour. The winter sun is tolerable until 9:30 a.m., then I
flee to my cool, shady room where I read, or write, until 12:30 p.m.
Lunch is always plain unpolished white rice with a soupy sauce of dal
and a vegetable. About once a week there is a special meal at the orphanage,
as it is the custom among the Hindus to do some charitable deed on certain
occasions like birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and anniversaries of
the parents' death. The family who makes the donation often come to eat
with us or at least to greet Ram Sadhu. However, the Sadhu and Annaji
never eat the special food from these occasions as it has extra oil or
ghee. Or it may contain onion or garlic, both of which are considered
counter-productive to a meditative life.
Ram Sadhu insists that his diet of rice, dal and vegetable is essential
to meditation. "If you want it know a person's mind, watch what he
eats," he declares.
One evening, I cross the river and walk west down the south bank. I pass
wide expanses of rice fields when I come to a tiny village where the women
and children throng to gape at the stranger. They attempt to speak to
me, but I have to give them my usual "Tamil idliya."
A young man, who is standing down the path a short distance , is called
over. He speaks enough English to ask what I am doing here, which is really
all they want to know. I explain that I am simply walking, enjoying the
beauty of the "pu" and "pakshi." (I
have to show off the few Tamil words I know.) When he explains to the
women, they are all smiles, seeming to approve of my interest in the "flowers"
and "birds." Their huts are built off in a group to one side,
not lined along the dirt road track, which is the usual custom here.
I continue walking until I come across a lovely banyan tree, an incredulous
sight of a holy maze. This variety of banyan forms roots on the branches
that eventually reach the ground and start another tree, until one cannot
discern where one tree ends and the other begins. The Hindus hold this
tree sacred, and often a platform or altar has been built under it. Here
there is a huge raised platform made of granite stone and cement. Walking
up the steps, I see several small stone chapels: one contains an image
of Hanuman, a devotee of Rama who was the hero in the Ramayana.
Another enshrines Kali, the Mother Time who laps up one and all in the
end. The awesome black Kali with her necklace of skulls is not worshipped
out of fear, but is invoked to help in removing obstacles or any negative
forces. In her case, she is dancing on her consort, the masculine energy
that empowers her dance of creation and death. The platform is bordered
with a three-foot wall, most of which is edged with metal spears. Each
shaft is tied with a red rag and topped with a green nimbu (lime).
As I proceed down the path, I pass an area of natural forest, then orchards.
No fruit yet, but I conjecture that they are guavas; then I pass large
banana and coconut plantations. A few mud huts for the laborers are scattered
along the route. I suddenly realize that it's so late I better find the
bus to go back to the ashram since night is approaching.
At that moment, I approach a lovely area, full of tall, spreading coconut
palms. Mud huts with thatched huts are scattered through the palms—an
exact replica of the ideal of a primitive, simple life in nature. I am
beholding a picturesque Shangri-La. Seeing the huts are so artistically
created, I figure that they were privately built by the occupants and
not some government or landowner tenement for field laborers. Yet I know
the setting is an illusion; the huts will be dark, damp and full of mosquitoes—and
probably mice. Even so, there is something so appealing about not ever
having to pay rent. Of course, they do have to work to pay for food, but
at one time the people of these idyllic villages would have grown all
of their own staple crops.
As I pass by, several people come out to see the stranger and I greet
them cheerfully. One gentleman among them speaks decent English. After
replying to the five standard questions: "What country?" "What
is your name?" "Are you alone?" "Where are you coming
from?" "What are you doing here?" I ask one of my own:
"How can I get back across the river?"
I am instructed to continue on and just ahead there will be a place to
cross the river. I will then be in Swamimolai, where I can catch a bus.
He was right; the path soon turns and crosses the river via stone steps
down to its bed. Darkness is falling fast as I follow the narrow lane
over to the bus stop by the spires of a mosque.
When I return to the ashram, no one is around, so I busy myself with my
normal routine for no one ever inquires of my comings and goings. After
supper, I am at the outdoor faucet washing my stainless steel plate with
ashes from the wood stove and a chunk of coconut husk, when the Sadhu
approaches.
"It's so dark. Can you see okay?"
"It's fine, Swamiji. I'm not afraid of the dark."
"Yes, but you returned after dark tonight. I think you better at
least tell us in which direction you are going when you leave the ashram."
"I walked on the other side of the river because there is more natural
beauty—and less traffic and people—over there."
"You crossed the river?" His voice expresses a tone of surprise.
"Yes, I crossed the river, walked as far as Swamimolai, then crossed
back over the river and caught a bus."
"Achaa [yes]," he chuckles.
At least he knows that I was not out buying some goodies to stuff my face.
There is not even the common tiny stall with bedis and bananas—India's
version of the 7-11—in the other side of the river.
Daily, I watch the life at the river. The river is ever flowing, in perpetual
motion; unconcerned about who bathes, who drinks, who swims, who washes
clothes in its water. Enjoy me! Enjoy me! I just keep rolling on and on
and on, it sings. But the river is mistaken.
Before the
sun has appeared to radiate its warm rays on the sand and water, the river
bank is visite by a few sand pips and black and white wagtails, along
with a few early risers who come for their morning dump. They will wait
for the sunlight before returning to take their baths in the same waters.
Aournd 8:00 a.m. the river beach becomes the bathhouse and laundromat
for men only. The bathers first wash their dhotis, which they then
stretch out on the sand to dry while they bathe. A couple of men carry
a long pole with them to stick in the groud so they can tie their wet
dhotis on it to wave like prayer flags in the breeze. For a mile
along the river, a brown, round backside shines in every direction.
Around 9:00 a.m., the men clear out and the women and children take over
for bathing and washing clothes. The children run and splash in the water
while their mothers take long, leisurely baths. While sitting in waist-deep
water, they soap themselves lavishly, then rinse by pouring cool water
over their bodies with a small brass pot.
When the women and children leave about 10:00 a.m., the dairyman arrives
with his herd of buffalo, around two dozen, for their daily baths. The
buffaloes love water, so we Americans always call them water buffaloes.
The Indians cannot understand why I do not just say "buffalo."
They give richer milk in greater quantities than a cow, but I find a slight
twang to the milk. The buffaloes are rather lazy, plodding creatures and
love to laze around in a muddy pool on a hot summer day.
They have never been trained as a draft animal, which I thought was strange
since some of them are huge, the size of two or three cows put together.
Then I heard a story of one fellow who had trained his buffalo to pull
a cart, and it seemed to have adjusted. One day they were plodding down
a hot, dusty road when suddenly the buffalo spotted a pond over to the
side of the road. Now buffaloes seldom run, but this one ran hell bent
for a nice cool dip, leaving the driver, cart, straw flying to the wind.
From the
river bank, I can see the clothes washed downstream by the dobhis,
billowing on make-shift clothes lines. I never use these washermen because,
although their beating-on-the-rocks technique works well on simple cloth,
seams become worn, the buttons broken, and the zippers destroyed. Also,
they never spot-check anything—it's simply beat and dry. Any stains
remain as is, or are added unto.
The indispensable dobhi is on the lowest rung of the lowest caste
because he touches the menstrual saris. Actually, his wife is supposed
to wash them, but he gets contaminated also by association. Even in the
dobhi caste, there is a hierarchy based on family, experience,
and quality of work. If one dobhi wants to insult another he may
tell him, "You are so stupid you wash cotton and silk clothes on
the same stone."
In Bangalore near the Aurobindo Bhavan, there is a dobhi colony—two
rows of government-built tiny huts with their own temple in center front.
The dobhis spread out in every direction each morning on bicycles
to pick-up the bundles of clothes from homes or children's uniforms from
residential schools. No one ever brings their clothes to the colony personally.
The dobhi is considered a necessit, a home with air conditioner,
color TV, VCR, and microwave will not have a washing machine. To purchase
one would mean that they would cause their dobhis to lose work.
How they manage to wash the clothes in the muddy lakes and ponds and produce
white clothes is what I call one of India's miracles.
Mid-day
is quiet at the river since all creatures flee to the shade to rest in
the simmering heat of December. Every afternoon, there is a major convening
of crows. They sit in the tops of trees cawing, then descend to the water's
edge where there is a constant dance of jockeying for position—who
bathes first, who gets the best pool, continual flapping and hopping and
fussing as they approach, challenge, then give ground. When they are finally
satisfied that they have completed their ablutions, they fly back to the
tree tops to preen and boast with their noisy crow vocals.
On Sundays a few school children come for a picnic—but the Indians
are not fond of picnics. One Indian described them as "a device invented
by the British to make eating inconvenient." Often when they go for
a picnic, it is just an outing to a scenic spot and there is no food.
Well, I must correct that, you will not ever find an Indian without a
bag of food. What I mean is that on a picnic they will have the usual
bags of snacks, fruit and candies that go with them everywhere, but no
particular meal.
Since I am going to remain here, I leave early one morning to go to town
to buy supplies toward a permanent stay: plastic bucket, detergent, cleaning
agents for walls, etc. Upon arriving, I first find to the Post Office
and buy several inland letters, then walk over to a restaurant for breakfast.
I now have a plan to short-circuit their custom of serving the tea after
the meal. I want tea immediately. When I order, I mention the tea first:
"one cup of chaya tea, bring it first, and one plain dosa
[rice pancake], bring it second." I repeat, "chaya first,"
holding up one finger, then "dosa second," holding up
two fingers. My efforts paid off as I am served the tea first. But five
minutes later, I am served two dosas. Immedi-ately, I realize my
communication error, but I do not even attempt to explain to them. I eat
one and one-half dosa with no problem. For the remainder of my journey,
I use a different technique: first, I order tea; only after it is brought
to me, do I order the breakfast dish.
In the market, I have to meander through a labyrinth of vendors for ten
minutes or so before I find the type of shop I want. The proprietor of
the small stall insists on offering me a cool drink. Enjoying the pause
to sit a few minutes, I slowly sip the cold, sweet nimbu pani,
limeade. I have no idea where the water came from. This is one of those
occasions I simply have to throw caution to the wind for the sake of politeness.
In the countryside and villages I do not have to worry because the water
comes from wells.
The young man then gives me directions to the stall where I will find
notebooks. I buy a large thick one, for I am determined to keep a daily
journal. I have been taking sporadic notes in a diary, but now I am going
to be thorough. Writing daily does not come easily for me; I guess for
the same reason I never enjoyed spectator sports. However, I am going
to make the effort, for Ram Sadhu is too great not to share with others.
This morning
when I told the Sadhu I was going to town to get some supplies, he replied
that he could get me anything I needed. It was not necessary for me to
go out.
"I need to go the Post Office and also to purchase some small items
that I may be particular about, like shampoo and a journal."
"You go, but you do not have to tell me. You can come and go as you
please. This is your home."
When I return that afternoon before satsang, he again mentions,
"I can get you anything you need. You don't have to bother to go
to town."
I had my daily exercise traversing the marketplace, so in the evening
I just putter around the river and make a startling discovery: The river
is totally clear of all people after 6:00 p.m. I have the whole place
all to myself. I stretch out on the dry sand and dream dreams of far away
places embellished with moonbeams glowing through palm leaves.
December
19, 1990
Today was a normal day with no particular ups and downs until my evening
walk. As usual I cross the river and choose a path I have not taken before,
heading due south away from the river. The path skirts rice fields and
a couple acres of sugar cane. Definitely, a productive terrain, I note.
An old woman—
really ancient, her dark leathery skin hangs loose on her thin body—is
plodding along beside me. She is bent from the weight of a huge burlap
sack, stuffed with fodder, so heavy that she weaves as she walks.
To my surprise I come across a small village in the middle of nowhere.
As I pass the yard of the first thatched hut on the path, the largest
buffalo I have ever seen, sporting a fear-inspiring set of horns, looks
up and starts toward me. Thank goodness, I can see that it is securely
tethered. Good Lord, I think, don't tell me that even
a buffalo can recognize a stranger. However, the mystery is soon solved
when the old woman, who had fallen behind me, crosses over and dumps her
load of grass for the big fellow.
The children and women in the yards of the huts remain quiet as they watch
me pass. In the center of the village, I am surprised to see a couple
of "cement" houses. I have not seen any of these city-type houses
on this side of the river. On the steps of the veranda of the largest
one, a young man is sitting along with several children. He stands up
and motions for the children to stand also. I greet them with a "namaste"
and they return it.
He then asks the expected: "Where are you from?"
Then, "What are you doing lonely here?"
"I am just walking."
"But you are lonely. Why isn't someone with you?"
"I guess because I know how to walk by myself."
"But no one walks lonely here."
By now I am moving slowly down the path. "Good-bye," I call
over my shoulder. I walk farther down the path, which is broad enough
to be called a road, but definitely not adequate for cars. I greet several
curious-eyed children with a "namaste.". The road begins cutting
even further away from the river through beautiful bright green rice paddy.
One irrigation pond is full of lovely lilies with a large white crane
fishing in its shallow water. Finally, I have to give up on finding a
path that cuts across to the river. Although I do not want to, I begin
to retrace my steps.
Just as I feared, everyone is on alert: There is a white lady in the village.
A gaggle of giggling children soon surrounds me. I am prevailed upon by
the parents of one little back-eyed cherub to bless him. When I pass the
young man's house again, he jumps up and asks me in—which means to
sit on the veranda, never inside the house. Actually, any wandering sadhu
or traveler is welcome to sleep on these verandas should he arrive in
a village in the night.
The young man says he wants to talk to me for five minutes. I agree and
take a seat on the long wooden bench. His elderly mother, in a heavy silk
sari with her ear lobes covered with large disks of gold and a diamond
gleaming from her nostril, is sitting on a side bench. Although I am sure
she does not know a word of English, she wants a good look at the strange
phenomenon. Every child in the village is crowded into the tiny space
between the verandah and compound fence, making it appear that the verandah
is off-limits for them.
The young man, in his mid-20s, starts to pose his questions, beginning
in the Indian subtle mode: "What are you doing here?"
"I'm staying at the ashram for sadhana."
"What?"
"At the ashram across the river."
"The Swami Ramalinga Ashram?"
"Yes." I am surprised to hear it referred to as a Swami Ramalinga
Ashram. However, there is only one ashram, so I do not want to complicate
matters by debating its name.
"So you are doing service there in the school and boys' home?"
"No, I am not. They are being managed quite well by Indians."
"So what are you doing?"
"I told you, sadhana. You are an Indian, you know what sadhana
means, spiritual practices, like meditation and study of the scriptures."
"So what are you studying?"
"Hindu philosophy."
"So if you are doing service at the ashram, that's okay."
"But, as I told you, I am not doing any service."
"So what are you doing?"
"Sir, I cannot see that I have to explain my actions and motives
to you."
"Oh, I do not mean to be personal."
I take the opportunity to change the subject, "So how long has your
family lived in this house?"
"Five years, it is five years old. It is my older brother's house.
He works in Saudi Arabia."
"I see, so you own land here?"
"Yes, we are landlords. But I am going to be a commercial man and
make a lot of money. Commerce is where the money is."
At that moment, we are interrupted by the servant, who has appeared with
a stainless steel tumbler of hot milk, well sugared. The mother takes
the tumbler from the tray and then carefully puts it into my hands. I
am sizing her up, probably not from Tamil Nadu as she only has one nose
diamond; definitely, must be south Indian, judging from the heavy silk
sari, but not Kerala, they only wear cotton. She could be from Andhra
Pradesh because they have a tendency to immigrate to get good farm land.
But I am not sure though, for a high caste Andhra women would be listening
behind the door, not out in plain sight.
As I take a sip of the rich, buttery buffalo milk, he continues, "Yes,
I'm going to be a wealthy magnate. I will be able to help these poor people."
Then he points to the village children, all dressed in virtual rags, but
none looking hungry. "That is my true desire."
"What will you do to help them?"
We volley back and forth a minute as he does not understand what I mean.
"I will build something like the Swami Ramalinga ashram school, but
first one has to have the financial base."
"One does have to be careful though, we can get so carried away with
making money and accumulating things that we forget the ideals of our
youth."
"I see what you mean. Do you feel you have forgotten your ideals?"
"The truth is I don't recall having any ideals in my youth; I was
much too self-centered. I don't think I have ever given much thought to
the future at all, not in my entire life. But I certainly think to have
a goal like yours is very commendable."
"But one has to have a financial base... [a pause] Will you give
me the address of your organization in America?"
"I have no organization in America."
"You know, the one that sent you here to do service."
"No organization sent me. I came on my own."
"But that is impossible, someone had to pay for your tickets here
and your travel."
"I paid for them myself."
"I don't believe you. It is impossible. Your parents, an organization,
someone paid for your trip."
"It is possible because that is what I did."
"No..."
"Look, your brother is working in Saudi Arabia. I'm sure he makes
enough money for his trip back and forth. He has even saved money to send
here to build this house. So how can you say it is impossible?"
I stand up with my final words, "I need to go now."
I turn and wish his mother "namaste," then start down
the steps.
"By God's grace, may we meet again," his words follow me out
the gate.
Well, it will not be by my grace, I think, because I certainly
will not take this route again. I do not relish these tedious conversations,
although I do learn something about how the locals think and live.
Because
of the delay, fifteen minutes or so, I arrive back at the river after
the sun has set, so it is totally deserted. Even so the sky is streaked
with an afterglow of color, so I stand motionless for a few moments to
take it in. However, the dim light presents me with a challenge when I
try to find a place to cross the river. I have learned that the narrow
strips in the river are often the deepest. The wider places where the
river spreads out and makes ripples, which I first thought were currents,
are actually the shallowest crossings. Tail of my sari in hand,
I pick my spot and wade in what turns out to be ankle-deep water, enjoying
the cool water on my hot, dusty feet.
