Chapter Forty-one

KINGDOM BY THE SEA

Vishakapatnam sits right beside the Bay of Bengal. I find it an impressive place—clean, quiet, cool—good possibility for a sabbatical. Actually, it could pass for a European city on the Mediterranean. However, I catch the sight of a nude sadhu, adorned only with a dab of gray ash smeared on his penis, strolling down the main street. Thereby, I am informed that, indeed, I am in India. Here’s a poignant example of the individualism I had mentioned previously.

I even find an air-conditioned restaurant where I have a great lunch. The little bowls of assorted vegetables and dals, plus yogurt and dessert arranged on a round stainless steel thali (tray) taste like ambrosia. I don’t particularly miss good food when I don’t have it, but I really love it when I do—especially since the opportunities have been fo few lately.

My next stop, Bimili Beach, is only a one-hour bus ride the following morning. When I reach the large tree that serves as a bus stand, I ask for directions to the Souris Ashram. A quarrel promptly ensues between a rickshaw driver and a coolie as to who will take me there. Fortunately, the vendor in the near-by banana stall interjects his advice. He opines, since it is only two blocks, the coolie is the logical choice. I follow the slim dark man with a rag wrapped around his head to cushion his load down a narrow lane. Then we turn onto a broad street that runs along the beach where he stops in front of an utterly wonderful sprawling house that faces the sea. Is this an ashram? There is no sign, not even the usual placard with the house name. When the coolie pushes open the gate, I find myself in a little whitewashed paradise, surrounded by a tropical garden. This is not your usual ashram, but an airy and spacious house, built around an open inner court.

I arrive at about eleven o’clock to find Mataji Souris already eating lunch. My first impression is that she is a sweet woman of about fifty-five years of age. Her tiny size and dainty manner give her a certain childlike quality. Her thick salt and pepper hair is pulled back in the traditional braid.

“Hello, I am Nancy.” I greet her as I put my offering of bananas and mangoes on the table.

“Yes, I know; I recognize you. I got your card, so I was expecting you,” she replies in a calm, yet chirppy voice. Thank goodness, she speaks English well, I note. She is dressed in an immaculate white starched cotton sari. White glass bangles cover her arms half way up to her elbows. These bracelets appear to be her only adornment.

“I think you will want to go to the bathroom,” she breaks the awkwardness of my just standing there gawking while she is in the middle of eating.

“Yes, that is a good idea.” By now, I know how to freshen myself quickly by just pouring a few cups of water over my head, arms and legs. Although plenty of Indian women will not eat a bite of food after traveling until they have had a full bath from head to toe and put on clean clothes. I have not taken on that injunction.

When I return, Souris immediately takes on the role as hostess. She informs me, “You will have to wait a few minutes as the girls want to make you a vegetable.”

No matter whether you are a guest in a palace or a mud hut, your “food” will always be a primary concern. “Thank you, but tell them I am totally adjusted to Indian food, so I don’t need anything special.”

“You even eat chilies?”

“Yes, I can, although I prefer a mild dose.”

“Here we use very little chili powder. They put in a bit for flavoring.”

“Good, that’s fine for me.”

After lunch, I join Souris as she sits out on the verandah answering her correspondence. In spite of the approach of high noon, the long shady verandah across the front of the house is breezy and cool. I sit taking in the environment with a quiet observing mind. A couple of house sparrows twitter and hop about the bushes. Many people disregard the sparrows, but I enjoy the little fellows with their white collar and black bib. After all, they are the first to come to a feeder or to build a nest in a human’s yard. I never saw a sparrow at Shanti ashram; it must not be civilized enough for them there. Here in Bimili, we have the regular crow instead of the jungle crow, and lots of them. I watch one bringing sticks to a small tree beside the veranda. She is building a nest just when the worse heat is setting in. Five days later, she is still busy with the task, but the jumble of sticks continues to grow.

After a short time, I begin to feel sleepy. The gentleman sitting beside me has already nodded off. I get up to stretch my legs by walking up and down the veranda. Before I know it, I have wandered down the steps to check out the garden. Ah, I see a small pond with white lotus flowers holding their delicate treasures above the water. Souris must be truly a lady after my own heart. I feel enchanted as I walk through the narrow paths of the garden, lined with deep pink oleanders that sway against the blue sky.

Soon Souris retires for her nap. After washing clothes and piddling about, I go for a walk on the beach since fluffy clouds have bestowed us with a shady afternoon. When I return, I check my laundry only to find out that crows have dirty feet. Several crows had landed on the line my clothes were hanging over (no clothespins) while I was out. The two ladies who tend to the cooking and cleaning were watching me as I hung my clothes where the crows like to sit, but no one said a word. One cannot tell another, specially a guest, that they are doing something wrong—or stupid, as the case may be. After I rewash the clothes, one of the women shows me a place to hang them under the veranda, so they will be out of crow territory.

Every morning Souris is up by 6:00 a.m. to watch a video of an Indian dance or music on her 24" color TV. I find that it is an enchanting way to start the day. After tea is served, Souris goes to chop the vegetables for the salad, so I go up on the roof to do my daily exercises to keep my body in shape. When Souris goes back to the prayer room to arrange the flowers from her garden, I sit with her and watch, as this is my only time alone with her.

I enjoy watching someone do something consciously and clear-mindedly. Then it is also good practice for me to watch someone doing something I think I do well, without interfering, giving advice, or butting in. Daily she makes several fresh arrangements to decorate the dining table and prayer room.

After a couple of days, I begin to use the opportunity of this time alone with Souris to talk to her. While she is arranging the flowers, I explain to her that in the U.S. I was always too busy and too involved with projects to make money to survive to meditate regularly. My plan was to save money and come to India with the purpose of serious sadhana (spiritual practices). At the same time, I wanted to do some purposeful activity. Although I had the idea of being involved in some service project, the editing of a spiritual magazine published in Bombay has been somewhat of a substitute.

“The activity part has worked out okay, for I have enjoyed the editing, Otherwise, things have not worked out as I planned. So I guess you could say that I have given up on the idea of getting enlightened.”

“In the end, everyone must give up the desire for enlightenment,” she tells me, sweetly and wisely.”

“Yes, that may be true, but I gave it up in the middle.”

She laughs at my observance, but makes no comment. Well, I am not one to fool myself. I know where I am at. I have lots of ups and downs.

I have noticed several photos of the great Indian sage of this century, Ramana Maharshi, framed and hanging on the walls of the prayer room. His name, which is a bestowed title that means “great sage,” is reserved for the great rshis of yore who wrote the Vedas. The fact that he has been given this appellation means that even the most orthodox consider his wisdom and attainment equal to those rshis.

So one day, I ask Souris, “Did you actually know Ramana Maharshi?”

“I did not know him, no. No one really knew him,” she replies.

“I understand what you mean, but did you ever meet him?”

“Oh, yes. But I never spoke to him, nor he to me. I just went there and lost myself.”

I remain silent. After a moment, she continues, “Then really there was nothing to say, nothing to ask.” She pauses again. “No, nothing at all. One or two times I did have a glimmering of a question I was considering asking him. But every time another person would ask the very question I was thinking about. So any questions I had about sadhana were answered that way.”

“And your father went with you?”

“Oh, yes. He went, although he was a radical. Of course, my father was no saint; but he was a sadhak [truth seeker]. He lived in total freedom as he saw it.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if even enlightenment is in one’s destiny,” I reflect.

“You see we are already enlightened, but to know it! Actually, it’s such an easy thing, yet so difficult. Just as when we see a flower it looks so simple, but what it went through to sprout up through the hard dirt and develop and grow, such a struggle to bring itself to the beauty of its full flowering.”

“So many teachers say that after enlightenment, it’s all joy. But from my limited observations, it simply can’t be true.”

“Even joy is a quality of the mind. If you go beyond the mind, what is the meaning of joy?” she counters my comment.

“Many teachers say if you are practicing faithfully, surrender the ego, or selfish desires, then all good will come. I think it is all just a golden carrot for us donkeys,” I continue.

“But surrender, real surrender, is not easy. If you have truly surrendered, again, you are beyond the mind. Then what is the meaning of good and bad? But even so, you have to act as if there is good and bad, otherwise you will get hurt and you will hurt others. That’s why traditionally the true spiritual knowledge was only given out to disciples who had passed rigorous tests of discipline.”

“But I still wonder if enlightenment is part of one’s destiny. Can one really accomplish anything by self-effort?”

“No, you are wrong there. Self-effort is beyond destiny. Only the mind and body are bound by karma [results of action]. Ramana Maharshi says that self-effort develops will. Self-effort and will are both independent of karma [action],” she instructs.

“I guess I lack self-confidence. This whole phenomenon is so contrary to the Western mindset. Even though we may think we have understood, it’s not the kind of understanding that comes from living saturated in the belief that you are a divine being, as in the culture here.”

“One must have tremendous faith,” Souris interjects.

“Oh, I really do have faith in the system; faith that others have made it to the goal. But no real confidence that I can. I think that doubt somehow keeps me from making a total commitment.”

Souris used the word “karma,” which has variations of meaning that makes it difficult for the Western mind to comprehend. The word karma is the noun form of the verb root for “to do.”

Therefore, its simplest, and most common, meaning is “action” or “work” or “performing a ritual.” Again, karma is referred to as cause and effect, or the inevitable result of the actions. To act is the nature of mankind—no one can exist without action. However, we can choose the attitude from which we act. A result is built day by day with the actions we take. If we lay our bricks haphazardly, a wall cannot be straight. If we lay them consciously, the wall will be stable.

It is simply ludicrous to think that the Indians are passive because of their theory of karma. The Indians are not passive because of any religious theory; they are too practical for that. They are passive because they have been invaded for the last 2,000 years by armies that had more powerful weapons than they did. They found out a cannon does not distinguish between a good guy and a bad guy.

While living in Souris’ paradise, we do have an occasional interlude with the outside world. People are always sending her video tapes they consider to be interesting or informative. One afternoon we watch an ordinary Swedish film with English subtitles. The story is basically about the disintegration of the life of a European family with the extra touch that the daughter falls in love with her mother’s lover. I do not think Souris would have understood half of it if I had not been there to interpret between the lines for her. The world it portrays seems like an alien planet in this peaceful little kingdom by the sea.

On Sunday I am elated to find out that they watch the regular Indian classical movie. The movies are in the various vernaculars, but with English subtitles. Of the non-commercial genera, the plot is always a sensitive and straightforward portrayal of an aspect of Indian life, usually with some social comment or criticism. The directors are the true artists of the cinema here, but Sunday TV seems to be the only place to view their creations. Since I have not been around a TV in a long time, I am honestly looking forward to the treat. But my pleasure is cut short, only thirty minutes into the movie, the electricity goes out. No problem, Souris has a Honda generator. Just as they start it up, the phone rings. The local hospital is calling. They were in the middle of an emergency surgery when the power went out, so they need to borrow Souris’ generator. Well, that’s that. It is rural Andhra Pradesh, the power will be off for hours.

I take off for a walk on the beach. As I look out over the sea, memories of past beaches flutter like beautiful butterflies through my mind—oh, it is a splendid sea. Heading north, I discover an old dilapidated mansion, which puzzles me. There is a wall around it and a lock on the gate, so I pass on. Then I find an old British cemetery, also locked with a chain and padlock. I continually find remnants of the European presence even in remote spots.

As I turn around to leave, I notice an old woman inside who is sweeping and cleaning, so the gate is slightly ajar. When I squeeze through the small opening, the woman looks up and sees me. She starts to say something, but then turns and returns to her work. Maybe she realized we would not be able to understand each other. I love to read old tombstones; they tell so many stories. Most of these graves are those of small children—and young wives; one large headstone contains a list of sixty men who were lost at sea. Undoubtedly, they were young men coming over to seek their fortunes.

When I return to the ashram, I ask Souris about the deserted mansion. I should have known; it was a summer home of one of the former Andhra rajas. After Independence, he did not have the funds to keep it up, so it is just rotting away. She also informs me that during World War II, this Raja allowed American soldiers to bivouac in it while guarding the Indian Ocean from Japanese attack. As for the European population who now rest in the cemetery, they were plantation owners in this area, which was once a major producer of jute, made from hemp. Hemp (marijuana) has many commercial uses, other than getting high. If you see an antique book without yellowed pages, they were surely made from hemp. The current reformation against the planting of hemp has eliminated our best source of paper and unnecessarily caused the destruction of too many trees.

Back in the old days, the British used to plant controlled substances such as marijuana and opium without compunction. In China, they even fought three wars against the Chinese Emperor’s edict to prohibit the importing of opium. An American author, who was attached to the Embassy in Calcutta, told me, “The Brits did use these substances, a few quite heavily, but it was not common in most areas. The habit was not socially sanctioned, yet the users were not ostracized by their social group.”

After several days when I am alone with Mataji, I take another opportunity to speak of spiritual matters. “When did you become a serious spiritual seeker?” I question her.

“You see, I always was. Even as a child I was always trying to figure things out. The world seemed quite grotesque to me, yet so fantastic. It was like a Disneyland to me. They thought I was mad; that is, everyon except my father. I would walk into walls and even beat my head against the wall. I never wanted to do the things other children did.

