Volume Two: Andhra Pradesh and Rajasthan

Chapter Thirty-three

THE QUEST CONTINUES

I have been traveling in the land of the "children of light" for over a year now. Since my life quest is to find out if there is meaning and purpose to life, my experiences here have presented me with much food for thought—much more than I could get in a lifetime of living in the U.S.

Last year, I explored the southern states of Tamil Nadu and Karnataka, which I consider to be the areas where the traditions of Indian life are more authentic. However, summers are a challenge there, so I plan to visit other parts of Bharata, a land given the name “India” by her foreign invaders. Many distinct cultural realities are scattered through the broad plains and the Himalayan Mountains that make up northern India. Even though, in the cities, the people and customs have noticeably adapted to accommodate the rule of foreigners—first the Muslim Afghans andTurks, then the European British and Portuguese. However, there are still villages where you will find yourself outside historical time. There the calendar page has not been turned for hundreds of years.

During my journey, I have had a variety of experiences: some were up, and some were down, and some were downright puzzling, but, I can assure you, “in the middle” is a rare occurrence here. In spite of some real challenges, somehow I am still in a good place mentally and physically, so I am impelled to explore more in my quest for understanding my self and my world. Although the aspects of my inner journey always remain as a mental backdrop impelling me onward, at times it seems I am just learning to look at the external world with a new mindset. At other times I think it is sheer curiosity that keeps me going. An inconceivable cauldron of color, chaos and creepy crawlies, India presents many opportunities to distract one off any purpose. Many times, I seem to move with my next inspiration without any definite plan, for I imagine many realities just awaiting my presence to unfold before my eyes.

Certainly, one thing that fascinates me is that all aspects of humanity still exist here. Bharata is her peoples, their unique customs, rituals and ideas. Egypt is the archeological site of the physical monuments of humankind, but India is the archeological site of the human mind. The possibility of unique experiences in this varied country is endless. For the mental world is their domain of expertise.

Since time immemorial, the modus operandi of the Indian literate has been the quest for freedom, not political, but real internal, intrinsic freedom. Enlightenment, they call it. It’s a state of mind, that, obviously, is without race, age or gender. Even their Supreme Being, the impersonal Brahman, is expressed grammatically in Sanskrit in the neuter gender. This aspiration for freedom without material distinctions has given their religion a flexibility that has bestowed Bharata with many unique sages, including women, from the Vedic period right up to modern times.


The first time I went to India, I had not even heard the word “enlightenment.” I was in my early thirties, yet I had come to the end of my life. Not in a negative sense, but the truth is I had done everything I had ever wanted to do and possessed everything I ever wanted to have. Really, more than I ever imagined, for somehow, I had never dreamt big dreams.

My realization at that time in my life was not a question, it was a statement: “This is all there is.” I honestly tried to live with this knowledge constantly rumbling and tumbling on the tip of my mind. I was living a totally normal life in every respect, but I was not comfortable internally. But I saw no other alternative. I kept telling myself, “This is all there is, so deal with it.” Somehow I could not.

At that time I was living in California. The possibility of raising one’s consciousness, or better still, obtaining cosmic consciousness, was in the air. Any weekend of the month, you could attend a seminar that promised instant transformation. Exotic gurus and yogis were drifting through San Francisco. I would go and listen to their talks, but they were either pretty simplistic or too far-fetched. So my first true teacher turned out to be an American, Brandon Poso. He had created a seminar series geared to experiencing one’s “I am-ness.” The second weekend was a true breakthrough experience for me. In a flash of insight, I saw my small, limited mind on an infinite ocean of possibility. I realized that, although I had everything I could ever want, one thing was still missing: human experience.

My first foray into the great, wide world of experience was to live in Spain where I attended the University of Madrid. I spent an incredible year of opening myself to love and life. I faced the world alone; I traveled alone; I even ate alone. And I was never really alone, for everywhere I went I connected with delightful people. Young people, both Americans and Europeans, who were also traveling, were so open to life. I found older Europeans were gentle and wise in ways that elderly Americans were not. I loved the Spanish people; they taught me a lot about human dignity and enjoying life. As I admired this many-faceted humanity funneling through my life, I began to wonder what it would mean to be a complete human being. I kept feeling that opening myself to experiencing as many realities as possible was a key. That year in Spain was the prelude to a travel lust that has sustained me through my quest for experiencing Life—for twenty years now.

When I returned to the San Francisco Bay area from Madrid, I really felt out of my element. The world around me seemed so sterile and lifeless. About that time, I met an Indian Swami who spoke perfect English, was incredibly intelligent, yet was quite charming. From the first time I listened to Swami Chinmayananda speak, I knew he had discovered something that I wanted. When he gave his philosophy lectures, he lit up like Times Square. I watched the way he enjoyed whatever he did, and I was fascinated. How could someone get such joy out of simple things? To me he appeared to be enveloped in his own bright fresh world for which our normal material world was only a dull horizon.

In speaking with him, I found out he had an organization in India that sponsored some charitable projects. I was looking for new experiences, so I thought that I might be useful there. I booked a flight on a four-month excursion fare-for a trial period. No sooner had I arrived, I found that the Swami had different plans for me. I was propelled on a whirlwind tour of an inconceivable unique world. While the Swami traveled on a lecture tour from one end of India to the other, I tagged along—eyes wide open and mind agape.

I was listening to lectures on the texts of the philosophical branch of Hinduism, called Vedanta, or “the end of knowledge,” meaning the ultimate truth. My mind lit up with the wonderful new concepts of god, man and the world. In short, the Swami was teaching me to think for myself. This was real stuff that I could cogitate on and start making sense of my world. Looking back, I realize I was never very good at swallowing another’s ideas anyway. I always wanted to figure out things for myself.

Then there was that strange quirk that I first noticed when I was about twelve. I could somehow tell when someone was lying, not about little everyday things, but about the big important issues. My mind would get all sticky, as if a big sharp thorn would emerge, with time it would try to rub and work its way to the real truth of the matter.

The first time I became aware of this tendency I was in a Bible study class. The preacher went off on a tangent about heaven and hell. He finished it off with an off-hand comment about the misfortune of the Jews who would not go to heaven. My mind got very, very sticky. I knew he did not speak the truth, but I did not know why it was not true.

So the thorn kept quietly rubbing in my brain, impelling me to figure it out. Obviously, the Jews did not ask to be born to a Jewish family, so if God put Jews in a Jewish family, he was the one condemning them to hell. Several years later, Gertrude Stein informed me through her writing that actually the word “hell” never appears in the Old Testament. Better still, I figured, the preacher was right: the Jews would not go to hell because there wasn’t one. Then when I was sixteen I heard Billie Graham claim that he could scare people into heaven. Lots of stickiness clamored over my brain on that one. Heaven is full of a bunch of people afraid of a hell that I had figured out did not exist, soI dismissed the hell thing.

But there were other issues. I confess I was one of those who asked where Cain and Abel got their wives in my Sunday School class. Any why didn’t someone edit the four resurrection stories to make them consistent? And how was Jesus from the lineage of David if Joseph wasn’t his father. Everyone got sticky when I asked those questions. All this sticky stuff just kept adding up and simmering in the back of my mind. Anytime I got a new fragment of relevant information, it just pegged in on top of the big batch of stickers. Sometimes giving a new order to the heap. Sometimes giving more light. Sometimes making more shadows.

With the Swami’s daily lectures and discussions, my mind was being replowed and reseeded with great new ideas. I began to comprehend the concepts of reincarnation, yoga, karma and dharma in their true sense—not the watered-down American version. For example, we Christians use the word karma to mean retribution. Actually, karma means action, work, activity—the very stuff of life. When an Indian says karma he simply means his own job. The sages use it to mean the action that makes the world go round. The dance of the creation is activity in all its manifestations, so technically there is no fault involved in suffering—it is a balancing act. Cogitating on these ideas, I started seeing more bright spots between the thorny brambles in my brain.

The other force of change on my mind was subtler. There is nothing like a strange environment to experience a change in consciousness. When the mind gets so much new input that it cannot figure things out—it just stands still. In India, foreigners may have the experience in a train station, a marketplace, or along a crowded road. Whereas, Indians may have the same experience when they see the orderly traffic in an American city. With this new frame of mind—just quietly observing the present time—the old stickers no longer seemed so big, at least not as important.

Then one bright day my mind was blown away. . . for less than an hour, but it sure changed my perceptions about life. Until that time I had been living a ninety per cent unconscious life—sifting through what came to me, enjoying and keeping what I liked, rejecting what I did not like, not really thinking about any rhyme nor reason in my life. Now I was forced to consider that there was a reality, I guess you would call it a spiritual side of life, that I had never even imagined. Exactly what is spiritual, and what is Life, and what is a spiritual life? All these concepts were new puzzles to be chomped on by my brain for years to come.

However, at the time of that experience, due to the peaceful mind that accompanied it, I did not consider all these ramifications. They would be questions I would live with, then forget, then be reminded of, then forget again, then consider, then forget, then reconsider. The answers never came in a straight line.

Ten years had passed and I still had not really understood what had happened to me. I did understand the experience was a change of consciousness, although, obviously, not a permanent one. Even so, it would always have some meaning in the background of my life. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that we humans can experience a unique level of consciousness. Clearly, we are continually attempting to do so. Just because we chose the easier routes of alcohol, drugs, sex, dance, adventure, instead of a mystical path, does not mean that we do not want the same result: to view ourselves and our world from a different perspective.

When I returned to U.S. nearly two years later, no matter how I arranged my life, my time was always overbooked with worldly concerns. I never found time to get down to the real issue of understanding who I really was—so many me’s. How do the different me’s connect? I kept feeling a need to have some major time to meditate, so I could come to a resolution and see things clearly. This was the principal impetus that brought me back to India. I wanted time to observe and think. Initially, my plan had been to live in an ashram, a spiritual community, dividing my time between meditation, studying (particularly Sanskrit) and doing some community service.

When that plan did not work, I decided to visit various ashrams and places of natural beauty. I even had in the back of my mind that I could write a guide on spiritual communities that were off the beaten track. Also, while traveling, I was always talking to Indians from every region, culture and inclination. From these interactions, I gathered many details to augment my fascination for seeing the world with a different mindset. In other words, in my travels, I was moving from a personal to a more general focus, one that continued to be more spontaneous and adventurous.

Chapter Thirty-four

ONE WOMAN'S LEGACY

My first stop on my journey north is an important one: an ashram community founded by a woman whom I truly admire. I had the good fortune to spend the summer of 1979 with her in a retreat in the Himalayas. Swamini Sharada Priyananda is definitely a role model of an enlightened being who has created her life to fit her talents. Endowed with extraordinary energy and intellectual insight, she has dedicated her life to serving humanity in the state of Andhra Pradesh. Although ten years have passed since I was with her in the Himalayas, I still hold a vivid memory of those wonderful days filled with long spiritual discussions, meditation, great hikes and lots of laughter.

She now resides in a small village, and villages are the heartbeat of India. Statistics report that at least seventy-five percent of the population still lives in these rural hamlets scattered throughout the countryside. Here’s where you will find the real India. However, each geographic area has its own unique culture, so the rural populace is impossible to stereotype.

Andhra, as it is commonly called, is one of the largest states, covering a big portion of central India that reaches to the Indian Ocean. In my past travels, I have spent very little time in Andhra, so I am looking forward to exploring it. First mentioned in the historical records of 230 BC, Andhra is quite unique in that it has been an important domain in every Indian dynasty.

In the first centuries of the Common Era, the Buddhist had huge monastic centers here. Later, South Indian Dravidians built important temples in several areas. Even though they eventually lost in the fourteenth century, a strong Hindu Ksatriya, warrior, caste courageously battled it out against the encroachment of the Moguls for centuries. By the time the Afghan Muslims beat the Moguls in the early eighteenth century, it was the largest and richest kingdom in India, and remained so until it was drafted into the Indian Republic in 1947. Never conquered by the British, nor favored by them, Hyderabad, Andhra's capital city, was avoided whenever possible, for the populace was so hostile to the European interlopers that they would openly spit in the “white faces.” Even the young Winston Churchill switched from his favored horse to an elephant when he had to visit there, so he would be well above the confrontation zone.

When I reach the Cuddapah station in early afternoon, I have to find a bus for the small village where the Swamini (feminine form of swami) resides. However, her address, Ellayapalle, is such a small bump in the road that no one has heard of it. Finally, from the crowd that has gathered to concern themselves with my dilemma, a gentleman emerges who knows the Swamini. With his directions, soon I am on the bus that will take me to the Korlagunta stop. From there, they will be able direct me to Ellayapalle. (Believe me, all these names are difficult for me too!) In less than an hour, I am deposited along side the road at a path with several shacks. I am tempted to pause for tea, but think better of it when I see the disappearing sun. So following the path indicated by the local folk, I track down a dusty lane, lugging my suitcase along.

I make it just in time, for the twilight glow if fading just as I enter the gates of Chinmayaranyam, Forest of Chinmaya. I have read a lot of great press on the Swamini’s creation here. Although Telugu is spoken instead of English, I have been eager to visit here. Quickly taking in the premises, I spot all the ashramites assembled in a large open hall for a class with the Swamini. Petromax lanterns are already fired up; no electricity is available tonight.

Although Swamini is an educated woman from the city of Hyderabad, she always knew she wanted to live in a rural setting. She is one of the few modern women who jumped to the renunciation stage of life immediately after receiving her law degree. Since life is meant for living, the Hindus have divided its experiences into four basic categories: 1) brahmacharya, student; 2) grhasta, householder; 3) vanaprastha, semi-retired life of contemplation; 4) sannyasa, taking of renunciation vows to become a swami/swamini.

Swamini had wanted to live in a peaceful, unpolluted environment, yet she also aspired to be in a situation where she could be of service to a rural community. Even when we were in Himalayas, Swamini was hoping for an ashram to settle in. Finally, it has all come together as she had dreamed. Being a renunciate, she could not pick and choose, but was totally dependent on others for a donation of land, which turned out to be twenty-four acres beside the tiny village of Ellayapalle.

The only stone in the rice, as we say here, is that this village is in the hottest, driest area of Andhra, which has got to be India’s hottest, driest state. Nevertheless, the Swamini’s cheerful attitude, inexhaustible energy, and ability to inspire others have managed to create a miracle in the desert.

The Swamini is respected throughout the state as an authentic teacher of spiritual knowledge, although the villagers here call her “Mother.” A fascinating aspect of the Hindu religion is the number of women saints and sages found here throughout history. Although most of the women have been the devotional, contemplative types, whom I call saints, the culture has also produced a number of feminine intellects, or sages. In particular, three stories stand out in my mind. These women are all mentioned in ancient texts that predate modern Hinduism.

The great rshi Yagnavakya, author of the most ancient and terse Upanisad, had two wives, Maitreya and Kalyani. Maitreya was acknowledged to be a knower of the Ultimate Knowledge--even by her rshi husband. Another female sage in that era was Gargi, also known to be an enlightened master. She is referred to in the Vedas as a member of an assembly of learned sages who were responsible for testing Yagnavakya’s spiritual understanding.

Another example comes from the lengthy text Yoga Vasishta, which tells of an enlightened queen. The story goes that King Shikidhvaja and his Queen Chudaalaa together inquired into the Knowledge of the Divine Self. The wife was the first to understand the Truth and even gained certain supernatural powers. Although the husband was pleased with the attainments of his spouse, he was disappointed with his own progress. In order to further his development, he went to the forest for a spiritual retreat. Evidently, sensing that the king would not want her as a spiritual teacher, Chudaalaa flew over to his hut in the guise of a hermit sage. She thus taught him and brought him to the understanding of the Ultimate Knowledge. Having achieved the supreme goal in life, the two liberated ones spent the night in conjugal delight. Well, that’s what the text says. . . and it seems like a relevant point to me. Being enlightened evidently does not mean that you become a Mortimer Milk-toast. Or become impractical: this bliss scene was after Chudaalaa had tested her husband’s loyalty by using her power to create celestial damsels to tempt him.

A similar story (minus the conjugal bliss ending) appears in the Tripura Rahasya, also an ancient text replete with stories of saints and sages. A prince, named Hemachuta, and his wife, Hemalekha, were inquiring into the Ultimate Knowledge. She understood the Truth, but somehow he could not figure it out. Only through the teaching of his wife was he finally able to comprehend the Highest Knowledge.

So the concept of enlightened women is not a new one in Bharata’s history. I would say that from those early times through modern times, the women saints and sages have received excessive veneration from the populace. Therefore, the Swamini is not a pioneer in a women’s spiritual movement, but a part of a long line of enlightened sages and saints.

When she moved here ten years ago, the first step was to locate water to create this little oasis. Several modern “bore” wells, as opposed to the usual open-pit wells, were dug here to provide both the ashram and local villagers with a year-round water supply. Then they began to plant dozens of native trees, thereby converting the site into a huge garden. In addition, a fence of eucalyptus, sandalwood and clumps of lacy bamboo enclose the grounds. Shade trees and fruit trees—lots of mangos—line the paths that wind through the rustic cottages.

Summer arrives early here. Even though it is only the 1st of March, everything looks dry already. I am definitely confined to my “I came to a fork in the road and took the path well-shaded” mode. The shadows of the trees help, but I have learned to skirt the shady side of buildings and walls too.