Day by day the river is disappearing. A week ago I was lucky to find a
crossing that was only knee deep; now it's ankle deep. When I reach the
dry shore, I pause again to catch another long inspiration from the streaks
of purple and rose stretching across the dark sky. Then, taking in the
wonder of that quiet twilight moment, I twirl a couple of times with my
arms out-stretched in joy.
As I turn and start back to the ashram steps, I catch a glimpse of a solitary
figure moving along the river. As it approaches, I realize it is Ram Sadhu.
I have never, ever seen him out of the ashram compound before.
"Good evening, my darling daughter."
"Good evening, my revered Father," I respond with a smile.
The sky has darkened enough that the crescent moon is now shimmering on
the horizon. Together we look up at it. Then he places both hands on top
of his walking stick and looks straight into my eyes.
"It's the second day, two digits. Night before last was the dark
night. Our rsis did such a great task in observing, then naming,
all aspects of nature. The moon has been divided into sixteen kalas,
or sections, of time. Each kala bears the name of a woman."
Weaving back and forth while leaning on his cane, he represents a perfect
picture of the Wizard Merlin.
"These names represent the different parts of the manifested creation?"
"They are the different energy levels that create the different manifestations."
"I see."
He turned and spread his hands, "The Life is everywhere expressing
its joy. Oh, you cannot imagine what wonderful times I have spent here.
I used to lie right out on the warm sand and sleep. There were no buildings,
no lights, no one at all in those days. All this civilization has appeared
in the last twenty-five years."
"How old were you when you left your family?"
"About thirty, but I always knew this was the life for me. Even when
I was a boy, I understood that everything is God. My mother taught me
all these things; she was such a devotee. She also taught me the Ramayana.
Every night she would have me recite some verses before I slept. If I
forgot and slept off, she would even wake me up and say, 'My son, recite
just a few verses for me.' She did not make it seem like something I had
to do, but that it was something that gave her such great pleasure. Of
course, it made me happy to please my mother. Gradually, I memorized many
long passages from the Ramayana.
"We were Brahmans and lived a religious life. No one was surprised
or bothered when I left home. It was natural for me; everyone knew that
it would happen sooner or later."
As we reach the steps up to the ashram compound, Venus is twinkling near
the new moon. He mentions that there was a notice in today's paper that
the dam, upstream from us, is full and the authorities will be releasing
water tomorrow.
"So you must be cautious in your wanderings tomorrow."
"Yes. I will. I am so happy; tomorrow we will have a river again."
Occasionally,
Ram Sadhu comes in and sits on a wooden bench as the rest of us eat. He
never eats with us; the brahmachari serves him in his cottage. Anyway,
he only has a little fruit with a glass of hot milk at night. I always
bow, touch his feet, and say "Good night, Swamiji."
"Right-o, Rajarajeshwari."
When he says this, I lift my eyebrows to demonstrate great doubt, because
this is the name of a goddess.
"Yes, you are a queen in this world. You just don't know it, that's
all."
December
20, 1990
Today I woke up with a slight headache. After a rest I still do not feel
any better, so I opt to take my usual river walk and get some fresh air.
Also I take a dose of Bryonia, one of my trusted homeopathic remedies.
In ten minutes the pain has evaporated, this is the second time that I
have had good results with Bryonia for a headache. Fortunately, it's still
early enough that not many people are out yet. I walk the one-half kilometer
down the river bed to the deep hole where I am sure to find fish to feed
and a couple of kingfishers to admire.
However, I have some trepidation about entering the river bed with the
knowledge of the impending release of water. Logically, if a big inundation
is coming, it will only be released at night because it is not possible
to alert all of the rural villagers. But action in India often defies
logic.
I recall when I was in the Himalayas in 1978, there had been a terrible
flood, which was caused by the Indian equivalent of the Army Corps of
Engineers. Upstream from Uttarkasi, there had been a big log jam across
the Ganga (for some reason the British preferred to mispronounce
it "Ganges") from trees that had fallen in a harsh winter storm.
The debris was so great that a lake had formed and was threatening to
spread out and flood several near-by villages. The engineers rushed in
with as much dynamite as they could carry, put it in the middle of the
dam of timbers, and set the charge. For miles downstream everything within
ten to twenty yards on each side of the banks was leveled, if not by the
force of water, by the huge trees and debris it carried. The greatest
losses were to the sadhus who build their huts along the banks
of the holy river. If there were any human casualties, they went unreported;
no one collects this type of data in India. It was all Mother Ganga's
will. Long live the Ganga!
This morning
the Kauveri remains in her usual dry state. The newspapers said tomorrow,
but considering the Hindi languages uses the same word, kal, for
tomorrow and yesterday; these notices must be subject to indefinable law.
When I return to the ashram, I wash up and greet the Sadhu. Every morning
our dialogue is exactly the same.
"Namaste, good morning, Swamiji."
"Good morning, my darling daughter, are you well with yourself?"
"Yes, Swamiji, I am well."
"Need anything, any food, supplies?"
"No, Swamiji, I need nothing."
"Go have your breakfast. You need to eat too."
Once when I was leaving, I turned and grinned back at him: "Only
one need: eternal peace."
At 3:00 p.m. as I am going over to hang my sari on the clothes
line, I hear an unusual splashing sound. Looking out over the fence, I
see an eagle standing in the river, bathing in a shallow pool of water.
Interestingly, it is only some ten feet from a man taking his bath, and
both appear to be unnoticed and unconcerned by the other. Then a pair
of eagles swoop in to join the first, but stand at the edge of the water.
At that moment, a couple of young boys come running by, totally oblivious
to the birds. The three circle up and around to alight a little farther
downstream to continue their ablutions. Again, within moments, a couple
of dogs come running by.
Although the dogs pay no attention to the eagles, the birds are alerted
and rise, circle, and find a new bathing spot. What a sight to see them
pulsating those giant wings, then enjoying themselves as they dip and
shimmy in the water. As soon as one finishes, it flies to a nearby tree,
and another enters the deeper water for bathing. I do not see two of them
bathing at the same time. They appear to wait in line, perhaps to serve
as lookouts.
December 21, 1990
The river still has not filled up, but I stroll the dry bed with confidence
as the sand trucks are back today. I am glad I have known the river in
this form, a couple of silver streaks winding through the sand, easily
available to man and beast. And it is ever-changing, but not necessarily
of its own volition. The dump trucks, brightly painted in turquoise, yellow
and red, daily carry away loads of sand leaving pits that modify and remold
the two main streams and the secondary channels. As a result, each day
a branch dries up or another branch breaks through between the two channels.
Sometimes small boys build a dam to make a small pool, but the sand seldom
holds the stream back for long.
I have a slight headache again today, so I go for a slow stroll through
the trees and shrubs of the bamboo forest on the west side of the ashram.
I think of Adam walking in the garden of Eden; the responsibility that
humans have to protect the beautiful creations of the plant world. I wonder
what the actual Hebrew word is for "dominion." Man has "dominion
over" the plant and animal kingdom, soon expanded to man over man.
Is that where it began: in Genesis with the term "dominion over,"
rather than "responsibility for"? Or did man write Genesis to
suit his own nature?
All the creation is a manifestation of the incredible diversity of the
One Supreme. Was The Fall just having the capacity to divide the
diversity between good and bad? If so, the ability to drop this acquired
skill must be a key.
A new guest
arrived in the garden this morning; a rust-colored bird with a black-tufted
head and white breast. While watching it, my eye wanders over to a white
flower on a vine that runs along the ashram fence that turns out to be
some type of wild squash. When I look up, I spot a golden-backed woodpecker,
not seven feet away. He has not spotted me, as he goes hopping and pecking,
hopping and pecking, up and down a branch. His feathers are ruffled and
scruffy, definitely contributing to its appearance as an old world bird.
December 22, 1990
I had not thought it possible, but the river can no longer be called a
river. The flow has been completely cut off by the tracks of the sand
trucks leaving long, isolated fingers of motionless water. The water level
is so low today that the buffaloes have to sit down for enough water to
get any relief from the heat. But I do find some minnows to give my leftover
rice. They are playing about in a small pool only a foot deep. In that
pool I spot something else of interest: a small red clay pot—six
inches across—stuffed with a piece of folded banana leaf. I squat
down to observe the layout carefully. Around this pot are a dozen of its
miniature—one and one-half inches across—each pot stuffed with
a pan leaf. Uncooked rice, inedible to the fish, is also scattered around.
Later, I ask brahmachari what the offering I saw in the river signified.
As I suspected, it is the ritual for the ancestors, performed on their
death anniversary. They believe that ancestors partake of the offered
food. I have noticed in the city newspapers, even in Bombay, that the
death anniversary has been modified from a trip to the river to a notice
in the newspaper with a photo, name of deceased, and date of death.
"She
doesn't miss anything, does she?" the brahmachari commented
to Ram Sadhu.
December
23, 1990
I overslept for the first time today, how seriously I do not know because
my watch has decided to become an instrument for stopping time. I assume
it is trying to help me reach the timeless state. However, we now have
temple music that starts blaring promptly at 4:30 a.m., so I doubt I slept
too long with that noise. This blasting of loud music from the temple
just began two days ago, for this is the month of the devas—Margari—the
most auspicious month of the year, primarily celebrated in the south.
For forty-five days everyone in Tamil Nadu lives the life of sannyasa,
abstaining from sex and meat-eating.
This season is particularly associated with a pilgrimage to the Ayyapa
temple. A goal of every man in the South is to visit this temple once
in his lifetime. The men all don a black dhoti for their first
trip. After completion of the Ayyapa pilgrimage, the following years,
the men can wear either orange or blue dhotis. So in late December
and January, hundreds of orange-clad pseudo-sannyasis are rickshaw
drivers, office clerks, and the banana-stall attendants. I was told that
even the Moslems become vegetarians. Therefore, the price of vegetables
skyrockets, especially since it is the rainy season and the principal
vegetables of tomato, eggplant and okra, which all need the hot sun, are
not growing well. In addition to the austerities, special rituals are
performed in the home and everyone goes to the local temple daily. The
boys in the orphanage are rising earlier than usual to be able to parade
around the temple singing bhajans before their morning prayer service.
The music via the loudspeaker is not conducive to meditation, so I decide
to forego the attempt and catch up with my journal writing.
After breakfast,
as usual I sit in the garden reading and watching the tree with tiny fragrant
trumpet flowers. The yellow flowers are so small and insignificant that
only the nectar suckers and I appreciate them. I hear a chirp, "Look,
look, look at me" and raise my eyes to see a tiny black bird stretch
his wings to pivot slightly to show me the bright iridescent blue patch
on his shoulders and back. His long curved bill fits easily into the small
tube of a flower. The other two nectar suckers that frequent the flowers
are yellow breasted. They seldom make a sound, but the bobbing of the
flowering branches indicates their presence.
Today the river is down another foot. Only a pair of eagles come to bathe.
After standing and hopping, standing and hopping, they only find eagle-knee-deep
water. Finally, they give up and fly upstream, seeking better possibilities
for a cool-down. The black and white kingfishers are out in full force.
Kerplunk. Kerplunk. They are having good luck and only have to hang in
the air for a few seconds to spot their prey. Whereas earlier I have seen
them hover for at least sixty seconds at a time. What skill they flaunt
as they bend their body into a forty-five degree angle, spin their wings,
and dive straight into the water, disappearing completely, then emerging
with a silver sliver in their bills.
My patroness,
that is, the owner of the cottage I am staying in, arrived today. A widow
of ten years, she is petite and vital, a typical Tamil woman. Even though
she is going to spend the night, she insists that I not move out of her
cottage. She says she can simply sleep in another place, probably on a
straw mat on the kitchen floor. Another example of Indian hospitality
that is not to be equaled in all the world. They believe that a guest
is god, and act accordingly. She spends a lot of time talking to Ram Sadhu,
in Tamil, so I did not even get a drift of the theme. Also she finds some
time to help in the kitchen. When returning from washing my dishes, I
meet the Sadhu coming up the path.
"Aaka," he calls out to me, which means "elder sister"
in Tamil and is a definitely a term of respect connoting the wisdom of
an elder.
"Tatta," I return his greeting. He gets a good laugh
over my reply, as I surprise him with my knowledge of the Tamil word for
"Grandfather," also a term of respect. You see the Indians consider
it disrespectful to call anyone by their given names. So there is a title
of respect for everyone: tambi, younger brother; anna, elder
brother, etc. You may have noticed that I never call Ram Sadhu by his
name. Although he is not a swami, we all call him "Swamiji"
as a term of respect, since he really lives the life of a renunciate,
or sannyasi.
A great example of this custom of respect appears in the Ramayana.
During their wanderings, Rama, Lakshana and Sita visit a small rural village.
The women are serving the three guests equally, not wanting to favor anyone,
even the Lord Rama. However, when they get the first opportunity, they
take Sita aside and ask, "Which one is Rama?" Sita cannot point
to her husband (pointing must be considered rude everywhere) and she has
never dared utter his name. "My husband is the dark-skinned one,"
she replies, thus remaining in the confines of respect.
The most universal way, although more common in the North, to entitle
someone is to add the Hindu suffix "ji" to the name, so I am
usually called "Nancyji." Since I am the only female here, I
am most often referred to as "she." You may also note that Ram
Sadhu has never called me by my name, but "daughter," or sometimes
"aaka" elder sister. Tonight, "Tatta"
presses a little packet of candy into my palm.
I was up
before the usual 4:00 a.m. this morning. It is not as difficult as it
seems because sometimes I am asleep by 9:00 p.m. Besides, I am sleeping
on a bed of a hard plank board without a mattress. I awaken almost every
hour to change sides as my hip bones are feeling bruised. I made the mistake
of leaving my thinsulate pad in Bangalore; one that I will not repeat.
The quiet of the night settles early here. However, one bird awakens occasionally
during the night to squawk, chatter and complain about something; then
it settles back into silence. I suspect it's a myna; they have such a
wide range of voice possibilities. Since I am up early, I quickly scurry
about with washing my face, drinking a cup of hot tea, and straightening
my bed. So I will have 15 or 20 minutes for meditation before the blasting
of the loudspeaker begins.
The blaring always starts on schedule. Indians are never on time for anything,
but that music commences at 4:30 a.m. rain or shine. I would sure like
to tell the person who invented the loudspeaker a thing or two. So when
the blasting starts, I stop my attempt at meeting the Divine through meditation
and start reading the Ramayana, out loud to help my concentration.
Last night the Sadhu delivered a thick, English translation to my door
just before I retired.
After breakfast, I go by the Sadhu's cottage to check the only calendar
to be sure of the date.
"It's the 24th. Tomorrow is Christmas," I mention to him.
"Yes, do you need anything special, it being Christ's birthday?"
"No. Christmas is a festival of materialism for us, not anything
spiritual. I am glad to be away from that madness. Although I realize
how great Christ and his teachings were, I'm not interested in Christianity
as a religion, or in any religion for that matter. However, the Christians
are too narrow-minded for me."
"Don't concern yourself. Narrow-minded, not narrow-minded. It's all
the same Life. Let them be; you just be at peace. That's all I want of
you: shanti, shanti."
"Yes, you are certainly right. I do not want to be narrow-minded
about narrow-mindedness."
The phoebe-like
birds have come to my porch in their daily scavenging for bugs and worms
throughout the ashram grounds. Although they seldom sing, they have a
lovely song that includes a distinctive trill at the end of each line.
A durango also visited us today. He is solid black with a long tail split
into two forks. I have often seen him quietly sitting on a high wire,
but today he was swooping and dipping after bugs. Later I see him taking
a ride on the back of a black goat. I am amused because he has always
seemed such a loner before.
Since it is Christmas Eve, I want be quiet. In early evening, I pick a
dry spot and sit on the sand to watch the sunset. The monsoon with its
puffy clouds produces the loveliest of sunsets. Broad streaks of gray
strata along the horizon reflect the rays of the sun up to the higher
cumulus clouds to color them with orange and gold. A fat crescent moon
hangs overhead and a stray wisp of a cloud, bright pink, floats by it.
I watch the evening star disappear behind a gray streak, then reappear,
then disappear and reappear again. Slowly the moon fades into the murky
dusk above the horizon. I lie back in the sand and watch the moon through
the fringed arms of the palm trees that fan the settling darkness. And
I wait. Yes, there they are. Tiny lights that glow and fade, glow and
fade and glow. Fireflies at Christmas time.
December 25, 1990
Christmas morning dawns foggy and chilly. I complete my daily reading
of the Ramayana with extreme joy; it is so incredibly beautiful.
The Indians say that the Ramayana not only portrays the divinity
of all life, it also extols the nobility of life. I am half-finished with
my morning yoga routine when there is a knock at the door. The brahmachari
peeps his head in the door and tells me, "Annaji has suggested that
you come over for the morning prayers and lighting of the lamp, since
it is Christmas."
"When?"
"In five minutes."
I quickly wrap myself in a clean sari and walk the short distance
to the school prayer room. As I take my seat on the square of carpet placed
for me, I smile, for the shrines are decorated with tiny twinkling lights.