“Then when I was ten, I experienced a major change. I had been naughty, some childish thing, I suppose. But to punish me, they locked me in my room. I was screaming and crying and crying. Suddenly, I noticed a spider on the wall. I became totally absorbed in watching that spider weaving its web. I became so interested that somehow my mind and body disappeared. Then, when I became aware of myself again, I started crying again. ‘Now that was strange,’ I told myself: ‘In that absorbed state, I was not crying.’ In that state, there was no sorrow or suffering; yet, no joy either. Of course, I became fascinated to know what that state was.

“I was always trying to figure these things out, but I kept it to myself. By the time I was fifteen, I had understood that it was not just the body that was the obstacle; it was also the mind. You see when I was a child, I was trying to break out of the physical body when I was hitting my head against a wall. Now I realized you still have a mind. So I went on thinking about these things. I could not even go to school because I had terrible migraine headaches all the time,” she pauses because the cook has brought a couple of vases and a bunch of flowers from the garden.

She arranges them neatly on the table, then continues, “Then an administrator from one of the schools met me. My father was the deputy school inspector, so she must have come to our home to speak to him in that capacity. When she saw me, she asked my father about me. Then she told him that I was destined to be a saintly person and have an ashram, so he was not to be bothered about my schooling. Further, she told him that I was not to get married, so not to pressure me in that regard either. That woman was like a guardian angel who appeared right in my home. Her words helped me a lot to be able to establish my independence,” she smiles as she leans back to view her floral creation.

“Since my father was a writer, we had a very literary household. Often a variety of authors and even classical musicians would visit him. In those days he was an ardent agnostic and a cynic. He even wrote against the gods, and wrote so many criticisms of the Indian society. Then one of his friends insisted that he go to see the ‘great’ sage, Ramana Maharshi. My father was not really interested; to him it was just a trip—almost a dare. But somehow on that trip Ramana Maharshi touched him deeply. Father brought me back a book from the ashram. We read it together and tried the methods Ramana suggested. I did everything my father did. Really, he was such a friend and guide to me. Unfortunately, I did not have much luck with the method at that time because so many thoughts would cloud my mind.

“I was ready to give it up. I decided I was going to try the practice the meditation just one more time. That day, alone in my room, Ramana Maharshi actually appeared to me. You would call it a vision, but it was so real it was as if he was right there with my eyes open, so that I could actually touch him. From that moment, my true sadhana began.”

Souris pauses and looks down for a moment. Then she looks at me with a soft smile so radiant that I know that even she has been touched by the memory. I feel so connected to her and so honored to be with her in such an open manner.

“So on my seventeenth birthday, as a gift, I was taken to meet him in person. I was so over-whelmed then and there, that I lost myself and sat in samadhi [divine ecstasy] for hours at a time. You cannot imagine what a beautiful soul he was. I never wanted enlightenment or anything like that; I only wanted to be loving like he was. He always loved everyone equally. When you are love, you only see love. That is what I wanted.”

“Interestingly, that is what a Christian father I met last year also told me. It’s easy to forget some 2,000 years later that the concept of love was really the basis of our Christian teaching,” I interject.

“One can not even imagine the love that emanated from Ramana. When we returned to Andhra, I carried on with my sadhana privately because my family said that I was going to be a parasite, and not amount to anything. Not my father, it was my aunt, who was the head of the household because she ran the family business, a hospital. So for the next ten years, I suffered because I wanted to be with Ramana. However, he did continue to appear to give me specific guidance. He told me, ‘You do not need to come to me, for I come to you.’

“During most of that time, I had to work every day because my aunt died unexpectedly. Then we all had to pitch in and help out at the hospital to keep things going. Finally, my father decided he wanted to retire and be near Ramana, and my mother was quite agreeable. So we packed up and moved. But by that time Ramana was quite weak. We only had six months with him before he died.”

I sit with wonder at this remarkable story from this gentle woman. Seeing her now it is hard to picture the hardships she must have gone through in her past. I have noticed that in U.S. there seems to be a tendency to use the meditation and/or the spiritual quest to insulate oneself against the blows of life. Some even tend to put a lot of time and money into creating a comfortable environment to fill up the senses: candles, incense, cushions. The amount of paraphernalia now available for a simple exercise like meditation may indicate that we are indeed seeking comfort. One does not get such luxuries here in India. You get a straw mat and a stone floor. The quest is direct confrontation—with yourself and the hard world around you.

If you want to make your day longer get up at 5:00 a.m. Even though I go to bed early, the day still stretches out forever. At Shanti Ashram I had a library of books to keep me company and to escape into. Here I have none. Little things become more significant. A highlight of my day is when the milk maid arrives every morning with her big buffalo to deliver the milk. Tagging behind them is a week-old buffalo calf. Surely, all baby animals are adorable, but for me the baby buffalo is the cutest of all. After a couple of days, the milkmaid notices me admiring the baby, only then do I dare approach it. I did not want to upset the mother and have her kick over the milk. But mother, baby and milk maid, all seem to accept my presence.

I am quite happy on the days when the weather is good, so I can go out and walk along the beach. However, on stormy days, I have a lot of time alone in my room, a small unadorned shady space. From the window of that little room on the roof, I watch the palm fronds waving frantically in the wind. Is the wind disturbing their peace? I question myself as a reminder of what a peaceful mind is really like.

One evening after the meditation hour, I am sitting with my mind and body in a restless harangue. God, it's an effort to do nothing, I observe with a sigh. It seems like the stiller I am, the more my mind runs. In the past, I have had a tendency to roll along, just assuming everything is working out in my life, since I constantly try to be clean and clear in each experience. Suddenly, I seem to be paddling down the mind river on a mission to analyze every event in my life. I feel totally tired—of everything: wind, sea, sun, sitting, standing, eating, and definitely tired of lying on this hard cement floor with only a straw mat as a mattress.

Although this house is considered an ashram, it is quite different from the two ashrams I recently stayed in. Those were large complexes supported by donations from wealthy businessmen, although augmented by income from a residential school in one case, and fruit orchards in the other. However, this place is owned and operated by Souris’ personal funds, inherited from her family. It is really her personal contribution to the world. Two gentlemen are staying here for a year or so to be able to work on a writing project. Some dozen guests, usually an entire family, come and go during the week that I am here. Definitely our days whirl around Souris’ interests.

One afternoon a neighbor brings by a video of her son’s wedding for Souris to view. The Indians continually and unmercifully impinge upon the time and good-nature of spiritual masters to watch their children’s dance or music performances, and even their wedding ceremonies. When Mataji invites me to join her for the viewing, she mentions that she thinks it will be of interest to me from a cultural standpoint. She is right, for the wedding ceremony, as well as the preparations, is unique in every area.

“I will watch part of it, but you never know how long an Indian wedding will be. Some last for days,” I reply hesitantly to Souris’ suggestion. I may be bored—but not that bored.

“Well, yes, this one did last for at least eight hours, but we can jump forward through some parts and just watch the important moments,” answers the practical Souris. I seriously doubt this is the first Telugu wedding ceremony she has witnessed on video tape.

The drama starts at the engagement party in which the bride is presented with saris from all her major female relatives. Then she presents a coconut to all the guests. The tape then skips several weeks, or months, to the actual wedding day. For the first step, the bride is carried to the groom’s house for the ceremony in a special basket conveyed by her eldest maternal uncle, who holds pride of position in many Indian castes and communities. The bride is wrapped in a bright red sari. A red bridal costume seems to be the norm everywhere (except in the state of Kerala). When she arrives, all the female in-laws sprinkle the bride with rice, then her mother, sisters and sister-cousins repeat the ceremony.

Then the scene switches to the men. The groom is honored by having his feet washed by the bride’s father. Thus properly purified, the groom and bride smear sandalwood paste on each other’s forehead. Then they spill a large plate of rice over each other’s head, to symbolize prosperity in their union.

The bride then washes the groom’s feet. She must have already had a ritual foot washing because then the groom places toe rings on her feet. Afterwards, he hangs the mangala sutra, auspicious thread, around her neck. This thread symbolizes the invisible thread that binds them in their growth toward becoming one in a harmonious life. Next, they exchange huge garlands of jasmine. Throughout the ceremony, the priests are chanting appropriate mantras and incantations. In the middle of the ceremony, a veil is put up to signify the preparations are over and the vows will now be taken.

Souris explains that this is a modern innovation, for in the past, they put up the veil in the beginning of the ceremony. The marriages were totally “arranged,” so that the bride and groom never saw each other until they repeated their vows. In those days, the first time the groom saw his new wife would be via a reflection of her face in a large brass plate filled with oil. Since Andhra remains rather provincial, a high percentage of marriages are still arranged here. Nowadays prior to the engagement, there is a formal meeting between the potential players in the family drama geared to produce progeny and wealth. The girl can refuse a suitor—but not too many, or she will be labeled undesirable.

Only in Andhra Pradesh does the bride receive the toe rings from the groom. Elsewhere they are worn only as decorative jewelry. I love wearing them. However, my wearing them here has created a problem because everyone thinks I am married. Naturally, they want to know where my husband is, and how he is getting along without me. I am happy to report to them that all men everywhere are getting along great without me.

Daily, after Souris finishes her correspondence, nap and afternoon bath, she sits out on a daybed on the veranda. Gazing out at the deep blue sea, she allows herself to disappear into peace, just as the waves vanish into the turquoise abyss. The waves rise and fall, rise and fall; the waves are only the sea itself, manifesting in a fleeting form of rising and falling. As darkness blots out our lovely twilight, a moon that is nearly full emerges from the dark whirling water. The moon is connected to both the ocean’s waves and the mind’s waves. The moon causes waves in large bodies of water; the moon causes ripples in the little watery pools of our minds. I recall that the Babylonians used the same word for both moon and mind. I must think about that one some more.

After dinner each evening, we all gather on the cool veranda for music. A couple of instruments are brought out for Souris to play. Some people are just created to be lovely, to adorn the creation. Souris is surely one of them, I think, as I sit in the fresh evening air, listening to Souris’ soulful singing. After she performs, the rest of us join in singing a couple of bhajans. After the music, we sit quietly for another thirty minutes. Then we catch the end of the news on the TV. Souris seems to keep an ear tuned to what is going on in the outside world.

I note that women run all the last three ashrams I have visited: three very different women. Not surprisingly, all of them have created a unique environment that suits their own personality and talents. I like this flexibility in the “religious” hermitages here. It is also noteworthy, that I have no rules or regulations imposed on me in any of them. I am free to come and go as I please; attend services or not. The environments are meant for one to unravel to reveal their own innate divinity—there are many paths to the One—and I have to find mine.

Time passes slowly with Souris; languid smooth days come and go. She is truly sweetness and silence personified. The Zen adage, “sitting quietly doing nothing, spring comes and the grass grows” definitely fits this lovely lady. Nevertheless, the day arrives that I am set to leave. In my note to her, I mentioned I would be staying for ten day. I stick to that time frame, since there is no reason to change it. Souris is a good role model of living in a peaceful state. At a blink of an eye, she seems to enter a space beyond time with its fluctuating realities. She has found her peace and contentment in her little home here, but it is not my life. My home is in my being. My silence is in my mind. My peace is in my heart. I am not going to find them anywhere else, I tell myself as I bid Souris farewell.

Chapter Forty-two

The Sisters

The plains of Andhra are getting hotter and steamier, so I plan to escape to the mountains. I will have the advantage of the cooler altitude, plus the rainy season, which definitely hits the mountains harder than the plains. My chosen destination is Arraku Valley. I cannot wait to see it since I have been told by some people that Arraku Valley is the loveliest place in the world. Yet, just as emphatically, others have insisted there is absolutely nothing there. As it turns out, we can assume that the first group must have never been out of Kurnool (Andhra’s podunk).

After I settle into a hotel in Vishakapatnam from which I can take the train to Arraku, I make myself a huge tropical fruit salad for a late lunch. The fruit here is so sweet and delicious, especially the huge juicy red-orange payayas. Then I take a rickshaw out to visit an ashram on the beach. After greeting everyone, I settle on a huge gray granite boulder by the sea, enjoying the breeze, listening to the ocean murmuring its eternal melody, and kind of meditating on the expansiveness of it all. I have never lived close to an ocean, so having time to enjoy it here has been a new experience for me. I feel content to sit under the shade of this huge pipal tree, listening to the soothing sounds the ocean. The life of the ocean has such patience. The waves crashing constantly, pulling in one direction then the other, yet the seaweed and anemones remain soft and flexible, bending in one direction, then the other, then back again. They never seem to complain about the vicissitudes of life. Suddenly, I notice the sun is low behind me; I must have been sitting here for over an hour. The shady tree and huge boulder are the best means to enjoy the beach, I decide. No itchy sand and no burning sun.

Since the sun is low, I opt to walk back to town along the beach and catch the wonderful twilight. First, I have to pass through a fishers’ village that is spread along the beach for at least one-quarter mile. Here I have my one and only bad experience with villagers. Actually, the fisher people are a class, or caste, of their own. Like every other caste, there are myriads of varieties according to their language and region. Since fishing is an early morning enterprise, the men have a tendency to sit and drink liquor—palm tree home-brew—in the afternoons. Marketing is the female domain. Harsh and strong, the women often carry the fish to market in huge heavy baskets. I have encountered several on the suburban trains of Bombay; they brook not an ounce of consideration to anyone. They sit with their baskets spread out in the standing-room only sections as if they owned the train.