The ashram community is a network of activities, with teaching being the major focus. I am able to join the classes that the Swamini gives to a group of young people. She is training them to go out to the various towns in Andhra to give discourses on the scriptures, as she has been doing for almost twenty-five years. Presently, about a dozen very intelligent and dedicated students are in different phases of their training as teachers. Although brahmachari means student, its most common usage is the term for a spiritual student, or novice. Technically, it means one who thinks continually of Brahman, the impersonal Supreme Being. A Sanskrit word often has several levels of meanings: one for the mundane world, and one for subtler realities. For example, the word for “bird” can also mean “mind,” since it is prone to take off in flights of fancy.

In addition to the spiritual classes, a residential elementary school provides education for children whose parents want them to have a spiritual education along with the secular one. Traditionally, the upper-caste children left home at six years of age to live in the ashram of a guru, who taught them everything from spiritual treatises to methods of warfare. The gurus always had a wife, up to four wives, to assist in his service to the youth of his community.

I find that these energetic sprites with their bright smiles add a pleasant dynamic to the community. In the evening, just before sunset, all the children gather to chant verses from the scriptures for the Swamini. I wish I could describe the joy I feel in listening to these innocent voices chanting Vedic hymns. I am transported to a time when Life was true open flexible sacred. I breathe in these whispers of our ancient roots and feel whole. Surely, this quiet connected expanded feeling is an essential part of our humanness. I do not know how we all manage to function without daily awareness of it.

The ashram family is completed with a retirement home for the elderly. During her travels and lectures in Andhra Pradesh, the Swamini inspired many to honor their vanaprastha tradition by retiring to a spiritual community. Most of them choose to study the scriptural text along with the brahmacharis. Several of them help the brahmacharis with the spiritual classes for the children each evening. Others enjoy serving as grandparents to the youngsters by giving them attention and care. Several of the elders have fit in perfectly as the principal caregivers for an orphanage serving a half-dozen toddlers from the nearby villages. These retired people, many in their seventies, are living a full and meaningful life; how they feel about it clearly glows on their faces.
With the generous donations from businessmen in Andhra, the ashram is able to fund other charitable projects. The brahmacharis deliver food, dal (husked, dried beans), rice, and clothing to the elderly of the surrounding villages. It costs only $3.00 to feed one elderly villager for one month. Whereas, a donation of $10.00 feeds the entire ashram, including the school children, their mid-day meal.

The gathering for the noon meal is a highlight of the day. Everyone sits in the huge, open, thatched dining hall with the floor smeared with dried cow dung paste. It’s considered an antibacterial, and I have to confess that I have never seen a single fly land it. We all sit in lines along the walls and across the floor. Of course, I have the seat of honor by the Swamini, but it turns out to be the “hot” seat.

As customary, a verse from Chapter Four of the Bhagavad Gita is chanted for grace:

Brahman is the ladle,
Brahman is the food;
Brahman is partaker of food;
Brahman is the digestive fire;
Whoever sees Brahman in all actions attains Brahman.

Since there are about one hundred of us, and no one eats until everyone is served, we go on chanting the entire fourth chapter. Still not everyone has their food, so we start chanting other verses. Then the Swamini asks me to lead one.

“But I don’t know any verses,” I quickly explain.

“You did know some when we were in the Himalayas. You must have forgotten.”

When we were in Uttarkasi, the Swamini never understood that I never chanted a single line. I just looked at the book and mouthed along. Since Sanskrit is one of those sensible languages, like Spanish, that reads just as it looks, I could pronounce it correctly without knowing the meaning of words. On my first trip, I did study Sanskrit diligently whenever I had a chance because it is fascinating. Also, other Indian languages have many Sanskrit words, so it gives me an edge when I try to learn the basics of the vernaculars. So the fact remains, I can read Sanskrit—but not fast enough.

I am assigned a room in the section with the brahmacharis. We all have a small adobe cottage, topped by a thatched roof. The bathrooms are separate structures across a shady corridor. Three walls of the tiny cubicles are made of adobe, while the fourth one is only a woven screen, letting in light and fresh air. The airiness feels good in the heat of the summer; I suppose that there is never any cold weather here. The thatched roof is practical and allows for fresh air under the eaves; however, all the dry straw creates an ever-present fire hazard. Already there have been two serious fires here. One was caused when a scorpion stung one of the brahmacharis, causing him to drop a kerosene lantern. The flames were roaring before he even realized what had happened.

So one morning, the Swamini directs the setting up of an altar, so that the brahmacharis can perform a Vedic ritual. Then they start the chanting of ancient verses prescribed to protect one’s abode from fire. The brahmacharis continue chanting all day. I am sure that these rituals can make a difference, if done properly and with the right attitude—it’s the power of positive thinking, reinforced with the energy of millions of repetitions through the centuries.

I do know of a couple of successful cases. When I was in South India in 1979, the monsoon rains had failed to arrive on schedule. The priests started chanting the Vedic invocations to bring rain. And rain it did, such an inundation that they had to start looking up the verses to stop the rain. Another time when I was in the Himalayas, a U.S. satellite had gone astray. It was predicted that it would crash right into India. The priests, from one end of the country to the other, began chanting incantations for protection of the motherland. The satellite landed out at sea. Of course, the American engineers have another explanation.

The ashram and village have a mutual support system. The villagers provide the labor for the kitchen and gardens. Teen-age girls come over every day to fill the huge clay pots with clear water for bathing. Recently, a new program was started to replant a nearby hillside with trees. Several men are paid for watering a certain number. Since they only are paid if their allotment of trees remain alive, they have incentive to do the work.

In addition to providing income for the villagers, the ashram runs a school for the children. One morning, a brahmachari takes me over to tour the village and school. The hamlet of some 600 people is quite unusual, even picturesque. Eight-foot white-washed walls, which give as much shade as possible from the blazing sun, encircles each house. The wooden entrance gate in the front wall is painted and decorated with bright colors. Inside the fences, the spotless white houses are built of stone, made smooth with adobe, then white-washed. Stalls covered with thatch give shade to the cows and oxen in each compound. These people do not know what a mortgage payment is. Built entirely of local materials, the houses were constructed by the occupants with the help of their neighbors. In another area, I heard the men singing songs while they worked together carrying materials to erect a new house.

The children attend classes gratis. The villagers supplied the land, materials and labor to erect two large, open-air sheds that serve as classrooms. The ashram takes responsibility for supplying the teachers, books and a midday meal. After I am introduced, the bright-eyed children sing a ballad in Telugu for me. They all seem to be vying to sing the loudest and best. I have visited many such classes, both high and low caste, throughout India, and I have never noticed a single, bashful child. They all seem so full of confidence and curiosity to meet the strange white lady.
One evening the villagers visit the ashram to dance for us, a simple circle dance. The majority of the performers are men of all ages, with only the youngest girls and elderly women joining in. Predictably, only five minutes into the performance, the power goes out. The petromax lanterns are quickly lit. They do produce a fanciful setting, but not enough light to really see the folk dance well.

Daily life is gentle and effortless here. I watch the villagers as they take their cows out to forage, bundle rice straw to make a thatched roof, and work in the kitchen. Everyone has a duty, knows that duty, and seems content. Momentarily, I forget that there is another world out there where everyone is struggling and competing for survival. I wonder, why don’t these people, who have so little, appear to be struggling?

On the weekend we have a break from our normal routine, as we are invited for a special feast in the nearby town. Only the affluent can afford to arrange for such an occasion. I understand we are celebrating the son’s birthday. This will be my very first journey in an ox-cart, actually called a “bullock-cart” here. Fortunately (in Andhra only), the carts are covered, rather like our covered wagons of yore. Off we go, early, so we can reach the house by lunch time.

During our three hour journey, cars and buses give way as we plod along the highway. We have a great time, bumping along, singing, bumping along, laughing, with lots more bumping along. The brahmacharis want me to teach them some English songs—not necessarily religious ones. I start with “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—life is but a dream.”

“You see, we Americans have our philosophical tradition too!” I tease them.

On the return trip, we have to stop and wait for two hours at a railroad crossing. The automatic bars lower when the train is scheduled to arrive, not being programmed to take in consideration that today the train is hours late. Time, the Indians have lots of time, plenty of time to spare for waiting two hours at a railroad crossing. Not a soul is complaining; everyone is patiently waiting. They seem to think there is nothing anyone can do. Yet, I somehow know this is not the first time the train has been late.

The Swamini is realistic about my ability to endure the intense heat that is descending on us, for it’s going to get much worse before the June rains come. I am perpetually bathed in sweat. Even though I bathe three times a day, I never feel any real relief. The overhead fan would have been a great help, but the power is always off when I need it. One small compensation though: it’s too hot for mosquitoes. Somehow I can take sleeping in a pool of sticky sweat, or being dive-bombed by mosquitoes, but the gods have thus far saved me from having to endure both at the same time. It’s divine dispensation for the angrezhi, an English-speaking foreigner.

In spite of all her responsibilities, Swamini is determined that I will receive teachings from a major philosophical text of Vedanta while I am here. The chosen text, a favorite of mine, tells of Nachiketas, a young boy who defies a god. Ancient Indians are accused of having written no history, but that is not really true, for glimpses of their way of life is sprinkled through all their epics and even their philosophical treatises. The Katha Upanisad is no exception.

In line with Hindu traditions, the young boy’s father, a Brahman priest, was performing his last worldly duty of giving away all his worldly wealth, thereby insuring himself a place in heaven. While Nachiketas’ was observing the ritual, he happened to note that dear old Dad was holding back his best cows, and was only giving away the old and decrepit ones. Being a priest’s son, he knew the scriptures: those who are miserly in their giving go to joyless regions after death.

Clearly upset at what he was witnessing, the boy cleared his throat, cast his eyes to the ground, then asked his father in the softest of tones, “So to whom will you give me?”

When the father ignored the obvious censure, the boy asked again, “Father, who will I go to?” Still no answer was forthcoming.

So it was only his third try that prompted an answer from his enraged father, “You, you go to Lord Death.” The father cursed the son with “go to the devil,” as they say in Spanish, or our equivalent of “go to hell.”

The son remained poised, for a father is a child’s first guru (teacher); therefore, his words could not have been spoken in vain. “Gee, Dad wants me to go to visit Lord Death. I wonder what good can come out of this?” Nachiketas thinks to himself. With that thought, he journeys off to the nether world. Nachiketas was quite clever, when he reached the abode of Lord Yama (one in control), he did not miss the chance to question the imposing demigod who knows both this world and the other. Because of the boy’s interrogations, Lord Death revealed the wisdom that has been treasured for centuries in the philosophical treatise, Katha Upanishad.

Of course, since reincarnation is a tenet of the Asian religions, they have a totally different attitude about death than the Christian/Islam idea of “one chance is all you get.” The Jains and Hindus even practice self-euthanasia by refusing to take food or water when they know the time has come that they can no longer take care of themselvs and will be a burden to others.

For some reason, I have always felt an affinity with Nachiketas and his wonderful optimism. Often, when life deals me a challenge, I remember his words, “so what good can some out of this?” Surely, if he could take advantage of a trip to hell to gain wisdom for humanity, I can derive some small benefit from my minuscule trials.

Although I love it here, for it is exactly and perfectly the environment that I would create for myself if I were an Indian teacher, my lack of Telugu limits my ability to integrate successfully into the ashram. When I tell the Swamini of my idea of trekking up the Godavari River, she discloses that she knows nothing of that part of Andhra. However, she does give me several suggestions of places of natural beauty to check out, including an ashram she has personally visited. Since it is near the sea, she assures me the climate will be cooler.

As I bid the Swamini good-bye, she warns me, “Take the first bus that will stop for you. Don’t wait for the Tirupati bus as you can wait for hours. Once you get to Kodur, there are plenty of buses from there.” It was not only a warning, but also a forecast: how do the people endure this kind of public transportation?

Chapter Thirty-five

BOUNTIFUL NATURE

One of the places Swamini suggested I visit is an outstanding bird sanctuary near Vijayawada. For me, being in bountiful nature is a sure route to a peaceful mind and a connection with something other than my small self. Truly, I just love observing all the lovely creatures in our world. The myriad of manifestations in the creation is incredible; I do not want to miss anything.

Since the sanctuary is only an overnight journey, I decide to stop and check it out. However, when I arrive in Kaikalur, I am not at my best after a sleepless night from the loud clacking of the train wheels. In a semi-somnolent state, I approach the station master where I commence with the first step of frustration that I always seem to have to endure when I arrive in a new rural place. After explaining that I have come to visit the bird sanctuary, I ask if there is a tourist department here. No, he seems sure there is not. After some discussion in Telugu with the ticket seller and others who are hanging around, they decide I should go to the Forest Office. There I will be sure to find the information I want. One of the men kindly volunteers to tell the rickshaw driver where to take me, so I hop aboard.

After only a few blocks, we enter the main road. The driver looks back at me and gestures “which way.” I shrug—I thought he was supposed to know where we are going. So he chooses to make a left onto the main road. After a half block, he turns back again and says something that sounds exactly like “Post Office.”

Oh, dear—“Hold it,” I bark. Everyone understands those words. Then I flag down an intelligent looking, well-dressed gentleman passing on a bike. We clarify for the rickshaw driver that I want the Forest Office, not the Post Office. Problem is, as ascertained by the group who has suddenly gathered to consider the situation, there is no Forest Department in Kaikalur. To complicate things, a young police officer approaches me and demands, not asks for, but demands, my papers. As I am dragging out my Passport and Visa, which is a 9” x 12” flimsy piece of paper, everyone’s attention is diverted to looking it over. Meanwhile, I am still trying to get intelligent directions from the gentleman I flagged down because he is the only one who speaks English.

The policeman keeps asking me, “What are you doing here?”

I keep replying, “I am here to see the lake.”

He repeats my words, “I am here to see the lake”; then asks me again, “What are you doing here?”

While this parrot-act is going on, my only ally starts to take off.

“Sir, you don’t have any idea where I can get information about touring Kolleru Lake bird sanctuary?”

With that, everyone reconvenes and discusses the real issue, but, of course, I cannot understand their Telugu. On second thought, haven’t I learned by now? I better verify that I am in the right place because I have seen no indication of any lake anywhere. When I ask, “Just where is the lake?” they all point out a billboard, made of metal. It is so corroded by rust that not one word is legible. A streak of bright blue visible across the bottom gives me a faint hope that there may be water somewhere near.

Finally, the unanimous decision is made to send me over to the Irrigation Department. They will surely have information about the lake. I retrieve my papers from the policeman, who is still asking me, “What are you doing here?”

Is he a messenger from the gods trying to keep me on track? Nancy, what ARE you doing here?

With the new instructions, the driver turns around and takes off in the opposite direction. The Irrigation Department was a good suggestion, for there I meet Sri Venkateshwara Rao, Deputy Executive Engineer of Irrigation. I am quite amazed to find a high official sitting at his desk at 8:15 in the morning. My luck may be changing, for this is surely a once in a lifetime boon. A local joke is that during Indira’s Emergency, when everyone was compelled to appear for work, there weren’t enough chairs for all the government employees to sit down. As it turns out, Mr. Rao was on the same train that I arrived on this morning. He had come straight to the office—that explains the rare event.

A robust man with a bushy salt and pepper mustache, Mr. Rao immediately takes on the role of the perfect Indian host. A guest has arrived and the whole office will be at a standstill until my needs are met. Just like the people I encountered in the street, everyone has time to help a foreigner. First, he pays the rickshaw driver. Then tea appears, followed by breakfast wrapped in a banana leaf that doubles as a plate.

While I am eating breakfast, Mr. Rao and I discuss my situation. No, there is no suitable accommodation whatsoever in Kaikalur. Gradually, the room fills up with three engineers and four peons; all totally focused on my dilemma. When Mr. Rao orders another cup of tea for me, half of the peons bolt for the door to serve me.

By now, we have made the minor orientations necessary to tune our ears to each other’s English accent, so Mr. Rao and I are communicating without difficulty. The sum of the predicament is that there are no hotels here. In addition, there are no boats available to see the lake. The Irrigation Department had some row boats, but they have all sunk.

“That’s the problem in India, no maintenance; they won’t spend the money,” he laments.

“But doesn’t it cost more to replace the equipment, than maintain it?” I somehow remain my naive, logical self, but many such encounters are surely whittling away at it.

“But this is the time-honored way in India. Everything is always going to rust, don’t disturb it,” he explains with a chuckle.

Since his foremost duty is to entertain the guest, Mr. Rao starts telling me of the importance of one British official in this region. The official had engineered a dam across the Godavari River with a complex irrigation project that converted this District into some of the richest agricultural land in Andhra Pradesh. A coconut palm from this area just made the news: almost one thousand coconuts on one tree! Now revered as a saint by the local populace, they even held a centennial celebration and invited the engineer’s family to come from England to attend. However, he did not fare so well with the British Government of his day. They thought he had spent too much money on the natives and sacked him.

“As a result of his work, this District has always paid more taxes than all the adjoining Districts put together.”

“So I guess the government’s message was you don’t spend money to help the peons pay more taxes.”

“Of course, that was his idea: Make the people prosper; then everyone will benefit, even the tax collector. Before they had the irrigation project, this was a poverty-stricken area.”