Seeing them puts me in a cheerful mood, for I love Christmas lights. The
boys sing their morning prayers, then I give each an orange and apple—Santa
in India, or something like that. I had arranged for the fruit and a special
meal in honor of my mother, since she has a Christmas birthday. Sitting
there, I recall, although it is 7:00 a.m. on Christmas morning here, it
will be 7:00 p.m. Christmas Eve in U.S. I shutter at the thought of the
Christmas Eve madness that I have experienced in the past. I have been
totally guilty too. I love giving gifts, decorating and cooking for Christmas.
However, if we Christians put as much time, thought and energy into the
preparation for Christ's birth in our hearts, as we do on gifts and food,
the world would certainly be a different place today.
A new bird arrived in the garden today, as large as the koel. A large
member of the cuckoo family; it is black, brown and white with a long
tail with a broad stripe of white. I have never seen this bird before
and am trilled to see it in flight with its tail pointed like an arrow.
It heads for the neem tree whose berries must be his main interest,
but the tiny fruit is nearly finished. The smaller phoebe-like birds are
singing merrily today. Are they happy at having a cool, shady day, or
do they know it is Christmas?
After supper I am floating peacefully through the garden when I encounter
the Sadhu. "No stars tonight, Swamiji. But there is a big fire up
the river. The sky is glowing with pink smoke in that direction,"
I express my concern.
He turns and looks, "They are firing bricks."
"Firing bricks? Yes, of course." How often have I seen the pyramids
of the ancient brick-making method in progress, but never the actual firing.
December
26, 1990
Yesterday the Sadhu suggested that I start pranayama, or breathing
exercises. After class today he asks me to make a chart of my pranayama
practice; how many rounds and how long it takes. He has already recommended
that I try for twelve rounds at each sitting.
"You should do it 48 times a day."
"But 12 times the three hours means 36 total."
He does not reply. I decide that since twelve is still a bit of a strain
for me that I will continue to do twelve for a couple of days. Then I
can add one cycle each day until I reach the higher number.
As far as I can tell the water has still not been released upstream, although
one narrow channel is winding through the sand. I think it must be from
a bit of rain somewhere north of here. The buffaloes have to be satisfied
with wetting their hooves and taking a drink, as water is too low for
a buffalo bath. I wonder where the villagers are bathing and doing their
laundry. The bamboo poles holding lines of billowing clothes are still
visible downstream, so the dobhi continues his trade. The river is so
quiet that I can actually hear the slap of the clothes on the rocks.
For my
evening walk, I cross the non-existent river to the other shore and start
down the closest path, which passes the crematorium shed. I am half way
up the stone stairs before I am aware that there is smoke coming from
it. The red crepe paper poppies and colored streamers strewn about give
evidence of a recent procession, which strangely I had not heard. Usually,
there are loud drums to warn one and all of the potential pollution. Once
when I was in Chidambaram, a bier (the usual two bamboo poles supporting
the body, which was wrapped in white cotton cloth) was approaching me.
One of the two priests clapped his hands vigorously when he saw me. A
warning to me of the polluting corpse. . . or vice versa?
To the Hindu pollution is not physical. It has nothing to do with human
excrement in the rivers they drink out of, the open sewers that run by
their homes, the mounds of human poop along the roadway. Pollution is
a vibrational thing—the touch of an uncouth person, the shadow of
a toilet cleaner, food cooked by the impure person or a menstruating woman—but
the presence of a dead body is the worst pollution of all. Yes, cremators
are definitely untouchables, but some have managed to take advantage of
their position for some economic leverage.
At the top of the rung of this untouchable community—all castes have
strict and complicated hierarchies—is the Benares clan. Tradition
has it that if you die in the holy city of Benares you will be liberated
from the cycle of birth and death. No matter your past errors, they are
rendered null and void. So there are a lot of Hindus migrating to retire
in Benares, making a booming business for the Doms—the undertakers
there. First, the cost of wood for the cremation is high; they can, and
do, charge a premium. One cannot start a funeral pyre with any old match,
so the service of providing the fire brand from the perpetual flame calls
for an another fee. If the family of the deceased is wealthy, additional
gifts are extracted. The head honcho, called the Dom Raja—
(Recognize the word raja, "king"?), negotiates all the
accounts. He is reputed to be the wealthiest man in all of Benares. Typical
of caste hierarchy, his position is inherited, not elected or bought.
So here I am in the midst of polluting smoke from the local crematory,
which is not exactly pleasant for me either. An Indian would have avoided
the polluting smoke at all costs, but holding my breath, I scurry past
the structure. Not without taking mental notes: the pyre is a small, a
tidy heap with the outside totally covered with round cow-dung cakes,
placed around it in an orderly fashion. A neat pile of them sits nearby,
ready for service though no caretaker is visible. When I do have to take
a small breath, I am astonished to find that I only smell grilled steak.
Can you believe it? A funeral pyre only smells like the neighbors barbecuing
in their back yard.
Leisurely, I walk past green fields of waving rice. A row of women are
weeding the plants. Work-ing across a row together, they move in unison.
Their colorful saris of red, orange and green billow in the stiff
breeze. These rustics are crazy about the colorful nylon and polyester
saris. One cannot blame them for wanting a sari that is
easy to wash and dry. However, on a typical tropical day in south India,
it's like being in a steam cabinet. Yes, I am speaking from personal experience.
I almost had to disrobe in the middle of the street once when I borrowed
one of Usha's nylon saris in a pinch during the monsoon season.
I purposely walk past the spot where I had seen the lovely green pin-tailed
birds dust-bathing one evening. Lined up on high wires, they are here
again today. They show off with an occasional pivot, flourished with a
swirl as they catch a passing insect. I have never seen these bee-eaters
so near civilization before; they like the open fields. Here they seem
to have happily adapted to modern man's inventions. Afterwards I go by
the Banyan tree temple. I place a purple flower and a coin in the Kali
Shrine—we all must bow to Mother Time—sooner or later.
Taking deep breath, I pause a moment in this most ancient of temples;
humankind's first temples, even in Europe, were under a wonderful tree.
I breathe in the beauty of the overhead boughs draped with green leaves.
As per the dictates of custom, several Neem trees are also are growing
here, but they have remained small in the shade of the large Banyan. The
marriage of these two varieties of trees is supposed to produce the vibrational
environment for the granting of desired progeny. Yes, they are still praying
for babies here in India. Black granite stones, each carved with a caduceus,
the serpent symbol of vital life, are placed under these trees by couples
in a ritual to beget children. The serpent in India has not received the
bad press that is has in the West via the Hebraic scriptures. Here it
is considered a positive omen—it's LIFE.
In the
evening the Sadhu sits in the kitchen during supper. After I have finished
eating, he asks if I am doing the pranayama.
"Yes, I'm doing it."
"That's 36 times, but you must do 48."
Just as I open my mouth to explain I plan to gradually increase the number,
he continues, "There is another time, you know."
"What time?" I am puzzled.
"Oh, yes. At twelve midnight. It is the best time."
"It may be the best time, but it is not my best time. If I am going
to get up early, I have to sleep early. I can't possibly stay up until
midnight."
"Let it be. You do as you can. It's my duty to tell you these things;
that is all I can do."
"Well, I usually wake up around 1:00 a.m.; I could do the pranayama
then."
"Sary [okay in Tamil], you do that. I know you are
getting up early." He turns to the brahmachari, "She
gets up at 4:00 a.m. I've watched the light go on in her room."
"You don't know what a miracle that is—my getting up at 4:00
a.m. and without an alarm clock. I'm used to waking up a 7:00 a.m. every
day in Pondy."
"Here we do nothing but sadhana. That's why we are here. We
have no interest or concern with the material world."
"The old buffalo is being pretty cooperative up to now. I don't want
to overwhelm the old fellow," I comment with a smile as I pat the
hip of my body.
"Rama, Rama. Who has sent me this daughter?" the Sadhu mutters
as he exits into the dark night.
December
28/, 1990
I set out for a morning walk through the sand bottoms where once a river
flowed, for the trickle that appeared yesterday is gone today. I pass
the small pool of the pots left from the ceremony for the ancestors. Every
time I pass this way I eyeball the cute little miniature clay pots. They
look so common, but try to find them in the marketplace. For the sake
of the ancestors, I resist pilfering one. The lack of flow has left the
water limpid and clear and the largest pot has overturned, so I can see
additional details. The large pot was sitting on a flat, gray stone with
a red cloth underneath and was full of rice. I can also discern that some
of the small pots contained mango leaves, instead of paan leaves.
When I go to wish the Sadhu good morning, he again asks about the pranayama.
"It's going fine. I did do one cycle when I woke up a 1:00 a.m.,
but I had difficulty getting back to sleep."
"Sleep. We don't want to sleep; we must conquer sleep."
I know this sleepless phenomenon of the Hindus is mentioned in several
scriptures. Even in the Bhagavad Gita, "the sleepless one"
is one of the accolades that Lord Krsna gives to the hero, Arjuna. But
to one who has claimed what she does best is sleep, the idea has not been
given much consideration.
"If there's no mind, who sleeps?" he continues.
"If there is not mind, then there's no one to sleep."
"Right-o."
"So you never sleep?" I question him.
"I do rest the body. The body has to have food and rest, but I never
sleep. I let my body rest until 1:00 a.m. I've been sitting in this chair
since then—no sleep—and I'm totally fresh," he says with
a twinkle in his eye. "We must rid ourselves of laziness."
"Oh, yes, Ms. Laziness. Well, I certainly know her. I can honestly
say that I know that I know laziness."
Surely, to some extent sleep is an escape and a forgetting. Is that why
I am getting by easily with less sleep—nothing happening during the
day to escape or forget?
It is one
of those clear, bright spring days—yes, December is spring here—so
bright and crisp that the mind naturally stands lucid and transparent,
content with the world. The bulbul is declaring his presence in the garden
with his melodious song. The rust, black and white bird has found a mate
and they are fluttering and chirping in a nearby tree. The little black
nectar sucker is back testing the tubular yellow blossoms that have just
opened. As it turns out, these flowers are more difficult to sup from
as their clusters are on willowy branches not suitable for perching. The
tiny sipper is forced to hover and spin his wings in midair to collect
the nectar. The tiny black sunbird is accompanied by a plain two-toned
gray one, who must be his mate. The iridescence spreads over his shoulders
and head like a little jewel!
Today the eagles arrive early, at 11:00 a.m., to bathe. I suppose they
feared there would be no water if they waited any later. At that time,
a rural lady passes through the sandy by-way with her prized buffalo—a
monstrous one with horns turned back along its neck and back, so long
and heavy I am shocked that she can balance them while walking. Her young
offspring tags after the both of them. The eagle plays it safe and lifts
himself out of the water with a quick down-thrust of its wings. He swoops
and careers at a low level along the river's course, then lands to take
a third dip in the water.
In the evening, I discover a pond full of white water lilies close to
the cremation shed. Nearby an eagle is perched in a palm tree. He does
not fly away at my approach, but moves his head slightly up and down to
let me know that he has noticed me. I return early the next morning to
find him sitting on the same palm frond. It is early enough that no one
is around to disturb my peace. Contentedly, I sit on my straw mat appreciating
the lilies that are half opened, admiring two turquoise kingfishers on
a nearby stubby reed, and enjoying the antics of a small water snake as
he glides through the water.
Too soon, though, the local male genre begin arriving to dip their tails
in the pond. Oh, dear, the first fellow is dipping right where I have
been watching the snake. So this idyllic pond is a toilet too. I reconcile
myself to the reality and never return. I eventually give up the plan
to sit for a morning contemplation of nature as there is simply no good
bird-watching spot that is not near the water, therefore, used as the
local toilet. I occasionally pass that way on my evening walks, but I
never see the eagle again.
December
27, 1990
When I go out at the first crack of dawn for my morning stroll, I am thrilled
to see that the river has returned. The two narrow channels are now broad
and indolent, so the flow is about the same as when I arrived. The sun
begins to send shades of rose to announce its arrival. The water catches
the color and robes the river with shades of orange for a royal start
of the day. Only myself and an errant bat, winging its way to its daytime
hideout, are present to admire it.
As usual at 9:00 a.m., I go out to the garden bench with a book to partake
of sun rays and birds' songs. Every day I like to practice consciously
being grateful for being here in this beautiful environment. Ram Sadhu
is usually sitting nearby on the bench by his cottage.
"One can get so many books, but you must read only those written
by people of experience. That book, Serpent Power, written by.
. . . Well, I can't recall his name."
"Woodruff? John Woodruff? He was actually an accomplished yogi?"
"Oh yes, he studied and practiced all these things and understood
them from firsthand experience."
"I bought that book when I was here in 1979, but I never had time
to even open it when I returned home. It remains packed in a box."
"Too bad. You would have learned a lot. You must awaken that serpent
power that sleeps in the mooladhara [the root energy center]. That
subtle force is like an electrical force. There are two levels of electricity:
material and spiritual. The material level is the body. It is only electricity,
vibration. After that serpent power awakens and pervades the body, every
cell vibrates with sound. After that there is light—only light."
He pauses, then continues, " Don't your scriptures also say, 'If
your eye be single, your whole body will be filled with light'? It's one
and the same light, for ultimately there is only one light in creation."
"Is the sound like Om?"
"Not really; it's not like a sound you can vocalize. But you can
say Om is a symbol for that primordial sound."
With a gleam in his eye, he wiggles his finger back and forth while moving
it upward. "That's the power like the serpent that raises you to
God."
"But in the Old Testament, it was the serpent that caused the downfall
of man."
"That is another thing, not this at all."
I later wondered if the serpent of the garden was the crocodile in the
Hindu system. It sits in the second chakra that represents the seat of
passion—and power. Weren't Adam and Eve seeking power—the power
to become as gods?
In the
evening the water is even higher, too deep to wade across, leaving me
stranded on the civilized side of the river for my walks.
"Ah, the river has at last become a river, Swamiji."
"Yes, it is coming. They empty that dam into three separate rivers,
so we don't know when we will get our ration. It will soon fill up to
the steps."
After a short walk in the bamboo grove, I return to the sandy beach to
sit and watch the sunset. The sunsets in the South are slow and languid,
especially compared to the sun's quick exit in the mountains of the North.
The long, broad strokes of bright rose remain brilliant for a long time,
almost as if it had decided to become a permanent set on the world scene.
Often, several phases of color spread across the westerm sky, but tonight
the rose hue lasts, then, ever so imperceptibly, slowly deepens and darkens.
A lone crow appears graceful as it wings its way to the woods for rest.
December
29, 1990
There is no sunrise this morning as dark gray clouds hang in the East.
Only a faint color reflects in the clear band on the western horizon.
Since we are about fifty miles inland, we only catch the edge of the monsoon
that travels up the east coast. I bet Usha is getting inundated in Pondicherry.
In the early days of the rainy season in November, the storms are so massive
this distance makes little difference, but they taper off by late December.
I put on a sweater to sit out on my bench for reading and thinking. Caught
up with life, we never have time to question the mystery of the world
with its immensity of implications. In our fixed track from home to the
office, from the refrigerator to the TV, who takes time to explore the
marvels of nature—the melodious song hidden in a bird's egg, the
fluttering of jeweled wings concealed in a fuzzy caterpillar, the spreading
oak tucked in a tiny acorn?
Who indeed can understand these unfathomable secrets of nature? We even
ignore and never wonder at the mysteries we carry within. How did we know
how to build this physical body—by what intelligence? And our dream
selves, where do we get the eyes, ears and mouth to see, hear and speak
in our dreams? How do we make the sounds that we hear, the images that
we see? While dreaming, we are the set artist, the actor on the stage
and writer and director—all in one. Surely, contemplating these things
should be sufficient to cause us to appreciate and wonder daily at the
mystery that we are.
Ram Sadhu
walks over to the gate, opens it, and stands watching the river. After
some minutes, he speaks to the boys playing in the sand. They have ten
days' vacation after exams, but most of the boys from the orphanage remain
here, having no home to return to. Although most of them do have one parent
alive, the parent will be living in the streets. Even though I never understand
a word, it is always a joy to see the Sadhu talking with them. He speaks
so sweetly and lovingly, showing genuine interest in them.
I remain on the bench reading when out of the corner of my eye I catch
the orange of Ram Sadhu's clothes rounding the corner going back to his
cottage. At that moment, a bulbul breaks into song. A wave of sweet peace
arises from I know not where. My eyes close in sweet contentment. This
world and this Sadhu are amazing. What wonder I experience as my mind
spreads out to experience the joy of creation, the joy of the birds who
chirp, the sun that gives light, the leaves that give shade, the flowers
that give delight, the earth that gives support, the breeze that cools
and caresses my skin.
When it becomes too hot, I go to my room to write in my journal. Afterwards,
to stretch my legs and breathe some fresh air, I walk outside to check
to see if the river is still rising. I walk down the stairs and across
the sandy beach to its edge. Calmly I stand watching the widening expanse
of water running to the sea. The sight tells me something about the combination
of the flow and foundation of life. The masters say that shakti
(energy, power) can be drawn into the body from different sources such
as the sun, water, fire, lightning, air and ether. I would also add, especially
flowing water. In the Chinese Buddhist tradition, several monks were enlightened
while watching the flow of a river, so I am not the only one who thinks
so.
A pool
is forming in the hole that the boys have hollowed out the last few days—bucket
by bucket—carrying sand to their playground. This morning they dug
a canal from the hole to the river so that it would fill up with water.