It is rare for the fisher-caste children to have any schooling, although there was a public school in one village I visited south of Madras. I was told even though the education was free, no one attended. However, the school officials got smart and offered a free lunch, then all the mothers sent their children for school. I see no evidence of a school here, but there are plenty of children. A couple of the men yell out to a group of children playing in the sand to ask me for money. I just play and joke with them until we reach the outskirts of the village where I figure they will turn and go back.

Unfortunately, an elderly man joins the band of rag-tag kids. He has with thick gold loops in his ears, which is quite out of place here, and seems slightly mad. He eggs the children on, so that they start pulling on my clothes, even grabbing at my purse, and demanding money again. I motion for them to leave me alone, but to no avail.

Finally, I stop and look the man straight in the eyes. Even though I am sure he will not be able to understand a word of English, I figure at least I will have my say. “You are a very mean man. Teaching these children to beg and harass a woman is a very bad thing.” Lo and behold, the man and the children back off and turn around, leaving me in peace. I wonder what they thought I said. Anyway, I heave a big sigh of relief and continue on.

By now, even though I am only a mile from the main Vishakapatnam Beach, there is not a soul to be seen in any direction. The beach is quite clean of any debris or trash, so the crumpled heap of cloth ahead is quite noticeable. It appears to be the shape of human body, but a large driftwood log is partially covering it. I disdain approaching as I pass, but I do turn and look back to make sure. Yes, the shaved bald head of a male is quite visible from this direction.

When I reach the public beach area, it is working alive with people. Fully dressed, the local populace is not here to swim, but to eat snacks and to mix and chat with friends in the fresh cool sea breeze. I look around for a policeman, but I do not find one until I am leaving the park. When I ask him to report the body, he tells me he cannot leave his post. However, he does give me the correct telephone number for the police station, which is a great help.

As soon as I return to the hotel, I dial it immediately.

“Hello,” a male voice answers.

“Sir, do you speak English?” I inquire.

“Yes, Madam, I do. How may I help you?” the officer asks in a most elegant tone.

“I wanted to report that I saw the body of a dead man on the beach. It is probably about two kilometers east of the beach park.”

“Did it appear that it had drifted in from the sea?”

“Yes, that is what I thought. But I did not approach close enough to get any details.”

“Yes, madam. We will surely check into it. May I know your phone number, in case we have any other questions for you.”

I give him the hotel number without mentioning I will be up and out of here by 5:30 a.m. in the morning. I have learned to avoid complications.

I arrive at the train station early to purchase a ticket. “No first-class bogey on the Arraku train,” the ticket collector informs me. So the ticket only cost $2, I console myself. The 6:45 train finally leaves at 7:45, which could have meant we would be one hour late. In the event, we arrive three hours late. En route we encounter a lot of “goods” trains. They are carrying ore from mines in the mountains and have priority on the single track. The passenger trains have to pull over and wait on the side tracks whenever these trains approach. Needless to point out, these delays are not figured into the time schedules. Neither is the fact that the 6:45 train always leaves at 7:45, according to a couple of regulars on this route. Time is such a nebulous commodity here; no one seems to notice the delay.

A fellow passenger tells me that the easiest place for me to find a room is the Railroad Guest House. I had written for reservations at the Forest Guest House, but ominously did not receive a reply. I am now informed that the Forest Guest House is in another section of town, several kilometers down the road; further, there are no taxis there, not even rickshaws.

Heeding sensible advice, upon arrival, I go over to the Railroad Guesthouse, but there is no vacancy. I decide I better eat soon, as I already have a slight headache from having a breakfast of fruit, then no lunch. This is really the outback; there was not even a tea vendor at the tiny stations along the way. When I ask some Indian tourists about a place to eat, a young college student volunteers to conduct me to the best place, and also to carry my suitcase. In addition, he informs me that I am lucky. A few days before the train had been stuck in a tunnel for several hours due to a power failure, so the train did not reach here until 5:00 p.m. Sure makes it seem that I am lucky!

The “best” restaurant turns out to be the mud shack variety. Sitting on a bench at a rickety wooden table, I order the banana-leaf special—the only choice. Meanwhile, an elderly swami has spotted me and is hovering by the door waiting to accost me when I leave. I detest eating under such circumstances, so I order another special for him. Evidently, he prefers take-out, as he simply folds his plate and hobbles off. I had not realized that he was crippled.

Since the only way to get to the Forest Guest House is by bus, I place myself by the roadside, waiting for its arrival. After a short time, a young nun walks by on the opposite side of the road; she smiles and waves at me. Since I am still waiting when she returns, she crosses the road to speak to me. Since I have already experienced being waylaid by several Christian proselytizers, I remain rather cool and distant at first. Nevertheless, it quickly becomes apparent that she is simply being friendly.

When I relax, we fall into an easy conversation. As she is leaving, Sister Ancy Thomas asks me where I am staying. When I explain my situation, she replies, “Oh, if you have any problem, you can come stay with us. You will see the sign for the Nirmala Sisters just up the road on the right-hand side. We run an infirmary for the villagers there.”

I thank her, explaining that since I had written for reservations a month in advance, there should not be a problem at the Forest Guest House. “In any event, come by and visit us while you are here,” she turns to go.

Eventually, the bus arrives and I find the guest house. Problem is it sits about one kilometer from the highway. By the time I reach there I am dead tired from carrying my suitcase, which seemed small until I had to lug it up a hill. The combination of being tired, not eating on time, and the high altitude are getting to me; my head is pounding. My heart sinks as I approach what is the smallest guest house I have ever seen—two rooms max. Realizing that I may be in a predicament, I fall into the chair on the verandah to rest for a few minutes.

Before I really have time to recuperate, a dignified, middle-aged gentleman appears and asks me what I want. I explain that I had written for a reservation and hope that there is a room available. He informs me that there is definitely no room here. In addition, he assures me that writing for a reservation mean nothing because the forest officers have first choice; moreover, there is no one here to receive correspondence. I assure him that I had known that; therefore, I had sent to the letter to the nearest district office. As he struts down the walkway with a young man tagging behind him, I definitely sense that he is one of the “Officers” that I heard about in Kaikalur and Maredumalli.

After I finally gather my wits about me sufficiently to walk back to the highway, someone advises me that up the next road is the Roads and Buildings Guest House; perhaps I will find a room there. Unfortunately, no room is available there either, as the place has been taken over by an engineer from Hyderabad on holiday with a prostitute from Vishakapatnam.

Interestingly, they are both quite open and honest about the situation. I do not know if she is the typical prostitute here, for I believe this is my first encounter with one. Although Bombay and Calcutta are notorious for their women of that trade, this particular woman looks like a normal Indian housewife, nylon sari and all.

In spite of his obvious preoccupations, the engineer is quite helpful. He volunteers to drive me around to see if there is any hotel, as he wants to see the sights of Arraku too. He remarks that so far he has been unimpressed with what he has seen. So away we go, his assistant in the front with the driver and the three of us stuffed in the back seat—Mr. Engineer between the two women.
It is difficult for me to comprehend why a noted tourist spot does not have a hotel, but we find no sign of one.

By the end of the trip, the pounding of my head has turned into a genuine headache—a bad one. So bad, that I end up behind the Roads and Buildings Guesthouse throwing up in the zinnias. Afterwards, the lady offers me a drink, for it has become common here for the business class to partake of alcoholic beverages. I have a difficult time convincing them that I am not the normal American lush, but they do finally allow me to settle for a plain sparkling water. As we sit out in lawn chairs, I try to appear to be joining in the conversation, but I am really trying to figure out what I am going to do. I think of little Nachiketas’ words, “I’ve been sent to hell, what good can come of this?”

With head splitting in two, I finally declare, “I am going to throw myself on the mercy of the Sisters at the convent. After all, they do have a clinic.” The engineer volunteers that his driver will drop me off there, so I bid them farewell with as much profuse thanks as I can muster in my condition.

Keeping my focus on each move that I have to make, I slowly drag myself up to the dispensary, now closed since it is after 6:00 p.m. Fortunately, one young nun, who is strolling in the garden, sees me, so I explain my situation to her. Before I know it, I am inside the dispensary lying on a simple cot, surrounded by four dear Sisters who are totally concerned about my condition. Dressed in their clean gray frocks with white aprons, they seem like little angels. In the end, they decide I must have an injection for the headache. I do not feel the need for such an extreme measure, but they are sure this is the right thing. Afterwards, Sister Daisy, the manager of the retreat center and supervisor of the kitchen, comes over. She wants to bring me some food.

“Oh, no, please. I will not be able to keep down a single bite.”

“Oh, but you must eat something. You will not be able to sleep without food in the stomach.”

“Well, yes, I will. You see, we Americans don’t know that one cannot sleep without food, so we sleep just fine without eating.”

“Is that so?” she laughs, half out of self-consciousness.

The next day I am back to normal (well, almost), but spend a relaxed day hanging around the quite cool confines of the dispensary. The two nurses, Sisters Takala and Adelaine, are passing out rice and ground soy powder to a group of tribal women who have assembled in front of the dispensary. I note that the burlap bags are printed in bold letters: Product of The United States of America. I muse for a moment over the incredible distance these bags have come to be here in this obscure mountain village. Of course, it does feel good to know that the food has arrived here, thanks to charitable Catholics in The United States of America. What is that place anyway? God, it seems so far far away—not just in miles.

I ask the Sisters if the natives know how to use the soy powder, since it’s definitely not a staple in the diet here.

“Oh, they will just add it to their other dishes or put it in their babies’ milk,” the Sisters assure me.

Then I inquire how the tribals here feel about getting a handout. Sister Adelaine assures me that they are so poor they will take anything. In fact, they are quite ingenuous in finding ways to make money off the system. One nearby village has been electrified three times now, they inform me.

“How can that be?” I question, recalling that bribes are required to get power connected in even a residence.

However, the nuns tell me that a government program gives electrical power to all the tribal villages, in this area anyway. In the village they were speaking of, the electricity was installed, but, eventually, the government official in charge was transferred. At that time, the men disassembled all the transformers, wiring, poles, light bulbs and sold them in a large town. Then they complained to the new official that they were long over-due for electricity as promised. So they got all new equipment—until another new official arrived a few years later, then they repeated the scenario. I knew that milking of the system in rampant by those on the top in all the government projects, but this was the first time I had heard of those on the bottom using it.

That evening I volunteer to help in the kitchen. Sister Daisy is under a bit of pressure since the convent is in the middle of a retreat for about twenty young aspiring nuns. When they have time between classes they help with the food preparation and clean up too. Since she is from Kerala, Sister Daisy immediately recognizes my mundu/vesthi, two-piece sari, which is only worn in that state. I have fun impressing her with my half-dozen words of Malayalam because no one else here knows a single word of her native language.

One afternoon I get an opportunity to visit a small tribal community. I accompany Sister Ancy Thomas, the nun who had invited me “to visit,” and Sister Vincinte, the leader of the retreat that is now in progress over to a small botanical garden. After we stroll around admiring the abundant flowers that are flourishing in this cool climate, we walk over to the little tribal village beside it to visit a young woman known to the Sisters.

As we enter a narrow lane, I see a row of one-room huts with thick mud walls, which are only 3-feet high. However, the peaks of the thatched roofs are some 10-feet high, then nearly reach the ground. The Sisters tell me that the Government gave all of the tribal families in this area a plot of land and 1,000 Rps. [$60. U.S.] to build their homes.

Halfway down the lane, we enter the hut of the friend, who happily greets the Sisters. After a few moments, my eyes start to adjust to the dark, smoky environment. First thing, I notice a bundle on the rope bed. Just at that moment, the young woman goes over and picks up a tiny baby.

“Only a few weeks old,” Sister Vincinte informs me. After we admire the baby, the Sisters ask her about her husband’s job, for he is been having a problem finding work.

While they are talking, I take a look around the hut, about 16’ x 20’, which is ample space for three people by Indian village standards. The thatch of the high-pitched roof is stained black from the smoke from the indoor wood hearth, used for both cooking and heating. I do not see any sign of a chimney. Since we are at a high altitude with freezing winters, I ask if they get cold in the winter. Sister Ancy Thomas translates the young mother’s reply for me. She says the low-hanging roof is especially designed for this climate. In the summer, it gives shade from the hot sun and keeps out the cold wind in the winter.

On Sunday I am thrilled to learn that the Sisters watch the Sunday morning broadcast of the epic, Mahabharata. The serial has been playing for at least a year, and is still going strong. The major drama is enacted on a battlefield, so it is definitely not a passive piece. But quite a piece it is, over one hundred thousand verses, twice as long as Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey put together.

This epic is the history of mankind; more than that, it portrays the heart of humanity. It contains all the worldly, moral and spiritual knowledge gleamed from the ancient sages. However, the truths are interwoven into a portrayal of history, so that it can be understood by the common people, in contrast to the terse obscure verses of the Vedas. Even so, legend has it that when the gods actually weighed the traditional Vedas on a balance against the Mahabharata, the epic came out as heavier—in wisdom, of course.

I have been watching the program now and again as I travel through the country in homes and in ashrams. I even saw it on a train station platform as I traveled through South India. Since it is performed in North India’s Hindi language, with English subtitles, I was probably the only one there who understood it. However, even if they do not comprehend a single word, everyone knows the story. The characters are alive in the soul of the Indians.

Set in a tense moment in India’s history, the narrative centers on the dynasty of Bharata, the progenitor and first king of the Bharatis—sons of light. At that time in history, the kings and armies were divided between two descendants of Bharata, who are both vying for the throne. One represented dharma, or the moral, ethical power, whereas the adversary represented adharma, or the negative, egoistic forces.