Finally, one of the telephone calls pays off, for they have located a young man working with Kolleru Lake Development. Within ten minutes he arrives on his motorcycle. Anjaneyulu informs us that I am in luck, an important official from the Forest Department is arriving tomorrow and several graduate students are also coming from Hyderabad University. The officials are to be given the complete tour of the lake, so a boat will have to be available for them. Certainly, they will be able to accommodate me also—after all, I am the guest.

The problem of seeing the lake solved, we proceed to the difficulty of finding a place for me to stay. Again Mr. Rao and his staff take on the responsibility with gusto. After a couple of phone calls, he obtains permission for me to stay at the Irrigation Department guest house out on the main canal. However, that brings up a new challenge: transportation out to the site. Mr. Rao remains undaunted. Three or four phone calls later he has located an employee who has some work in that area. He agrees to carry me on the back of his motor scooter. (This was when I learn the difference between a motorcycle and a motor scooter.)

The journey was memorable. The term “road” is a generous one, as most of the asphalt has been washed away, leaving only a strip one or two feet wide for much of the journey. I am holding on for dear life, especially at the horrific bumps of six inches getting on and off the asphalt. So with avoiding chuckholes and passing vehicles, we spend most of our time on the bumpy gravel shoulder. To get a break, I signal for him to stop at a tea stall ahead where I spot a stalk of bananas dangling above the counter. My teeth chattering like automatic jackhammers, I try to catch my breath while I dig coins out of my bag with sticky, shaky fingers. After a cup of tea and fortifying myself with a banana, gritting my teeth and breathing deeply, I board the back of the scooter and am whisked off again. It was a trip not to repeat.

The guest house is truly a respite, complete with air conditioning. The British had interests in this area because of the lake for sport fishing and water for irrigation, so they had built this cottage some 100 years ago. It certainly contradicts the “no-maintenance-in-India” premise, for it is like new. Even the toilet flushes on the first try. I think that’s a first in rural India. Since all guest houses are equipped with a cook, my lunch is ready and waiting when I arrive even though it’s late afternoon.

A few days later when I get a chance, I go over to the Irrigation Department to thank Mr. Rao for arranging my stay at the comfortable guest house.

“Well, the Irrigation Department sure has not denied themselves on their guest house. I will have to eat my words about no maintenance in India,” I mention.

He chuckles and looks down, “Well, you see, it was a real dump, but last year a central government Minister came here for inspection. It was the only place we could accommodate him and his entourage. So they totally redid the whole house from top to bottom, including paint, light fixtures, tile in the bath, and all new furniture.”

“And I suppose the minister stayed one night.”

“Yes, one night. But we just don’t have any decent hotels here. We had to put him up somewhere.”

Evidently this is a common scenario in democratic India that has never totally opted for socialism or capitalism. I doubt there will ever be a legitimate debate on the subject since the socialistic system serves the government officials so well. I recently read an informative article in a newspaper comparing expenditures in the public and private sector in coal mining in Bihar. The Tisco coal mines are held by a private firm, and give it a healthy annual profit. Last month when the owner, J.R.D. Tata, went for inspection, he arrived alone. Only the chief executive went to meet him. They held the necessary meetings, and Tata left the next day. Official business expenditure was under 3,000 rupees.

In contrast, the another coal mine in Bihar, publicly owned under the socialistic government control, continually operate at a loss. Last month when a Government Minister visited the mines, he arrived with his personal entourage (a hangover from the days of the kings), plus over a hundred clerks, officials and peons. At the factory, everyone from the stock boy to the top man had to be at the beck and call of the Minister and his staff; that is, absolutely no usual work was accomplished that week. Lavish lunches, dinners, teas were served up daily for the occasion. The total expenditure to taxpayers was estimated at 200,000 rupees. That’s socialism Indian-style.


Next morning, I take the bus back into town. Not a joy ride, but I know the alternative; I give thanks for every bump that I am not enduring on a motor scooter. As soon as I reach town I go directly to the Kolleru Development offices where I meet Anjaneyulu and Meerab, a graduate student from Hyderabad. Even though I was specifically told to be here early, the reason I was to arrive early never becomes apparent. It’s a repeat of yesterday’s scenario; everyone in the office just circles round and round the guest, intent on entertaining me and making me comfortable.

A couple of hours and four cups of tea later, progress is forthcoming. At 10:00 a.m., we go for breakfast at a local cafe. We leisurely consumed a special breakfast of delicious pancakes made of ground mung beans that I had never seen before—or after. So when we finally do make it to the lake, the scorching high noon sun is awaiting us. At the gate, we stop to talk to several Forest Officers from the surrounding areas who are standing out in the sweltering heat, awaiting the arrival of the Official—the one who is supposed to provide us with a boat. They may have to wait all day. These hierarchical customs are remnants of the kowtowing the natives were required to make during the British Raj and have nothing to do with caste. Why have the formalities continued after the British went home?—I am impertinent enough to wonder.

Although I arrived in what is normally the season to view the birds that annually migrate here for the winter, for no apparent reason, the majority took off for their Siberian homeland last week. I will miss several rarities like the great crested grebe, night heron, the painted stork and several rare ibises. Frankly, the lake is still so full of birds I am wondering where the migrants managed to squeeze in.

I am only viewing one small fork of the lake that is India’s largest fresh water lake. It is actually a series of canals, streams and rivulets, interspersed with some fifty islands. The three of us hike around the piece of lake nearest the proposed tourist area. Fortunately, a few sprawling trees give us some shade. Anjaneyulu (Anji, for short) has spent two years in Kolleru working on his doctorate, so he knows every bird and exactly where to find it. We see an abundance of small grebes, ducks, herons, egrets, janacas, and moor hens, including the colorful purple variety.
In the afternoon, someone did find a country boat. They are hollowed from the trunk of a toddy palm, the tree favored for nesting by the gray pelican. Presently, the trees are being depleted by the natives who cut them to make boats for the poaching of the birds for food, particularly the plump moor hens. The shortage of the nesting palms caused the pelicans to move elsewhere about a dozen years ago. One movement in an ever-present flux of adjustment for survival apparent in all the life forms here, whether animal or human.

The highlight of this jaunt is a huge flock of openbill storks. They happen to be the subject of Meerab’s doctorate studies. Here again there is an ecological problem due to depletion of resources. The stork’s bill was adapted for eating a certain type of fresh-water snail, which was plentiful in Kolleru. However, the local women have started raising ducks for eggs to be exported to China. Besides what the ducks forage, the children go out to hunt additional snails to feed them. We see piles of empty snail shells around several villages, a sign that the openbill storks will soon lose their food source at Kolleru and will have to move to another territory also.

To solve the no hotel dilemma, Anji invites Meerab and me to stay at his place. Ordinarily, he could not have invited Meerab. It would not be proper to have a young woman in his home, but now I can play the role of chaperon. Personally, I am delighted to stay with these intelligent, informed young people. Also, these encounters always give me a rare opportunity to get a closer inspection of their ideas and opinions about life. Usually when Meerab visits here, she has to sleep on the floor at the office. Mama, the cleaning woman, stays with her. I do not know how she got the name, since “Mama” means “uncle” in her native language, but she waits on Meerab and me as if she has nothing else to do.

Mama’s little mud shack is just across the street from the office. She and her husband came here from Kerala some years ago. Living quite happily on the proceeds of a small tea shop, they were even able to purchase a house. Then misfortune hit when her husband became gravely ill. With doctor and hospital bills, plus not being able to work to keep the cash flowing, they lost their home and shop. When he finally died, she had not a “pi” (a penny) to her name. She found the cleaning job, then friends helped her build a hut on the easement between the road and a walled compound.

“It was a nice little hut,” she tells us, “but the police came one night and tore it down. I was so frightened, and so distraught over losing my pretty little hut that I decided not to rebuild it. Now I don’t have to worry about them tearing down this crummy hut of sticks and mud. If they do, I can put it back up in a day.”

In spite of the presence of a chaperon and plenty of room, Anji still takes the precaution of sleeping at his neighbor’s home to allay any gossip. Throughout my travels even though I continually hear stories, I still find it hard to appreciate the man/woman rules in India. And they are numerous, for each area and caste has its differnt idiosyncrasy.

When Meerab and I question one of Anji’s cohorts about his prospects with women, Subir confesses that he is madly in love with one of the professors at Hyderabad University. So madly in love that he even got up his nerve and touched her—on the hand. She was so astonished, and so shamed, at this terrible act that she told her entire class what a terrible thing the student-teacher had done. She even threatened to report him to the authorities; he would have lost his job.
“You would have lost your job because you touched a woman's hand?” I beg Subir for clarification.

“Oh, yes, definitely; without question.”

“But was it just an accidental brush or did you actually plan to touch her hand?”

“Oh, yes. That was a well-planned hand touch, Nancyji, and don’t you doubt it,” he turns red with embarrassment, “but I made it look like an accidental brush.”

“I see. Now you have ruined all your chances with her?”

“I never had a chance with her, anyway. My mother will arrange my marriage with a village girl. She doesn’t want me to marry an educated woman who has a career. She will find a girl from the same village I grew up in, who can’t speak a word of English and only wants to cook and have children.”

“Your education will help you get the best girl in the village with the biggest dowry, yet having an education is held against a woman. Hardly seems fair, does it?” I venture to observe.

On the other hand, Anji has a “different” story for us. Until a few weeks ago, he had a roommate who had come to Kaikalur to make his fortune in the booming fish business. He ended up not making any money because he harvested too soon and the fish were too small. However, that was not his biggest problem: she was tall, dark and bright-eyed. He was madly in love with her, and they were actually cohabiting. He even introduced her to his best friend and business partner. Once while the fiancé was away in Hyderabad, “those two began to have some fun” as Anji put it. Well, finally the two male friends found out about each other’s escapades with the same woman. There was a terrible fight; they would never be friends again. And who got the girl? A third fellow, she married him within a month after the fight.

My intention has been to stick to the backroads of India where life remains simple and true to itself. Even though, Kaikalur is certainly off the beaten track, the conflicts between the old and new, and the impact of a capitalist economy is being played out here in living color.

The following afternoon, we drive over to the other side of the lake to have access to a motor boat, although the awaited Forest Department official never showed up. The only reason Meerab had here come was to support Anji in guiding the officer around the lake, so he could see some of the larger ecological problems here. Although for her it was a wasted trip, it was an advantage for me to have this vibrant intelligent young woman as a guide.

As we stand in the shade of a canopy, the boat slowly maneuvers up and down the deep canals that constitute the circulatory system of the lake. Many of the islands are nothing but mounds of mud covered with a type of reed that the natives use as thatch for roofs. Lots of weaver birds have picked these isolated reeds for their nests. We spot three varieties of kingfishers, including the little blue, which I rarely see.

We end up on the largest island that is supposed to have supported a small community since time immemorial. Traditionally, the lake dries up in the summer. During that time, archaeologists have found an interesting array of artifacts, indicating that the legends of ancient human life here are not just fiction. However, the Government has formed a new management program and is trying to make it a year-round lake. The villagers object to this because their best fishing season is when the lake dries up, for then they can just pluck the fish out of the mud puddles. I never figured out where the fish for the next year’s crop come from, but this is the tropics. . . creatures just proliferate here.

The principal supporters of keeping Kolleru’s water level high are the fish culture entrepreneurs. Everywhere we go we see huge fish ponds, some as large as fifty acres. Each pond has a pump to drain the lake into the self-contained reservoir. The fish are force fed something that looks like dried dog food, then harvested. Insulated, refrigerated trucks, the nicest trucks I have ever seen in India, make daily trips to Calcutta’s fish market. The majority of ponds are owned and operated by the local villages, with the remaining managed by the Government and private investors from Hyderabad.

In a business project where you get free water—and free land—the entrepreneurs can afford to put money into heavy equipment. We happen upon an operation where a bulldozer is clearing out a huge 200-acre pond on public wildlife sanctuary land—right in broad daylight. Since the water level is only a foot deep in this part of the lake, if that pond is filled, the existing water will be depleted. Anji takes photographs, but everyone seems sure nothing will be done.

First chance, I take it upon myself to mention the operation to Mr. Rao at the Irrigation Department. He replies simply that they can do nothing. The Government has given them no authority or funds to prosecute these cases and everyone knows it. The villagers and investors can continue to do as they please.

This fish-culture income is actually transforming the life of the villagers. Many villages now have a village car, a TV, and portable radios. After our boat trip, we walk over to the nearby village to have a cup of tea. Strangely, it looks as if everyone in the village is gathered in front of one particular house.

“Well, this is the first time I’ve been in a village where there is something that is attracting more attention than the white lady,” I mention.

Meerab smiles, “You’d never guess what they are doing. There has been a family feud, so they are dividing up the household goods and family wealth. They have invited all their neighbors to serve as witnesses that everything is divided fairly, so there will be no bickering later.”

“Another change in the life of the village; families breaking up,” I comment.

“Things are changing too fast for them,” Meerab observes.


The next morning just as we are about to leave for a trip to the beach, a botanist arrives from Hyderabad with a type of beetle that kills water hyacinths by boring into their base. As the development office only has one jeep, we take him around the lake to release the beetles where the hyacinths are most prolific. They clog up the waterways so that neither human nor fowl can use the water. The villagers have been cajoled to gather the hyacinth plants as fuel for their gober gas mills, the rural self-contained gas plant that normally runs on cow manure. However, the villagers are not interested in such “dirty work.”

After releasing the beetles, it is practically noon before we head southeast, through mile after mile of coconut palm orchards and rice paddy. In every direction we are surrounded by vibrant green. This land is the rewards of irrigation from the Uppatero Canal that runs from Kolleru Lake to the sea. All along the way, we see a network of tributary canals that only have plank foot bridges. Then the road ends because of the main canal, so we have to leave the jeep behind, protected by the driver.

After a hike over sandy, barren terrain, we reach the wonderful Bay of Bengal. The sea is quite refreshing, and the beach is spotless. Of course, it is very isolated with no visible population in any direction. The Indians do not swim; they will take a dip in the sea only for the health benefits of a salt bath. In addition, everyone is sensitive about the dark skin that the sun produces.

When we arrive back to the tiny village where the jeep is parked, Anji heads for the tea stall. I announce that I have to have something cold to drink and head for the cold drink hut. Anji gives me such an icy stare that I know I blew something, somehow. What now? I wonder.

“Meerab, I made some serious error. You would not believe the look Anji gave me when I told him I was having a cold drink.”

She cannot figure it out either. When Anji comes over after finishing his tea, we find out what the misunderstanding was. I never noticed that the cold drink stand also served liquor. But he noticed, and thought that I was going to have an alcoholic drink, which would be a terrible blot on my character. He was sure that our driver, who does not miss a thing, would report it to everyone at the office.

We had packed a lunch for the trip, but had declined to carry the weight with us on the hike to the beach. On our return, we look for a nice picnic spot, but the coconut palms that line the road leave no space even to pull off the road. Finally, we give up and just stop by the side of the road to eat in the car. Within seconds, a local resident appears to find out if we need assistance. When the driver explains the situation, the man tells us to wait. In a couple of minutes, he comes running back to tell us that arrangements have been made. After all, we are guests—a guest in the home is like a visit from God himself. The Indians take this part of their religion seriously. I’ve never found such hospitality anywhere else on the planet. I benefit from their kindness wherever I go.

We have been invited to eat in the yard of one of the wealthier members of the community. A table and several very rickety chairs are brought out. Our hosts, in their early 70’s, are delighted to have us. Nex,t they fetch the water pitcher and towel for hand washing. However, when water glasses appear, I mentally balk. Most of the wells in Andhra are huge open pits; I think that I should not take the chance of drinking from them. Even Meerab does not drink any of the water.

In general, Andhra Pradesh is a desert. Water is so hard to come by here, that, for the first time in all my sojourns, I actually see men carrying water. They do not carry it like the women in pots on their heads or hips, but have a long flexible pole on which they hang two buckets. They then balance the pole over one shoulder. I also saw my first rat-catcher here. He has traps of bamboo, each attached to a long pole; so he can stick them underneath objects, I suppose.

That night Anji treats us to a local phenomenon—the indoor movie theater. Like many Western things, the Indians converted it into their own unique adaptation. It is open-seating. Everyone comes in, spreads their straw mats, and sits on the floor—no chairs provided. Children are running, babies are crawling, ladies are chatting, and dogs are winding back and forth through it all. I can hardly watch the screen for laughing at the tamaasha (melee) surrounding me. Not that the film is worth watching, since it is the typical, awful Hindi genera with lots of singing and dancing, with little or no plot. Rural Indians love these films. Contrary to the popular stereotype, they have a lot of leisure, except during the planting and harvesting seasons. I have seen the locals waiting for hours in the hot sun to get into the movies every day of the week wherever I travel.

My week in Kaikalur was an exercise in divine patience since no one seemed to know what was happening, or when. Yet everyone else seemed quite content in knowing that they would never know. Certainly, the birds were an unforgettable experience, but my real experience here was the people. When I remember Kaikalur, I will remember Meerab, Anjaneyulu, Mr. Rao, Mama and all the associates at the Irrigation and Lake Development Departments. These kind people with their dedication to making my stay comfortable. . . and meaningful. They openly shared their lives with me, their joys, sorrows, concerns, disappointments. Apart from my overall goal of having a silent mind, I love filling it with new ideas and different points of view. The open and honest Indians continue to make India alive for me.