I turn to return to the ashram and catch a flash of orange turn from the
fence. The Sadhu was watching me. I had suspected so before, but this
is the first time I actually caught him. When I climb the steps, he is
stooped over his flowers with his back to me. As I reach my porch, I realize
that again I am experiencing a wave of indescribable peace. It feels as
the cells of my body are waking to a wonderful aliveness. It is kind of
like the feeling of anxiety, but that feeling is hot and oppressive, whereas
this feeling is cool and comfortable. So the Sadhu may be getting through
my thick hide after all.
It drizzled all night last night, but cleared with the early rays of the
sun. I approach the beach cautiously as there are five or six stray dogs
lying on the sand. As usual, they don't seem to notice me. Little wonder,
they must be tired from barking for hours last night. The rising sun is
obscured by one huge cumulus cloud that looks like a giant rooster striding
across the sky. Its comb, beak and tip of the raised wing are back-lit
with golden pink. A large column of darker pink reflects in the rippling
river, now in full flow, from bank to bank. The ripples magnify and play
with the bright color, outlined by dark gray on one side and by clear
pale blue on the other.
"Good morning, Swamiji. The river is flowing; the sun is shining;
the birds are singing; that is all."
He then chants a verse by the Vedantic sage and poet, Ram Tirtha:
I will tell you my supreme vocation,
Before me there was no creation
It was I who raised the sun out of the sea.
At least
every other day, I go to the cottage of Siva RamaKrishna to discuss the
Ramanaya. Our conversations are always informative, but the most
interesting part is when he talks about Ram Sadhu's past. He told me that
the principal benefactor of the ashram and school was a Jain merchant.
Years ago, his young son fell into the river and was being carried away.
The few bystanders were helpless, for Indians do not know how to swim.
Ram Sadhu happened to be just downstream from the commotion. Seeing the
boy floating by, he jumped in the water and saved him. The father showed
his gratitude by contributing generously to the charitable institutions
here.
Siva RamaKrishna also told me that Ram Sadhu was quite an expert in herbal
healing. In fact, when he came to Kumbakonam, he began to prepare his
herbs for the local people. Of course, more and more people came for his
medicines. Originally, he had come to this area with a guru, who
returned a year later to behold his student totally immersed in making
medicines for everyone.
"I left you here to do sadhana. You could have stayed at home
in Lahore if you were going to do this work," his guru admonished
him.
Ram Sadhu got the message and threw all of his pots for herbal preparations
into the river. However, he does do one "work", as he refers
to it. Every morning after the boys put out fresh flowers on the altar
at the school, they bring him all the old ones. The Sadhu spreads them
out on a couple of burlap bags, turning them several times during the
day to make sure they dry out well. Then, just at dusk, peak mosquito
time here, the brahmachari brings some coals from the kitchen in
a small cast-iron brazier. The Sadhu sprinkles the dried flowers over
the coals, producing a thick black smoke—a natural mosquito repellent.
Once when it was sprinkling, I put the burlap bags under the benches,
so the flowers would not get wet. The Sadhu saw me from his open-air room
and called to me, "You leave those alone. That is my work."
"I am just putting them out of the rain. It's sprinkling."
"Oh, that's okay then," he replied.
Today while he is fussing with the flowers, I pick up a handful of neem
berries from my porch and take them over to ask him if they have some
use.
"Yes, for medicine. They are one ingredient in the medicine I make
for the children when they get a cold."
He pauses to take them and examine them. "Where did you get them?"
"Right in my yard, the crows are eating some and knocking others
down."
He looks up and laughs at seeing the crows in the very top of the tree,
clinging to the end of the branches where the tree forms its bitter fruit.
"Ah, look at them enjoying the Life."
The chubby
swami who has been my next-door neighbor left today to visit another ashram
to help a sick friend. His name is Karunananda (bliss of compassion),
but I call him Khanananda (bliss of food). This is the negative aspect
of my sense of humor, criticizing this swami behind his back. However,
I do refrain from sharing this label with others. It does seem that this
swami's chief interest is food. With plastic tote over his arm, he takes
off to the market every day. When I pass his door before mealtime, I always
hear the sound of grinding or chopping, as he is preparing chutney or
condiments to spice up the bland food. Although he eats the ashram food,
and plenty of it, he never eats with us. He picks up his filled plate
in the kitchen and returns to his room, always taking his time to check
carefully to be sure the brahmachari has served him every dish.
He reprimands the brahmachari sharply if he thinks he has missed out on
something.
Within a week of my arrival I knew that Swami Khanananda would be leaving
soon. Therefore, I knew the time was limited that I had to listen to the
noise from his radio, particularly the news in Hindi. There is so much
static I wonder how he understands anything. Then there is the noise of
his morning ablutions. He's up at 5:30 a.m. to start the day with those
horrific hawking sounds that the Indians seem to think are necessary for
their daily cleansing. One morning I saw Siva RamaKrishna from across
the garden; he was out by his cottage gagging away. Thinking he was ill,
I grabbed the Nux Vomica remedy and went rushing over to rescue him. He
told me that he was onlydoing his daily hawking routine. I'm still not
sure, he looked awfully pale to me.
Swami Khanananda does not seem to fit into the ashram life, for he is
always late for the afternoon class. It must be a terrible nuisance for
him to have to listen to Ram Sadhu compliment my ability to sit for an
hour on the floor without moving, as he seems to be unable to sit still
for even five minutes. The possibility also exists that he does not want
a woman in the ashram, for he has never spoken to me once. This attitude
is a bitter pill for most, particularly European, women. They take it
as an insult that women have to be covered from head to toe, while men
runabout in a simple loin cloth—even nude. This behavior is based
on the belief that the men will easily be tempted by the sight of a woman's
flesh, whereas women are above such wanton desire.
Sunday
always brings visitors from town. A priest comes to give a discourse on
the Bhagavad Gita in Tamil. Since I understand nothing, I use the
time to meditate, although it is difficult as the priest speaks in a loud
sing-song voice. One regular Sunday visitor is Mr. Guruswami, a retired
engineer. He is a very kind person and always interviews me: Anything
you need? Things going well? How about the food? How long will you stay?
When are you leaving for Pondicherry?
Then he flies over to the Sadhu's cottage; I suppose to give him a report.
In any case, during the interrogations, I am able to gleam tidbits of
information on India's culture. He told me that he figured out what my
name means: nan is the "I" and "my" thought,
that is, the ego; si means "discordant." So my name in
Tamil translates to mean: "the one discordant, or dissatisfied with,
the ego."
This morning he asks me to give him some insights of the point of view
of "you people" in regard to several religious ideas, like "Why
are we born?" and "What is the meaning of life?"
"Well, I think you know that Christians do not believe there is any
meaning to life itself. When a human is born, it is a random happening,
entirely of biological origins."
"That could not be so. Because I have heard the Christians speak
of eternal life."
"But when they speak of eternal life, they only mean life continues
after death, not that it existed before birth."
"But how can something be eternal that did not already exist before
birth, it is a contradiction in logic. Don't they think. . . ."
"No, they do not think," I cut him short. "Christianity
is a religion of faith, not logic. That's why so many Eurpopeans and Americans
come to India."
"But faith in what? Faith in your innate divinity?"
"Well, certainly, Christ did speak of our divinity, but that is not
the basis of faith. The words of Christ are the basis of faith, but not
those particular words that speak of our innate divinity, for the Christians
are more interested in our innate condition of sin. Really, it's not that
easy to explain." I pause a moment, then make another attempt. "Since
we are born in sin, the purpose of life is to be saved from our sinful
state. So the purpose of life is to be saved through Christ's intervention,
but there is no meaning to life itself."
Mr. Guruswami remains speechless, so I continue: "As I see it, Hinduism
has three essential things that Christianity lacks: First, a credible
philosophy and logic to back up the religious practices. Second, in India,
in every generation, there has been a continual flow of God-realized saints
to guide and inspire the populace. Third, among these saints, there have
always been scholarly sages who have interpreted the scriptures according
to their unique social conditions and time in history. So due to this
continual renewal, the religion has remained viable.
"The utterances of these sages are treated with the same respect
as those of the ancient sages because the wisdom is from the same fount,
the sanatana dharma, the 'eternal wisdom' that is humanity's birthright.
The inspired Biblical writings ended in 30 AD, but the inspired writings
never end in Bharata.
"How can a religion that says there is one teacher, and he has said
it all, remain flexible and fresh? But we must not concern ourselves,
the Christians, along with the Buddhists and Muslims, remain very happy
believing they are the only ones who are going to heaven," I finally
finish my tirade.
He immediately interjects, "To heaven? We don't want to go to heaven;
heavenly pleasures are only a temporary stepping-stone to another life
on earth. We enjoy there only as long as our punya, merit, lasts.
Then when the punya is exhausted we have to return for another
human birth until we have our final birth—when we realize our innate
divinity."
"Hummm. Well. . ." He's sure got me stuttering now. "Let's
see. If heaven is only temporary, then hell might only be temporary too.
Then how could the preachers scare people into heaven? You see they need
us to believe there is only one life."
"One life time per person?" he questions.
"Yes, one life time per person to do it all," I reply.
"Hummm. That would be rather limiting, wouldn't it."
When Mr. Guruswami came today, he presented me with a nimbu, lime,
to ward off evil spirits for the new year. He also gave me the addresses
of two relatives in Pondicherry, should I need anything while I am there.
He has known Ram Sadhu for many years and has started putting together
a biography from information he has gleamed directly from Ram Sadhu and
other devotees.
He is very talkative and is quite happy to fill me in with some details
of Ram Sadhu's life as Sundar Das. We are such creatures of curiosity
to be intrigued by a sage's personal history. As if "counting other
people's money" will benefit us. It is hard to believe, but Sundar
Das served in the British military in World War I in Mesopotamia. That's
how he got his "right-o" jargon.
As his strapping 6' 2" body testifies, the future Sadhu was born
in Punjab to a distinguished family of Jallian Brahmans, who had served
as ministers to the kings in that area. The kings always gave land to
those who served them, so the Brahmans lived a simple life with family
property to support themselves. Their role in the society was to give
spiritual, as well as practical, advice. In Punjab, they also excelled
in herbal healing, Ayurveda, and were the only doctors in that area.
Although his earliest childhood was embellished with all his wishes fulfilled,
Sundar Das received a blow early in life. For when he was eight years
of age, his father died, leaving his young wife with three sons to support.
We can assume they had cows for their own milk and grew enough wheat and
vegetables for the maintenance of the household. But never fruits or vegetables
to sell; for a Brahman is a Brahman, and a merchant is a merchant.
As her ancestors had done, Prema Mata, his mother, continued in the role
of a healer. She would have helped pick and prepare the herbs for her
father when she was a child, and later helped her husband in the same
way, so she was already practiced in the healing arts. With this service,
she made some extra income to purchase clothes, utensils and other necessary
household items, including her sons' education. Since there were no schools
in that small village, she had to pay room and board, as well as tuition,
in the nearest town. When the eldest brother finished his education, he
left for Burma to make his fortune.
Sundar Das had started his education in a near-by Muslim school, where
he mastered Urdu. To continue his education, he had to go to the county
seat to attend a government school to the eighth standard, taught in Hindi.
For high school, he enrolled in the English-medium Christian school that
his two older brothers had attended. However, he had only completed the
ninth standard when his second brother left for Burma, also to earn money.
Sundar Das was then called home to help his mother with managing their
farm and preparing of the herbs.
As in all villages across India, festivals were a highlight of the year.
However, there was another common entertainment in the villages, that
was reenacting the dramas of the epics, particularly, the Ramanaya
in the North. There were troupes that traveled through the countryside,
but each village also had its own local talent. The villagers never tired
of seeing these local productions of their ancient heroes. Although Sundar
Das eagerly participated in these dramas, he particularly liked playing
the role of Hanuman, the hero-monkey who was Rama's most ardent devotee
in the Ramayana. Having easily become an expert in boxing, wrestling
and gymnastics during his one year at the Christian school, he trained
the other village lads in these sports. They would also demonstrate their
athletic feats in the village gatherings. So Sundar Das was living a quiet
life in a quiet village when his brothers returned from Burma, deposited
a fund in a bank account for the maintenance of their mother, and renounced
life in the world. They both left for the Himalayas to take the sannyasa
vows and were never heard from again—not even one letter to the family.
Now that is a pakkha (perfect) sannyasa.
The young Sundar Das did not know what to do with himself, so he joined
the British army when he was only seventeen. He ended up in the middle
East as a clerk in a military hospital, along with over one million Indian
troops who were shipped to Mesopotamia during World War I. I have never
understood exactly why there were so many Brahmans, the priest and educator
caste, in the British military. One obvious reason is the British were
taking over their traditional role as educators and, in the North, doctors.
In addition, the British were usurping the small kingdoms, so there were
no longer kings to advise. Another reason is that the Brahmans were more
educated than the general populace. Therefore, Brahmans were prevalent
in all government services, especially since they had a proficiency for
learning languages, which the British lacked. So these native clerks translated
between the local populace and their British captors. After the war, Sundar
Das returned to India and continued as a military clerk in Lahore.
While working in the big city, Lahore, Sundar Das became aware of the
India Freedom Movement. World War I had brought some rude awakenings for
the Indians. The Indians, even Gandhi, had been duped into thinking that
if they helped the British in the war, Britain would consider them worthy
of independence—at least, dominion status. I have not been able to
find total numbers, only references here and there. Some 17,000 who were
captured by Rommel in North Africa were distributed in prison camps in
Germany. An additional 29,000 Indian troops were sent to guard the Suez
Canal that had been commandeered by the Europeans. One contingent of 12,000
Indians was devastated due to lack of supplies and ammunition. Interesting
to note, the British Government had sent T.E. Lawrence, the man they considered
most capable of negotiating with the Turks, to Baghdad to attempt to gain
the Indian army's freedom, but to no avail. The incident of leaving these
men stranded to die was considered of such gravity that the British Secretary
of State of India (in London) resigned.
In those early days, V.D. Savarkar, Bal Gangadhar Tilak, and Aurobindo
Ghosh led the freedom movement. They moved around in the North, definitely
the most politically active area. Sunder Das served as a body guard to
the speakers at several rallies. When he witnessed the devastation in
the Jalianwala Bagh Massacre in April of 1919, he was more determined
than ever that Indians should be freed from these "civilized"
oppressors.
Another important influence emerged during those years. In 1918, Sundar
Das met his first spiritual guru, Swami Anamananda. We tend to
picture monks living in remote caves, but in both the Hindu and Buddhist
traditions, many authentic holy men often visited towns where there were
many pious householders. Staying only a few days in any one home, they
gave practical suggestions about any problems facing the family, as well
as spiritual guidance. Perhaps, one motive was to look for potential students.
Swami Anamananda must have seen in Sundar Das a bright, intelligent, inquisitive,
healthy young man, who had the qualifications for a spiritual student
worthy of his time and attention. They had long private discussions. I
sometimes wonder if some of Ram Sadhu's words to me now are the same words
that his Guru told him so long ago.
Prema Mata was watching the political and spiritual activities of her
son and was concerned, especially when he was imprisoned twice. She saw
only one solution: tie him down in marriage. And that is what she did.
He did not have the right, or the conscience, to say "no" to
his mother. She had already lost two sons to the spiritual ashrama;
she needed a daughter-in-law to help her in the household and care for
her in her old age. Returning to his childhood village, at the age of
22, Sundar Das was married to Amrith Kaur, only 15 years of age. In the
following five years, they had three lovely daughters and lived a simple
life with no wants, nor luxuries.
Sundar Das continued living the life of a normal Brahman householder,
maintaining his family and serving the community in whatever way that
he could. However, an unfortunate incident occurred that caused him to
totally re-evaluate his life.
It happened that one of his neighbors was a goldsmith. Somehow a gold
ring turned up missing at his shop. The goldsmith accused Sundar Das of
taking the ring. Sundar Das had been taught from a young age to tell the
truth and he never deterred from that training. When he denied taking
the ring, he thought everyone would believe him. But the goldsmith kept
harassing him and even accusing him publicly.
One day Sundar Das had had enough and shook the goldsmith up a bit. The
village council levied a heavy fine against him because of the incident.
The worst of it was that Prema Mata even doubted him and meted out the
worst punishment possible for a Hindu son: she stopped speaking to him.
What kind of world is it that values a gold ring over the word of an honest
man, he questioned? He seriously mulled over the situation and formed
his own conclusion. "This world is not the place for an honest man,
so it's not the place for me." One morning at daybreak, without informing
his wife or mother, he left for the holy city of Haridwar to begin his
life as a sadhu. He innately felt this calling for some years,
yet he had been obligated to continue to take responsibility for his mother.
Now that his mother and wife were financially stable, he thought the incident
a sign that he should take the step to renounce the world.
.
. . . .
When I
return to my room after dinner, at about 8:30 p.m., I have a little time
to read. Since everyone else goes to their rooms too, some nights I sit
out on the cement bench alone in the dark. I have never had the opportunity
to enjoy nighttime like I have here. Daytime is the manifestation of Life's
activities; night is Life itself. I watch the stars, listen to the trees
swaying, enjoy an occasional chirp of a cricket or croak of a frog, and
savor a gentle breeze that surrounds me with wonderful fragrances of jasmine.
It feels so good to be part of this enchantment, but I must go to rest.
My light is always out by 10:00 p.m. at the latest, in preparation for
my 4:00 a.m. arising.
As dawn's
first light sends reflections along the river every morning, the Brahman
makes his way to its waters to perform his daily ablutions and recitations,
including the Gayatri Mantra. This mantra is an invocation
to Savitri, the intelligence that enlivens the sun. The petitioner requests
that this powerful intelligence guide him throughout the day.