I particularly enjoy it because it is full of small details of the religious traditions. We do not know how lucky we are with Moses’ meager ten commandments. The Hindu lawgiver, Manu, gave each caste hundreds of injunctions. All men are not created equal. Being the more evolved intellectually, the higher castes have many more responsibilities and duties than the lower castes. Aside from their many responsibilities to the king and society, the Brahmans are instructed how to conduct all of their worldly duties, right down to the details of their personal life: how to bathe, when to bathe, how to eat, what to eat, when to eat, even regulations on defecating. Actually, the intricacies of their code of laws indicate that they were much more evolved than the peoples of the Western world. Only a very conscious people could carry out these rules. Moses did not even have a hope that the Western barbarians could carry out a measly ten rules—and I suppose he was right.

Not a rupee was spared for the weekly television serial. Every episode is a visual feast for the eyes. All the actors are decked out in silks, satins and heavy jewelry. I do not know where they found the fellow that plays the Lord Krsna’s part. Krsna was supposed to have loved butter—his movie representative is truly a luscious buttercup! I have sure never seen anyone like him in the streets of Bombay. Whereas beautiful women are countless here, handsome men are a rarity. Perhaps this is a cog that keeps the arranged marriages rolling. I do not see much promise for liaisons based on sensual attraction to the men here.

While on the subject of Indian males, I will also mention that the men here were never told that “men (or big boys) don’t cry.” Throughout the epic, the men shed tears and demonstrate affection among themselves. In general, the Indian men are physically soft and flexible, evidence of the development of the feminine aspect. I even noted these same characteristics in their mentality, especially their sense of humor. In a magazine article in which I wrote on the elephant god, Lord Ganesha, I gave the Indian male a good cut. I commented that the middle-aged Indian male starts to resemble Ganesha-”pot-bellied and thick-skinned.” Rather than taking offense, they loved the criticism. Wherever I travel, the men only seem to comment on that one article, telling me how they enjoyed it.

Whoever believes that ancient India was bound by male chauvinism and caste should be aware of the role of Satyavati, a fisher’s daughter, in this epic. On her commands revolved the fate of the world, for she was the mother of the two most powerful men at that time, Sage Veda Vyasa (he was illegitimate) and the elder of the clan, Bhisma. The sons were duty bound to obey their mother’s orders, even though they personally thought another course would have been better. However, Bhisma did refuse her command to break his vow of celibacy to sire an heir to the throne. In his refusal, Bhisma put the traditions before the general good of the people. In the end, even Bhisma realized, times were changing; people had to change.

The “cream” of the epic appears approximately in the center. Lord Krsna, the Divine Incarnation of that era, gives out a discourse to the warrior, Arjuna, who is distraught at having to fight in a battle in which he will have to kill his own cousin-brothers. This discourse, seemingly for the buoying up of Arjuna’s spirits, is called the Bhagavad Gita (Song of the Lord), and is the cornerstone of Hinduism as it is practiced in today’s world. Its wisdom has been known and admired by many Western philosophers, including the Americans, Emerson and Thoreau.

The time had come to fight the prince and protectors of a throne who were not following the path of dharma. The many duties of a ruler are clearly laid out. His first concern is the welfare and prosperity of the people. Arjuna had been preparing for this battle against the adverse forces for over ten years. He had even journeyed to the heavenly realms to acquire some dreadful weapons.

First Lord Krsna reminds Arjuna of the down-to-earth, sensible reasons that he should fight the war. When Arjuna remains in doubt as to his duty, in verse after verse, Krsna extols the knowledge of action and non-action, that is, desireless action. Further, he explains, if the truth be known, it was actually the Lord himself who would be destroying the wicked. Just in case Arjuna does not get it, Krsna backs up his words with a cosmic vision in which he shows Arjuna that his evil cousin-brothers are being crunched in between Krsna’s teeth.

“So, you see,” explained Krsna, “I am the slayer. I have chosen and prepared you as my instrument for this awesome task. However, never fear. If you should decide you are not up to the challenge, I will find someone else to do the job.”

So Arjuna fought his battle—and won. In those days the good guys still won.

The actor who plays Lord Krsna in the serial was not just chosen just for his physical beauty. He plays the role, including the lengthy discourses, exceptionally well. I have to wonder how playing these historical and spiritual parts affected him and the various other actors and actresses. Sometimes even uttering divine words can initiate a flicker of remembrance of one’s own divinity. The Vedas say that this knowledge was inborn with every human as a birthright, so on occasion we can get an unexpected glimpse of the truth. As soot covers the light of a lantern, ignorance covers the light of our divinity.

Not only does the presentation have the power to influence the actors, it also impacts the minds of those watching it. The characters are real people who are torn by struggles, contradictions, compromises and dilemmas in facing life and searching for the right thing to do. As one watches week after week, the characters are powerful archetypes that come alive in one’s psyche. I can assure you that everyone in India wept the week that Bhisma was mortally wounded.

The entire production is exceptional, a real credit to the creative talent in India. The dialogue, music, sets, costumes are memorable. They have truly produced a masterpiece to guide and enlighten mankind.

When I express surprise that the Christian Sisters are interested in this treasury of Hindu thought, the Sisters explain that this epic is their Indian heritage. Naturally, they are interested in their country’s wisdom and wonderful sages. I do recall that when I was staying in a Jain ashram, several wealthy visitors went through a big rigmarole to have a TV brought to the ashram on Sunday, so they would not miss a single episode of the serial. Again, they felt Krsna may be a Hindu god, but the epic is their country’s ancient history. How old? Some scholars claim that it mentions stellar formations that date it some 10,000 years ago.

Sister Vincinte, a published author, introduces me to one of her associates. Sister Corona Mary has just completed a book on the subject of women, specifically using Mary as a model. She develops the thesis that as a fully liberated person, Mary serves as a symbol of a true Christian. In an insightful overview of Mary and the Hindu goddesses, she shows how they are all players in of the Divine dream that portrays the dignity and destiny of humanity. In appearance, Sister Corona Mary is a gentle petite woman, but the historical research in her book proves her awesome intellect. Definitely, both she and Sister Vincinte are shining lights among India’s feminine spiritual leaders.

Since I do not want to continue to impose on the good graces of the convent, I have no place to stay. In any event, I am finding Arraku has very limited possibilities for my explorations. Nevertheless, I am so thankful to have met the Nirmala Sisters. Getting to know these special women has been the only viable experience of my four-day visit. I feel that with their openness, flexibility and intelligence, they bring a new light to Christianity. After inquiries, I decide to proceed farther into the mountains—although no one is sure what I will encounter there.

Chapter Forty-three

Unique Encounters

It is a four-hour bus journey over to Chintapalle. Actually, I planned to stop at Paderu, as several people had suggested that it would have more natural beauty. However, when I stand up to get off the bus, all I see is a sprawling cement village. I just sit back down. Unfortunately, since I purchased a ticket to Paderu, the conductor and driver are determined to get me off the bus. I keep showing them money and saying “Chintapalle,” until they finally get the idea and allow me to continue on the bus.

However, Paderu does have one redeeming faction: huge gulmohar trees line the main road. I love these trees with their lacy leaves and large orange flowers speckled with yellow, like colorful tropical birds. These trees would have to be some fifty or sixty years old, from the days before the democracy, when the local kings personally initiated such public beautification projects. They don't happen now.

When I arrive in Chintapalle, I immediately search out the Forest Guest House, which turns out to be close to the bus stop. None of the officers are in, but the clerk assures me there is no room in the guest house, as they are expecting the Sub-Collector. In spite of the fiasco at Arraku, I remember how helpful the officers were at Maredumalli, so I feel it is best to talk to them directly.
In the meantime, I take off for a stroll to assess the extent of forest in this area. Strolling down the main road, I encounter a very small town. Houses are sprinkled, not squeezed, along the way. It’s definitely not a cement village. When I look up, I spot huge eagles circling overhead, affirming the remoteness of the area. This place looks like the beautiful natural setting I have been looking for, I tell myself with a smile. Sure enough, my stay at Chintapalle turns out to be quite a masaala, spicy mix, of different experiences—including encounters with interesting people, and even India’s politics. I thought that in the outback I would be isolated from the political turmoil that has been sweeping the country, but I am mistaken.

When I return to the Forest Office later in the afternoon, I find Ramalinga Reddy, the officer in charge, has returned. He assures me that there is plenty of room in the Guest House. However, I will have to take the back room, leaving the larger front room available just in case the Sub-Collector does arrive. So I am settled in Chintapalle.

Immediately, I take off down the road toward the forest where I find a trickle of a stream to follow. As I explore, I find a large boulder shaded by a huge mango tree. From its long spreading branches, small ripe fruits are dropping on the ground for me to enjoy. I open one and suck out its juice, as it is too fibrous to eat. When I lie back on the smooth boulder to relax, I hear the gurgling stream, the twittering birds, and the fragrant champak flowers. I feel so wonderful being surrounded by bountiful nature. My body seems to lose itself among the green leaves and chirping birds. My thoughts begin expressing my contentment, There must be a wonderful creator to have conceived of such a beautiful spot. I could have never dreamed up any place so wonderful!

There is another advantage to Chintapalli, the local people are quite friendly. In some rural areas where the British were not really visible, they created a mystic aura about their nobility, their greatness and superior virtues, since they were “carrying the black man’s burden” and all that b.s. The simple folk would not have comprehended that rationalization, they just knew that the British were the rulers: rulers deserve obeisance. The nobility myth must have taken firm root in this area, for even after forty years of Independence, it still survives. I benefit from it daily.

When I walk down the street, villagers step aside. They are thrown into visible raptures of glee if I greet them with a simple “namaste.” They approach me with their babies for a blessing. Then they act as if the baby has been touched by an angel, when I am the one who is truly blessed by these lovely cherubs. The truth is these simple folk love to have human idols. Unfortunately, it has been a continual thorn in the reality of Indian politics.

From the first day, I get a reminder that Chintapalle falls into the territory of the Naxilites, India’s Communist rebels. As I am strolling down the main road, I am stopped by a hefty fellow in plain clothes, traveling in a jeep. After explaining that he is a police officer, he wants to see my papers. I inform him that, for obvious reasons, I do not carry my papers with me on the road. I suggest he accompany me to the guest house. Since he is busy at the moment, he opts to see me tomorrow at the police station. Fortunately, he speaks decent English. During my stay, I am continually surprised that I find more English speakers here than in Maredumalli or Arraku, even though this is the most remote region I have been in.

When I show up the next morning, the officer is not present. No officers are present, only some motley clerks who are hanging around. However, even they know enough English to communicate to me that there has been an emergency: the candidate for Prime Minister has been assassinated. As I was walking over, I kept hearing “Rajiv Gandhi” repeated along the way, but I thought it was due to the general election fervor. Now I find out that Rajiv has been killed by Tamil extremists, so I will not find any officer today. The underlings want to see my papers, but I decline to waste my time. I ask them to tell the Officer that I will return later.

After leaving the police station, I go to a forest officer’s home who has promised me a unique excursion today. Naidu has work to do in a local coffee plantation and has invited me to come along—since it is in a great jungle area. When I arrive, he has just received the news of Rajiv’s assassination and is quite distraught.

“He’s the only leader we had, and certainly the only one who had any respect on the international scene. I have not been able to do a thing since I heard the news. It is hard to imagine what India is coming to. How bad does it have to get before everyone wakes up to what they are doing to themselves by keep this country in such a turmoil?”

All we know at this point is that Rajiv was shot in a small town outside of Madras in a last minute campaign stop. He had been on a whirlwind tour for weeks trying to allay his former elitist technocrat image. When he was in power from 1985 through 1989, he, or rather his technocrat buddies, had alienated the common folk. The young men had analyzed that after forty years of Independence India was still a century behind in industrialization. They decided to skip that phase and go straight for the technical, or computer, age. Perhaps, a sound idea in theory, but not workable in a country where the extremes of illiterates and know-it-all leaders predominate. Besides, how can you have a computer age with intermittent electrical power in the major cities?

After his defeat two years ago, Rajiv stated that somewhere along the way he had lost communication with the people. So during this campaign his main theme was contacting the people of the villages and small towns. He felt confident that he was transforming his aloof image to one depicting him as concerned for the people. However, at the time of his death, a leading magazine was on the news stands predicting his failure in the election.

Since Naidu had already contracted a vehicle for the day, he feels he has to complete his work. There are very few cars in this area, so the only transport available was a big lorry—definitely a new experience for me. From the high cab, I get a good view of the stately forests along the way—miles and miles of it. I am ecstatic seeing these uncut, unpeopled forests. I was not so satisfied when I traveled in many regiong of the Himalayas.

Thinking that the Naxlites may take advantage of the turmoil, everyone is expecting trouble, even Naidu. Nevertheless, we see nothing out of the ordinary until we are almost at the plantation. There we find the road blocked in compliance with the nationwide bandh, strike, to honor Rajiv who is being cremated today. The roadblock consists of a wall of framed photos strung on ropes. The most outstanding ones are large 16” x 20” shots of Indira Gandhi and her son in various poses. Giant fluorescent photos of Lord Ganesha and Sri Lakshmi are thrown in for good measure. The Elephant God that removes obstacles and the Goddess of Wealth are brought out for all sorts of occasions. Since we would have to move the whole set-up to pass through, Naidu suggests that we get out and walk the remaining distance.