The next morning, I take off at the crack of dawn to catch the early train for Rajamundry. I arrive at the station right on time to find out the train is two hours late. There is nothing to do but sit and watch the scenery. A lovely sunrise emerges over the horizon. Soon thousands of birds are flying in to feed at the lake, having roosted elsewhere during the night. It is an overwhelming sight as wave after wave of birds fly toward the station. Each shimmers with a glow of backlighting from the sun. I smile as I realize this is the only moment I have had any solitude during the entire visit. Even my encounter with nature has been more intellectual and informative than peaceful and connected. I relax and watch as the birds continue to fly overhead. A beautiful way to start the day—it certainly makes the waiting worthwhile.

Chapter Thirty-six

EXPLORING THE PAST

I finally arrive in Rajamundry, the gateway to the majestic Godavari River. I have been fascinated with this place ever since I saw a movie that was filmed here. The scenes showed the river lined with temples and hermitages—or at least that is what I thought I saw. Subsequently, I created quite an illusion about a taking a trek along the Godavari, spending the nights in villages or ashrams along the way.

From the window of the bus, I spot a decent looking hotel. I jump up and order the driver to let me off. He kindly accommodates me with an unscheduled stop. The next morning I am out at sunup to look for the bathing ghats, steps, that I saw in the movie. After a lengthy walk, I do find the main complex on the north end of town.

I am delighted to find that in real life, the scene is much more colorful than in the movie. Besides all the devotees performing their daily ablutions while pouring water and chanting mantras, several groups are gathered on the steps performing special rituals, complete with priest, fruit offerings and wafting incense. The lovely scene captivates me. I sit on a step and breathe it in with wonder. Is it because our world has changed so fast that I just luxuriate in these scenes from the past? Nothing changes here; same river, same stone steps, same sounds, same smells. I feel at peace and at home in this timeless world.

Soon my mind takes flight. I begin looking to see if I can find a single item that could not have existed here 2,000 years ago. Everything is made of mud, wood and stone. The priests, decorated with sandalwood paste and ash, wear a simple cotton cloth wrapped around their hips. They chant the same Vedic verses, hold the same butter lamps, and offer the same rice and flowers. I use to do this mental exercise in the Himalayas where I could find an entire village with no sign of any modern contrivance, but this is a decent-sized town.

After enjoying my mental game for a while, I set out to find a place for breakfast. I can hardly believe what I encounter en route. I do not know the millennium, but I discover scenes from the Iron Age right here in Rajamundry. Under the shade of open make-shift huts of sticks, with cardboard and burlap for roofs, I see metal workers making the bowls, shaped like woks, which they use here instead of buckets and wheelbarrows. The craftsmen take a circular piece of flat metal and pound it into shape with a mallet. Regrettably, I have also seen men working in the granite quarries, hammering scrap rock into bits to make gravel. This is India’s history too—but it is not nostalgic. I wander past them, feeling rather dazed. It seems my tripping back in time got a little out of hand.

It’s so late when I find a restaurant that I end up just having lunch. Afterwards, since I am right by the Ramakrishna Mission, I go by to inquire about my proposed trek up the river. I am puzzled to find that, even though it is midday, the gates are locked. As I am standing there trying to figure out my next move, a voice sounds out of nowhere, “May I help you?”

I look up to see one of the tallest Indians I have ever beheld: tall, dark, and handsome with lovely black wavy hair. “Well, I am surprised to see this place locked up in the middle of the day,” I reply.

At that moment, on some impulse, I glance down. On feet as large as a Trojan’s, I observe a pair of many-colored, striped, velveteen slippers with pointed toes. This is not an ordinary person, I surmise.

Yes. I think they close at meal times,” he informs me.

“I see.”

“Where are you staying? I can take you back there,” he offers.

“I can find my way easily. There is no need for you to put yourself out.”

“It’s okay, I have spare time. Have you had lunch?”

“Yes, I just finished lunch. I got up very early this morning to visit the Godavari at sunrise, so I just now got around to eating.”

In spite of my protests, he remains determined that he will accompany me to my hotel. After flagging down a bicycle rickshaw, he helps me in. He is so tall that the hood, which serves to protect the passengers from the blazing heat, cannot be raised. So I put the end of the sari over my head and away we go to my hotel.

There he invites me for a beer in the hotel bar. I still haven’t got a single clue as to what this guy is about, so curiosity impels me to accept. Of course, I always welcome any opportunity to talk with an Indian since I can always glean some very interesting stories from them. My desire to know more about how Indians think is continually being fulfilled because the they are so clearly open and honest, even at a casual first meeting. This gentleman is to be no exception, neither is his tendency to be a genuine talker. His English is good, but not so good that he does not have to make some effort, not only to speak, but also to understand me. So conversation becomes a bit taxing.

As his story unfolds, I learn that his father was the raja in a small kingdom in Rajasthan. Had I been astute, I would have known that he was a Rajasthani royal from the style of his diamond earrings, he informs me. And what about those shoes? I reflect.

I mention that I had been in the state of Rajasthan, specifically Jodhpur, and was quite taken with the unique life of the “land of kings.” However, he shows no interest in my comment and goes on to elaborate on his story. It was his elder brother who would have inherited the throne; that is, had India not gained its Independence. They have traveled throughout Europe, standard fare for all Rajasthani princes. Both brothers now work in the oil industry. Recently, he was contacted by two different political parties to run as an MP, Member of Parliament, in the Lower House, as representative from his home town.

“I’m a logical choice because our family has the respect of the people there.”

“I understand that many of the former princes, particularly from Rajasthan, are now serving in the central government in some capacity. So I suppose it is logical that they asked you. Have you ever had any political aspirations?”

Perhaps he does not understand me because the conversation takes a quick turn about discrimination, particularly against the higher castes. The reservation system is holding back the most talented young people just because they are Brahmans, or Ksatriyas. Somehow the word Anglo comes up; he comments they are one of the minorities who are benefactors of the discrimination against upper classes.

So I ask for clarification, for I have heard the term used a lot. “Just exactly who are the Anglos?”

“They have some British blood. Some of the British did take native wives during the Empire era. Most of those men stayed here and raised their children. Although they have never been out of India, the Anglos like to consider themselves British. They keep up with the Queen as if she were a close relative. If it rains in London, they take out their umbrellas. You’ll see plenty of them in Bangalore,” he tells me.

“Well, I did notice some elderly Europeans in Bangalore, but I thought they were retired missionaries who had made their fortunes here and could not abandon their holdings.”

“Oh, no, they are Indians with Indian passports only; they had a British father or grandfather. They were born here and raised here by an Indian mother. They are one of the passing legacies of the Raj. But they all have very good ICS [Indian Civil Service] jobs.”

“Why is that? Their knowledge of English?”

“Oh, no. Because they are a minority group, they get special privileges through the reservation system.”

“I see.”

“I have stepbrothers and one stepsister who are Anglos. My grandfather married a European woman—it was a common practice among the royalty [in Rajasthan] at that time. Of course, a European was never the first wife.”

“Of course not. And how many wives did your grandfather have?”

“The Rajput kings had up to four. The European was his third; my grandmother was the first.”

“And the children of the first wife are the heirs to the throne?”

“Yes, of course. But don’t think the king necessarily favored the first wife. No, it was his duty to create a happy life for all of his wives and children. For example, although she was really quite young, his last wife, my fourth grandmother, was going to commit sati at the death of my grandfather. She loved and admired him that much, for sati is a sign of respect.”

“I understand it is also due to the belief that the man and wife will reunite in their next life together.”

“Yes. Of course,” he replies with a blank stare that I interpret to indicate that he wonders if he is talking to a pagan, an idiot, or what.

I remain silent, so he continues, “However, at that time, her two sons had jobs in the ICS. That was during the Raj. They told her, ‘Look, if you commit sati, the British will blame us; we will surely lose our jobs. We beg of you to think of us.’”

“So she followed her sons’ wishes. But since then, for over twenty years, she spends her entire day in the prayer room. She actually still performs a ritual prayer service on my behalf of my grandfather every day. You won’t believe it, but after she bathes, her hair—she has long hair, down to her knees—stands straight up in the air. Then she goes to the prayer room for her service. Only when the worship service is over does her hair falls down naturally.

“She has not eaten anything or drank anything for the past ten years. And she is not the only one I know. If you come to Rajasthan, I can show you so many things that you will not believe. We have big parties, for we really know how to enjoy life. Lots of wine, roast pig, you name it.”

“And will your mother attend these feasts and eat meat and drink wine?” I inquire.

“Yes, if only the family is present, but not if any outsider is there. In that case, she won’t. And my Anglo cousins attend our family parties and dinners. We don’t show any prejudice toward them at all. They are of our same blood.”

He pauses and continues, “But, of course, if there are any guests from outside the family, the Anglos will not attend. Out of respect for them, we always invite them; but they, out of respect for us, will never attend. They know others will reject us for eating with an Anglo.”

“Like an out-caste?” queries the present out-caste.

“Of course, what caste would they be?”

“Well, that is a fair question. They would not have a caste, so they are out-castes. However, since I just found out that Gandhi was an out-caste, I’m not so sure of the term. It seems that he was not discriminated against by anyone except his own particular caste and family.”

“In general, caste doesn’t make a difference any more. However, we Rajputs are the Ksatriyas, the kingly caste, so we only eat among our kind, or, of course, with the Brahman priestly caste.”

“But the Brahmans in that area maintain a strict vegetarian diet. Do you have a vegetarian kitchen?”

“Yes, definitely. We not only maintain a vegetarian kitchen, but even keep a separate water pot with only boiled water. Neither that pot, nor the water in it, is ever handled by a meat-eating cook. We have to have Brahman cooks for that kitchen.”

So that’s life in a princely family of Rajasthan. What can I say, except to admire his straightforwardness.

By the time I leave the prince with the colorful slippers, it is almost 3:00 p.m. After I shower, I decide that I will have to skip my usual siesta as I have a prior commitment in less than an hour. Instead I go over to the local museum. The collection is very small, but there is one item that intrigues me: a carved wooden statue of a female, standing at least six feet. The wood is very weathered, and has a rectangular hole cut in each shoulder. Therefore, I assume that it was used for carrying in processions. The clerk tells me that it came floating down the Godavari from somewhere up north. My imagination perks up at the thought of heading upstream to an area with such artifacts.

It’s still quite light out when I return to the hotel to get ready to go for an early dinner. To my surprise, I encounter the prince in the hallway, looking for my room. Evidently, the hotel clerk would not give him my room number, so he is virtually knocking on every door. He tells me that he wants to take me to dinner; that’s why he is looking for me. I am hesitant because of the cultural gap. I am ready to eat now and Indians do not eat until 10:00 p.m. He swears that is not problem, for he needs to eat early because he has a train to catch. I explain to him that I need a few minutes to freshen up a bit. So we agree to meet in the restaurant in five minutes—it’s India, it could mean up to one hour without any disregard for the other intended or implied. The Indian relation to time is definitely one of the hardest barriers for we Westerners to overcome.


One of my first encounters with “Indian time” was at the Sandeepany Institute in 1978. I had to go into Bombay to register my visa at the police station. The easiest way was to take a bus to the train station, then take a commuter train into the city. The manager, Mr. Hanumanthan Rao, a gem of a person, was always available to help any of us fifty students. When he found out I had to go into Bombay, he insisted that he was going, so he would give me a ride.

“Fine, when are you leaving? I asked.”

“Now” was the clear, precise answer. So I innocently stood on the office porch waiting for him. I looked in after about 15 minutes, and got another “Now. I’m coming now.” Several people came by and I was talking to them, so time was passing easily.

When I looked at my watch and saw that over an hour had gone by, I told Mr. Rao, “You’re busy. I’ll go on.”

“No,” he insisted, “I’m coming now.”

After a few minutes, someone came by and wanted a book. I asked Mr. Rao if I would have time to walk over to the near-by women’s hostel right fast to fetch a book. “Oh, yes. Then I will be ready to go.”

I did so, only to turn to wait some more. Finally, three hours, we took off. Had I followed my original plan, I could have already been at the station and on my way back. Forever afterwards, when an Indian uses the word “now,” I always ask, “Is that the Indian now, or the American now?”

When I enter the restaurant after only ten minutes, dressed as always in my simple homespun sari, the prince has already arranged for a table out on the balcony. Probably in his mid-thirties, he is a charming young man. We both know that we are just two curious travelers getting together for a little conversation, which happens often while touring. First, we order dinner; also tea and crispy snacks to munch on while we are waiting. So for the first five minutes, we are engaged in ordering. Then, in the moment of silence that follows, I look at the prince and realize that he is as drunk as a skunk. As it turns out he has been sitting in the bar drinking beer all afternoon. I do not know why I did not notice before. Our encounter in the hallway was too brief, I suppose.

But alcohol does not affect him, he assures me. When he and his buddies go hunting, they consume up to one hundred bottles each. I have him clarify that he means the one-liter Indian beer bottles. Yes, that's what he means. Soon dinner is served, so I politely and quietly eat my dish of rice and vegetables to the background of some very enchanting music—and some very strange tales.

It seems the prince has an interest in the paranormal, which is not unusual in India. However, some of his information is a bit suspect. After telling me about a girl in India who has ants continually crawling out of one eye, he hits on a subject closer to home.

“But how can you be so sure that President Reagan had a dead alien right in his White House office?” I venture to question his story.

“I have a magazine that shows the picture. An alien is in a closet in the White House. I can show you the photo.”

“There may be a photo. However, even if it were a legitimate photo of a legitimate alien, there is no way of ascertaining that the photo was taken in the White House.”

He just cannot get my point, and we are sidetracked on the meaning of the word, “legitimate.” Our conversation is regularly interspersed with these little English lessons. By now, he has drunk a couple of cups of tea and eaten some snacks, so he is sobering up a bit. However, he is not eating his dinner.

Since I was up at the crack of dawn, I have had a long day in the hot sun. With the slow service, the eating of dinner, the tedium of conversation, I am starting to fade. But not the prince, the waiter even took his meal to warm it for him, and still he has not taken a bite.

“What about your train? I believe you said you had to catch a train tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t need to worry about that. It’s not until 6:00 a.m. in the morning.”

It seems to me there has been a little misrepresentation going on. I insist that he go on and eat, as I am totally spent mentally and physically. Finally, when I am about ready to lay my head down on the table in a dead slump, he finishes his dinner. But when he orders another beer, my attempt at gentility reaches its limit. I politely wish him well and excuse myself.

First thing the next morning, I am back on track with my Godavari River projection. I cannot find anyone who knows anything about what I will find up the Godavari. When I finally talk to the head swami at the Ramakrishna Mission, he tells me he does not think there are any ashrams. It should have been a clear signal, but I persist. When I analyze it, I find that most of the times I end up in a dubious situation, I have been warned and have totally ignored the counsel.

Chapter Thirty-seven

THE FOREST PRIMEVAL

F inally, I obtain some advice that if I want to find a more natural area of the Godavari region, I have to go to Papi Kondalu. At least, there I will be able to contact the Forest Department. So away I go on the first bus that heads north, where I meet a most congenial Forest Officer. Satyanarayan informs me that I still have to travel further north to find the natural beauty that I seek. He intrigues me with the news that in Maredumalli, although it is not on the Godavari, I will find a paradise. What is more, there is a guest house where I can find a room to stay. Good enough for me, away I go on the next bus heading north, for there is only one road north.

Since Maredumalli is quite small, I find the Forest Guest House without any problem. A young man manages the guest facility; his wife will cook meals for me. Immediately, he intrigues me by telling me he can take me to find wild peacocks. Oh, I surely am in paradise. We walk through the village, then through a tract of land where the Forest Department has planted with some spindly evergreen trees. Sure enough, soon we hear peacock cries. I am quivering with excitement as we slowly creep toward the sounds. Finally, I do spot one female. At that same moment, she spots me, so she disappears in a flash. I continue to hear their cries on many of my hikes, but I never see even another flash of one. I am beginning to think that they have peacock “plants” for the tourists. Well, maybe not… there are no tourists here at all.

The next day Satyanarayan arrives to prepare for an important Official of the Forest Department who will be visiting the following day from Hyderabad to inspect the plantations. Here they grow bamboo, a timber pine, and coffee, which has not done very well. Two days later, the Official, whom everyone has been awaiting, finally arrives. At noon, Satyanarayan and his assistant invite me to have lunch with them, a special lunch because of the visiting Officer.

“Wait a minute; something is not computing. There is a special meal because of the Officer? Aren’t you going to eat with him?”

“The lunch is only special for us. The Officer eats well every day because he always carries his own cook and groceries with him in his automobile.”

“But why aren’t you eating with him?”

“Oh, no. We are underlings; he won’t eat with us. He’ll just send his cook over with some food for us.”

“That is really strange. You are not exactly underlings; you run the operations here. It seems to me the director would want to be in contact with the managers.”

“Not over here. Believe me, the British Raj has been only replaced by the Indian Raj. There’s no noticeable difference for any of us—except those on the top rung of government, of course.”

So I eat lunch with these two fine young men on the verandah of the guest house on a tiny rickety table. Meanwhile, Mr. Official eats alone at the long dining table in the main guest house under a whirling fan. But I will have to say the spicy vegetarian dishes are the best I have eaten in a long time, so who am I to complain?