Let us
meditate on the most excellent
Light of Savitri
May he guide our intellect.
Throughout
Bharatha's long history, all Brahmans have recited this short verse
from the Rg Veda at the three principal times of the day: sunrise, moon,
sunset. Seemingly, the tradition is rarely practiced in today's world,
for the Brahmans are occupied reciting stock indexes on Wall Street
and in Bombay stock exchange. However, in the awsome stretches of rural
south India, the tradition remains viable.
Every morning and every evening, I have the pleasure of watching Siva
RamaKrishna make his way to the river with a big brass pot on his head,
then hearing him recite his prayers. Afterwards, he returns with the pot,
filled with holy water from the Kauveri, back to his hut. Watching this
trip back through the centuries gives me a very soothing and secure feeling,
I feel grateful that some things never change.
The essential purpose of the Vedas is to insure the well-being of all
aspects of the creation. While in a high intuitive state, the ancient
rshis became aware of the subtle cosmic vibrations that had become
denser, then intermingled into patterns, which we perceive with our sense
organs as the various forms and objects of the material world.
Thus the Vedic mantras (verses) were intuited in a timeless state
to be used in the realm of time. The actual chanting of the mantras
is an important aspect of the protective and creative power of Vedas.
The chanting assures the alignment of the physical world with the original
creative vibrations, whereby humankind can live in harmony with his subtle
origins. Therefore, a group of people, that is, the ones of subtle mind,
began to chant the mantras and to perform the Vedic rites for the
welfare of humanity.
Since the purpose of chanting the mantras is to create a harmony
between the original sounds of creation and the invoker of the mantra,
the correct innovation of words is necessary for the mantras to
retain and manifest their innate power. This is the reason that the sages
warn that a modification in the chanting of a Vedic mantra will
produce no effect.
This same phenomenon exists even in our everyday world. When I, with my
American accent, asked for the bus to Basavanagudi at the Bangalore bus
station, all I got was "No English," from the official sitting
at the information table. I think I am pronouncing an Indian word, but
he thinks I am speaking English. It is only when a kind person, standing
to the side, speaks up and repeats the word, Basavanagudi—just
exactly like I thought I said it—that the face of the official lights
up in recognition. Then he enthusiastically directs me to the correct
bus.
The Gayatri is considered the most important of the Vedic mantras,
as it is a prayer, an invocation and a creative power, all in one. This
Mantra specifically requests: "May my actions be in harmony
with the highest intelligence," that is, the highest good. Its repetition
the first thing in the morning tunes the mental attitude for the day to
the station that brings forth one's best qualities. So our actions, which
are often merely mechanical impulses from past experiences, begin to have
some moments of conscious content.
A deity is associated with each mantra. The deity provides a symbol
with which the mind collects positive ideas and inspirations. The Gayatri
Mantra is addressed to Savitri. Savitri's name is from the Sanskrit root
Su = to excite or stimulate; therefore, his name can be translated
as: The stimulator of everything. He is not the physical sun, but a power
because of which there is a sun. The Gayatri is concerned with humanity
and the universe, plus the Unknown that sustains them.
One afternoon,
I go over for another long discussion with Siva RamaKrishna. He is such
an endless fountain of knowledge that I only go to his cottage every other
day, or I would pass the whole day listening to and questioning him. He
has translated the Ramayana by Tulasi Dasa into Tamil and has had
it published through a trust to sell at the low price of 25 Rps. [$.80]
for nine hundred pages. He has also translated it into English, but has
been waiting for someone to check the English and give an opinion if it
is worth publishing.
When I first met him, he told me that when he first saw me he was so happy;
he felt that Rama himself surely had sent me here. This was news to me,
as I had feared that the resident sadhus might consider a "foreign
lady" an intrusion.
"Oh, no," he exclaimed, then explained that every letter that
Gandhi wrote in English was first checked by Mirabhen, his English secretary,
before it was released. I told him that I was helping with the editing
of a spiritual magazine, so there was no reason I could not help him also.
"I don't want to put any burden on your head."
"No, I want to read the Ramayana anyway. Also, I have a knack
for editing, so it will be no burden. That is, if there is no pressure
of a deadline."
"Oh, no. It's been sitting in Madras for three years now, waiting
for someone like you to come along."
Siva RamaKrishna had been a professor of English literature in a small
university. His father had died when he was a teenager; therefore, for
many years he was the sole support of his mother. I never asked, but assumed,
this was the reason that he never married. A son who is responsible for
the support of a widowed mother has a mark against him on the eligibility
list for marriage. When she died and the necessary rituals were completed,
Siva RamaKrishna resigned his job, gave up his home, and started living
the life of a sadhu. He had lived in various ashrams until he discovered
Ram Sadhu about ten years ago.
Since then, he has spent most of his time here in a small hut beside the
master's. In addition, his interest in the Ramayana has taken him
to Ayodhya, the birthplace of Rama. While in that region, he became acquainted
with the Mahant there. Unlike the Shankara Mathas whose
heads are picked for scholarly and spiritual achievement, the position
of the Mahant in the North is simply purchased; we will assume
by one who has spiritual aspirations. Evidently the current Mahant
was not particularly schooled in the scriptures because he was quite
pleased to find a scholarly assistant like Siva RamaKrishna. He wanted
the Brahman to remain in the North all year, but the Brahman protested
that a south Indian cannot endure the winters of the North.
One day he tells me, "You know when I came here some ten years back,
it was Ram Sadhu who came to me one day and placed a Tulasi Ramayana
in my hand with the words. 'This is to be your life work from this day,'
he told me. Since that day I have been totally immersed and completely
satisfied with its study. So you see how insightful these great ones like
Ram Sadhu are."
The Ramayana
is the history of an Incarnation—God born as man without any veil:
his birth as the Prince Rama, his marriage, the loss of his kingdom, his
separation from his wife, and the subsequent battle with the demons of
the world to reunite with her. Filled with wisdom on the morals and ethics
faced in the drama of human life, it is also interspersed with expositions
of the highest eternal truth: We are Divine. In addition to Rama's and
Sita's history, it is filled with the traditional stories of the Indian
sages and kings. More than any other literary work, it represents the
heartbeat of Bharatha. All castes and creeds, particularly in the North
memorize this Tulasi version, rendered in poetry. Last year when the Ramayana
was playing on national television, trains did not move until the one
hour episode was over. Yes, train stations in the large towns have television
screens dangling from the platform ceilings, but not in the waiting rooms.
One afternoon, Siva RamaKrishna covers a portion of the Ramayana
that includes material that Ram Sadhu acclaims is wonderful. He often
interrupts the Brahman's commentary with comments, praising some thought,
or even singing the verses, but he is more exuberant than usual today.
His expressed joy is infectious. It makes one wonder how the world must
look through his eyes.
Often I muse during my travels what it would be like to have a Hindu mindset.
If I were to tell Ram Sadhu that I was born a sinner, doomed to hell,
he would topple over in disbelief. I try to imagine what it would have
been like to be raised with the conditioning, "I am a child of light."
The Vedas state that only an inherent illusion keeps me from seeing this
Truth. Due to this Ignorance, we become involved in the world and accumulate
mala, or dirt, that covers our divinity, just as soot collected
on a kerosene lamp glass obscures the light of the flame. So we have a
simple task in life: remove the dirt, or simply realize the illusion,
or impermanence, of the dirt. Even on a cloudy day, the sun is shining.
After class I ask Siva Ramakrishna to show me in my English translation
the particular passage that Ram Sadhu was revering today. I just love
this edition of the Ramayana. It's a beautiful rendition translated
by a British missionary, Dr. Atkins. Obviously inspired while accomplishing
the arduous task, he actually used a poetic format in the meter of the
original Tulasi Dasa version in Prakrit language. Just reading the words
in English inspires an open, expanded consciousness. It's obvious that
the work was a labor of love for Dr. Atkins.
He tells me the passage he covered today is from a conversation of Laksmana,
Rama's brother, with Guha, the ferryman who will take Laksmana across
the river to meet his brother. Please note there is no copyright for this
translation, in spite of the Western capitalist influence, most spiritual
works are still not copyrighted in India. Thank god, these precious veins
of the uniqueness of the Bharathis, "the children of light,"
still exist. Everything has not been swept away by "western civilization."
But for how long?
The passage that Ram Sadhu was so excited about is so short that I want
to reproduce Laksmana's words for you here:
No man can give sorrow or joy to another,
It's always the fruit of one's own actions, brother,
Uniting, dividing, foul pleasers or fair,
Evil, good, or indiff'rence—'tis delusions snare;
Of life and of death the world's course is the reason,
Of all gain and loss, of each fruit in its season;
One's city and fam'ly, land, riches and home,
Even life and death too, in the world's course must come,
But listen and note and take heed in your soul—
All these things are unreal, bring us not to our goal.
Just as in their dreaming, kings may become beggars,
And beggars may well become gods,
But waking find no gain or loss, so to us
Is this delusive life with its odds.
So consider this well, and with anger have done;
For these troubles put uselessly blame upon none,
Here we are all asleep and we see many dreams,
But because of illusion, real ev'ry one seems;
In this night-like world those devoted ones waken
Who, seeking the real, have all false things forsaken.
Know this—Only then the soul wakens to morn,
When it turns from all sensual pleasures with scorn
When the soul wakens falsehood and error must flee;
Then to Rama's blest feet one devoted can be;
In thought, word and deed to his feet when devoted;
The chief good of life is then ours, be it noted;
For Rama is Brahma[n], of all good the essence,
Eternal, unseen, filling all with his presence,
Unequaled, above all division and change;
Scriptures show Him to be far beyond our mind's range.
For the sake of the faithful, mankind, Brahmans, cows
And gods also, he's come in his kindness;
He's taken man's form and assumed human ways;
Hearing this, men are freed from their blindness.
Understand this friend; leave behind dreams and deceit;
Be devoted to Sita's and Raghubir's [Rama's] feet.
I sit out
on the garden bench to read it aloud, so I can appreciate the meter of
the poetry. In a short time, the Sadhu appears, so I mention that I have
just read the words of Laksmana.
"Those words are so esteemed that they have been named the Laksmana
Gita [song]."
"Oh! He expresses so beautifully that Rama is the presence in all.
So Rama is what you have been calling the Life."
"The same. Rama is that very force, but he took an Incarnation, so
that man may know about the Life. But don't think you'll figure it out;
it's beyond the intellect."
Eventually,
I get Siva RamaKrishna to talk about himself more. He was a young boy
during the India's independence movement.
"You mentioned Gandhi. Did you know him personally?"
"No, I never met him. You see our leader here in the south was Rajagopalachari.
Father wanted to join the satyagraha movement, but Rajaji told
him true satyagraha was living the principles in one's own home.
We spun cotton for our own clothes, planted our vegetables, and lived
as if we were in an ashram right in our own home.
"Rajaji was a great man; he does not get the credit he deserves.
He did have his own ashram in Tiruchengode here in Tamil Nadu."
"I know there was quite an outcry from the Tamilians when he was
not included in the film, Gandhi," I mention.
"Well, I know all these Indians with their difficult names are hard
to keep up with, so it was probably a justifiable omission. Did you see
the film?"
"Yes, it was quite good. Except for one point, which unfortunately
occurred right at the beginning of the movie. When Gandhi was assassinated,
he uttered two words, 'He Ram.' To a Hindu it is considered most auspicious
to invoke the name of the Lord at the moment of death. However, when they
translated it into English for the movie, they had him say, 'Oh, God'
which sounded more like 'Oh, no,' so it distorted the meaning entirely."
"That is most unfortunate. 'Oh, God' would not convey the true meaning
at all," he agreed.
I reply, "To me that one utterance, more than anything, proves his
sainthood. Otherwise, it is rather hard for me to believe that he was
a saint. To one who knows anything about his personal life, he is very
controversial. How could the proponent of non-violence have been so dogmatic
to his own children? Then there was his habit of living in luxurious homes
of Indian millionaires, who clearly made their fortunes by exploition
the poor. And his sexual hang-ups were just too blatant."
"You must mean Gandhi's experiments with sleeping with his niece?
Not even the Indians approved. Patel told him he had to stop it, but Gandhi
was a very stubborn man. In the end, Patel had to tell the niece to stop
the experiment because it was harming Gandhi's image. She obeyed Patel."
"It seems to me that he even projected his sexual hang-ups on his
own sons. After pumping out four children himself, he expected his sons
to remain celibate. It's inhuman that a father won't let your own children
make their own decisions on such essential matters as marriage and parenting.
In fact, it is against the four ashramas of Hinduism," I observe.
"You are right. He did not get the idea from the rshis. But
neither is the idea of asceticism, accompanied with celibacy, foreign
to our tradition. Certainly, he must have been influenced by guilt about
his early sexual activity."
"He was justified in resenting that his father forced him to marry
at age thirteen. But his insatiable appetite at that age can hardly be
blamed on his father. Anyway, why take it out on his sons?"
On second thought, I continue, "Of course, I know that he was not
the only Indian revolutionary who was a tyrant over his family. Jinnah,
the leader of the Muslim contingent of India, would not let his daughter
marry a non-Muslim, although her mother was a Parsi. [Jinnah married back
in the days when religion did not count so much.] Nehru's father, Motilal
Nehru annulled his daughter's marriage to a Muslim."
Since the Brahman remains silent, I interrupt the silence, "This
authoritarian side of Gandhi is not brought out in his profiles. I'm surprised
that Patel had the nerve to defy him."
"Oh, yes. Patel was a powerful man with his own ideas; that's why
Gandhi favored Nehru. He thought Nehru would be more obedient to his ideas.
But Gandhi never chose Nehru as his successor."
"So Gandhi had not designated Nehru to be the leader of Congress,
therefore, the first Prime Minister of India?"
"No, definitely not. Did you know that Gandhi asked Nehru to allow
Jinnah to be the first Prime Minister? He thought that was a solution
to the Muslim problem. But Nehru was ambitious; he flatly refused."
"I had forgotten that detail, but I think it was mentioned in the
movie. That one act could have saved India so much grief. And since Jinnah
had tuberculosis, he would have been dead and out of the picture in less
than a year. I can't believe India's fate.
"You know Jinnah has always been a puzzle to me. I've seen photos
of him around 1947 and anyone could have discerned that he was a very
sick man; the symptoms of TB must have been well known in those days.
The British authorities were stepping aside to allow him to incite a revolution
and commandeer a part of India. I have to wonder if they actually knew
he had a short time left on the planet. If so, what were their real motives?"
"There are many things that are just now coming out. Just the week
before he was assassinated, Gandhi had dictated a letter to his secretary,
telling the Congress National League to disband. It had been formed to
gain independence for India, and that had been accomplished. He emphasized
that it was not a political party. Different parties should be formed
according to different ideologies to stimulate debate and reform on the
central government level. But he died before that letter was actually
signed and delivered. And the letter was suppressed for all these years."
"I'm afraid it's obvious who benefited from that. Nehru was able
to run a one man show as head of the one viable political party—Congress.
One biographer said he didn't trust any authority to anyone. . . But I'm
really surprised the letter had not been destroyed," I remark.
"It was kept in some file, somewhere, and it was recently dug out.
A lot of things about the Nehru family are coming out now also."
"Do you think there's anything to that persistent rumor that Nehru
was half-brother to the prince of Kashmir, and that was the real reason
he would not let the Kashmiris vote as they had been promised? He was
protecting his own family—and we know family ties in India can be
very strong."
The Brahman simply shrugs, then changes the subject. "Ram Sadhu's
family lived in the part of Punjab that went to Pakistan."
"Oh, dear. There are so many horrible stories of the losses of property—and
even lives—of the Hindus there."
"Oh, yes. It was a serious situation. Even Ram Sadhu went back to
his former home to help his family move to the Indian section and to get
situated in a new home here."
"Oh, it was great that he was able to do that. Of course, he is a
man unto himself. It's not like he has to obey any rules of some monastic
order or religion."
Further, RamaKrishna informs me that the Sadhu's wife has come here to
Kumbakonam several times in the past ten years since Ram Sadhu has lived
in the ashram. She likes to spend a month or so here in the holy atmosphere.
She was seven years younger than he, so she must be ninety now.
Often we
discuss some aspect of English literature. Although he had studied only
a few American authors, RamaKrishna did read and appreciate Emerson.
"Actually Emerson was one of my favorite authors. Since I taught
English literature, I was always happy to find insightful writing in English.
I especially liked his poem Brahma, although he missed on the translation
of the title. It should have been Brahman, the neuter form of brh,
the Impersonal; not Brahma, the masculine form, which is the creator
deity."
He turns and rummages through some papers, and pulls out a typewritten
page. Then he reads the words,
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or
forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon
ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahman sings.
The strong
gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
"That
last line shows he truly understood that heaven is not a permanent abode.
Pretty good for a Christian of his era," I observe.
"Yes, it is wonderful how some intellectuals of both America and
Britain seriously studied the Hindu thought."
"Emerson must have been a contemporary of Thomas MacCauley, who wrote
the most scathing criticism of Indian literature. So I'm glad both sides
were represented."
Siva RamaKrishna
has visited the site of the controversial temple site at the birthplace
of Rama. The Moslems destroyed the original Hindu temple, as they had
done across India for centuries. "Loot, then destroy, the temples
of the idolaters" was their war cry. All the Indian news sources
state that a Moslem mosque has been built on the site over the ruins of
the original temple. Although it is hallowed ground to the Hindus, the
Moslems will not release it back to them. But Siva Ramakrishna tells me
another version.