The coffee plantation is incredibly beautiful. I am so happy to find out that they do not have to destroy trees to plant coffee as they do for tea plants. Coffee likes dappled shade, so all the big trees are preserved; only the underbrush is removed. Besides they have to fill in any sunny gaps with trees, usually with white oak, which grows faster than trees native to this area.

We make a wide circuit of the plantation of several hundred acres. Crossing several hillsides, we come across a natural spring with a lovely pool. The officer who lives on site tells us that there is a tiger who visits this watering hole regularly. Usually, they can find distinct tracks, but today the only ones he finds look a little dubious to me. But what do I know about tiger tracks?

We are in the middle of May—peak mango season. As we walk along, the forest trail is littered with ripe mangoes, wild varieties, too small for market value. Hardly a mouthful each, but one of the varieties is specially good, with a sweet-sour tang. I am glad to see that these ancestors of the modern hybrids still exist.

As we are circling around back to the valley where we started, we spot colored streamers across the trail ahead. Naidu asks me to wait with one of his flunkies while he and the other officer go ahead to investigate. All seems clear, so they signal us to come on. The site is, as they suspected, evidence of a recent ritual done by the Naxlites. I see the flowers, paan leaves and bilva grass: all the trappings of a Hindu ritual.

“But the Naxilites are supposed to be Communists, that is, atheists,” I ponder aloud.

“Yes, but remember, they are Indians first,” Naidu replies.

“That’s right. They did have the Hindu gods in their roadblock too,” I suddenly get the significance.

That evening, I drop by the police station before dinner. The officer who asked for my papers is present, sitting out in front of the police guest house with a group of officers, including a visiting Police Sub-Inspector. The title threw me off for a moment, but the gentleman’s demeanor quickly tells me that he is in charge.

He informs me that Chintalpalle has a reputation as a trouble spot. Even back in 1922, the local king, Allui Sita Ram Raju, started his own freedom movement. With carefully coordinated raids on four police stations in four villages at the very same moment, he hoped to remove the British from his territory. The Brits had operations in this remote area because of lumber, particularly the prized rosewood. The coupe was only a temporary success, but the Raju remains a hero in this area. The stone prison where the native rebels were incarcerated is still part of the police complex.

“This is a very black day for India,” the Sub-Inspector concludes.

“Yes, whether you were for Gandhi or not, it is a black day for India,” I agree.

As we are talking, another Officer takes down some numbers from my passport and visa, so I am only indisposed for a pleasant thirty minute chat. Afterward, I walk over to the local thatched hut for a supper of chapatis and dal. This whole wheat bread, made just like the Mexican tortilla, is common in North India, but not in Andhra. I am glad to find them as an alternative to the usual white rice.

The next morning, Naidu tells me that one of his friends had been among the police officers present when I was speaking with the Sub-Inspector. After I left them, he told the officers not to bother me. I was simply there to enjoy and appreciate their country and should be treated as their guest, the friend reported to Naidu.

Now free to come and go as I please, I finish breakfast and am off by to the forest by 6:00 in the morning. Afterwards, I take off for a walk up a dry streambed in a forest area that has some dappled sunlight where I find several varieties of wild flowers, including some lovely white lilies. Soon I hear the cries of peacocks in the nearby hills. By the time I reach the top, where I discover a small spring, the cries have ceased. When I am nearly back down the slope, I hear the peacocks again. No peacocks for me today, I lament.

To compensate, I find a tiny bird nest, built on a branch over the stream. Three large leaves are intertwined in the grass of the nest to make it almost invisible. I encounter so many lovely treasures in the forest; every area is full of diverse tress and flowers to admire. Then I plop on a grassing knoll to admire my world in silence. No matter who created it, I am just here to enjoy it.
Before long, my contemplation is disturbed when the sun invades my spot, so I have to move on.

On my route, due to sheer curiosity, I stop at a small temple perched on a hillock, enclosed by a wrought iron fence. I am surprised to encounter a swami there; one of the swamis who is running a temple as a business. It is definitely not the dharma of a renunciate. This swami is quite a sight to behold with a beehive hairdo standing at least two feet high. However, he does speak some English, enough to express his curiosity about who I am and what I am doing here. After I give him a concise version, he takes my left palm and look at it, “Nice palm, live to be 90 years.”

Hardly impressed by that information, I comment, “That’s a good prognosis for the palm, but what about the rest of me?” But he misses my humor. He explains that his English is too limited to explain anything else.

After a short discussion, I get up to leave, but the swami insists that I stay for lunch. I tell him that it is too early for lunch. “No,” he assures me that he eats at 10:30 a.m. daily. Lunch will be ready in ten minutes. While we were talking a pleasant young woman has passed through the room several times. He tells me she is staying with him for a month for guru seva [service].

Just when I think ten minutes have passed, the young woman appears to put out two clean banana leaves. Surprisingly, at that moment, the swami gets up and disappears behind closed doors over to the side. Instead of just sitting there, I go into the room that serves as the temple to look around. I place 10 Rps. on the altar to cover the expense of my lunch. While I am wandering about looking over the premises, I hear a couple of coughs coming from behind the closed doors. After some ten minutes, the swami materializes, followed by a cloud of smoke with the distinct odor of ganja [native hash]. I should have realized when I saw the hairdo; he must be a Siva devotee. His hairdo is an imitation of Lord Siva’s locks.

Once when I spent three months in the Himalayas, I watched the sadhus there prepare their ganja. Marijuana—tall and robust—grew wild throughout the hills. To make it as strong as possible, they would roll the leaves in their hands to deposit the resin on their palms. Then holding them to the sunlight, the resin would turn black. Using a knife blade, they would scrape the thick resin, or homemade hash, off their palms and smoke it in a pipe.

This ganja tradition is quite prevalent among a group of sadhus in the Himalayas. Its consumption is considered important in the worship of Siva. I have never seen any evidence of even the slightest social disdain over this practice.

On Siva Ratri (night), an annual celebration when Siva appears to the devotees at midnight, everyone used to drink a special punch (five), made of five ingredients, which included marijuana leaves. When Mr. Nambiar told me of this custom, my obvious question was “You and your mother and father drank marijuana punch?” Next question, “But where did you get marijuana in Madras?”

“Oh, you could just but it fresh in the market at festival time,” he replied with a chuckle. “But we don’t have it available now-a-days. We never thought there was anything wrong with it. We just considered it a specialty for Siva Ratri.”

In the present situation, I suppose the ganja heightens the swami’s taste buds, for the food is exceptionally good, and very plentiful. While we are eating, the swami invites me to come stay at his “ashram” to study with him. He offers that the young woman will care for all my needs. I politely suggest that this is simply not what I am looking for at this point in my life. Now I am quite content with enjoying nature.

One afternoon, I happen to run into a young man who is here to monitor the elections, which have been postponed because of Rajiv’s assassination. Interestingly, he tells me that he had been in the café yesterday evening when I had a disagreement with the proprietor over the price he was charging me for a couple of chapatis. I had told him that I was a writer; therefore, it would be too bad to have Chintapalle’s name smeared in print for charging double prices to an innocent foreigner. When confronted, he was very apologetic, then charged me a fair price. The observer expresses admiration for my moxy, and mentions that all the men eating there got a kick out of my reprisal of the owner. He also verified that I was correct; I was being cheated. Since I have been here so long, I know what prices to expect, yet I rarely have to use the information—with the exception of taxi and rickshaw drivers in the cities.

Taking the opportunity of speaking with an authority on Indian elections, I ask the young man a few questions about their electoral system and his role as an overseer. The elections had been called because of mishandling of the Mandal Report situation by the Prime Minister, V.P. Singh. The ten-year-old report had been ignored by the Congress Party when they were in power. But V.P. was a man of the masses, he was the one who promised to cancel out bank loans to certain groups of farmers. He was in office just long enough to fulfill that promise. He also was determined to resurrect the Mandal Report.

The principal issue was that it gave even more reservations in the universities and government jobs to the lower classes, based only on percentages of population. Ideally, it sounds good, but in a country with few job opportunities, it means no positions at all for intelligent young people of the higher castes.

Increasingly, the Indian government is using caste to divide the people, just as the British used religion to divide the Moslems and Hindus. In this case, nearly thirty teenagers, all higher caste Brahmans, committed suicide publicly by immolation. Layer, a psychologist, paid by the government, came up with a theory that all of the victims had been “mentally imbalanced.” There was no further inquiry as to why they were unbalanced. Could it be because they did not have chance no matter how hard they tried? The few upper caste teenagers who do attend colleges have wealthy families who are able to pay exorbitant bribes required to matriculate in private universities. That just might be enough to cause a teenager to feel hopeless and frustrated to the point of being “mentally imbalanced.” Surprisingly, V.P. showed no remorse over the deaths of these young people.

In our discussions about calling for elections and the need for an overseer, the young man mentions “booth-capturing” several times. I had heard the term before, but I never could quite figure out just what it meant. So I ask him just what is “booth-capturing?”

“Why, that’s when someone goes in and just carries off the ballot-box, so the votes can’t be counted.”

“That’s booth-capturing? Well, I never would have figured that out. They just carry off the ballot box? . . . Obviously, it’s the ones who think they are going to lose.”

“Yes, if they feel like that they have one area that is a loser, they will take the box. Or they may stuff it, or they may put a lot of gundas (thugs) outside the polling place to keep their opponents from entering and voting.”

“I see. Well, it sure sounds like a democracy—Indian-style-to me. Self-government is bound to evolve distinctly in different cultures.”

Every political party here declares itself to be the party of the poor and downtrodden, since they are the clear majority of voters. Further, the poor are more likely to vote, for they are the only ones who have the leisure to stand in the long lines for up to half a day. The engineer from Hyderabad told me he had never voted, nor had any of his associates. What happens when a nation is run by its most unintelligent people? India’s history will tell that story—not that the same phenomenon does not exist elsewhere. We could probably dig up several great cradles of democracy that have been ruled by the mediocrity for several centuries. Surely, no one can deny that their rule has done a lot for mediocrity.

A good example is here in Andhra. Undaunted by his defeat in 1989, N.T.R. Rama Rao returned to his old job on the silver screen in the leading role of Lord Vishnu. The film was released just in time for his 1991 campaign. He has been hot and heavy on the campaign trail and clearly expects to be returned to office. I have seen his face plaster all over the billboards throughout my journey here. He is certainly not a handsome man, movie star or not.

On the day I am planning to leave on the noon bus, I decide to take a walk to Vangasara, supposedly a nice forested area. I would have preferred to stay here longer, but I need to return to Pondicherry for banking. My term savings account is due, and I have to withdraw money for the next six months. All bank records are still kept in handwritten ledgers, so the process of having money transferred around the country is lengthy and precarious, so I do not risk it. I have my suitcase packed so I am ready to head out after I return. . . but it will not be at the proposed hour.

The Vangasara sign along the main road is misleading. I end up in the Vangasara forest planting, not the village. Before I figure out my mistake, I follow a path across a grassy meadow that leads to a river where three young girls are washing clothes. As I look down upon them for a high bank, I say “namaste” to them. The oldest one takes one look at me, grabs her bucket, and runs like hell up the opposite embankment. When she reaches the top, she stops to look back to see that the two small girls are still playing in the stream. She yells one word to them. It must have been “ghost” or “witch,” something really awesome, because they turn white, shriek and run like hell after the older girl.

I follow the path they took, assuming I will find some help in that direction. Sure enough, before I reach the village, here comes a man to investigate. I explain that I am looking for the Forest Office in Vangasara. He hears Post Office, but I figure, what’s the difference, the Forest Office can’t be far from the Post Office. We enter the village and he directs me to a hut with a shady verandah, so I can present my plight to a group of elderly men sitting there.

It must be a very poor village; they do not even offer me tea. This has never happened before, even in isolated Himalayan villages. After discussing the matter among themselves for a few minutes, they come up with a solution. They give instructions to a young man who takes me to a road behind their village. He motions for me to wait. After five minutes, a teenager comes riding by on a bicycle and he flags him down. Then I understand, he is negotiating with the cycler to carry me to Vangasara. So away I go, smiling as I take in an overview of the landscape. With fresh air blowing through my hair, we roll by gigantic trees with orchids hanging from their limbs, beautiful groves of mangoes, and gigantic gray boulders with ferns growing out of dark cracks. He takes me straight to the Post Office. When I offer him 10 Rps. for his trouble, he refuses to take it. I am glad I insisted when I see him turn around, so he had gone out of his way to help me.

I enter the Post Office to get general directions. The only other place of business in town is a tiny government store where the tribals can buy rice at cut-rate prices, plus a few other necessities. The manger there has noted my arrival and sent his teenage son to invite me for tea. Afterwards, the boy takes me on a tour of the local cascades and springs.

Just as I start to leave, the wife of one family sends an emissary to insist that I have lunch with them. News of the stranger has obviously traveled. The family must be the owners of the mango plantations that I passed as they have the only large house in town. The most outstanding feature of their abode is a pet jungle myna. It loves to imitate whistles, but he is struggling with the Telegu vocabulary. Lunch turns out to be quite an elaborate affair. However, it must be their normal fare because they did not have enough notice to prepare anything special for me. After a long delicious Indian lunch, they want me to stay and “rest,” but I insist that I need to get back to Chintapalle.