While talking to the officers, I find out there is a small village of the original indigenous tribal people in the nearby forest. The mountainous areas are dotted with these aboriginals, who were never bothered, or exploited, by the civilized society. Living in isolation, they maintain their own cultures and unique languages. However, in the past one hundred years, overcrowding on the traditional farm lands has prompted migration by the town folk to these areas for clearing and cultivation. This impact with civilization is changing their idyllic world.

Inevitably, the next morning, following Satyanarayana’s directions, I take off early to find the village. As I approach the village, I encounter what must be several of the poachers the officers were complaining about. (Of course, I will never tell.) About three-quarters way to the village, up ahead on the path, I spot a small band of hunters crossing the trail. When they spot me, they stop and stare, definitely with puzzled looks across their faces. From their scant apparel—bare breasts with loin cloths—and appearanced—dark skin and uncombed hair, I could be right on the Amazon. However, I do notice that they have very streamlined looking steel points on their arrows. I smile and greet them with the traditional palms together and “namaste.” This seems to satisfy them because they nod and disappear into the cover of trees.

Finally, I reach the small village, some twenty houses. Interestingly, none of them are made of the natural mud and thatch indigenous to these people. I find out they are government-issue: cement blocks with red-tiled roofs. These cottages will definitely be hotter in the summer and colder in the winter than their traditional mud and thatch huts.

Today the residents are out and about because a government agent is dispensing their monthly ration of free rice from a shed under a sprawling tree. They are quiet curious and friendly, but mostly concerned that I am walking through the forest alone. With minimal English, one man virtually commands me not to return to the forest because of the danger of tigers.

“Tigers? Have you ever seen a tiger?” I question him.

“No,” he shakes his head in a way that clearly says, “and I do not want to.”

“But if you haven’t ever seen one and you live here, it’s really doubtful that I’m going to find one.”

One thing is definitely noticeable: no garbage dump. There is no garbage dump because there is no garbage. No tin cans, no worn out shoes, no plastic bottles—nothing. The occasional plastic bag brought from town is used and reused until it actually disintegrates. Anyway, they always carry cloth bags on their infrequent shopping trips into town. In contrast, I spot a barren hillside nearby, a result of their slash and burn farming. I am amazed at difference from the Soligas who I encountered in B. R. Hills, who had meticulously preserved the vegetation. I do not understand why vegetation does not come back over these fields when they are abandoned. But it clearly does not, even after decades.

Since I have my general bearings, I strike out down a tiny foot path. Soon I am walking, wandering and watching through a wonderful shady forest. In my trekking about, I have see more song birds in this area than anywhere I have been, even in the Himalayas. I spot several unusual ones that I have never seen before and probqbly will never see again. The best one is the Malabar trogon, a medium-sized rusty colored bird with a long white tail; its red breast is topped with a thin white necklace. Several times I spot a bright red bird, but only in flight. It looks solid red, like a summer tanager, but I never find it in my bird identification book. Frequently, I see several varieties of blue birds, wagtails, bulbuls, kingfishers, doves, woodpeckers and the ever-present jungle myna, the only one that can be taught to imitate some human words and whistles.

As I reach a grove of towering trees, I feel a contentment rolling over me from being in their presence. Yet I keep having an intermittent nagging feeling that I am wasting time. How deep can the “doing something” morality be ingrained? Sitting on a rock watching the stream rippling by or listening to the water splashing over a precipice is not accomplishing anything, but somehow it is so satisfying. Then I spread my scarf on a bed of dried leaves and lie down. A cathedral of bright spring-green leaves reach up to the sky. I used to do this when I was a child, just lie and watch clouds, unencumbered by a hundred have to’s, want to’s, should’s—just being there, watching, beholding the wonderful creation. No accomplishments seem necessary in this space.

How magnificent is the forest world. I could use hundreds of words and still not begin to describe it. You must go, you must walk, slowly and gently, sit under the wide blue sky, breathe, watch, lie under a giant tree and ask it how long it has been living there. You must listen to the bird song, the rustle of the leaves, the chirping of the insects, and feel the breeze on your face. Observe a tiny gurgling stream—its waters, the sap of the tree, the blood in your veins are the same essence—the liquid form of universal energy. When you feel these things, you can begin to become a conscious being.

However, I have to admit there is one thing I seem to want to accomplish here; that is, to explore any new landscape. That evening the manager tells me there is another, bigger village about five kilometers farther down the same dirt road I followed today. So early the next morning away I go. Again, I hear peacocks, but I do not even bother to try to follow their call; I have learned that lesson. Along the way, I notice some of my favorite palms, the fishtail; however, they look quite unhealthy. When I go over to investigate one, I find a primitive ladder, made from bamboo and homemade twine, slashed to its trunk. Suddenly, I realize I have been walking for almost three hours and have not come upon any village yet, nor a single sign of humans, except this one bamboo ladder. I am hesitant, but decide to go on because the lane must be going somewhere.

Soon, I do reach a small village where I am lucky to find an English speaker: Nageswara Rao, the school teacher. A residential school here provides education for all the tribal children who live scattered throughout the countryside. He tells me that they are quite backward. The worse problem is their addiction to alcohol, engendered since infancy. It seems the natives in this area make toddy from the fishtail palms I was just observing. This toddy is much stronger than the usual palm toddy. Here at the residential school, the children are weaned from the liquor habit, but their parents give it to them when they go home for holidays.

“Why do they give alcohol to their children?”

“To make them more comfortable, and even to warm them on a cold winter’s night. They even will give it to the babies to help them go to sleep at night. If the baby is crying, they will give it a rag dipped in the toddy to suck on.”

“This is not exactly my picture of the idyllic tribal scene, but I don’t think this habit is common among the tribals,” I interject.

“You’re right, it’s very rare. Whereas, in general all the tribal children grow up nutritionally deprived, these cases are more severe. Here we would like to give one glass of milk a day to all the children. However, we only have three goats, so only the youngest children get any. But in their homes, there is never any milk available.”

I ask about the tribals’ diet in general. He informs me that all they eat is ragi, the brown millet, that they cultivate themselves. Of course, I know they also do some hunting because, in addition to the band with spears I encountered on the trail, I have seen a dove-trapping operation and a bag of small fish caught with a spear.


“I realize that ragi is very nutritional, but wouldn’t it be a good idea for them to have small vegetable gardens to supplement their diet?”

“Oh, no, they aren’t interested in eating any vegetables. They would only be interested in growing vegetables to sell at the market.”

“So they have bought into the Empire’s commercial crop idea. They want to make extra money?”

“Sure, they do.”

“What do they want money for? They have their free homes, their free rice. They grow their own ragi and brew their own booze.”

“They want to have transistor radios, and even televisions.”

“Televisions?” I honestly had forgotten they even existed.

“Sure, of course, they want to have televisions. Why shouldn’t they have televisions like everyone else in the world?”

I do not mention the reality that they will not be able to understand a word on television since it is all in English. The one government station runs one movie a week in the local vernacular, and most of these people do not even speak their state language of Telegu, but a only tribal dialect. Previously, I had heard about the agriculture programs run on television, which I assumed were for the rural folk. However, when I viewed a couple, I was flabbergasted to find out that all these programs are also in English.

After I leave the village, I find a pleasant spot under a shady tree to sit and think. So many questions, so few answers. How can these people know that they are living in a pristine paradise? I know they have every right to investigate, travel, make their own decisions, and choose how they want to live. Yet how can they possibly keep their wonderful simplicity out in the world? It appears that when materialism meets tradition, materialism surely wins. The Hindus do say the world is in a state of grossifying and darkening—back to the black hole, I suppose.

The village turned out to be ten kilometers distance, but I was lucky to get a ride on the back of a motorcycle for the last stretch back home. When I finally reach Maredumalli, the sun has just set, leaving us with a misty evening. The distant hills have disappeared in the fog, the near-by mountains have faded to gray-blue. I harken to a sonorous voice at the tiny mosque calling the Muslims to prayer. The sky flickers crimson as the crescent moon begins to gleam above the horizon. This time of the day is enchanting for me. In Vermont, I used to watch the crescent moon: crisp clear bright against a dark velvet winter sky. In contrast, here it has a tropical quality with the red and gray backdrop of the sunset, which gradually deepens, bestowing a rose glow to the crescent before it disappears behind the mountain.

Chapter Thirty-seven

THE LONGEST DAY

In spite of its reputation as spiritual India, the only topic you will hear on every street corner, in every home, and in every shop is politics. My arrival in India was practically on the eve of the national election in the world’s largest democracy. Rajiv Gandhi and his Congress-I party had failed to bring peace to the strife-ridden states of Punjab, Kashmir and Assam. Other issues also contributed to the loss of confidence in the rule of Nehru’s grandson. Rajiv’s frequent appearances on his own behalf on the one and only TV channel—government-owned and operated—caused embarrassment even to his own party members. Rajiv’s foreign flights were another bone of contention. He commandeered Air India planes as if they were his personal property, which meant completely booked international flights had to be canceled.

All the press is negative. The newspapers call India’s democracy “the one party raj” which means “government has become less and less accountable, more and more whimsical; an authoritarian agglomeration of uninspiring oligarchs.” [India Today, Sept. 1989]

No one I knew voted, for they had no time or the inclination to stand in the long lines. A friend’s servant was the one exception. She would not miss “the vote” because she received two kilos of rice from the Congress-I party for appearing at the voting booth. Of course, they could not force her to vote for their party, but free rice could translate into votes from these poor people. Over half of India’s population falls into this category, so it is worth greasing their palms. It reminds me of a story told of a Punjabi. Punjabis are known for their independent spirit. The man claimed that one party offered him 5 Rps. for his vote and another offered him 10 Rps. “What did you do?” the reporter inquired. “What else? I took them both and voted for whom I pleased.” In spite of the baksheesh, or bribes, to the poor, Rajiv Gandhi’s Congress-I lost.

Sunil agrees with most analysts that the Bofors scandal was the deciding issue, although he remains unsure that Rajiv himself was guilty. Bofors, a Swedish weapons manufacturing company, had paid a large sum of money to obtain a lucrative contract from the Indian Government. Most people think advisors who were greedy for money had influenced Rajiv. Others think that he is too intelligent to risk his career for money with a family fortune in Swiss bank accounts. So much for making an informed vote in the world’s largest democracy. In any case, the majority of voters thought he was guilty and retired his party, thereby retiring Rajiv. India uses the British system of selecting the Prime Minister; election is by the members of the majority party, not by the populace.

Rajiv’s downfall, and passion to be re-elected, would insure that politics would continue to be the great debate everywhere I roam. If you listen to the news, you would think that nothing is happening in this vast diverse country except politics. It remains a continual background noise in this up-side-down world.

Sunil also gives me what I take to be a good suggestion in my quest to explore the Godavari. I can take a launch that goes upstream to Badrachalam daily, a journey of some three hours. Sounds great to me! Such a trip will enable me to check out the scene along the river to see if a pilgrimage is feasible. I can just picture it: sight-seeing on the deck of a launch. However, I did not imagine what a launch is India. Although I keep saying it, I still keep forgetting it: This is an ancient land.

I should have turned back when I find I have to walk a six-inch wide plank with a huge, gaping knothole to get over to the “launch.” Since the deck is covered with a large cabin, I honestly cannot see what I am getting into until I am already inside it. (I think this has been the history of my life!) So I climb through one of the small windows of the cabin to find six young women sitting on stacks of rice bags. Oh, dear, rice bag seating—another new experience, I observe as I accommodate myself. The dark, sinewy women giggle when they see the stranger and shift around to make a space for me. I pause a moment to admire the tiny baby who is suspended from the low ceiling in a hammock made of a nylon sari.

Before I have time to figure out what I am doing here—or realize my mistake—we are motoring down the wide expanse of water. Somehow my curiosity wins out, as I become preoccupied with watching the scenery. Slowly motoring up the wide expanse of brown water, we pass mile after mile of forest standing on high cliffs cut by the river. Occasionally, we pause to pick up cargo or passengers along the way. Each potential port is only an isolated sandy beach without even a single hut. As we approach, in response to the boat’s horn, someone on shore signals with a flag whether they need the boat to stop or not. At one stop several young men, carrying some produce in burlap bags, and an elderly man join us.

Indian persons are very conscientious never to touch me, or any of my belongings. I asked a friend why she thought it was that no man ever helped me with my suitcase when I was boarding a bus in rural areas. I thought it was the reverse untouchability; you do not touch a memsahib (English woman). She thought it was out of fear that I might think they were trying to steal something. So I am quite surprised when this elderly man suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me like a rag doll toward him. In doing so, he saved me from being leveled by five huge bags of rice that came tumbling down from the back of the boat, right where I had been seated. When I realize what has happened and recover, I turn and thank him with a big smile, but he looks down.

By that time we are hours into the trip, and I have started to fade. I am feeling sort of sea sick from turning my head to the side to watch the passing countryside. I look down at my off-white sari, now streaked with brown dust. The proposed three-hour journey has groaned into a long eight-hour one. As usual I am totally unprepared for such contingencies. Unfortunately, I ate all my rations, a banana and packet of biscuits, long ago for breakfast. I did not even bring any water for what turns out to be a swelteringly hot day. Finally, in a ploy to stay conscious, I sit on the shady side of the launch with my feet dangling in the water. A couple of genteel ladies who have boarded the launch insist in sign language that it is not proper—who cares, I'm dying.

I never figure out how these women fit into the picture, for this whole region is extremely primitive and isolated. Later, I examine my Pocket Atlas to verify that, as I suspected, there are no roads to these villages. The river is their only source of supplies and communication. Several villages are perched on the high cliffs, so the villagers have a hard time getting down to the river. Why don’t they put in some steps down to the river? I know the answer before I finish the question. The annual flooding of the Godavari would surely destroy their work.

The going becomes slower and slower. As we pass through shallow areas of the river, the two boatmen have to get out long poles to push us until they find a channel deep enough to motor through. Since it is late March, we are in the dry season until the rains start in Bombay on June 10th. They will fill up the source of the Godavari and send water rushing across India to flood this territory. The worst floods can occur when the sun is shining relentlessly here.

In mid-afternoon we land in what must be a larger village. Just as we drop anchor, the launch that left Rajamundry some two hours later than mine arrives. The boat is loaded with a band of sadhus, or wandering ascetics. You can hear the word ripple through the crowd: “sadhus”—“sadhus”—“sadhus.” These are not the ordinary sadhus that you find wandering in the Himalayas. These are trishur sadhus, named for the three-pronged spear that they carry. They are a Siva sect with an awesome reputation.

Mr. Nambiar, a friend in Madras, had told me about their existence. Sometimes he travels to the real outback areas to set up a factory, in this case, Madya Pradesh. The villagers there were scared to death of these trishur sadhus. Mr. Nambiar told me that when one of them arrived in a village, he would throw his begging bowl and water pot down on the main lane. The villagers knew that they had be filled by the time he returned from his bath at the river. Mr. Nambiar had actually seen the scars inflicted by a holy “trishur” on one villager who had not complied with a sadhu’s wishes. The villagers here will have to feed this whole band. For how many days? Little wonder that there is a noticeable reaction among the people.

This stop turns out to be the port for our rice cargo, so arrangements are made for me to transfer over to a hospital boat docked beside us, so I do not have to wait. They are carrying several sick children, accompanied by their mothers, up the river for medical treatment. Of course, that means another trip across a plank, but what do I have to lose at this point?

At long last, we pull up to a shore and are informed that we have to get off, for the river is too shallow to travel all the way to our destiny, Badrachalam. I really never have understood why some scenes strike themselves so indelibly into the mind, but I know I shall never forget that climb as I drag my tired filthy body over red dirt hillocks. When we enter the village, the first thing I spot is the open-air tea stall. My blob of a self falls in heaps over one of the shaky folding chairs and spills down to the red dirt floor. I manage a smile as I console myself, Just think you’ve done nothing but sit today. About an hour and three cups of tea later, I find myself recuperated enough that my body starts rearranging itself into human form. Then I entertain myself by buying candy for the little band of urchins who have gathered to stare. The proprietor of the tea stall had made sure they did not enter the premises to bother me while I was drinking the tea.

At long last the bus for Badrachalam arrives, just a few minutes after a platoon of police shows up—enough to fill the bus. I have to use my last spurt of energy to scramble among the uniforms to get a seat—no “ladies first” public transport here. When I arrive in Badrachalam, just at dark, I am sweaty, exhausted and excessively dirty from the rice bags. In the bus, I am informed by one of the officers that I am blessed. Tomorrow will be the huge annual festival at the temple, one of the most famous Rama temples in India. These police officers are all going there to help with crowd control.

I also obtained from them the name of the best hotel—booked up. The kind manager gives me the name of another to try and allows me to leave my suitcase in the office. He also promises me that I can sleep on the floor in the banquet room if I find nothing else. Perched in a bicycle rickshaw, I go from one hotel to another, each one with the same story: booked up due to the festival.
Finding no room in any inn, I return to the best hotel to find that the manager has recalled that one room has been reserved for a government official, but he will not be arriving until 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. If I promise to vacate thirty minutes earlier, I can have the room.

Just as I am finishing washing my grimy sari, blouse and petticoat (it took eight changes of water), I hear a rap at the door. Since I do not know anyone here, I assume it is some drunk looking for someone else. The rap sounds again, with more force this time.

“Madam, open the door, I must talk to you.”

I throw on a long dress and look out a crack in the door.