"I have seen it with my own eyes, Nancy. I assure you there is no
mosque there, and never has been. There is a monument to a war hero, but
not a place of worship."
"That's strange. Why perpetuate this debate then?" I question.
"I tell you, there is something else going on. They have even moved
in Moslems to live in that area to keep the dissension alive. And then
there was that incident with the massacre of all those sadhus."
"Massacre of sadhus? I don't know anything about that,"
I exclaim.
"Yes. I understand the BBC carried the story, but it was totally
suppressed in the Indian news. Hundreds of sadhus were advancing
in mass to reclaim the Hindu sacred site from the Muslims. The Indian
army troops arrived while they were still en route. The troops fired into
the mob, killing hundreds of them. Then they loaded the bodies into lorries
and carried them away. No one ever heard another word about it."
"That is really strange," I lament.
"But the details will have to come out. There is actual video footage
of some of the massacre. It will be released when it is appropriate,"
he adds.
"So this is more than a religious feud. I cannot comprehend what
the Government has to gain by keeping this heated battle going,"
I am quite perplexed.
"These things will all come out sooner or later."
The roof
of the verandah of the Brahman's small hut is covered with an incredible
vine that bears the loveliest lavender flowers, shaped like small trumpets
with a scalloped edge. I am not the only one who enjoys them. Every time
I come here I am able to see at least one extraordinary butterfly. All
the common butterflies continually flutter through the garden here . The
large black, white and fluorescent red one is always gliding about. They
are so common here that I have come accustomed to its radiant presence,
so I am no longer overwhelmed when I see one. A smaller white variety,
veined with black is also plentiful. It appears rather plain until it
folds its wings up and shows the orange and yellow underneath. Then one
day a huge moth with mirrored wings shows up. I wonder if they were the
inspiration for the mirror work on vests and bags made by the women in
Rajasthan and Orissa. A couple of the school boys ran to get me to show
it to me. I do not know how they knew I was a butterfly lover.
The next time I go to his hut to talk with him, I tell Shiva RamaKrishna,
"I have really been thinking about Gandhi's situation. When I was
only about fifteen I read a book that really impressed me, The Bridge
of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder. I have often said that it was
the only true wisdom I heard or read until I was at least twenty-five.
Do you know it?"
"No, I don't."
"I know you were a professor of English literature, not American.
Anyway, the premise of the book was that the moment of death is predetermined—and
logical."
I go on to explain, "One bright day in the jungles of South America,
a bridge collapsed, plummeting some one dozen people to their deaths.
The author painstakingly traced the life of each one of these people to
demonstrate that, at that precise moment, it was a perfect time for their
life to end. But it's been so long since I read it that I can't even recount
one single example.
"So if you use that same hypothesis for Gandhi's life, or simply
karma, as you Hindus would put it, it does seem that Gandhi had
done all he could. History was just moving in another direction; he was
no longer needed. Maybe he even knew that his appeal to form parties would
be ignored. Certainly, his economic and political policies were being
ignored."
Siva RamaKrishna agrees, "Yes, he died exactly a year after our Independence,
so by that time it was evident that Nehru was going his own way. Even
at the moment of Independence, Nehru defied Hindu custom. The British
always handed over the reins to the new government at midnight. Everyone
warned Nehru: This is not an auspicious time for the birth of a nation.
But Nehru just would not listen. In many ways, he was more British than
the historians comprehend. He himself was a Brahman and should
have understood these things."
"But he really knew little about the essence of Hinduism."
"No, he didn't know. He was a secular man. Gandhi saw all these things.
Even Gandhi himself admitted that he was a failure."
"I didn't know that. Gandhi himself said he was a failure?"
"Oh, yes. At Independence, India erupted into a terrible civil war.
He had no illusions about the failure of the Indians to rise to his ideals."
"I guess we all assumed that had it not been for him there would
have been more violence."
"That is certainly true in limited instances because of the pressure
of his fasting to end the killing. No one can fathom the number of Indians
dead. There is no official account, but, I tell you, it was very disheartening—for
all of us, and especially for Gandhi."
"The real enemy walked out unscathed, and the Indians killed each
other. We Westerners called it a great success. So really Gandhi's non-violence
just saved the British. I hope that is not why we have embraced it so."
While I
am spending my usual hour in the morning sun reading, Ram Sadhu approaches
me. "Now I want you to review that section of the Ramayana
that we are going to read in class today. Tulasi Dasa recounts the best
place for Rama to dwell. No one has ever written such a beautiful account
of the residence suitable for Rama. Call it imagination or speculation,
it doesn't matter. This section uplifts the aspiration of the sadhak
[seeker]. That's all that matters."
I took my book to Siva RamaKrishna so he could point out the section to
me. Just as we start discussing the pointers to indicate the best place
for Rama to dwell, Ram Sadhu sticks his head in the door, "Is my
daughter here?"
The Brahman jumps up to greet Ram Sadhu with a respectful salutation.
The Sadhu places in his hands a couple of bananas and a nimbu for
New Years.
Then he tells the Brahman: "I want her to understand the condition
of that perfect temple where Rama dwells." He then turns his head
to me and gives me a long meaningful look, "It is within."
"Yes, Swamiji, I suspected that."
As the Sadhu ducks out of the low door, Siva RamaKrishna sets the fruit
aside, commenting, "He's always doing this kind of small thoughtful
deed to all of us. He is always concerned for everyone else's welfare."
"Yes, he is a veritable ocean of sweetness. I know 'kindness' is
the usual word, but whenever I think of him, 'sweet' is always the word
that comes to my mind first."
"Yes, you are right; he is an ocean of sweetness."
"I feel so grateful to be here. My punya [merit from good
deeds] must be considerable for me to be able to spend this special time
on earth instead of waiting for heaven!"
Today, the
last day of the year, I go into town today to pick up several items, including
a lock to secure my belongings in a cabinet, so I won't have to cart them
to Pondy for a week. I also drop by the train station to get the train
schedules for Tanjavore as I may have to go Tanjavore occasionally to
use the Speed Post service to send material back to Bombay. I also find
the Gopal Row library where Mr. Guruswami borrowed my wonderful Ramayana
book. It definitely has an adequate selection of books in English, all
the Upanisads, Vedas, Puranas, and works of major sages. The librarian
is willing to be cooperative about my borrowing books, so I will not have
to worry about reference material for writing and editing.
When I return from town, I bring some Indian candies back with me. As
I hand them to the Sadhu, he asks, "What is this?"
"It is written that the student should never come empty-handed to
the Guru," I tease. "I know that there is nothing I can give
you. I'm simply playing the game."
"Yes, we are not doing anything ourselves. You give with that hand;
I take in this hand, but it is not you giving, nor me taking. It is the
Life, only the Life. Without It, these hands will not move; they won't
even exist."
After the class, Ram Sadhu passes out the sweets to everyone. "Ask
her why she does these things," he tells Siva RamaKrishna.
"Tell him it's for my grandfather's family," I reply.
"But you are one of our family too, so there is no need," retorts
the Brahman.
Again the brahmachari drops by to ask what I am doing when I am in my
room. He does not seem to like the fact that I am working on the spiritual
magazine. Since I had just finished up an issue in Pondy before coming
here, I had not planned to be having any work to do either, but obviously
it is as important as his daily newspaper reading. He even has tried to
get me interested in the paper because occasionally there is some article
about America, but I tell him I'm not interested. He is also reading a
book by Swami Ramalinga, supposedly his first public talk. I mention that
I visited the Swami's temple in Vadalur on my way to Kumbakonam. The book
is a long one, some 1,000 pages thick. When I flip through it, I find
it is similar to the one I saw in Vadalur, filled with cosmologies of
all the different galaxies. Long lists that go on and on, not exactly
light, or entertaining, reading.
My current project is to write a history on Sringeri, the monastery of
the spiritual progenitor of the magazine. I thought I was taking a break,
but the publisher thought I would have some extra time since I just completed
an issue. Anyway, he sent me about a dozen Indian books to condense to
one booklet, then he flew off for a vacation in Hong Kong. I suppose it
is an improvement over several months ago when I waited a week in Bangalore
for material to be edited, which I never received because he had flown
off to vacation in Hong Kong, but I'm not really sure.
I have given most of the material a quick read through. Interestingly,
a Sringeri Acharya also accomplished a disappearing act. Just like in
Swami Ramalinga's case, he told no one to bother him for a certain length
of time. Naturally, the devotees had to break in and check on him before
the allotted time was up. On the bench where he had been seated laid a
beautifully carved column, that is, half of one. They figured had they
obeyed his instructions the column would have been completed. I'm always
gleaning interesting information when I'm writing or editing for the magazine,
so that's what keeps me at it.
It remains too cool for me to take the traditional sacred bath in the
Kauveri, although the Brahman continues to enter the chilly waters every
day. The weather has totally changed since the water is in full flow;
it's cold, cloudy and damp. The Kauveri is called the Ganga of the South
and held holy by all. The traditional belief that a dip in these holy
rivers cleanse one of all mala, dirt, is surely dependent on the
faith of the bather, a sort of baptism. I conjecture that most of us will
not be transformed by this physical act.
January 1, 1991
New Year's morning dawns cloudy and gray. The fog has hung over the river
like the breath of the earth dragon for several mornings. Just as I'm
finishing reading a section of the Ramayana, I hear the unusual
call of a bird, a loud trill repeated, repeated, and repeated again. It's
just daylight, so I start out on my short morning stroll, hoping to catch
a glimpse of the singer. I'm in luck for, on a small tree on the river
bank, sits a turquoise and brown kingfisher. What a haughty fellow—to
be so beautifully colored and have such a sonorous call. He soon flicks
his wings and returns to the woods. I rarely see one of them at the river;
this species usually hangs out at ponds.
In the afternoon, I get up early from my siesta, so I can bathe at least
once in the waters of the holy Kauveri, for it is already disappearing
fast. The water came up to the fifth step, but only for two chilly days.
This morning it had withdrawn to the first step. I had hoped to be out
when everyone was resting, but the Sadhu is already up and about, messing
with his flowers, but with his back to me. I creep by silently, then admonish
the squeaking gate to keep quiet as I slip down the stairs. I walk out
one-third way across the river bed, but find no spot over a few inches
deep. The main channel snakes back and forth between the two banks and
hits the opposite shore in the ashram area. Anyway, I duck a couple of
times, then just lie back to enjoy the water flowing over me. I would
have liked to have had a swim. But the weight of my simple cotton pants
and shirt are so heavy when wet, that I doubt I could have moved.
Later, that evening since I am still stranded on the north side of the
river, I have been snooping about looking for possibilities for woods
on this side. The bamboo forest beside the ashram does not attract any
birds. Some of the clumps are growing naturally, but most of them are
fenced in and tended to produce long straight poles for rafters and scaffolding.
Returning to the ashram, I see the Sadhu out on the bench.
"It's poornima," I call to him.
"Yes, today is the full moon."
How many
times have I watched the sun setting beyond the banks of the Kauveri,
yet I've never seen two sunsets even slightly similar. Ah, yes the creator
does love variety. Ram Sadhu tells me that the Hindu seers—who cataloged
everything—had even counted 8,400,000 species in the creation. It's
certainly possible. There are thousands of creepy-crawlies just here in
the ashram.
I am awakened in the middle of the night by a growling dog. Oh, well,
I think, it woke me up to do the pranayama. But when I go out in
the morning I discover what the growling was about—the dog chewed
up my invincible sandals, only the rubber soles are left. This means another
trip to town. Fortunately, I find a old pair of men's rubber sandals to
wear, so I do not have to travel barefoot.
I waste a lot of time looking for a shoe store because I do not know the
shoe store row. The custom here of grouping all stores of the same type
together, instead of sprinkling them throughout the town is a nuisance,
especially when one does not know the spot. But you can be sure when I
find one , there will be at least a dozen shops. Well, it makes comparative
buying easy. While I'm in town, I consume a tender coconut and carry another
one back for Siva RamaKrishna.
When I return, immediately I take it to him, "I know that since you
are a south Indian you must love ilinir as much as I. Maybe I was
a south Indian in a previous life."
"Well, that may actually be so. According to the Kanchi Acharya all
of mankind lived together on one continent. More importantly, he asserts
that everyone lived under the law and wisdom of the Vedas. Therefore,
all people are ancestors of that original race and all religions are a
branch of that original religion."
That afternoon in class, he covered the part of the story where King Dasaratha
dies from grief because of Rama's banishment to the forest. From my reading,
I know approximately where he is in the text, but I am startled when the
Sadhu breaks out in tears. At first I think the intermittent sobbing is
some breathing exercise. When I finally realize he is actually crying,
I think maybe he saw a vision of my life, as he had been looking right
at me—some of my antics would surely be enough to bring a pure man
to tears!
That evening at supper I ask the brahmachari why Swamiji cried
in class. He explains to me that it is because of his sorrow at the death
of the honorable King Dasaratha. While I am outside washing my dishes,
the Sadhu enters the kitchen hut. As I enter to tuck my stainless steel
plate in the bamboo rafters to dry, I hear the brahmachari telling
him that I had asked why he had cried.
The Sadhu turns to me, "My daughter, you must understand, this is
my life. To me this is not just a story. For me it is all joy. But when
I hear of the suffering of others, it brings tears to my eyes.
"All are crying 'I', 'I', 'I' but they never question who is this
'I'. An ocean of 'I's is the existence of sat-chit-ananda. That
is Rama. Enjoy the Life."
"All else only nama rupa [names and forms]?"
"Yes, you understand."
The moon has not yet risen so the stars are unusually bright. A fire fly
cries "I", "I", "I" as he lights up the
shaded path under the sprawling neem tree. A gentle breeze waves the palm
fronds and tousles my hair. It is "I"; it is "I."
January
3, 1991
I got up this morning fighting off dullness. I guess the limited hours
of sleep have finally caught up with me. Only the thought "Swamiji
deserves a better student than this" gets me moving. My body has
already adjusted to the wood-plank bed, so discomfort is no longer an
aid in getting me up in the morning.
Later, when I am sitting on my usual bench inside my open door, writing
in my journal, the Sadhu comes up with his big toothless smile. He places
a piece of paper with the words written on it:
Of what avail this body mind
If hearing God's performance fine
The heart breaks and then melts not
The eyes disclose tears gush not
The body does not shake and thrill
When the Lord's story his ears doth fill.
"So
now you understand my tears?"
"Yes, Swamiji, I do understand."
"Of what use is this heart if it is not melting with the thought
of God."
"I do understand."
We have a long rest period after lunch, from 12:30 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.,
so several times I've just lain on the bed and practiced some relaxation
or meditation technique. One day I had actually not slept, but I remained
very relaxed, then got up very refreshed after thirty minutes although
I had not slept. This has not reoccurred, and some afternoons I am dead
tired—sleeping for up to one and one-half hours. I fear that the
pranayama technique has not helped my energy level as I had hoped
it would. So today, instead of sleeping, I decided to ferret back through
the files of my mind to see if there is some clue somewhere that I was
destined for a spiritual life.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Like everyone, I experienced my crystallization
process in my childhood, especially after I started school. Those memories
brought up some feelings, but certainly I never had any spiritual experiences,
devout disposition, or any outstanding character. In fact I was normal,
ordinary and middle class. I was kind to the underdog several times, more
so than normal for my age, but beyond this rag yanked out of the bottom
of the barrel to find "something," the barrel is empty. I think
the making of the robots that schooling aims for, and achieves, is totally
counterpoint to individual creativity and expression, although some adapt
easier than others. In some way, I resisted, maybe by just never making
studies important or giving my best, since it was so easy for me to get
by without studying much. In itself, that presents no problem, but the
fact I found nothing that merited giving my best to; yes, I think that
has been an obstacle in my development.
When the brahmachari brings 3:00 p.m. tea, he is also carrying
a new "Guest Book." On the first two pages are enumerated the
rules for "Visitors and Devotees." First comes the announcement
in bold letters that "Visitors and Devotees" are welcome for
only three nights. Following is a declaration that there was no provision
for anyone to stay permanently under any circumstance. The brahmachari
tells me that the Sadhu had requested that he bring it to me to sign as
the first guest.
Rejection, true and clear spreads over me and settles right in my gut.
My intellect tells me that those two conditions could not apply to me
since I am already here, but my feelings take no heed. Had not Ram Sadhu
himself invited me to stay? Would not he directly tell me to go? I just
have a feeling that this book was in fact created because of me. Oh, the
anguish of rejection— how it knots the stomach and kills the rational
mind.
I drop the subject of rejection during the class, but afterward my mind
picks up the knitting again. My bags are kept packed. I was moving
when I arrived here and I will continue moving when I leave here,
I realistically sum up the situation in my mind.
To subject my mind to more useful endeavors I go over to the Brahman's
hut to discuss several points on the Ramayana where Tulasi Dasa
has changed the characters or action somewhat from the original Sanskrit
version of Kali Dasa. I have in the back of my mind to ask his opinion
about the guest book, but no opportunity arises, or rather in talking
with him my mind is soon engaged in a world beyond guest books.
Now here is a startling aspect of the Ramayana. From one aspect,
the whole world was put into chaos for the sake of the carrying out of
a curse. Yes, the villain, Ravana, was actually a guardian of the palatial
heavenly gates of Vishnu. I take the opportunity to ask the Siva Ramakrishna
this question that has been bugging me.
"I have heard that Ravana was a highly evolved person, actually a
Brahman. Now how did he end up the villain in such an unholy war?"