I do take the opportunity to ask them about a TV program I had seen in Pondy concerning a group of tribals, living in this general area. By accident, one of them discovered a leaf that repairs broken bones practically overnight. A hunter had bagged a large deer. In order to pack it back home, he had to slice it up. To protect it, he wrapped it in some leaves from a nearby tree. Lo and behold, when he got back to the village, all the meat and bones had knit back into one piece. They experimented and found the leaves work on broken human bones too. In the TV program, the tribals were insisting that they were not going to give the exact information to anyone because others would make money on it, while they would receive no benefit. When asked why they did not commercialize it themselves, they replied that they were hunters and bonesetters, not businessmen. Now there is a poignant example of the caste system in action.

My hosts do know of the bonesetters and inform me that the Government has come up with unique compromise. Through the Andhra state government, treatment with the leaves has been made available to the public for a low fee of 2 Rps.

I also inquire about the more scenic forest path back, but no on can give me any details. They say they avoid it like the plague due to the Naxilites. So I head back along the road for an easy return. When I came here, I should have taken the second left, instead of the first left.

Walking along the road, I am soon attracted by the wonderful spreading mango trees. Finally, I cannot resist. I climb over the gully, pick a tree, spread out the towel from my backpack, and sit down to enjoy the beautiful spot. As I lie back to feel the warm earth supporting me, I take in the trees towering overhead framing the blue sky with splotches of green and rusty brown. Anyone who could feel what I do now could never cut another tree, for they are the columns of our wonderful earth cathedral. I know not everyone sees what I see; not everyone feels what I feel. It is like that wonderful scene from Star Wars when all the distinctive characters are gathered at the galactic bar. We are all from different planets—with totally different sensory equipment. The Creator’s greatest joke was making us look enough alike that we can fool ourselves into assuming that we feel and think alike too.

Wouldn’t you know it? It is really rare to be alone in India, although I do manage it. After some fifteen minutes, some village-types come along. I think they must be mango pickers. However, they are not picking; they are watching me. It must be quite a shock to see me lying under a tree. Anyway, having been disturbed, I get up to start back again. Due to getting lost and having a long lunch, I have given up on getting back for today’s bus, so I start piddling along. I even stop to explore a stream for any interesting ferns or flowers. When I continue on, a few sprinkles of rain begin to fall. Since it has not been raining much, I did not even carry an umbrella with me. I figure it will be just another light afternoon shower. . . wrong.

On the road, several village women are running to get out of the storm. They motion for me to follow them. I probably would have, except I am perplexed because there was no village on this stretch of road when I came by on the bicycle. So I do not hurry because I do not think there is any shelter ahead anyway. . . wrong.

Then the storm breaks; a serious monsoon storm. Then hailstones start flying. I am able to find a tree with a large low branch that sort of protects me from the hail, at least my head and face. Then the water begins to slow down the trunk. Oh, my God, I’m getting seriously drenched. Will this storm ever stop? No, it goes on and on and on. I just keep breathing deeply. It can’t last forever, that would be impossible, I console myself. It lasts what seems like a very long time, probably only some thirty minutes, but thirty minutes under these conditions is a long time. Finally, the downpour slows to a sprinkle, so I emerge from my tree shelter to attempt to get out of here. Problem is that the gully is now a raging torrent, so I cannot get back over to the road. Finally, I find a narrow spot where I can jump across.

As I start down the saner surface of the asphalt road, I look up and see three children running toward me carrying an umbrella. I have no idea that they are coming to find me. Nevertheless, I figure it out after they insist that I take the umbrella, then turn around to go along with me.
As we return, the going is rough. In several places, the road is covered with over a foot of water. All of a sudden, the kids holler and run like hell. Oh, no, not the ghost thing again, I moan. No, it is an approaching bus. The kids know that the bus is going to splash all the water in the road all over them as it whizzes by. Now I also know that the sensible thing to do, when I am standing in a foot of water when a bus approaches, is to scream and run like hell. But you are not any wetter no than you were before, I remind myself.

We soon reach a small village—right beside the road. This doesn’t make sense; why didn’t I see it when I came by on the bicycle? Then I realize, since I was riding side-saddle, I was facing the opposite direction. Most villages sprawl down both sides of a road, but this one is the exception. In the direction I was look there was nothing but trees.

The children take me to a mud hut where a woman is obviously awaiting me. A cup of hot tea is pushed in my hands before I reach the top step. On a covered and walled porch is a fireplace, no chimney, but a hole in the wall to let out the smoke. Several other people, both women and children, are huddled around the fire. They all push me to the front, so I can dry out.

Soon a group of men arrive to check out the situation. They seem to be interested in what “we” eat. “Bread,” declares one of them. They all agree that my brethren are bread-eaters. To them there are only two human species: rice-eaters and chapati-eaters. They do not know about potato or corn eaters. I am sure they will forgive me for not trying to explain, under the circumstances. Of course, I could never explain anything to them in Telegu anyway. These lovely, although folksy, people are considered villagers, not tribals, because they were not the original inhabitants of this area. Because of the pressure of population and lack of land, several groups have moved here from the lowlands to farm in the hills during the past century. They have prospered with their mango groves and crops of safflower seed, which are extracted for cooking oil.

They quickly change the subject because one of them suddenly realizes that a bus is due soon that will stop in Chintapalle. Everyone decides I better get on it because there may not be another one for hours. Two men accompany me to the bus and give the driver instructions on my behalf. I am content to board the bus and drag myself back to the dry guest house to put on dry clothes, for I remain soaked.

The next morning the ride downhill is something to behold: thick green forests with maximum hairpin curves. Most of the trees are beautiful broad-leaved types that throw shade across the highway. Aside from enjoying their beauty, I am elated to see so much natural forest still standing.

At the bottom of the mountain is the small town of Tuni. I find the train station office and purchase a ticket—no reservations available. But the usual hospitality is. When I ask for a recommendation for a decent hotel for lunch, the clerk informs me, “Oh, Madam, you can’t eat in a hotel—not in Tuni.”

When I eat in Indian cafes in small town, I have noticed that all the diners are men. The men are not necessarily single, but away from home because of their jobs. I suppose that is the reason for the clerk’s reaction: “madams” do not eat in restaurants. Anyway, I end up sharing the lunches that the clerk and janitor have brought from home. They absolutely insist. I just eat a little white rice with yogurt and a banana. They cannot believe that I can subsist on so little, but I assure them that their food is very delicious and adequate.

The “no reservation available” turns out to be significant; there is standing room only. A railway attorney, who was just in Tuni to prosecute several cases of persons traveling without tickets, tries to help me find a seat. He has no luck, so I am doomed to stand all the way to Rajamundry. It is reminiscent of the New York subway at rush hour, except there are no bars to hang on to. The only thing that saves me is that we are packed so tightly that I cannot possibly fall. At the Rajamundry station, I happen to spot the attorney. I take the opportunity to tell him, “No wonder people don’t pay for tickets for this journey on a cattle car. If I ever ride this train again, I won’t buy a ticket either.” Fortunately, I am able to get a first-class ticket with reservation in Rajamundry for the overnight train to Madras.

Chapter Forty-four

Pondicherry Tamaasha

I arrive back in Pondy during the full bloom of the loo—hot winds from the west. This is where I began my journey over a year ago—and I stayed for three months, so I am in familiar territory. I go through the usual hassle at the bus station to find a bicycle-rickshaw driver who will charge me normal rates. They really make a killing here with the foreigners arriving daily. Sometimes I give up and climb into one of the jitneys, the tiny local buses, but it’s very uncomfortable due to the crowded space with a suitcase.

I go straight to the Cottage Guest House. Although I have not written for a reservation, I know there will be plenty of rooms available in this heat. The visitor population slows down considerably in the summer, but Pondy sustains me even when it is too hot. I always feel good when I arrive back here. It continues to be a comfortable home base for me. However, even quiet sane Pondy is caught up in the commotion of Rajiv’s assassination.

I just have time to shower before having a hearty and healthy lunch at the ashram: brown rice and dal with vegetables, served with lots of fresh yogurt—yogurt is cooling. Afterwards, I head for my friend Usha’s home to let her know I am back and to find out the latest news from her.

Her new servant answers the door and lets me in. I am hardly inside when Usha calls out the strangest greeting: “They already know that it was the C.I.A.”

Usha’s mind always works faster than mine. “What was the C.I.A.?” I question.

“Rajiv’s assassination. They know that the C.I.A. was involved. The belt that held the explosives was so sophisticated, it could have only come from the U.S.”

I do not relish finding myself in a position in which I feel compelled to defend the C.I.A., especially in a third world country. Merely commenting, “Well, what will they come up with next?” I leave the “they” nebulous on purpose. I must be understanding; after all, I remember all the rumors around the Kennedy assassination.

It turns out that the “sophisticated” belt had been stitched by a tailor in Madras with one of those non-electric-sewing machines, which is operated by a foot-pedal. The tailor had custom-designed the special pockets to insert the explosives obtained in Singapore. I somehow glean from all the accusations, attacks and counter-attacks that the woman who wore that belt was a Tamil Tiger. She had managed to get close enough to Rajiv to detonate it by offering him a huge flower garland.

The Tamil Tigers are a group from Tamil Nadu who settled in Sri Lanka during the last couple of centuries to be used as indentured field workers and house servants to the native Singalese populace. The Tamilians were not treated well by their masters; not even the masters deny this fact. Eventually, the laborers developed a social consciousness and a group identity. The fact that they had been segregated and allowed to live only in restricted areas facilitated their ability to organize. They began clamoring for a separate state for Tamilians within Sri Lanka, which incited some armed confrontations with the masters. Therefore, quite a few Sri Lankan Tamils are now living in refugee camps back in India—in Tamil Nadu the home of their ancestors.

No on-site arrests were made at the assassination scene. Fearing a second explosion, the four hundred policemen hired for extra security had taken off running for cover the moment they heard the first blast. However, the authorities were able to determine the accomplices almost immediately. The Tamil Tiger boss had sent a photographer to obtain a record of the event. As fate would have it, he got too close and was blown to smithereens too, leaving his photographic record behind.

The Tamil Tigers objected to the Congress-I Party because they backed injunctions again shipping of weapons into Sri Lanka for the Tamil terrorists to use, but that still does not seem reason enough to prompt a kamikaze woman with a belt of grenades to kill Rajiv Gandhi. Since I am now in Pondy, I do see a newspaper and the TV news occasionally, but there is total silence on why? When I question anyone about it, they act as if I do not know what I am talking about-—like the Tigers do not have to have a reason.

I do not find out the answer until months later when I am in Madras and spend a day with the Nambiars. Mr. Nambiar explains that since the Tamil Tigers were using weapons shipped from India, the Sri Lankan government pressured the Indian government to take some action to alleviate the dangerous situation. So one bright day, a unit of the “Indian Peace Keeping Force” shows up in Sri Lanka for a shoot out with the Tamil conspirators. An unusual problem arose when the Tamil Tiger terrorists used women and children to make a line of defense. The Indian army had not planned for this contingency, and just blasted through them, killing many—too many—of them. Evidently, video footage of the carnage exists, so it could not easily be forgotten.

“They were military men, carrying out a military action. They were not sensitive to the situation. The police units are trained to handle such a predicament, but not the military,” Mr. Nambiar concludes.

“So it was Rajiv Gandhi who ordered the unit of the Indian army to Sri Lanka to round up the Tamil terrorists?”

“Well, since he was the Prime Minister at the time, he was ultimately held responsible.”

Here is another aspect of Indian politics that will floor you. If this does not prove that India is riddled with contradictions—nothing will. The Congress-I [Indira] Party is begging Sonia Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi’s widow, to step into the high position of the party. An Italian woman, who never really wanted to live in India in the first place, and definitely did not want her husband in politics—this is the best candidate for the Prime Minister of the world’s largest democracy? It seems the Nehru Dynasty must prevail.

Even old timers of Congress-I are shaking their heads in disbelief: “How can they call this a democracy? Where has such a thing happened in the West?” When Sonia eschewed the offer, the party bosses considered putting her daughter into power. Fortunately for India, she is only seventeen, so no such foolishness was possible.

It’s blatantly obvious to everyone, including Sonia, that the Congress-I politicians want to use her as a ploy to keep in power. The Indian peasants love a hero/heroine, and she can get votes for them. Actually, this was how Indira Gandhi got her start after her father, Nehru, who died of old age, was followed by a successor, who died in office only a year later. The party bosses thought Indira would be their perfect “yes-woman.” However, I never understood why. While Nehru was still Prime Minister, Indira had single-handedly destroyed the Communist Party in Kerala in one short week right under her father’s eyes. However, everyone else seemed to be surprised when she turned out to be no party puppet. However, some did object, so the party split. That’s why the main Congress Party now carries the supplemental “I” for Indira: Congress-I.

To all appearances thisSonia insanity was contrived just so the party bosses could have a patsy to manipulate. Strangely, while it is the real reason, it revolves on an interesting tradition. Here’s the real enigma. Read slowly because you are not going to believe what you are about to read, but I assure you it is true.

Today, in male chauvinistic India, when the husband dies, his widow inherits his job. A widow has no other means of support; there is no insurance, social security or welfare. Her husband’s company is obligated to help her, whether he died on the job or not. I understand that sometimes a son can take over the position, if he is of age. I have no idea how long this practice has been in place, but it is an accepted practice today. Banks, factories, corporations, both private and public, honor this custom. Obviously, if hubby was a corporate head, the wife will not move into that position, but will have to take a lower position as a clerk, something more in line with her talents.