“Madam, this is an Officer. He must talk to you,” the desk clerk instructs me.

I open the door to allow the clerk to enter with a man, who says he is Lakshman Rao, after I insist upon knowing his name. His behavior is extremely strange; he keeps examining the walls.

Although my small suitcase is in plain sight, he does not pay any attention to it.

I ask him what he wants several times in a tone that is not particularly friendly. The hotel clerk is rolling his eyes to signal me to be cautious. However, I am in no mood to be condescending. This Lakshman Rao is not in uniform, nor was he able to produce an I.D. card when I requested it.

Finally, he asks me, “Who is with you?”

“No one is with me. I came alone.”

“But why were you looking for another hotel?”

“Simply because they told me there was no room here, as the clerk here can plainly verify. You don’t have to bother me for that information.”

“But what were you doing this afternoon in a small village?”

Now I realize that the police officers must have reported the presence of a white woman on their bus. “That’s where the boat landed that I was on. Don’t you know that the launches cannot make it to Badrachalam because of the shallow water?”

His English is so poor that the clerk has to translate what I am saying. My patience is really running real short. It is late, and I am not looking forward to a 4:00 a.m. arising.

“Madam, you have to register your camera with the police.”

“In the first place, I don’t have a camera with me. In the second place, it is after 10:00 p.m. and I am not going to tolerate another minute of this abject stupidity (bet the clerk didn't translate that phrase). If you need to talk to me, I will come to the police station in the morning. . . at 9 o’clock.”

With that I practically push the two men out the door. The clerk is visibly shaking in his sandals at my behavior. One’s nervous system can only deal with so much in one day, I excuse myself. Within seconds, I flop on the bed in sheer exhaustion after having completed the longest day of my life. An audible groan creeps out of my mouth as I crash into the safety of a deep dark black hole of unconsciousness.

I am out of the hotel by 5:00 a.m. My only thought is to get out of here, but I have to wait until the police station opens so that I can comply with my promise to meet Laksman Rao this morning. After a cup of tea, I head out to find the famous Rama temple. Even at this early hour, hordes of festive pilgrims crowd the temple grounds. A large field by the temple has been roped off into sections with narrow rows. Tonight the whole space will be filled with pilgrims for the main celebration and vigil. I have always thought it unfortunate that the foreigners who invaded Bharata had superior weaponry. With their native ability to go without sleep and survive on a bowl of white rice or a few dry chapatis, I am sure the Barathis would have triumphed in any war of attrition.

The temple is not open yet, but a kind gentleman arranged for me to join a family who is paying for a private ceremony. They do not want me to leave without Lord Rama’s blessing. Of course, the family is the “extended” one; everyone from grandparents to grandchildren is present. They warmly accept me into their flock with smiles and namastes. I gratefully accept their kindness: God knows I need some kind of blessing.

In spite of my best efforts, even questioning several military officers present for crowd control, I cannot find the police station. I finally find a government office where I can report that I am leaving town. In spite of my frustrated mood, the dignified gentleman, Sri Balaiah, insists on greeting me as the honored guest. I am not even one sentence into elaborating my trauma when he interrupts me to inquire as to how I am enjoying his country. Totally disarmed, I let out a deep sigh, and relax. I explain to him that I love his country and was enjoying it immensely right up until the time I met a Godavari launch and Lakshman Rao.

After some fifteen minutes of small talk, I finally am able to give him the details of my situation. I explain that I must leave because the festival has made it impossible for me to find a hotel room. Mr. Balaiah assures me that he will handle the matter with Lakshman Rao, so I can leave town any time I want. As I leave the building, I note a placard: “C.I.D” Division. The C.I.D. is equivalent to our C.I.A. Oh dear, I do feel a moment of compassion for Lakshman Rao. After all, no one wants the C.I.D. after them.

For obvious reasons, an Indian bus suddenly looks like a royal coach. It’ll be a long time before I commit to a trip on a “launch” again. Not in this lifetime, I reassure myself. I find the overland terrain quite pleasant as we wind through hills and forests. We even pass several wonderful ponds filled with lotus and water lily. Come to think of it, I have seen more ponds with lotuses in this general area than anywhere else I’ve traveled.

A week later I read in a local newspaper that one of those launches sank—it was overloaded—
drowning 100 people. It had left from Rajamundry packed, so there is an official who is being held responsible there. A launch only holds 25 to 30 people maximum, the report states.
So now that I know the river reality, my vasana to trek up the Godavari is finished, exhausted, crashed, done in. There’s nothing equal to firsthand knowledge. I just had to find out for myself.

Chapter Thirty-nine

TIME FLOATS

After the Godavari trip—let’s say, with the bubble of that illusion burst—I decide to give up challenges and find a nice quiet place to stay. The Swamini had suggested I try Shanti Ashram, which she personally had visited and found very peaceful. Further, she recommended it because it was nearer the sea; therefore, the temperature would not soar as high as other areas of Andhra.
I am relieved when I arrive at the bus junction nearest the ashram just after 4:00 in the afternoon, so I will have plenty of time to catch a local bus to arrive at Shanti Ashram before dark. When I inquire, I am informed the bus will be coming soon. No one seems to know how soon, an ominous indicator at best. I sit and wait, then I circle the cement platform, then I sit and wait, then I circle. . . again. . . and again. While I memorize every crack in the cement, hours creep by. Suddenly, I realize it is getting dark, so I will have to find a new game. Anyway, by now, the platform is so packed with waiting passengers that I have no space to maneuver.

Every thirty minutes, I question the ticket agent, who is sitting out on a folding chair under the only light, a naked bulb dangling from a thin wire. But all he has to offer is “it will come soon.” “Soon” will be surely added to my words of caution in dealing with the Indian world.

Just after dark, an Indian Christian preacher who speaks English approaches me. Of course, he is interested in saving my soul. “Look, sir. I do not need to be saved from my sins. I need to be saved from spending the night on this bus platform. Can you help me?”

Then I explain that I have been here for over four hours being told “it will come soon.” Obviously, I am having some big doubts. I have not even been able to eat for fear the moment I leave the premises that the bus I have been awaiting will appear.

The preacher immediately switches gears and throws himself body, mind and soul into helping me. First, he explains that the bus that goes to the ashram is actually owned by that ashram. He expresses this fact with disdain, insinuating that they are at fault for having poor bus service. Further, he opines that a spiritual organization should not be doing such a business anyway. I could care less who owns the bus; I just want a bus. So sidestepping that issue, I question him to find out whether there is a hotel in this small town. I am calculating that I can spend the night and deal with a bus in the morning.

“No, madam, no lodges here,” comes the foreboding answer.

After several inquiries with other waiting passengers, he predicts the ashram-owned bus will come by 9:00 p.m. He is right. Exactly on the hour, the bus pulls up and every single soul on the crowded platform heads for it. Try to imagine the mob that has accumulated after five hours of waiting. Of course, they never complained like I didt—hey knew the bus would come “soon.”

Practically before I have time to move a muscle, the bus is inundated filled saturated overloaded. Tenaciously, the Christian preacher runs out and tries to get a seat for me Indian-style: bribe the driver. But to no avail, he says there simply is no room. He is correct; I see people sitting on the windowsills. As the bus pulls away, someone jumps onto the rear bumper: “hanging room only.”

When that plan crashed, the gentleman remembers that there is a government guest house just down the road. We traipse through the dark streets only to find out that there is no room available. The caretaker is already bedded down on his pallet, but he yells through the dark hollow of a window that several officers are expected early in the morning. I bet some officers arrive every morning, I speculate. So back we go to the station to wait for the 11:00 bus. My Samaritan is sure there will be a bus then. Only after I persuade him I will be okay, does he take off when his bus arrives.

Upon boarding the 11:00 bus, I make it clear that I want Shanti Ashram. The bus is only half full, so I can even sit down. As the bus pulls off into the black of night, from the dark aisle issues the sound of a friendly voice. One of the passengers heard me ask for Shanti Ashram. Since he is also visiting there, he kindly volunteers to take over as my guide. Rama, Rama, your blessing has finally arrived—better late than never, I heave a sigh of relief.

After an hour’s journey, we enter the entrance arches to Shanti Ashram—Abode of Peace. My aide knows just which door to knock on to find the clerk who can assign me a room. The young man smiles a big welcome as if this late arrival is a normal occurrence. (With the bus service, maybe it is.)

He greets me with a friendly note, “Coming to ashram any trouble?”

“Oh, no, no trouble at all.” If I am ever going to learn that it’s best to leave some stones unturned, some stories untold, to keep my mouth shut, surely it will be here in India. Anyway, who has the time, I’m ready to crash.

Thankfully, I follow him down a dark path to a building where he shows me to a room for the night. After making sure that I have everything I need, he tells me that he will see me at the prayer service, which begins at nine o’clock in the morning. Nine o'clock service instead of the usual 5:00 a.m.—now this is a place I may be able to survive in, I muse hopefully

Since the sun brightens my room early, I have time to stroll about the premises before prayers. As I meander around, I am beholding another miracle in the desert: fifty acres of mango and cashew groves. Swami Omkar planned and established the ashram in the 1930’s. At that time, he had visited the U.S. and was able to get some financial donors for the project. Unfortunately, during that trip, he slipped on some icy steps in Chicago and broke a hip, thus sustaining an injury that he suffered from for the remainder of his life. Returning to India to stay, he dedicated his life to establishing this haven of peace as a retreat for spiritual seekers.

Everyone calls this area a jungle, but it does not fit my idea of one. When I think “jungle,” I conjure big-leafed trees, vines and exotic flowers. Here the countryside is covered with masses of huge thorny shrubs—at least 12' high and 12' wide—with only tiny sparse foliage, typical of desert plants. Yet, I am to discover that it is filled with its own variety of creatures.

As I stroll through tall trees and flower gardens, I cannot help wondering how the tall thorn bushes were cleared out one by one with the few primitive hand-tools available here. The Swami was determined, and was even inclined, to do some physical labor himself, specially the pruning of the orchards. This project was essential, for the crops would sustain the ashram financially. Alas, he died ten years ago and now this place is practically empty, except for a few retired people.

After my tour through the orchards and gardens, I see that this place looks quite promising. My body needs a substantial rest. I am really feeling a bit beside myself that I have not had any time to even think about serious reflection, study or meditation since I left Swamini's Chinmayaranyam. How mischievous time can be—that was only a couple of weeks ago, but it seems like years.

As I enter the prayer hall, I am surprised to see a European woman plopped on a large cushy pillow right up front. Shusheela (her adopted Indian name) is dressed in navy and white pants of broad stripes and a chartreuse blouse in an extra large size, as she is of ample proportions. Evidently, she takes care to maintain the mounds of baby fat, as she has a packet of cookies at her side. To begin the service, she leads a prayer and reads several selections from one of Swami Omkar’s books.

I soon find out the reason for Shusheela’s status. She feels—and several Indians have confirmed it—that she is the reincarnation of Shusheela Devi. The first Shusheela was one of several American women who were a financial force behind the Swami’s ashram project. In addition, she spent twelve years in the 1930’s and 40’s in this ashram. To have an American disciple at that time, particularly in the outback of Andhra Pradesh, was quite rare. Everyone loved Shusheela Devi. Several residents here still recall what an angel she was. Judging by the stories of her service as a nurse to the near-by villagers, plus doctoring of the animals in the ashram, it is easy to believe that she deserved their adoration. She died unexpectedly in a car accident in the U.S. some thirty years ago. It is into those footsteps that the new Shusheela, thirty years of age, has effortlessly stepped as a new incarnation.

Afterward the service , I meet the head of the ashram. A sweet gentle woman, Mataji Jnaneswari, was not designated to be the director. She is a quiet, contemplative type, while her sister was the extrovert/director type. So they made a good team after the Swami died. Unfortunately, her sister died a few years later, so Mataji inherited the leadership role. She knows the operation well, as she and her sister came to live here to serve the Swami when they were still teenagers. Although it may not have been her preference, I find it pleasant to have someone so calm and composed in charge.

After breakfast together, Mataji arranges a room for me in a nice two-room cottage, surrounded by huge majestic trees. A long covered porch stretches across the front, screened with heavy wire in a one-inch grid. In the rear, a kitchen with the same heavy wire screening spans the back. Throughout the areas of hot climate, the area for cooking is commonly located in an open-air setting. However, I will not have to use the kitchen, for food from the communal kitchen is delivered to me in stainless steel canisters at mealtimes. Therefore, I am set for a retreat.

Somehow, from some plant I touched while wandering about in Maredumalli, I contacted a poison-oak-type rash. When I was traveling yesterday, patches of itching were coming on fast. Today the inside of my left arm has started to ooze. I have not had poison oak in years—but when I get it, I get it badly. Lacking the correct homeopathic remedy, I decide the only thing to do is to fast for several days. The Mataji agrees it’s a good idea. Best of all, she tells me coconut water is available here. The word for this tropical ambrosia is the first word I learn in every language.

Daily the gardener brings two fresh green coconuts, cut from the ashram trees, right to my door. This kobari nilu is all I need for nutrition. Even hepatitis patients can imbibe this water, which would eventually transform into coconut meat. It is not the water found inside of a ripe coconut—the Indians throw that out. Neither is it coconut milk, which is made from grated coconut steeped in water to extract its flavor and vitamins.

I spend the next four days very quietly. Fasting is a major tenet of a health system favored here called Nature Cure. The theory is the body knows how to cure itself given the opportunity. Instead of expending energy in activities, including in eating and digesting, the body and organs rest; thus enabling them to heal and rehabilitate.

On the first day of the fast, I seem to have endless daydreams, definitely unusual for me. Normally, I can just override any unwanted woolgathering with positive thoughts, but today I see I must just let the thoughts dissipate themselves. This phenomenon is not unusual when fasting, but I find it irritating. Relax, they are simply mental impurities coming out, like the physical ones, I reassure myself. Once the spiritual teacher, Swami Chinmayananda, told me I should not be so particular about what birds fly across my clear blue mind-sky. “What difference does it make?” he challenged me. But why do I get buzzards? I have to lament.

My body is so uncomfortable, and my energy so low, that I have to just lie still for hours. Meanwhile, my mind roams far and wide. It amazes me how it can ramble; it can take a trip around the world in less than thirty minutes. My mind goes back to events in the past—not special ones: sitting drinking a cup of tea at a kitchen table, sitting in a garden, making Christmas cards. Who is she? What is it that prompts her to come and go—according to inner urges and outer demands? Where is she going? Why does she just keep going and going?

Since I am totally isolated, I can lie nude to let the gentle breeze cool my rash-ridden body. I try to perceive where my skin ends and the breeze begins, but I cannot discern it. The breeze and skin seem to be made of the same stuff, while I get the benefit of feeling cool and expanded. This light breeze feels like the breath of the gods—especially in these tropics. This seems to be the only way I can relax enough to side step the itching sensation for short respites.

After a few days, the effects of the fasting seem to be less. However, the itching and stinging, particularly of one arm have not improved a lot. During the night, I lie awake for hours on end, hoping for sleep. Time floats between hours that drag by and long scenarios played out in dreams in five-minute naps. The hands on the clock that normally announce the scenes in my life—breakfast time, study time, dinner time, bed time—have no meaning as I wander in and out of my mental world. I learn to cuddle into my mental world to avoid clock time. The sleepless nights pile up on my consciousness and loosen my grasp on who I am and what I am doing here.

One afternoon, I am lying awake in a sort of stupor from lack of sleep, when, again, I hear a strange noise. I noticed it yesterday, but ignored it. This time I get up, open the door, and creep into the adjoining room. There I detect that the noise—rasping and gnawing—is coming from a built-in cabinet. When I tiptoe over to it, through the glass-paneled door, I see the source: a big rat. Fortunately, it does not see me, as it continues to make a meal of the wooden shelf. I quickly retreat to my room and bolt the door between the two rooms. Oh, my God, I am living with a rat.
I figure it must go outside at night since there is nothing but wood for food in that second room. So a couple of hours after dark, I stealthily enter the room and turn on the light. I do not see or hear any sign of the rat. Then I close and bolt all the wooden shutters, so that it cannot reenter the room. I assume it was a successful venture, as I do not hear the gnawing the next day.

Every night, I have to get up a dozen times to pour cool water over my itchy rash to try to get some relief. Then, quite by accident, in a fit of exasperation, I discover hot water, as hot as I can bare it, stops the itching for long periods of time. It’s contrary to normal theory; perhaps the heat carries off the poisons that are on my skin. What a wonderful relief. I sink into hours of a deep silent slumber.

With my physical irritation improved, so is the quality of my mind. Each morning, I sit out on the verandah for hours listening to dozens of birds, all happily singing and chirping and calling. I love to connect with the birds through their sounds, especially when I first wake up in the morning. In a relaxed state, it seems as if I can hear their tones through my body before the sound actually reaches my ears. Even though the temp is definitely warm, a lovely breeze wanders across the shady verandah now and again. After this quiet observation of the birds, I find it easy to let my mind drift off into a peaceful meditative state. The peace is so genuine and encompassing, I wonder why I do not do this daily.

Time floats over me. Sometimes I am hardly aware of the difference in now and yesterday, for scenes cover my mind like the waves rolling on top of each other over a sandy beach. Though I am thankful for this quiet respite to meditate and reflect, I decide to take the opportunity of the solitude to evaluate: What am I doing here? “Here” meaning in the literal sense. What am I doing in India?