"Good question. Here is how it happened. There were two gate-keepers
in Vaikunta [heaven], Jaya and Vijaya. You couldn't say that they were
the highest devas [beings of light], but they were heavenly beings.
One day while they were on duty, the hermit Sanaka approached the gate
with the intention of paying homage to Lord Vishnu. Not realizing the
spiritual statue of the unsightly sadhu. . . . You know how Indian sadhus
look?"
"Oh, yes. I've been to Rishikesh, where they vie for the title of
being the most outrageous looking."
"Yes, you know what I mean. Since the gatekeepers had no idea that
he was a sage from his appearance, they refused his entrance. Sanaka had
spent his entire life practicing tapas [austerities], including
total celibacy. He was not one to be told what to do. So he cursed the
gatekeepers to three lives on earth as asuras [demons]. They protested
such a terrible fate, so Sanaka told them that while on earth they would
receive the blessing of being killed by Lord Vishnu himself."
"So Lord Vishnu had to be born because of the words of a sadhu? Amazing!"
I interject. "So that is why they were on earth, to fulfill that
curse? But why did Sri Rama have to incarnate on earth for this task?"
"Remember, Nancy, there is a Rama born in each yuga."
"A Rama born in each yuga? No, I did not know that."
I eat in
the kitchen in the evening. I never knew the reason why half the time
the brahmachari brings my filled plate to my room and the other
evenings, he calls me to the dining hut. Maybe there is no reason. Tonight
a stranger is present, not eating, just hanging around. Several younger
boys from the orphanage, who take turn helping in the ashram kitchen,
are lined up across from me. We all eat the same food. When I start eating,
I am aware that the stranger, along with boys are all staring at me. I
have gotten used to eating under the eyes of an audience; at least, I
pretend that I have.
After a few minutes, the brahmachari explains to me that this man
has come from a nearby village in which lives the Tamil overseer of Hinduism,
let's say an equivalent of a bishop. He had visited Ram Sadhu some time
ago. Since then, every month he sends about eighteen pounds of various
dals (dried beans), a large packet of Indian spices and a dozen
coconuts to the ashram.
Upon departing from his visit, he had asked Ram Sadhu, "What can
I do for you—whatever you want. You name it and it shall be done
immediately."
"I have everything I need here, even more than I need. I want nothing
at all, " the Sadhu replied.
Further the Swami asked him, "You lead such a peaceful life here.
I have longed for such a quiet, peaceful life. And now I have all the
responsibility of a big organization."
"That is your dharma [duty] in life and you must fulfill it.
It is my dharma to sit quietly. We cannot exchange our destinies."
The brahmachari goes on to mention that he is not the only person
who has offered Ram Sadhu the fulfillment of any wish. Another was a very
wealthy lady; another a sadhu from Trichy who can change lead to gold,
produce ash out of thin air, and "these kinds of things."
"Like Sai Baba."
"Yes, like that."
The stranger, who speaks no English and therefore is just an onlooker,
then asks the brahmachari something.
"He is curious about you, since such a master as Ram Sadhu has accepted
you as a student. He is calling you to visit his master's ashram."
"When I've found diamond, why would I go looking for gold. You said
yourself that Swami sends sincere seekers here to Ram Sadhu, not the other
way around."
January
4, 1991
Again there was a sunrise that outdid the recent sunsets. The water glowed
a warm pink as the light fog dissipated in the light of the sun. I was
not quite so dull this morning upon awakening. While I am in Pondicherry
I will be able to catch up on sleep, surely that will make a difference.
I spent a normal day with yoga, pranayama, reading—my daily
schedule is nicely set now. During my evening walk, I return to the nearby
lily pond to pick a lovely water hyacinth. They are so beautiful, this
variety has a eye of purple dotted with yellow on its upper petal. Since
they are so common here, they are considered a water weed. Usha calls
them the "damn sewer flowers." Nevertheless, I remain their
admirer and enjoy seeing them in the ponds and drainage ditches all over
the south.
Tonight dinner is brought to my room. I eat, then carry my plate over
to the outdoor facet, wash it, and return it to the kitchen. The Sadhu
is not out tonight, so I return to my room, close and lock the door for
the night. Some time later, perhaps thirty minutes, there is a rap at
the door. I am not surprised.
"When are you leaving?" asks the brahmachari.
"Tomorrow at 11:00 in the morning."
"How long will you stay in Pondicherry."
"Only one week."
"Then what is your program?"
"Ram Sadhu has told me to come back here."
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. You see this cottage
is that lady's. She usually comes and stays on Sunday, but now she is
keeping away for your sake."
"I see."
"Anyway, you read the rules in the guest book—only three days
stay, so you have already been here one month. So that is the most we
can accommodate you. Annaji says no one can stay here permanently. You
read it in the book, especially a woman. We are all men here. Some ashrams
have a ladies' quarters, but we have no such facility here. If you wanted
to stay outside somewhere, you could come here during the day."
"I don't think there is a suitable place outside, do you?"
"Annaji might think of something. What is your goal? Tell me that."
"I simply want a quiet place, with a holy presence, where I can do
sadhana. Anything else I can do at home, can't I?"
"Well, people come here, and Swamiji always tells them to stay, calls
them his son and daughter. We can't be expected to look after all these
people, so we have to take on the task of sending them away."
"I see."
"So Ram Sadhu knows that you are sending me away?"
Oh, yes, he knows. But he himself would not ask you to leave. He said
that if is our ashram rules, then we must be the ones to ask you to go.
He said he sees all alike: man, woman or thief."
"I see."
I bolt the door behind the brahmachari. All the rejection and disappointment
I've faced up to this moment in my life were just a preparation for facing
this moment. Interestingly, during my evening walk I had recounted my
fear, or doubt, of my ability to have enough discipline and energy to
live a spiritual life. The moment of facing the fact I am less than I
hoped for has arrived. Didn't I write yesterday I have no appointments
with the future. The river of time flows on, carrying me along.
January
5, 1991
The river is only one-fourth full today. In a few days it will return
to the few small streams flowing down a wide sandy bed as it was when
I first found it. As I walk in the cool of early daylight small things
cross my mind to lament: The great library I had found, inviting friends
here to meet a true master, and fulfilling my dreams of really finding
out firsthand what this spiritual trip is about. If I had not made plans,
I would not be experiencing disappointment about fulfilling them.
After breakfast, I go over to have a talk with Siva Ramakrishna. He expresses
surprise that I have been asked to leave, but he fills me in on some details
that surely influenced my expulsion.
"But you did see that new 'Guest Book' that states a three-day limit
for all guests?" I ask him.
"Yes, I even helped them with the spelling of the English. But that
was for visitors. You were already here as a permanent resident, invited
by Swamiji, that book could not apply to you."
"Well, it did apply to me. In fact, I suspect that it was created
for me."
"This comes as a shock to me. Ram Sadhu was so happy to have you
here. He thought that you had come all this distance seeking spiritual
wisdom, so we should help you to our full capacity. He told me so, and
told me to help explain any points to you since he does not feel that
his English is adequate."
"But there must be so many students coming to meet such a master
that it is difficult to accommodate them. The brahmachari said
that so many people come that they have to ask to leave."
"No, not at all. There are very few people today who are interested
in sanatana dharma [eternal wisdom]. I fear that Hindus today are
only interested in going to the temple to ask the deities for favors in
their material life."
"That is true, isn't it? And it is also true in Christianity, praying
to God for so many things. Actually, religions were created to nurture
our spiritual life; but we have completely turned them around to create
them in our own 'image' to be able sustain our material life."
"So it's true even in Christianity too?" Then he returns to
the matter at hand, "We hardly ever have guests; that cottage has
been standing empty for months on end—waiting for you. It seemed
perfect."
"But brahmachari told me that it is Amma's and that she needs
it to come on the weekends."
"She built that cottage for our use, not for her use. She lives in
Madras and only comes to Kumbakonam a couple of months out of the year.
And as you have noted, she does not stay here when she comes. She always
stays at that other ashram. We can't keep up a cottage for the one or
two nights she stays here in a year, and she does not expect it."
So I bring up another issue, "Then there is the woman thing; I don't
think a couple of the residents care for a woman being here. The brahmachari
mentioned it."
"Nancy, in our Manusmriti [laws given by Manu] the women are
given the heavier burden. You westerners interpret it negatively. If you
study the smritis [Manu's words] carefully, you will find that
the more intelligent and more responsible are always given the heavier
burden without exception."
"Well, I did know that in relation to Brahmans. When it comes
to the duties and responsibilities of caste, the Brahman has the heaviest
load of duties, or, in cases of infraction of the rules, the severest
punishment. So you mean that it is the same with women? More is expected
of them since they are more capable. That's interesting."
"Yes, as you may know, a religious ceremony done by a wife or mother
is much more effective than one performed by a priest." He pauses
and then continues in a low voice, "You see, there was one other
guest about a year ago. He created a problem."
"A problem?"
"Yes, you see we did have a woman living here, for quite a few years.
She built a cottage for herself, where Swami Karunananda now lives, and
retired here. Last year a young sadhu came. He seemed nice enough,
and seemed interested in scriptural studies. He and the lady became fast
friends. She would cook little snacks and treats for tea time, so he would
spend some time in her cottage talking. She was like a mother to him."
"Both of them were Indians?"
"Oh, yes. He was from Madras. Although it seems he had some story
about working in the foreign, perhaps the Middle East. Really, we did
not question him much, that's not our purpose here."
He lowered his voice to a whisper, "One day, the young man disappeared
during the night. The next morning, the lady was found dead in her bed.
All her gold and diamond jewelry was missing."
"That must have been quite a blow to everyone."
"I can tell you that it was quite a blow. There was a real commotion
with the police and all. However, they found no evidence of foul play.
Apparently, she died of natural causes and the young man found her and
took advantage of the situation to take her jewelry.
"Of course, they searched for him. As it turned out, he had visited
several other ashrams and had left them all suddenly, stealing typewriters,
tape recorders, and such," he concludes the story.
"Well, that certainly would influence the manager's opinion about
having a woman in the ashram."
"Yes, of course. I'm afraid it has."
These new details do change my perception of the situation, but not my
disappointment. Sri Siva RamaKrishna continues to assure me that Ram Sadhu
had planned that I was to live here. "He had even asked me to help
you in any way I could. Specifically, I should find time to answer any
questions, so that you would understand the true meaning of our sanathana
dharma."
When I go to tell Ram Sadhu good-bye, I simply say, "I'm leaving
today for Pondicherry. You know ashram management has told me I should
not return."
"Yes, I know. This ashram management. . . . I'm a sadhu I
cannot get involved in these ashram management things. If I did, I would
soon be a samsari [ordinary struggling person]. Please forgive
me and understand."
"Anyway, I'm so grateful for the time I've spent with you. You've
been very kind."
"Yes, I know you are grateful. I feel it. You know I have three daughters
of my own. When I renounced, I left them and have never even written them
a letter. That is the life of a sadhu."
"Yes, I understand."
My bags are packed and waiting, as I pick them up and head toward the
gate, the Brahman comes out to the path to bid me farewell. The Sadhu
sees him and comes hobbling out, "Let her
go—she will never be alone, for we will go with her."
I stand for a moment immersed in my feelings, my abundant gratefullness
and my incredible disappointment. What is it I wanted? What is it that
I think I am losing? Where do I go from here? These are questions I will
have to contemplate for some time. With tears in my eyes, I take a long
pause at the river gate and smile down on the stream. Sitting here on
the banks of the Kauveri in the presence of a saint, I have known peace.
That peace still comes back to me when I remember the clear radiant eyes
of Ram Sadhu and the gentle flowing of the river.
Back
in Pondy, I am quickly catapulted into the real world. Shanta and Dilip,
a married couple whom Usha and I met through Maggie, now have the cable
TV channel. At last the Indians can have more than one channel. But all
that's on it is CNN news about the Gulf War. I suppose war is still inevitable,
given the consciousness of "human doings" in today's world.
In spite of my anguish over human killing human, I have to smile as the
self-righteous British—whose Empire directly created Sadam Hussein
and Qaddafi—condemn Hussein for doing what they were doing all over
the planet less than one hundred years ago. Well, we are certainly more
civilized now. Wait a minute, the British Empire was created in the name
of civilization. I think it's just the "we can dish it out, but we
sure can't take it" European-supremacist attitude surfacing again.
One hundred years ago is inaccurate too. How about World War I? I recently
read Michael Yardley's great biography of T.E. Lawrence in which he recounts
the duplicity of the British and French in World War I in dealing with
the Arabs. Interestingly, Lawrence was a first-hand witness. I love biographies
and have always lamented that they are not used for our history classes
instead of the traditional textbooks filled with names and dates devoid
of any human sentiment. I am sure any student would understand much more
about World War I if they read a couple of biographies of the key players
instead of a multitude of places and dates of battles. Of course, if they
read this particular book, they might think twice before they took up
arms to defend their governments, and to fight against countries that
have been ground down by foreign powers.
I did have some vague idea that the French and British had grabbed some
countries in the Middle East for themselves after World War I, but certainly
not these details. As it turns out, France and Britain signed the Sykes-Picot
Treaty, stating their division of spoils at the beginning of World War
I. France would get Syria, Lebanon, and the Mosul oil fields. Britain
would get Mesopotamia (minus Mosul), which included Kuwait. Palestine
would be declared international territory—
everyone wanted the only fertile lands in the Arabian desert. Then these
Allies bribed Italy to enter the war, again with the promise of spoils:
Libya (then a part of the Turkish Ottoman Empire) and retention of any
colonies already occupied by Italy. In spite of the existence of their
treaty, the Allies then officially promised the Arabs "self-determination"
of their choice of government after the war, in exchange for their help
in beating the Turks. After the victory, the only thing the French and
British remembered of self-determination was their own.
However, I had no idea of a small act in the farce; that is, the extent
that the British-India Office in Delhi had been involved in the duplicity.
The Delhi officials had been openly feuding with the British Foreign Office
in London over control of the Middle East since 1915. The officials in
Delhi were concerned because the war affected the large Muslim population
in India who gave their allegiance to Islam.
Picture this set up: two traditional leaders of Arabian clans battling
it out over Palestine. One of them, Abdullah Hussein (grandfather of King
Hussein of Jordan), was backed by the London Foreign Office. While the
other contender, Ibn Saud (future king of Saudi Arabia) was backed by
the Delhi. To the London Government's surprise, Delhi's man won.
Delhi and London also struggled over Mesopotamia, soon to be named Iraq.
But London won there, even though formerly Mesopotamia had fallen under
the jurisdiction of the British Office in Delhi. The London officials
quickly installed Faisal Hussein as the ruler through the electoral system
by blatantly rigging the elections. Nevertheless, the Delhi Office supplied
most of the clerks for the government, so they could keep their finger
in the Iraqi pie.
Considering this record of the Allies, then augmented by current economic
reprisals, it seems it would be easy for a despot to convince the populace
that there is a real enemy out there. I keep asking, "What are the
British doing?" No news report mentions the country responsible for
planting the seeds for this disaster. If Hussein is in a financial crunch,
couldn't it partially be due to the ramifications of World War I and II
and the Empire Era? Couldn't there be other solutions to deal with the
Iraqis—with an attitude of making amends? Where did the Queen get
all her wealth anyway? For starters, one could take an inventory of the
crown jewels and ascertain how many of them were actually purchased! Don't
our scriptures say that the sins of our fathers are visited upon us for
seven generations?
I am so frustrated that all the international news we get is from CNN.
Suddenly, its coverage sounds very provincial. We Americans never learned
much European history, and certainly not any Middle Eastern or Asian history.
Soon I have my visa in order, so I am happy to leave the war behind and
head for the Forest of Peace, the ashram of a Christian monk, Father Bede.
It is truly a beautiful spot on the Kauveri River near Trichy, about 60
miles upstream from Kumbakonam. I quickly settle into the daily routine.
Hardly, anyone gets up for the 5:30 a.m. morning chanting. After my pre-dawn
rising in Kumbakonam, it seems easy for me. The chanting serves to wake
me up for the thirty minutes of meditation that follows.
Then Father Bede arrives to lead a prayer service in his soft, gentle
voice. His countenance is truly angelic; he could have been a model for
one of the heavenly host in Michelangelo's frescos. By the time, he starts
to speak, everyone has drifted in until the small chapel is packed. The
service ends with Eucharist.
Although a scholar and intellect, Father Bede's short inspirational talks
are humble and sweet, with no profound depth. Everyone always attends
his talks, for just being in his presence is uplifting. I continue to
go through his commentary on the Bhagavad Gita, The River of
Compassion, so that gives me more material to understand his ideas.
Interestingly, Father Bede, a Brit, made a few comments on the general
criticizing of the Americans that is going on among the Europeans here.
He pointed out that the war was a decision of the international community
including Saudi Arabia, so it was unjustifiable to blame it on the Americans.
In addition, he pointed out that although he was certainly a pacifist
himself, that one could hardly expect to have peace while allowing criminals
a free hand. Hussein had violated international law and had been given
every opportunity to rescind.
Every morning, I save some food from breakfast to go to the river to feed
the fish. I wander along the broad and quiet Kauveri while chanting the
Gayatri Mantra. What a difference in the river here and in Kumbakonam.
Here the streamlets are almost as wide as the river bed there. From this
side the bed is so broad, I cannot see the other bank. However, I find
a few shallow spots to cross in knee-deep water. I walk through the maze
of sand banks until I am quite out of sight of the shore. Then I strip
off my top layer of clothing and lie in the deep still water of one of
the pools. Unfortunately, the only place I have found water deep enough
for swimming is along the bank closest to the ashram—impossible without
a bathing suit and the exposure of female parts is even questionable with
one.