One of the wonderful Sunday classical movies, filmed in Bombay, portrayed such a situation. A gentleman who worked in an exclusive corporation died at a young age. After his cremation rites, his widow showed up to claim his job. The management was surprised to see her, which indicates a lot of women do not chose this option.

She did not have the particular talents that his job required. As a matter of fact, she had never held a job and had never intended to hold a job. Things went topsy-turvy because it was an all-male company—a strict policy. However, the management accepted that the tradition of hiring the widow was the greater of the two choices. So the story unfolds as the sweet, young widow carefully and charmingly works her way into a place of respect in the company.

A more poignant example occurred when Indira Gandhi’s youngest son Sanjay was killed in a plane crash while he was an M.P. (Member of Parliament). His wife Maneka wanted his job. In her eyes, his position, although he was publicly elected, was still her rightful inheritance from her husband. She and her illustrious mother-in-law, Indira, who was Prime Minister at the time, had a total falling out on the issue. Since Maneka was not even the minimum age for parliament membership, Indira won. Then she immediately appointed her other son, Rajiv, an airline pilot, who had no political experience or aspirations at all, to take Sanjay’s place—no election. Decidedly, a more democratic move.

Indira personalized and centralized power. Neither had her father Nehru been known for delegating power when he was Prime Minister. Now no government official will move without a whip; they are afraid to. Rajiv was not that type of leader; he was not really “Indian." He received his primary education at the American Embassy school in Delhi and was sent abroad for higher studies. He did not understand Indians or their culture; you are far enough into this book to comprehend that understanding Indians and their culture is no small undertaking—but you can't do it living behind four walls . When he was Prime Minister, Rajiv attempted to de-centralize power. However, by his time, corruption among the politicians was so rampant that it was difficult to find anyone worthy of responsibility.

Today, the pertinent questions remains: Why is a political party behaving in this manner? What happened to the definition given again and again in their Mahabharta: good government is equivalent to what is best for the welfare of the people. To understand why Congress has no allegiance to such an aspiring goal, one has to understand the origins of the Congress, formed in 1885—because it was never meant to be a political party with an ideology.

No one will deny that native Indian lawyers and industrialists conceived the Indian Congress for the explicit purpose of improving their financial prospects. All of them had been educated in the English systems of education. At first they were not particularly interested in Independence; they would settle for dominion status. They simply wanted a bigger share of the money that the British were making in India—enough to pay the Viceroy five thousand times the wage of the Indian worker. In England the Prime Minister made only one hundred times the average wage. The business of Empire was very lucrative.

The radical Congress member, Ghangadhar Tilak, became fed up with Indian Congressi’ lack of attention to political goals. In 1914 he formed the Home Rule League for the expressed purpose of obtaining Independence. He wanted to get rid of the British entirely and establish a nation on the basis of Hindu culture. His ideas and techniques paved the way for Gandhi’s movement. However, he was imprisoned for six years from the late 1920’s and early 30’s, a crucial time in the Independence movement. He died of ill health shortly after his imprisonment.

When Gandhi came along and provided the new techniques, which reached the masses, Congress bosses welcomed Gandhi with open arms. They never would participate in Gandhi’s requisite daily spinning, not even Nehru. Nor would they spend a night in Gandhi’s ashram, which they dubbed a mad house. A more telling fact is that none of them were included in the famous salt march. Gandhi carefully chose the participants and put them through an intensive training in the technique of satyagraha, adherence to the truth.

This point is too often forgotten in light of today’s politics. The Indian Congress party is a group of wealthy attorneys and industrialists out for their own good. This must be the key to how the British Raj became the Indian Raj.

Gandhi must have sensed the direction Nehru was going when he became Prime Minister. Shortly before his assassination, which occurred exactly one year after India’s Independence, Gandhi wrote a letter to the Nehru and Patel stating that the Congress had been an organization to achieve independence for India. Now that goal had been accomplished, they were to disband the Congress. They were to create political parties along ideological lines. Evidently, they did not agree. That letter disappeared, but it did surface in an old file several years ago.

Over spicy hot tea, once we get the news of political tamaasha (melee) out of the way, Usha is quite eager to learn about my adventures in Andhra.

“You know me, I’m fickle. I thought I was looking for enlightenment, but actually I was looking for the best cup of tea. I found all I need to feel blissed out is a great cup of tea—tea samadhi, I call it,” I teasingly report to her.

I met Usha on my first journey to India ten years ago. Usha was my constant companion when I spent three months in the Himalayas with Swamini Sharada Priyananda. Usha is an incredible person, very intelligent and extremely intuitive. However, her life in the world has been riddled with ups and downs. Recently, she has had another big change in her life. She is now working at a factory, the only job she could find. She is the quality control inspector in the leather goods department. With a job, keeping up a household, and caring for an eight-year-old son, she really is overwhelmed. But evidently not everyone thinks so.

She reports that she just had guests: three swamis and one of their students who teaches yoga in Bangalore. The student knows Usha’s estranged husband Hari. When Hari found out she was going to Pondicherry, he requested that she carry a toy to his son Vibhu and gave her Usha’s address. Big mistake.

The four of them landed up at Usha’s without any prior notice expecting free room and board for their four-day visit. Usha said she kind of protested by saying that there simply was not enough room. Never mind, she was told, they could sleep on the straw mats on the living room floor. And Usha had to provide their food too.

She gets used on the home front too. Usha’s maid’s sister has been in the hospital with inexplicable high fevers. The family did not feel she was getting proper care there, so Usha was delegated to go over to the hospital daily to charm the doctors, which she does quite well. Due to her suggestion, the sister is getting some drips (intravenous feeding), as she has not been able keep food on her stomach for days.

In addition, her dobhi’s (washerman) daughter is getting married. He has asked Usha to select the gold earrings for her wedding day. Usha cannot refuse him. In the first place, a low-caste dobhi would be too intimidated to walk into a jewelry store. Then he would have no idea what to select. These tasks are typical ones that any housewife customarily performs for her servants. In Bombay, a friend even gave her cook gold jewelry for his daughter’s wedding. I do not think that is unusual in the homes of the wealthy.

When I returned from Chintapalle, I carried a big bag of orchid plants with me that I had collected from branches knocked down in the rainstorms. I had planned to send them to a friend in U.S. I had already verified that I could mail them without any agriculture inspection problems since they do not grow in soil. Unfortunately, I had not calculated how much it would cost—over $30.00—one month’s rent at the guest house. I had to look for an alternative plan.

As it turns out, Suzanne, an American woman, is in the process of creating a garden in one of the compounds of the Aurobindo ashram, which is composed of buildings that sprawl in and out of the streets of Pondy without rhyme or reason. I soon find myself behind one of the high white walls that I pass daily, tying orchid plants to the trees. This is not the weather for transplanting anything, especially plants from a cooler climate. However, every living thing seems to be a “survivor” here, so anything is possible. To help them along, both of us go by several times daily to mist them with water spray. Six months later when I am back in Pondy, I check in on them and find several have survived, happily sending out succulent roots to attach themselves to the bark of the tree. However, several others probably will not make it, they are looking pretty shabby. I feel a certain inner jubilation at having brought some beauty to this little garden.

A lovely sea breeze makes the evenings tolerable, but the days are difficult. Even in the mornings, I have to sit with a wet towel wrapped around my head and a fan whirling overhead as I catch up with correspondence or work on editing. The towels here are lightweight cotton, not thick terry cloth, so it’s rather like a scarf. I even wear the wet towel turban when I have to walk the block to the dining hall at high noon. Even though, I still carry an umbrella.

On my way, I stand amazed that even this one-block distance is a clutter of India life. First, one has to cross the drainage/sewage ditch that used to serve as the boundary between the French and the Indians. It seems the current officials have at last decided to cover the ditch with a thick cement top. For some reason that necessitates the removal of all the old slime, gluck and moss, which put off rankest odours. As expected, a team of untouchables, half of them women, are doing the dirty work. They are digging out the sludge with the standard bent shovels, then piling the muck on the usual metal bowls, then putting it on their heads to carry it off somewhere. Forgive me for not investigating where, for a young woman, who slipped and nearly fell into the black goo that lines the ditch, has attracted my attention.

I think, well, it will be nice to be able to breathe, instead of holding my breath, while crossing the bridge—but again I am applying logic where it just does not fit. The engineers left an open strip several feet wide on each side of the bridge, so the pedestrians can still get the full benefit of the reeking odours that reinstated themselves promptly after the sludge removal.

Just past the bridge all the green coconut water vendors are lined up right across from the post office. They do not have many customers now, so they are sitting beside their little pyramids of green coconuts and chatting. I have to make a wide detour around their bicycles that are piled up, blocking the road.

These days there is a new addition to the scene, for the postal employees are on strike. There are no pickets or picket lines. They have put up an open pandal (tent) and are lying in its shade. They are flopped about like puppies, with arms and legs spayed out across one another. The young men have a tendency to be very touchy, huggy with one another. It bears no sexual connotations, yet it requires a mental adjustment to witness. But the world transforms to clean and white as I reach the tall fence that surrounds the dining hall, one of the mansions left by the French.


One morning I meet M. P. John on the street corner on my way to the library. He is quite an interesting person who is a Communist and Syrian Christian, that is, the Christianity believed to have been brought to India by St. Thomas. It was in existence in Kerala when the Portuguese arrived. M. P. John was the minister of a Syrian Church here in Pondy, but was finally ousted for his liberal views. Now he writes some pleasant nature poetry and produces a spiritual newsletter, which expounds his own opinions.

“Come,” M.P. John invites me to his home. “I was up early this morning and I just whipped out my editorial. Come and see what you think.”

I follow him through a trim gate and up the stairs of his son’s home. M. P. John had scored a nice profit on some property he obtained when the French left Pondy. He used the profit to help his son with a business and purchase of a home, in which he now has his quarters.

After I recount a few of my adventures in ashrams, he mentions that, although he admires spiritual renunciates and realizes the importance of their role in the world, he is dedicated to an ideal of doing something positive for humanity. He is particularly interested in bringing up the consciousness of the common man who dissipate their energy and creativity in fighting wars. He feels that manhood is in a natural evolutionary process that, although automatic in some respects, the process requires each individual to make a decision to take the next evolutionary step for himself.

He goes on to explain, “You see, my true interest is the evolution of humanity. The reason people lack satisfaction, even though they may have fulfilled all their needs, is the lack of a goal in life. Therefore, their needs keep expanding to keep them from facing the stark realization: All this material stuff really means nothing.”

I mention to him that I have been reading Swami Rama’s Living with the Himalayan Masters. Although it was written about renunciates, it concurs with his observations. I go on to explain, “Towards the end of the book, Swami Rama asked his Guru, ‘Is it possible for a man in the world to get freedom from all conditions of the mind, or does he have to live in the Himalayas his whole life to develop powers such as yours?’

“The Guru replied, `If a human being remains constantly aware of the purpose of his life and directs all his actions toward the fulfillment of that purpose, there remains nothing impossible for him. Those who are not aware of the purpose of life are easily caught by the whirlwind of misery.’ Those are certainly pithy words to ponder,” I observe.

Because of my meeting with M.P. John I missed breakfast at the dining hall, so I go over to the cottage restaurant. Happily, my favorite table is empty, the one that looks straight out over the garden and a gigantic mimosa tree. I sit watching the soft breezes paint with sunlight and shadows on its smooth trunk and lacy leaves. Yes, for me this lovely nature is all I need to be centered—
something between a smile and a prayer. I observe again and again that being in nature seems to connect me to my most expanded open quiet self. I begin recalling how I loved nature as a child. I can still vividly remember some specific trees and flowers, a bird’s nest, bees buzzing in the wisteria, a circle of toad stools.

Some years ago I had had the insight that it was time for me to expand my horizons and experience more of life. I have certainly done that. In my journey, I relish some encounters and kind of skim over others that I tend to classify as ordeals. Now I am thinking that for me the crux of the thing is to experience each incident of life consciously. Whether I am swatting a mosquito or admiring a butterfly; trudging through the hot sun or refreshing myself with a shower; reading a holy book or studying a train schedule. The ideal is to be totally present in each moment. The experience of sitting here relishing my breakfast of steamed rice cakes and coconut chutney, while taking in a lovely mimosa tree seem to contain all the meaning I need. Perhaps I will never have a “purpose” in life toward which to set my compass.

It’s not that I have not given it careful consideration. For years, I have been reading and studying: Is there meaning to life? The more I’ve learned the less I know. My mind is beginning to rebel from so much knowledge. Especially the heady pseudo spiritual books written by western scientists. In the first place they already know the Upanishads knowledge, so their expertise is founded on that ancient knowledge. Their concepts are just words, not something that they arrived at through their own experiences. On the other hand, Usha devours this stuff. When I went over for dinner one evening, she showed me the book Quantum Questions, mentioning that it is quite good. “I’m sure it is, but I have no quantum questions. Frankly, at this point, my only question is: When do we eat?” But I honestly do keep reading and studying—and pondering.