I go back to the beginning: How did I happen to come to India in the first place? Okay, I originally came to India for the innocent reason to help out with a charitable project. Almost immediately I had the socks knocked off my mind. That mystical experience has definitely impelled my continued interest in India and what could be called a “spiritual quest,” although mine is so individual it certainly does not fall into the classical definition. Surprisingly, considering the impact of that experience, the quest has remained in the background of my life. I found that omission justifiable in U.S. since I was working and surviving. Isn’t the same thing happening here? I question myself.

I begin to recall that only a month after I arrived in India to meet with Swami Chinmayananda the first time, we went to Bangalore where he was to lecture and inaugurate a new temple. It was March and springtime in Bangalore is delectable. Mammoth trees line the streets, draping bouquets of pink, purple, and white, while others emit the most delicate fragrances. This was my first encounter with the lush nature of the tropics. I was enchanted. I was delighted. I floated. This bountiful natural setting enhanced my spirits, while the philosophical and spiritual discourses by the Swami expanded my intellect. Even the setting of the discourses was mind-boggling and exciting—sitting under the stars in a huge cricket field large enough to accommodate the thousands who came to hear him.

The temple inauguration was to be on the seventh day of the ten-day program. An inauguration is an elaborate ceremony to actually enliven the idol by connecting it into the thought-form energy established through centuries of worship and ritual of that particular deity. Swamiji was to bring in the power, whereas the priests were responsible for clearing the space of any foreign energy and inviting the specific deity to participate. The priests had been preparing the ritual fire pit and chanting mantras for days in preparation for the event. Along with the chanting voices, smoke from the offerings of incense, clarified butter, rice and saffron were wafting through the air. From a pit beside a large flower-strewn stage, another group of priests was beating drums. Needless to say, it was a very dynamic atmosphere.

I was dressed in a two-piece sari from Kerala. Since it was the first time I had worn the native dress, I was relieved that my initial experiment was in this easy-to-wrap version. Just as I arrived at the temple, the Swami was coming down the steps. He exhibited visible delight at seeing me in a sari, but expressed concern for my comfort. I assured him that I was okay because I had secured the whole swaddling mess with a giant safety pin.

Boooong. . . . boooong. . . . boooong. . . . As I sat down I was aware that the drums were making so much noise that talking—not even thinking—was possible. I closed my eyes, then I closed my senses as the ladies from the nearby village crowded in on top of me and my friend, Usha, who was sitting beside me. Then I closed my mind to everything and just let myself drift into my gratefulness for being in such an awesome place.

After a half-hour or so, the Swami climbed up on the stage and announced that before the inauguration, we would have a group meditation. As a matter of fact, he explained, this evening was a most auspicious time for meditation because, by chance, an eclipse of the full moon was about to occur. Since the moon is the deity of the mind, when nature throws a shadow over the moon, it is helpful in veiling the chattering mind. We were to take advantage of this moment to attempt to experience the divine substratum on which the mind plays, just as a movie film plays on a blank unblemished silver screen.

The Swami insisted that we all have a mala (counting beads) in our hands for the meditation. Frankly, I had never used a mala because I thought it was too elementary. However, this evening I followed the rules and held a mala in my right hand. To begin the meditation, he instructed that we were going to chant a mantra (sacred verse) together. As he began to vocalize the short incantation, I was concentrating to be able to pick up the Sanskrit words. Immediately, I noticed that my hand became huge, so big that the bead of the mala between my fingers seemed like a tiny grain of sand. This will never do, I thought, and just dropped the mala.

At that moment, Idropped myself—I disappeared. I cannot say where “I” was or for how long. The first instant I experienced consciousness, I was aware that the Swami was speaking, but far away. So I knew the meditation must be finished. I think it was only at that moment that I realized that I was spread throughout space with no form at all. One cannot describe the experience. Even now I cannot figure out where my thinking came from. Neither were there any colors or forms, for there were no eyes or mind to perceive with. However, I was aware of individual thoughts. I can only say there was awareness and thought—nothing else. They did not come from my brain because I had not found it yet. Then I became conscious that there was a tiny little hard body sitting down on earth, something like a big toe. Surprisingly, I was not alarmed. On the contrary, I apparently knew exactly what to do. Somehow I was able to find the ring finger on the left hand of that physical body. After gently willing that finger to move, with a lot of effort, it began slowing tapping on the knee beneath it. Thump. . . thump. . . thump. . . I began to slowly. . . slowly. . . slowly. . . to descend, to pulsate downward until I fit back into the physical body.

At that point, I assumed that I was just me again. But when I opened my eyes and looked around me the whole world was so different. Everything had the same appearance, but they were so intrinsically beautiful. Every person present, including the Swami, still seated on the stage, was a cell in my body, alive and dynamic. In awe and adoration, I took a deep breath and looked up at the moon, which still showed a reddish hue from the eclipse. I perceived that the moon was a red bindi (the red dot that Indian women wear) on my forehead. I could have reached up and just peeled it off like a paper moon. I had one thought, I’m not sure I wanted to know this.

By that time, everyone had gotten up and was stirring about. With a lot of physical difficulty, I collected myself and stood up. Although pretending to be a physical being was awkward and painful, my mental/emotional self continued to experience incredible bliss.

It may sound like an egotistical experience, but I can tell you it was most humbling experience one can imagine. To see the panorama of life from that perspective makes our daily concerns seem so transparent and petty. When one is immersed in love peace bliss, temptation and its companion sin do not exist. What could one possibly desire when one is so perfectly complete?
I remained in that blissful state for three days. I could not eat and could not sleep, and really did not want to talk. Actually, anything I tried to eat gave me immediate diarrhea. Then I got on a train for Bombay. By some miracle, I had a whole compartment to myself, so I was not disturbed. I slept the entire 24-hour journey. When I woke up, I was my normal ole’ self again. I do not even know if the physical body and brain have the energy to sustain such a state indefinitely.

Naturally, I thought, this is great stuff. No wonder people are coming to India. Ominously enough, when I mentioned the experience to a couple of friends in Bombay, they told me, “No, Nancy, nothing like that has ever happened to us and we have been in India for two years.” So with passing time, I gradually put the experience aside and got on with my life. Essentially, I led a normal life, but with a kind of existential depression. I had to question myself: Where is that wonderful divine me? What am I doing struggling like an ant? Can’t I at least be a grasshopper?

When I returned to India this trip, I would have liked to have had a repeat performance. However, it was difficult to find anyone who knew enough to even discuss the experience with me. Obviously, I was extremely selective whom I asked. Tublu, a Bengali Brahman, told me that it was a “real” spiritual experience. So did Siva RamaKrishna, the Brahman in Kumbakonam, but he also warned me that these experiences come once in a lifetime. So if I am not going to have a life reeking with bliss, what is next best? I guess that is the dilemma that I still have not worked out.

When I conjured up the experience, it was almost as if I relived it. As I deal with people in the ashram, the past memory undulates over me like winging shimmering hovering skimming clouds, which I can never catch. I try to weave the different realities of me together, but they always seem like loose strands waving in the breeze, unknown to each other. I am this, or I am That. Where is the bridge? I lament.

Since the summer heat is descending upon us, Mataji is leaving for her usual migration to the mountains during the hot season. And the “hot season” is in full-burn mode. It is already seriously sweltering at ten o’clock when Mataji and Shusheela climb into the ashram van for the trip to the train station. The old swami who I have seen at the prayer meetings when I was able to attend joins the group who bid the Mataji farewell. After the van has disappeared in a cloud of red dust, I go over to greet him with a “namaste.”

Swami Ramananda Tirtha replies in a spirited voice, “You have not seen where I live. Come and see the cave where Omkarji used to meditate.”

“I would love to,” I reply.

Although it is high-noon heat, I follow the nimble, thin being down a long, partially shaded path to the northwest corner of the ashram. Finally, we come upon several simple huts, but too few trees. I enter a one-room cottage behind the Swami.

“I’ll make you some tea,” the Swami pulls up a chair for me.

“Oh, Swamiji, please don’t. It is much too hot to drink tea.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Tea makes you sweat, so you will be cooler.”

I have heard this theory again and again, but it does not work for me. It just makes me hotter and stickier.

“Just take a little. It’s prasad [blessed food],” he urges.

“Thank you, Swamiji,” out of respect, I capitulate to my sweaty fate.

The Swami insists that I return each day to have a cup of tea prasad with him. I do so regularly, but somehow do not find time to make it a daily exercise.

One morning when I am at the Swami’s cottage, a troop of thirty to forty pilgrims—men, women and children—come tramping through. They all bow and touch my feet first, then the Swami’s.
The first time this touching-feet thing happened to me was years ago. When I was visiting a friend in Bombay, her servant got down on her knees to touch my feet. I was very disconcerted (to put it mildly), and told her “no, no” while tucking my feet behind the chair legs. I looked over to my friend for some help. If I read the look on her face correctly, it was my behavior that surprised her, not the servant’s.

So this time, I force myself to sit quietly. I close my eyes and imagine that they are bowing to the marvelous, boundless, loving, Divinity within me, not to me. With that state of mind, I open my eyes and smile at each one after they touch my feet. However, less than half dare to look me in the face, mostly the women, and a few children, but not one man. It is respectful to keep one’s eyes lowered. After they finish the foot salutations, they file down to the meditation cave below and then quickly disappear out the door. Strangely, I keep feeling the all-pervasive feeling of love and peace that I consciously called upon. I can hardly get out of my chair and veritably float down the path under the scorching rays of sunshine.

As soon as I was back to normal after fasting, I found a great library with lots of interesting old books. One day when walking over there, I am elated to see a couple of familiar faces. Shruti and Sheela, two brahmacharinis (feminine form of brahmachari) from Chinmayaranyam, have come for a four-day visit. They had been giving some spiritual lectures in a nearby town and have come here to rest between engagements. Their presence is timely, for they are able to take over the daily programs in the chapel. All the retired residents show up to hear them—the only time they have done so. I enjoy being part of the audience and seeing these beautiful young women. Judging from their attentive audience, they must be quite polished in their presentations.

And they have good news for the nature lover; they know of a spring-fed waterfall nearby. I can hardly believe it—in this dry territory. Early one morning we set out to find the oasis. As we are leaving, Shruti asks me, “Have you had your bath?”

I know it is one of those cultural things, but I never have gotten past feeling disconcerted when I am asked if I have bathed—as if anyone could survive without several baths a day in this blazing heat. “Which one?” I respond with a chuckle.

On the way, they point out some trees with hard nuts that are boiled to make soap. I remember reading some comments by a Peace Corp worker reporting that the Indians did not have soap, insinuating, of course, that they did not bathe before the Peace Corp arrived. Nothing could be farther from the truth. They have a myriad of plants, nuts and berries that they used for soap; certain ones were to be used on the hair, certain ones for laundry, and others for bathing. In many areas, they use besam (garbanzo bean flour) for bathing because they consider soap bad for the skin.

The trip to the waterfall turns out to be quite a hike. I could have never found the site by myself. About mid-way, we pass through a village composed of little cottages of mud, with a neat and cared-for appearance. I cannot help but wondering how far it lies from the nearest road.
After we pass through village, we walk along a dike running through some fields. We notice several men bending over weeding and chopping with those short-handled shovels. When they spot the brahmacharinis in their saffron coth, they burst out singing.

The young women interpret for me: “Please pass on. We are poor people who have no food to give a sadhu. So please don’t spend the night here.” The villagers have songs for everything they do, planting, harvesting, thrashing, grinding, but this is the first time I have heard a song like this one. It reminds me of the sadhus I saw when I was on the Godavari launch. The tune was meant, and taken, in good humor. We laugh, wave, and move on.

A waterfall really does exist in this desert! We actually encounter an eight-foot-wide expanse of cool, clean water, gushing out of some stone caves in the side of a hillock. After wading and splashing around, we walk to the top of the falls. En route, we pass a large granite bull (Nandi) that tells us that at one time this spot had status as a holy place. Water flowing out of rocks in the desert! I guess it is sacred.

No water is visible on the hillock at the top of the falls, but we are totally surrounded with tall trees, which must be sustained by underground springs. Over to the side, we spot a towering anthill that is at least fifteen feet high, so ancient that much of it is covered with dry moss.

“This ant hill is very auspicious,” comments Sheela.

“In India, everything is auspicious,” I retort with a grin.

They have a good laugh at my remark, then turn to start back down the trail. I pause a moment, rather captivated by the spot, taking in the tall trees, the dappled sunlight on the granite rocks, the whisper of a breeze, the water singing over the granite slopes. Oh, yes, it is all so auspicious: the gray stone, the red soil, the swaying twigs, the sun, the shade, the ant hill, the green moss—and me. Everything, everywhere, is truly auspicious.

With my strength back and the rash under control, daily I am spending more time exploring the premises. The peace that Swami Omkar emanated still pervades the entire ashram. He spent most of his time in meditation, even a year at a time in total silence. The very trees and plants and flowers and foliage seem to have absorbed the peace. Every flower appears to have a smile on its face. When one slows down and listens, one becomes aware that the peace is a reflection of something inside of oneself. He called himself the “apostle of peace” with one essential message: Only peace in each and every individual will bring peace in the world.

On Easter Sunday, while I am meandering through the formal garden area, I cannot resist plucking one stem that holds two lovely lilies. I usually leave the flowers for everyone to enjoy, but today I indulge myself with loving thanks. Back in my room, as I sit and admire them, I wonder at the creator who could have conceived of this amazing beauty. The cool green of the center fades so delicately into a lovely soft coral with such precision, not even the greatest artist could hope to imitate it.

The natural world is surely a connection to a spontaneous and lovely aspect of me. The peace I feel is not dead and dull, but bright and alive. I begin thinking this peace I feel is from connecting to this beautiful bountiful nature.

Chapter Forty

GARDEN OF TREES BIRDS STARS

With Mataji and Sheela gone, I am totally alone. It has started to dawn on me what a great place I have found for a serious retreat. Although the spiritual progenitor is no longer here, the staff is quite clear that the reason for the ashram is to provide an environment for spiritual retreats. I am not obligated to do anything, nor expected to socialize with or entertain anyone.

In addition, the office staff is very generous in getting any supplies I need, including mung beans, so I can sprout them for my only green vegetable. The secretary even took library books to copy pages to save me the one hour trip to town. Then they would not take any money for the service, not even for the copying charges. Of course, I will give them a donation when I leave, but they do not know. They really seem to be on purpose with their service.

It’s a ten-minute walk over a sun-scorched path to get to the office and post office. When I need anything or have any questions for Raju, the manager, I always go over early in the morning before the sun is at full blaze. However, I then linger for a while to enjoy the trees. This area must have been the first stage of the ashram, for the trees are awesome. One mango tree, which shades the retirees’ quarters, is as big as a mature oak. I cannot imagine how many bushels of mangoes will be picked from that one tree.

I am most delighted when I spot my favorite tree, the Siva Lingam. Its subtly fragrant flowers of waxy white grow on short branches coming straight out of the trunk, so I can easily reach one of the perfumed treasures to carry with me. They wilt after one day, so I do not mind taking one. The tiny round lingam, symbol of Siva, is protected by a cap of fringe, which represent the serpents that protect him. Interestingly, this tree that seems so intrinsically Indian is not a native plant. The British brought it here from Africa during their many horticultural exchanges.

One morning when I am passing by, a charming Indian woman, dressed in the traditional white of a widow approaches me to invite me for tea. Since her English is good, I accept. I am happy to meet one of about fifteen elders who have chosen to spend the vanaprastha stage of their lives here in this ashram. And I only need to meet one, the rest will thereby find out all about me. I am sure they are all Telugu speakers. I love the sound of Telugu, said to be India’s most poetic language. It’s full of lu’s and du’s for word endings. For example, the word “okay” is paravaalidu; in Tamil, it’s simply paravai. I love to say “paravaalidu," even though it seems a slow way to say “okay.”

As soon as I sit down in her sparsely furnished room to watch her start up the kerosene stove, she asks me a very common question in Andhra, “May I know your good name?”

“Yes, I’ll be glad to tell you my ‘good name,’ if you will explain to me why the people here are always asking for my good name. What is the world is a good name? Do people have bad names?”

She laughs and then explains, “Maybe it does not translate well from Telugu, for our language is very flowery. It’s like saying you are such a jolly and clever person that you must have a special name to go with those characteristics.”

“So my good name is just Nancy. I’m glad to know that I don’t have to have a bad name too.”

I am always questioning these idiosyncrasies. Recently, I asked a gentleman in my train compartment about the use of “thank you.” He was telling me about having worked in Germany, when he happened to mention that the Germans had the irritating habit of saying “thank you” a hundred times a day. He had felt that it was such nuisance that he had told them, “I’m only going to say ‘thank you’ once in the morning, and that’s it for the day.”

So I took the opportunity to remark that I had noticed that the Indians always seem to be offended when I say, “thank you.”

“Of course, they are offended. Just like you would never say ‘thank you’ to a family member, since they are a part of you. So when you say ‘thank you’ that is insinuating that you do not consider them a sister or a brother.”

“Oh, I see.”