Cranes, small brown plovers, bee catchers, plus an occasional tern and
myna frequent the whole complex of streams, pools, sand banks and grassy
knolls. The water is just cool enough to be very refreshing, but the coolness
lasts just long enough for the quarter-mile hike back to the ashram. Usually,
I go to the meditation hall to meditate, with a break for yoga if I start
to feel dull. Then I take a trip over to the library to partake of all
the books on the wonderful European Christian saints, the knowledge of
whom is quite enlightening. They have actually described the mystical
path as good as the Hindus, and with lots of similarities; for example,
the description "as the river disappears into the ocean, the individual
merges into the Godhead."
I sleep in a dorm-style room with seven or eight beds. Most people come
through and just stay a night or two. Since this place is listed in the
tour books, it is a regular stop for all European, particularly British
tourists. However, one roommate, an American, plans to stay for a period
of serious sadhana. Mary had just completed a year working in Pakistan
helping the Afghan refugees, that is the refugee government, happily living
on American aid. She says it is obvious why they were thrown out of the
country: they are the greediest people imaginable. However, they are quite
satisfied now, for they quickly discovered that they can suck much more
out of the fount of American aid than out of some peasant dirt farmers.
I cannot comprehend why Russia and Britain have been fighting over Afghanistan
for centuries. Mary feels really disgusted, disgruntled and off-center
after her experiences and is taking time off to spend in this peaceful
atmosphere to get back on track.
Since the Gulf war continues to be escalating, the U.S. Embassy sent someone
out here to post a notice that it could be dangerous for Americans to
travel. Nevertheless, an American gentleman arrived last night. Judging
from his business suit and his tons of luggage, I bet Mary that he was
a professional photographer, planning to video-tape Father Bede. I was
wrong, for the next morning in the prayer service, we spot him sitting
in the front row with the Indian Fathers.
For no particular reason, other than I am inclined to want to get to know
interesting people, I have a whim to meet the newly arrived Father. I
usually do not drink coffee, but I go over at coffee time just to see
if the Father is there. The timing is good because I arrive just at the
moment that the Father does. By coincidence, I sit down by a person he
knows, so he joins us.
Within moments, he and I are drawn into a profound exchange, so intense
that the third person quickly drifts away. In response to his question
of what is my purpose of being in India, I explain to him I am in a personal
dilemma. After leaving Atheetha Ashram, I have just been stumbling around
from place to place, going through the crazy situations that only India
can produce. Then when it looked as I had at last found the perfect situation,
I had a real disappointment. Then I go on to describe my crisis at Ram
Sadhu's ashram.
"Did you feel rejection?" he questions me.
"Yes. Definitely."
"I had the same experience of rejection once when I tried to join
a monastery and they refused me. I experienced terrible rejection,"
he shares with me.
"How did that happen?"
"I was actually a novice at a large monastery. One day for apparently
no reason at all, the Abbot just told me to pack my bags and get out."
"No explanation?"
"No explanation. The Father in charge of my group even spoke up for
me. He went to the Abbot and asked him for an explanation. The Father
felt that I was a good student; I had always obeyed all the rules. But
the Abbot wouldn't even give him a reason."
"How devastating. In one moment, one man could totally change your
whole life plan. I had not vested so much time and energy into my plan."
After a few moments of silence, I continue, "I had dared think, at
least momentarily, that my rambling had finally ended, that I had found
something of value. So in the end I told myself, 'You really didn't deserve
it after all.'"
"But that is very Christian; the 'guilt' and 'deserve' nonsense.
You should feel there is something new opening up for you," he wisely
advised me.
"Yes, I see your point. But first, there was the undeniable feeling,
'I didn't deserve this.'" I pause, then continue, "You know
Hindus also have the same concept that what you encounter in the world
is a reflection of your own mind. So you are only meeting outside what
you have in your own life plan, predestined from previous actions. Now
I'm not saying that I accept the theory of karma is written in
stone; however, it seems to be a viable hypothesis that can help one retain
equanimity through the blows of life. That's the important point: peace
of mind."
For over an hour, we discussed many aspects of Hinduism, the four stages
of life versus celibacy, Adi Sankaracharya and his monasteries, study
of Sanskrit, and long-term visas for India. He appears very open and really
wants to comprehend the Hindu view of life. He seems, like myself, to
be curious to know what it would be like to look at the world through
an entirely different mindset.
Sometime in the conversation, I mention that I am now collecting information
on the subject of enlightenment. "Actually, once I did have a profound
mystical experience. So I am also trying to figure out how that fits into
the marketplace of life," I mention.
"You know I thought that you must have had a real experience when
you said you were in India for three years. When I was a young man, I
had an wonderful experience of ecstasy. Prior to that time, I was having
a very difficult time with celibacy, but I controlled myself. Then I had
a beautiful ecstasy that lasted for days. That experience has sustained
me."
"I certainly would not have stayed interested in a spiritual outlook
on life if I had not had such an experience. I would have lost faith long
ago, for sure," I agree.
"And the longing to know that experience again is a tremendous impetus—but
it is desire too. Even the wish for enlightenment is desire," he
reflects.
"Definitely, but we donkeys have to have some carrot—the golden
carrot, I call it. Then the time comes for dismissing even the goal, but
it won't be easy."
"You know Father Bede had a tremendous experience when he was spontaneously
healed from a stroke last year. He said that he felt so much love that
it is impossible to describe. He's actually a different person now; everyone
thinks so. Before he remained the stoic, reserved, stiff-upper-lip Brit.
You cannot imagine the change in him." A thoughtful look crosses
his face before he continues, "We do not know how to love. We have
never really experienced it. As Father Bede mentioned in his homily last
night, love is the basis for all."
I comment, "Oh, when I had that experience, I felt so much love that
I could have bowed down to hug an ant. All around us is so much struggle
and hardship, but through those eyes everything and everyone looked so
beautiful and so perfect, even here in India—a true test."
"See, that's what I want—that love. To me that's more important
than enlightenment. So I would rather have that love, even with darkness,
although with light would be best."
"You do have a good point," I agree with a smile.
Father
Bede continued to have lapses of memory and to feel weak, so he left this
morning for the cooler temperatures of a hill station, for he is hoping
it will help his condition. This means I will not get an opportunity to
talk with him, even though in the course of the last couple of days I
have come up with a question for him.
One night when a woman brought up the question of redemption, I was taken
aback. I had really begun to comprehend and accept Christianity because
of my study of Hinduism and my contact with European Christians. However,
in my religious comparisons, I had entirely forgotten the "original
sin—redemption" thing. Apparently, I am succeeding in my quest
for a new mindset. In Hinduism, and its sister religions, Jainism and
Buddhism, there is no concept of original sin. To them, our origin is
divine. Yes, there is a veil that we have superimposed over that divinity,
but our divinity is never touched by the veil—no matter how dirty
it gets. The Hindu sages never dwelt on the sinner stuff, they always
called their flock the "children of light." They were the ancestors
of Bharatha, a historical king, who was of the lineage of Lord Vishnu.
King Bharatha's enlightened rule is said to have endured for some twenty-seven
thousand years.
The Hindus actually believe that the life on the planet is in a state
of devolution, not evolution. The peaceable kingdom has already happened.
King Bharatha's time would probably fall in the Silver Age, after the
heavenly kingdom of the Golden Age. Third was the Bronze Age, then the
Iron Age, or Kali Yuga. Yes, you guessed it, we are now in the
doldrums of the Kali Yuga. This downward trend is also symbolized
in the Hebrew Fall, but in Hindu thought it is a process, instead of a
spontaneous occurrence, as in the Bible. In contrast, Hindu theorists
consider that the creation was spontaneous and not a process as do the
western scientists.
Daily I
continue to walk by the river while chanting the Gayatri. It expresses
such a beautiful thought, "may my actions be in sync with the highest
good." After a few days, I feel that I am floating along the sandy
banks. This "Forest of Peace" is in such a beautiful, quiet
setting; I feel I have found the Garden of Eden right here on earth. I
begin to feel the peace so profoundly that it becomes alive. So vibrant
that it seems to quell everything else, like a long, broad gaze at the
world, rather than a close, focused study. Swami Nirmalananda was right;
it comes straight from the heart. It is just an attitude, but an attitude
that is impossible to manufacture. At Pondicherry, I often felt that the
silence was descending on me; but now I feel that it is spilling out of
me.
With Father Bede gone, everyone is clearing out of the ashram, so I return
to Pondy. There I am shocked to read a report in Newsweek (available in
the library) that Bush's popularity is at an all time high because of
the victory. Even the British voted Churchill out after the war. So the
ole' competitive spirit brings us to celebrate victory in war, instead
of lamenting the war reality. Is that all we learned from Vietnam? It's
not that we do like war, we just do not like to lose wars.
India is
a "wounded civilization," as the Indian author Naipal put it.
The prevalent theory in the West—that the Indian's passiveness is
due to their theory of karma—is totally and completely preposterous.
Karma simply means action; three-fourths of the Vedas are dedicated
to methods and prayers for acting successfully in the world. Indians are
passive because they have been beaten down by every barbaric race that
thundered across Asia Minor, then the Arabian Sea, to loot their land
of riches—so wealthy that the obsession in Europe for centuries was
to find a passage to India that would avoid the heavy taxation of goods
when they crossed the Arabian deserts.
While it is true the atrocities committed by their most recent British
conquerors were accepted with resignation in this land where terrors of
war have been relentless. But by the time they arrived, the Indians had
"adjusted." A foreign influence first penetrated the area in
approximately 1500 BC when the Aryans arrived. Even though they wrote
poetry that praised their superior weaponry, it appears that they may
have taken over the people without having to inflict much death. Alexander
the Great arrived in 327 BC to conquer the northwest section. Although
he did little damage because his army was battle weary, he did leave men
to colonize his claim. Some of their descendants are still living in a
community in some isolated mountain areas.
The serious onslaught began in the 5th century when a clan of Hun invaders
arrived looking for booty. Each of the next eight centuries was highlighted
by a major Muslim incursion of death, destruction and plunder. In the
10th century, the Turks reached the interior, led by the ferocious Mahmod
of Gazni (an Afghan). In the 11th century, the Moslems sacked the capital
of the Gupta Empire, pillaging and destroying 10,000 temples. In the 12th
century, another Afghan tribe of Turks demolished Delhi to establish their
capital, then extend their territory on a bloody trail all the way to
Madurai in the south. In the late 14th century, Timberlane, the Turk who
claimed a blood line to Genghis Khan, threw out the Turk Sultans, after
sacking and ravaging Delhi again. A hundred years later, Babur's terrible
armies killed thousands while again sacking Delhi. His personal claim
to fame was that he would kill five enemies every five minutes.
In 1565, the last stronghold of the Hindu kings at Vijayanagar was captured
and devastated—not a building or a tree remained—by an alliance
of Sultans. Delhi was again raided in the mid-18th century by Nadir Shah
when the Turks attempted to recapture the throne from the Moguls. He returned
to Persia with vast treasures, including the Peacock Throne and Kohinoor
Diamond, along with thousands of slaves.
In 1498, the Portuguese arrived, followed by the French and British. When
the British won out, the devastation began in serious. There are hundreds
of examples of massacres, but I will give just one: Yes, the Indians did
revolt against the British once, but few lived to regret it. This first
spark of independence in 1857 even produced India's Joan of Arc, the Rani
(Queen) of Jhansi rode out on horseback to distinguished herself in direct
battle. In spite of many similar heroic acts, the Indians lost. The Indian
soldiers who survived were lashed to canons while still alive and blown
to bits. How does a people fight against invaders with such a penchant
for fire power and blood that they can afford to expend a canon ball to
kill one person? While, on the one hand, it was just another massacre
to the Indians, it was a turning point; never again could they believe
that the Europeans were a superior people. The British called it a "mutiny."
You must have gotten the point—now tell me that the Indians are passive
because they believe in karma. They are passive because they are
intelligent. The simple truth is the conquerors that came to sack their
country always had superior weaponry, while backing their brutality with
sophistry. Both the Moslems and the Christians justified their sins with
religious prejudices and rationalizations.
Aubrey Menon, an Indian author, wrote in his book The Space Within
the Heart about his study of the Upanisads:
[My study] was to prove an insight into the hoax that all of us accept
as complete living... [I realized] my life had been the laborious construct
of other people, some well-intentioned, some malign, some just interfering.
It has been a life of emotion invented for me to feel. It has been life
designed so that I should never be my own man. . . ."
Surely, the same can be said of the nation now called India, founded and
named by its foreign invaders. Bharata has been discovered and rediscovered
many times in other people's terms. We know it as opulent India, decadent
India, and the land of poverty. European traders vied and fought for its
wealth in spices—until they discovered the diamonds. India was termed
the "white man's burden," whose "benighted heathens"
needed the blessing of European civilization. Considering it the wealthiest
country in the world, the Persians Muslims looted it relentlessly for
years. On the other hand, the ancient Greeks and Chinese visited it for
its treasuries of wisdom. India has been struggling to free herself from
these foreign definitions since its Independence in 1947.
I have
been here over a year now, and am thinking about what I have learned about
India. In the end, perhaps I came here to learn about myself. Bharat and
her people have touched my heart and sensibilities in many ways. What
I have recounted here is only a tiny tip of a verdant green mountain.
Although the wisdom I gained will always remain with me, Bharat has given
me something more, so subtle, yet so loud and clear. The true wealth is
the people, their uniqueness, their faith in the face of adversity, for
they include the greatest intellects, and the kindest souls. Personally,
I cannot conceive how these kind and generous people will move into a
future without their cultural roots. Will they dare to peel off the layers
and keep what is true to their heritage as "children of light"?
Every place I have visited has given me a unique gift. Of course, the
most valuable gift is my friendship with Usha. She is so intelligent,
spontaneous, and bright; definitely, the support that made my lengthy
stay here possible.
At Atheetha ashram, I was given the opportunity to accept the many possible
ways to do one thing, and to see that all of them are just right. Whether
I willingly received this gift or not is another matter, but that was
the gift offered me.
In Hampi, through dear Jyothi, I was shown the true meaning of forbearance.
Titiksha, forbearance, is like fearlessness. It is one of those
qualities that gives complete liberation when it is lived to its limit.
Then at Biligiri-Ranga, I was able to face anger and accept contradiction.
Being able to embrace what is given—without trying to change it—is
also quite a perfect gift.
During my month at Kumbakonam, I received so many gifts. The Kauveri River
showed me the detachment inherent in the flow of LIFE. Ram Sadhu taught
me to appreciate the LIFE that surrounds me. The true understanding of
LIFE will culminate when eventually my awareness expands to comprehend
that LIFE within me. Siva RamaKrishna initiated me into the wisdom of
traditional India and its Gayatri Mantra.
Although I experienced a most precious peace in many settings, the culmination
was my stay at Shantivanam, Father Bede's Forest of Peace. Back in Pondy,
I feel quite successful in my capacity to be in peace. Because of the
more hectic environment, at first I could only hear the silence between
blurbs of noise. As I remained alert, I began to sense the peace in spite
of the noise. A deep silence is indeed spread upon the earth. The silence
is always there; we could not even hear the noise if it were not for that
poignant silent background.
I feel so blessed to know the peace of divine birthright—something
born in our own hearts. A peace that is bought with material wealth, a
peace that is fought for with weapons, a peace that is exacted through
total control is not true peace at all. Even if it were peace, how long
could it last? Until the car gets a dent, until the enemy gets a new weapon,
until someone has the courage to speak out.
True peace will only be found in our hearts. It is always there, yet there
will never be the right time or place or circumstances for it to show
itself. For true peace is not dependent on time or place or circumstances.
It's not dependent on anything; it's a no-thing phenomenon. It just
is.
A common prayer from the Vedas is for peace and prosperity for everyone:
Praise be to all the kings who protect all their subjects
with
full vigor and with righteous justice;
May the Brahmans and cows prosper;
May all the populace be ever happy.
May the rain fall always at the appropriate time,
so that the fields are full of ripe grain.
May this country be always free from agitation and disturbance.
May the Brahmans be without fear [to speak the truth].
I always have to take a deep breath when I read those last two lines.
For eons the Brahmans and sages have prayed for the welfare of this country,
yet no country has been as ravaged by invasion. The prayers simply did
not work. Perhaps if everyone on the planet had been repeating that same
prayer, then it could have been different in India. Had Bharat flourished
and evolved in its natural culture, I think it could have made a difference
for everyone on the planet. Prayer did fail on the external level, but
an internal strength be present for the culture and religion to have endured
through it all.
Even if the Indians turn from their own dharma (rules of righteousness),
the ideas of their ancient rshis will persist; they are universal.
We can never lose that knowledge, for, according to the rshis,
human being has two birthrights: his innate divinity and the inborn knowledge
of the Vedas that accompanies that divinity. Anyone who sits in silent
alertness long enough will indeed rediscover the fount of knowledge called
the Vedas. We are one; we are all "children of light."
One day, I am inspired to rewrite the Vedic prayer for modern times. My
version goes like this:
May everyone be happy,
May everyone be peaceful,
May everyone be prosperous,
May everyone of us use our talents wisely for
our own evolution and for the benefit of others.
May my body and mind remain strong and healthy,
so that I may serve my family, my community,
and humanity faithfully until the end of my days.
May we Children of Light realize our true birthright.
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