Unfortunately during fasting, I got into the habit of sleeping late—until 7:00 a.m. How easily good habits leave us. I ran out of tea bags long ago, so I do not have it to help push me out of my morning doldrums. Dull or not, I sit, to practice the breathing exercises that were recommended by a sage last year. Then I chant the Gayatri mantra aloud, as these practices seem to brighten my mind. Watching the breath is to harmonize with the breath that breathes you. Chanting the mantra is to align with your higher self. Afterwards, I force myself to do some plain physical exercises—for the body.

Having so much solitude, I begin to slip into a quiet joy as I go through each day. I experience the pleasure of being with Nature and with my quiet self. Gradually, I spend more time just sitting in silence and letting the peace of the place settle into my bones. I guess you could call it meditation. As always, I am reading a book or two, material to reflect upon to continue to expand my knowledge and understanding of this extraordinary miracle of Life that is creating itself every day. The Hindus say that there was no beginning to the creation because each day is a new creation. I am beginning to appreciate that concept.

Each morning I awaken with a smile on my face. If it is not there, it soon appears when I realize where I am. One morning the cries of a koel bird awaken me early. I smile in my sleepy stupor, as I reflect, so the rains must be coming. This large black bird is known as the harbinger of the monsoon. I love to awaken to its wild cries in the still dark morning. Since I am completing forty-nine years of a sojourn on Planet Earth today, I consider his call an auspicious start of the day. At the suggestion of Swami Omkar (via his books), I am fasting on liquids and maintaining silence today.

Since it is hot as ever, I spend the day inside with my journal and books. However, the moment dusk starts to fall, I grab my straw mat and head for the roof to watch the moon rise. As I lie in anticipation, I behold the clouds shift and transform while the moon flickers and reflects through them on its journey overhead.

In this radiating heat, night has become my favorite time. Plain and unimaginative as houses are in India, they have one great feature that makes all the rest forgivable: the flat roof. Every evening I go up the staircase, roll out my straw mat, and lie down to look up at the stars. Such extraordinary beauty and unfathomable mystery. Those shining jewels in a black velvet sky are suns—incomprehensible. Life is such an incredible mystery. Just think of it, billions of years ago we were just stardust. If we somehow have the intelligence to build a human body out of stardust, surely we can manage to create a peaceful planet with a warm, cozy spot suitable for everyone.

Because of the heat, I decide to start sleeping on the roof. I experience some anxiety about the critter situation, but remind myself there is no food to attract an animal up there, not even wood. During the night, whenever I awaken for a moment, I greet my sister stars with great pleasure. Once in the Himalayas, I had awakened in the middle of the night and found myself falling from a star. It was an awesome experience that I never could explain, so I suppose I never really tried. In some obscure book, I found the information that both Pythagoras and Plato thought we earthlings come from a certain star and would return to that same star—after having experienced three perfected lifetimes. Maybe I just took a quick visit back to my home star.

One night, I awaken suddenly out of a deep sleep at about midnight. I look up and smile as I see a shooting star go streaking by. I always feel a spark of joy when I see a star streaking through the heavens. No, it must be a satellite, I tell myself, as suddenly it starts moving slowly and steadily. Did I just imagine that it was racing across the sky just a moment ago? Then the star actually stops directly over me. I’m not going to be able to figure this one out either, I tell myself. What an inconceivable creation we inhabit. If we could really experience it, truly absorb its wonder, its vastness, its beauty, I think we would be unwilling to sit in offices all day ever again. It is like we are in a paradise, but we seem content to conceal ourselves in a box. But are we really content?

I take regular trips to the Swami’s cottage, not only for the tea, which I found peps me up considerably, but also, in this scorching heat, I need an excuse to move myself outdoors for some exercise. En route as I pass the well, I am made aware that we are running out of water. Yes, I have been drinking water from one of those big open wells that I had been avoiding. Actually, they are aesthetically lovely. Every time I pass I like to look down in it and see the kingfisher that sits on a branch growing out of the side. The three wells on the property are lined with gray granite stones with long, flat stones stuck into the side in a spiral to make steps. However, the two water boys simply use a rope and bucket. Usually, they deliver two buckets of water to everyone every morning and evening. Now I am getting only one bucket each delivery, so I am not able to take an extra bath in the hottest part of the day. So I wet a towel, wrap it around my shoulders and sit on the verandah listening to the muted chirping of the birds and watching the leaves nodding in the subdued afternoon breeze.

Although I spend ninety percent of my time alone, I have opportunities for socializing with the variety of guests that come to an ashram. Naturally, some of them are wandering sadhus who bring stories of holy places or sages. Others are householders who are taking a short retreat from the world. So even though I am sitting quietly in a peaceful garden, I get all sorts of stories from the outside world brought to my consciousness—and journal.

A rather intriguing-looking swami arrives early one morning. Tall and thin, with long white hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of his neck, he looks just like a Greek philosopher. However, the yellow stripes of sandalwood smeared across his forehead divulge his true origins. He has another uncommon feature for a sadhu: large, round diamond earrings adorn his ears. I mean large, at least one-fourth inch in diameter. In addition, long ropes of silver beads, one with alternate coral beads hang from his neck. During the morning prayer service, he sings a solo bhajan, devotional song, which translates something like this:

No matter how many millions you may have;
What is the use, if you have no peace of mind?
You may have hundreds of relatives to care for you;
What is the use, if you have no peace of mind?
You may know all of the scriptures forward and backwards,
But what is the use, if you have no peace of mind?

Later, I am delighted to encounter him in the Swami’s cottage when I go there for a cup of tea. The moment I arrive, Swami Ramananda immediately starts boiling the water. After a proper greeting, it is not a spiritual question I pose for the visiting swami, but a very mundane one—in my most subtle style, I blurt out: “Sir, are the diamonds in your earrings real?”

“Yes, they are real,” Swami Ramananda translates his reply.

Then the visitor goes on to explain that his parents saved them in a box since he was a small boy. Since the diamond earrings were a gift from his parents, he feels that he should not renounce them, but should wear them. His whole demeanor tells some story, but I am too inexperienced to discern it. Too bad Shruti and Sheela have already left; they could have filled in the blanks for me.
The traditional—and modern for that matter—society of India allows for an unimaginable diversity of individual expression. We may think we Americans are pro-individualism, but individuality is seldom rewarded unless it is set on the tracks of the mainstream society. I promise you, there is no disdain—even by the higher castes—toward anyone who is outrageously different in thought, word and deed here, including dress—or lack of it.

Another guest is a retired widower who appears to be in his early sixties. His perfect English allows us to have in depth discussions. He tells me he hopes to spend his time living in an ashram, so the visit here for a couple of weeks here is a test.

I gather bits and pieces of his story. After his retirement, he had taken another “assignment,” but that did not work out. He does not call it a job, since Ksatriyas (at least in Andhra) do not take money for work. The assignment was teaching at a residential school run by a friend in exchange for a living quarters, servants, food, car and driver. However, the position did not work out because his friend was not running the school as efficiently and effectively as Mr. Raju thought he should. He opted not to be a part of a sham operation that was collecting exorbitant fees from unsuspecting parents.

“But you were married and had a family. How did you support them without earning any money?” I query him.

“Oh, I was forced to work for money then. I had a career in a bank. But now that my children are all doing well on their own and my wife is gone, I have no responsibilities. So I am free to live a traditional life of the vanaprastha; you know, living in the forest, studying and contemplating.

“So you won’t consider remarrying?”

“Oh, no. My children would never allow that.”

One day our conversation wound around to the subject of the Indian government taking over Hindu temples. He mentions that a friend has the cushy job of being the government official overseeing the famous Tirupati temple. Few foreigners get the opportunity to visit this famous temple. From waiting in lines for up to twelve hours, the shaving of the head before you enter (not required, but endows a preferred blessing), to the gold jewelry that the Deity commands for favors bestowed, to the gooey sweet prasad served up after the darshan—this temple is preeminently Indian. Stories abound of how much gold is given to the Deity. Temple worship is a system of thought power, reinforced and maintained by chanting and offerings by the priests. You give to the Deity; the Deity gives back to you. I have been led to believe that Tirupati is the richest temple in India.

Of course, I just have to inquire of Mr. Raju as to the amount of the compensation his friend receives for this cushy job.

“Oh, he won’t take a salary. They just give him a bag of money.”

So that confirms what I was wondering; no salary means his friend must be a Ksatriya also. I question him further, “A bag of money. Just how much do you suppose that bag contains?”

“Oh, at least 20,000 Rps. This is a donation to keep him quiet because they don’t want anyone to know how much money actually goes through those temple coffers.”

“Twenty thousand just skimmed off the top to keep him quiet? And this is monthly?”

“Yes, monthly. He just looks the other way.”

“You are telling me that this is an example of the Ksatriya code of honor, to just take money and look the other way. Why do I get the feeling something is missing here?”

“Oh, he is very honorable. He will not even let his wife go out in the car the Government furnishes him. He has bought a separate car for her.”

I have always said that I want to experience a different mind-set—just for the experience of seeing the world from a different perspective. But damn, I want it to make sense! Contradictions and inconsistencies continue to abound flourish and thrive here.

The heat has reached the pinnacle of endurance because a hurricane is brewing in the Bay of Bengal, so we are now getting high humidity along with the heat. Just after dark, predictably the power goes out, so we do not even have any relief from the overhead fans. Concerned for the Swami, isolated in his hut, I take a lantern and a pot of water to walk out to check on him. There is no well in the area he lives in, plus I know he gives out the water that is delivered to him daily to the laborers that work on the grounds here, so he could be in need of water. When I arrive, he is already in bed, but calls out that he is fine and has plenty of water. My cotton sari is completely soaked with sweat as I start out to return to my cottage.

What a night. At first, I could not sleep for the heat, then the thunder and lightning begin. The monsoons are definitely what I term “Todo, we aren’t in Kansas anymore,” storms. I do not fall asleep until practically dawn. I awaken very late, so the verandah is scintillating with hot sunny steamy sticky air. Seeking shade, I go out back of my cottage to sit on the cement bench under the huge tree where I usually see an owl. In spite of the long willowy branches, the sun still manages to beam sparkles of light through the lacy leaves. However, I am in luck for when I first sit down, I spot a small owl directly above me, but it shifts its position to hide itself.

After finishing my morning exercises, I look around to enjoy the chirping birds and flitting butterflies. Then I spot the owl, hiding overhead, which is smaller than the one I usually startle when I pass this way. Now sitting in plain sight, the little guy is clearly watching me. When he sees me looking up at him, he bends down and cranes his neck as if to take a closer look, exposing a white beard, probably a neck-ring. Then he settles back to stare at the stranger, occasionally blinking one eye, then looking to one side, then the other, then back at me. I attempt communication by chanting whoooo—whoooo—whooooo to it.

Some people criticize Hindu philosophy as being too intellectual. But I feel that it gives understanding into our oneness with all of the world and its creatures. Vedanta explains with rigorous logic that everything comes from and is an expression of Brahman, the omnipotent Godhead. As I am opening myself with wonder and love to the little owl and he is opening with wonder and love to the strange, featherless creature wrapped in a white sari, it is a marvelous exchange of god enjoying god. After some time, when I have to leave for lunch, I give my little companion a proper “namaste” as I depart.

After only two monsoon rains, springtime is presenting its colors: white lilies, orange amaryllis, yellow butterflies and red velveteen bugs. The Mayflies are tumbling out of the ground, rushing to relish their one day of life. By evening the whole sky is filled with flickering soaring golden wings. What a sight to see the multitude of gossamer wings celebrating life as they fly up to the heavens.

New green lacy leaves cover the trees surrounding my cottage. The tropical trees never dare loose all their leaves at one time. The old leaves wait for the arrival of the new ones; then hesitate a moment before dropping, so they can shade the tender new shoots.

All the orchards are spilling over with their abundant fruit offerings. One day while I am strolling around, I begin smelling the most wonderful fragrance, like ripe tropical fruit and jasmine intermingled. I finally spot the source, a tree with a yellow fruit. I am puzzled because these are supposed to be cashew trees. Then I spot the small curled nut dangling below the fragrant, yellow fruit. Later that day someone tells me the yellow fruit is edible and gives me one to try. It is all water and fiber, which does taste okay, but leaves my lips with an unpleasant pucker. I decide to stick to smelling them.

At last I discover an authentic jungle critter. One morning on my way to the Swami’s cottage, I spot a huge lizard. Well, it’s like a lizard, but at least three feet long. When it sees me, it raises up on its two front legs. I am at least twenty feet away, so I do not feel any danger. However, neither am I absolutely sure I am seeing what I think I am seeing. I ask the Swami if such a creature exists. Although he says, “yes,” I am still not convinced as sometimes he does not understand me. So I keep the question in my mind: Was that fellow real?

Ask a question; get an answer. I suppose because of the rat, I am always careful to close the wire door to the front verandah. Today when I brought in a bag of fruit, I forgot to go back and secure it. Several hours later, I walk out to find I have a guest: one of those three-foot lizards. When he sees me, he is truly terrified. He tries to leave, but cannot find the exit. I grab a broom to try to gently coax him in the direction of the door that still remains ajar. He is just too panicked and takes a flying leap for the wire fencing. With a lot of wiggling and tail flopping, he somehow manages to squeeze himself through the hole of the wire mesh. The existence of three-foot lizards has been confirmed.

And nature does come in different forms. One night I wake up suddenly. While I am still wondering what caused my awakening, all of a sudden, sharp teeth start to clamp down on my big toe. Fortunately, since I am at least half-awake, I am able to jump out of bed like a bat out of hell. The rat is back. Oh my God... it has found my room, and my big toe!

Aruna and the girls who help in Mataji’s cottage have a kitten, so I ask to borrow it for a night. But only for one night—Aruna was bitten on the finger by a rat last week, so the kitten is desperately needed for their rat patrol. Sure enough, no sooner does the kitten enter my room, it starts sniffing out a trail to the bathroom door. There is a small hole in the corner due to dry rot. Can a rat squeeze through such a tiny hole? I ponder. Must be, for when I stuff the hole with stones, I find that the ones on the backside of the door have been moved around. Fortunately, it is plugged up enough on my side that the hole remains blocked. It’s gratifying to know that I can outsmart a rat.

A few days later, I actually see the rat again, in broad daylight. I find it sitting up on the rafter that runs across the rear of the kitchen. Surprisingly, it does not run away, but sits there staring down at me. After all, we have been roommates for a month now.

I look up at him and speak aloud, “Look, I know you won’t believe this, for it does not seem possible that a big person like me can be so frightened by a little creature like you. But the truth is, I am frightened to death of you. Here’s what I am going to do: I will leave you some food here every night. In exchange, I expect you to stay out of my room and away from my path.”

After that encounter, each evening I place a piece of chapati on the ledge, right below where I saw him. Every morning, there is not a crumb left. We have made our peace; I never see him again.

Coming down the path by my cottage one afternoon, I notice a couple of little yellow and black sapsuckers gathering around the bath water drain. I immediately go to work rigging up a small birdbath with clean water. Then I sit by the window to watch as the male dances and flits, spreads his wings, bobs up and down, dances and prances up and down, back and forth. Finally, he flies over the bowl, hovers, and then drops down to the water. He hesitates, then starts to repeat the ritual. I am so grateful that I have time to care for my bird friends. They are so alive and spontaneous.

While watching the birds dance around the water offering, I happen to notice a banana in a jackfruit tree. A bright yellow banana in the jackfruit tree—am I imagining things? In spite of the heat, I immediately go out to investigate and encounter the most wonderful creature. Definitely, a member of the reptile family; the lizard is a sixteen-inch yellow specimen. As I approach it, the black slit of its yellow eye turns toward me. I hesitate, partly because I do not want to frighten it away, but mostly because I do not know if it can jump. Yet, I am close enough to see that it has no claws. Instead, it has a padded finger and thumb like a two-pronged paw. As I watch it, it clamps these pads around the branches to maneuver itself from branch to branch, while curling its tail around the branch for balance. Without claws, I do not think it will be able to travel on ground, so it must stay in the trees. Little wonder that it chose this lovely place to live. But how did it get to this isolated garden? Did it use to live in the thorn shrub jungle that existed here fifty years ago?

Of course, I am thinking his paws are some special adaptation of evolution, so I cannot wait to get to civilization to check it out. Later, in a Hyderabad library, I find a guide to Indian reptiles. My little banana friend is shown in it, but with claws, not pads. So I am eager to contact the Indian Natural History Society when I reach Bombay. I do attempt to phone them several times, but never can reach them. This is not the only time the telephone system in Bombay has inconvenienced me considerably.

That evening I lie out on the roof for a while, but later go to my room to sleep as there is a monsoon storm headed this way. Although my bag is packed and ready, I cancel my idea of leaving tomorrow to wait until the storm passes. I sleep soundly and awaken at the crack of dawn with the most wonderful, fresh breeze blowing over my body. I feel so incredibly cool and comfortable. I tell myself, don’t move, you have absolutely nothing to do today. Although I do not think I fell asleep again, I am able to lie there for hours immersed in the gentlest peace.

Surprisingly, when I get up and start moving around, the peace remains. I watch cautiously. What will be the item that carries my mind away. What desire, what expectation, what drama will I find to disturb my peace? I carefully watch my actions and thoughts; I want to stay with this one as long as possible.

The next morning, I get up at 4:00 a.m., so I can catch the early bus to my next destination. I smile as I walk beneath the big letters that spell out “Shanti Ashram” across the archway of the gate. I feel truly grateful for the peace I have experienced here.