On the other hand, one thing I particularly enjoy about Pondy is that I get to socialize with friends who speak perfect English. Actually, English is their “first” language. For example, Usha’s family was from Kerala, so are Malayalam speakers, but worked in north India, so they learned Hindi. However, Usha was educated in English, so even though she speaks Malayalam and Hindi, she only reads English and Hindi well. Besides Malayalam, she speaks the other three south Indian languages of Telegu, Tamil and Kannada fluently because she has lived several years in the corresponding states of Andhra, Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. Her language skill is typical among the upper classes. Also bear in mind that all of the five languages mentioned above have an entirely distinct alphabet and script.

Unfortunately with her busy schedule, I seldom get Usha out of the house. Another friend Shanta is more available and is also delightful company. On the beach road, the Sea Face Restaurant is my favorite spot to hang out. I love the large balcony where we can view the setting sun shimmering though the tall palms and catch the comfort of the cool sea breeze. Besides they have the most scrumptious Manchurian cauliflower dish. Sitting with friends, good food and a tall beer, I feel totally complete and satisfied, as if I could not ask any more from life at this particular moment. My mind is full; my heart is full; my life is full. Is there more meaning than that to our existence?

One morning, Usha’s servant delivers a note from Usha stating that she just quit her job—another crisis. Of course, the job was great pay, but very demanding. I am sure working for an Indian male would be challenging in any case, but she is working for a north Indian male—worse still.
While I was in Andhra Pradesh, she took a break: a trip home to Kerala to visit her parents. Her mother is undergoing serious surgery and her father is in ill health. Although they did help with her wedding ceremony, afterwards, they hardly communicated with her, then total silence after her separation from Hari. She thinks they are now communicating with her because they found out she has a little extra money—information that they could only have gotten from her.

Anyway, while in Kerala, she got the bad news that her parents had sold the family home with its 30-acre plantation of mature coconut palms and cashews. Usha’s dream was to return to that land when she got her share of the inheritance. So that security blanket is gone. And I do think we need security blankets in this Kali Yuga.

In Hindu terms, the life on the planet is not in a process of evolution, but one of de-evolution or darkening of consciousness. The creation started with Krta Yuga, or the Golden Age, in which Vishnu incarnated as a wise sage to teach both man and gods the highest knowledge of the Vedas. We can assume the degree of degeneration that occurred because, in the second yuga, the Treta (Silver), he took the form of an emperor to destroy the wicked. In the Dvapara (Copper), he incarnated as Vyasa to codify the knowledge of the Vedas into four sections with various branches. At present, we are in the Iron Age, or Kali Yuga, which will end with the incarnation of Vishnu as Kalki, translated as “a headless rider,” who will clean up the planet and restore everyone to the path of dharma (righteousness). Since we now are in the Kali Yuga, the Indians often dismiss any trial or tribulation with “It’s the Kali Yuga.”

It is amazing to me that the Indians, who have neglected dating any history, have gone into the divisions of time like no one else. They started with a split second (one beat of an eyelash), then ended with numerous categories of time up to the cycle of yugas. The four yugas are repeated seventy-one times to make one period of Manu. At the end of fourteen such Manus, one kalpa, that is, one day of Vishnu, is completed, then a deluge occurs when Vishnu sleeps for the period of one kalpa, his night. When he awakens, the creation begins again with the same cycles repeating themselves. Well, that’s timelessness, Indian style.

Chapter Forty-five

All Is Not Well in Paradise

With money in hand, I am ready to return to the cooler climes of the mountains. En route, I decide to pause again in Andhra Pradesh. Considering I have become a collector of experiences—any one will do—but it is best if it is a new one! If I am going to investigate the unique manifestations of the Hindu religion, certainly Satya Sai Baba cannot be missed. India’s miracle man is famous all over the country, regardless of region or caste.

Satya Sai Baba’s ashram is not on the beaten track. I have to take a train to Anantapur, from there I will have a two-hour bus trip. My train arrives late in the evening, so I opt for a retiring room in the railway station, which are normally available in small towns.

The next morning I contact a family I had met at a meditation retreat in Madras. Since he is an official with the forest department, he insists upon arranging a ride to the ashram. Somehow he finds an associate from Puttaparthi, who had business here in the main office today. So off I go in a jeep on a very sunny afternoon—the usual in Anantapur District. Even though the monsoon has started in other parts of Andhra Pradesh, it remains mouth-puckering dry here. Upon approaching the small village, we notice the construction of an air strip in progress. An enterprise for the sake of the holy man, no doubt. Only he and his foreign devotees will be able to afford the flights in private planes.

Puttaparthi, “the place of ant hills,” bears this unusual name due to a curse by a cobra that was killed by a local cowherd years ago. The cobra’s dying words were that the place would be filled with anthills. Prior to that curse, the village was a prosperous rural community where the chief occupation was cow herding. After the curse, the green meadows and dells began to dry up, so that there was no pasture available for the cattle. In hopes of alleviating the curse, the villagers built a small temple. In it they placed a stone with a red streak, a symbol of the blood of the dead cobra. Here, the cobra, or serpent, is not considered a symbol of evil, but a symbol of Life itself. When a young woman wants to get pregnant she places a cadeus carved on a black stone under a sacred pipal tree. To insult a cobra is to insult Life itself.

Into a simple home in this poverty-stricken village, a baby boy was born to a pious couple in November 1926. Desiring a son, the mother had completed austerities, prayers and rituals. The baby, named SatyaNarayana, the Lord of Truth, was unusually handsome and alert.

At an early age, the child became aware of the poverty of his neighbors and would bring them to his home for food. When the number of guests increased beyond a reasonable capacity, the family would try to send the beggars away. But the boy would weep and wail, until the elders had to call them back. However, they threatened him that he would get no food. He did not mind; he was content to go without food for the sake of others.

Later, when he started handing out candy to his friends from an empty bag, the parents took things seriously. They even took him to the local temple where the priest performed horrific tortures with razor blades to exorcise the demon that could do such magic. Slim beginnings for the person who is now India’s most famous miracle man.

There are two types of teachers in India, corresponding to the two basic paths to Truth. One is the path of knowledge, which is expounded by Vedanta through texts of the Upanisads and the Bhagavad Gita. As one intellectually understands the logic of the divine reality, ideally one comes closer and closer to encountering that Truth in oneself. In contrast, the path of devotion is based on adoration of the divine in another, whether god or guru. The devotee projects his own divinity on the guru or god. Through that projection or connection, his love of the divine increases until he realizes his own divinity.

For me, I want logic and understanding. . . My path has been that of knowledge through the study of Vedanta. That does not mean that I cannot admire and respect those who are enlightened, that is, those who know their divine nature—no matter how they got to the goal. I think we need lots of models to prove to us the possibility of a human being enlightened—that we are more than we ever dreamed ourselves to be.

As we enter Satya Sai Baba’s ashram, the officer drives me past the ornamental gates, down a lane crowded with white-washed buildings, and directly to the office. My passport and visa are carefully checked in the foreign registration section. After they pass inspection, I am directed to the Room Assignment Office where I am given a room to share with a European woman—ten day maximum stay. The rate is a mere 22 Rps. per room. The amount is to be divided among the number of occupants, so there is a small benefit to having roommates, but you do not get a choice.

The ashram is like a small village unto itself, lots of blocks of apartment buildings, the temple complex, even a fruit and vegetable market. It is extremely Indian, even the temple is painted in a potpourri of bright pastel colors.

Although there seems to be an air of tension among the foreigners, my first day is nice and peaceful. My roommate is an old-timer at the ashram, so she guides me as to when and where to attend the various events. I am glad that I got to enjoy one day of peace and quiet, for when the Master arrives the next day, a cavalcade of buses, cars, and taxis accompany him. Sai Baba is certainly a product of the Indian milieu. He must know it too because he has never traveled outside of India, and has declared that he never intends to do so.

Since I can hardly qualify as a Sai Baba devotee, I intend to keep centered and do serious meditation while I am here. But that does not mean I plan to miss anything! At the crack of dawn, I am up at 3:30 a.m. to have a quick bath, a cup of tea, then some exercises to wake me up. Then I take off for the 4:30 a.m. temple ceremony. The temple is very ornate and is housed in the same building as Sai Baba’s private living quarters. Instead of paying attention to the rituals performed by the priests, I meditate through the ceremony.

Each morning as I sit outside the temple waiting for the early morning bhajans to begin, I think, this is truly a beautiful activity. Everyone getting together under the gathering rain clouds, with trees swaying in the breeze, crows soaring above, sparrows pecking at the bugs and seeds—
everyone getting together to sing the glory of the Creator.

The big event of the day is Darshan, beholding of the master. The gates of the temple compound are always locked except for the couple of hours that there is a public function, so everyone has to line up outside the temple courtyard. Most of the crowd are the lower-class peasants who are hoping for blessings of a material nature to make their lives easier.

If you ever had some notion that Indian women are passive, you should meet the dragon-ladies who are in charge here. Hindu and Buddhist temples always have sculpted griffins at the gates as protectors; these women serve the same purpose. One jumped on me like a tyrant because I had tucked my sari pallu (end) into my waist, thus exposing one arm that totally was covered by my blouse. “Let the pallu hang over that shoulder, or you won’t enter the temple gates,” she threatened. I will admit that it is the servants who wear the pallu tucked in, for since they are working they can't have their pallu floating around.

While the men go through the same ropes on the other side of the temple, we women line up in rows of twenty persons, with up to twenty rows. This does not mean first come, first served. The first person in each row picks from a bag of numbered tokens to determine that line’s position for entering the holy gates. When time arrives for the seating inside to begin, we are given the signal to walk slowly to the gate. Seems very orderly for India, doesn’t it? Well, the gate is where the order ends. As soon as we enter the temple confines, all hell breaks loose, as everyone runs like a mad to get the best spot on the hot cement pavement.

After everyone is seated, the master strolls out looking cool calm collected and extremely conscious. As I scrutinize him, I get a good feeling from his presence. He always looks completely peaceful and centered. Slowly and deliberately, he sweeps his eyes over the audience, so that everyone thinks he has looked directly at them, even me. Although one does not get that impression from his photos because of his thick neck and thicker afro hair, he is a delicate petite man.

The line I am in does not hit number one of the lottery draw until the third day, which should insure me a front row seat. But I am no match for the village ladies, who come in droves. Somehow I end up on the second row, but it’s good enough. I feel quite excited when Sai Baba stops right in front of me to retrieve a letter from one person. Just as I am settled and focused enough to get a good gawk, I am knocked forward by the women behind me reaching out to touch him. He stands there for a few moments and gathers several letters, in which people always place their requests for his prayers and intervention. Even though I attempt to struggle out of the bearhold the women have me in, I have no relief until he moves on. Sai Baba always spends most of his time on the men’s side. Yes, Darshan is segregated, very common in all spiritual gatherings.

Right after Darshan, Sai Baba picks out a dozen or so people to come into his room for a private interview. While I am here, he only chooses Sai Baba groups that are visiting from every part of the world—with one exception. The booklet of rules, which everyone receives when they register, states that Sai Baba chooses people seated for Darshan according to his Divine Will. In fact, it says that any attempt to use influence will be held against one. However, one evening when an Indian gentleman pulls up to the gate in a Rolls Royce in the middle of Darshan, we get an entirely different picture. He and his wife, along with a foreign woman who arrived with them, are escorted to Sai Baba’s private room immediately after Darshan. After all, donations from foreigners and wealthy Indians is what makes this brightly-painted paradise go round.

After Darshan, breakfast is served. The food service is totally organized and very efficient. You buy tickets, different colors according to the rupee amount. Then you exchange tickets for the items that you want in the dining hall, which is set up cafeteria-style. The only problem occurs when the local village women push up in the front of the line, so you often find yourself moving backwards instead of forwards. These women have no awe of the “white faces,” but they must be happy that we are so passive and polite. They probably call us the “dumb faces.” Needless to mention, there is a separate dining hall for the men. I bet the village men stand politely in the lines there.

Sai Baba says, “My life is my message”; not many of we earthlings can make such a statement. After morning bhajans, he leaves immediately for a trip to the hospital, school and college; all of which he has established here. He has daily meetings with the ashram managers and directors of all the on-going projects, including the new airport and hospital extension. I am disappointed that he does not support the traditional Indian medical system of Ayurveda. Although I am to find this is a trend: you take what the foreigners give you. I am surprised he is not an exception.
Sai Baba is said to be, and calls himself, an Avatar, an Incarnation of the Divine. He declares that the Divine has to come in human form in order to be understood by men. If the Avatar should come to earth with his divine effulgence at full blast, no one could benefit because they could not comprehend his level.

Traditionally, there are said to be ten Avatars. They are all incarnations of Lord Vishnu, who is the god who is responsible of the maintenance of the creation. All the Avatars have been of the Ksatriya caste, that is of royal lineage. Rama, Krsna, the Buddha—they were all monarchs of a feudal kingdom. Avatars have a duty to restore order (dharma) and set the people back on the path of righteousness. To fulfill this task takes courage and forbearance, the qualities of a Ksatriya.

In the Mahabharata, an important sub-plot highlights this issue well. Karna had been born to a virgin princess through the intercession of the sun god. Fearing the consequences of bearing a child out of wedlock, Kunti placed the child in a basket to float down the river. As she had hoped, a kind couple, of the lower charioteer caste, found the baby and raised it as their own. Because of a special boon, given him by a wandering sage, Karna was able to get an education with a Brahman rshi, as if he too were a Brahman. The Guru noticed that Karna seemed to have a talent for archery that was not typical of his caste. One warm day while the student was fanning him, the Guru fell asleep on his knee. Unfortunately, a large wasp flew up and bit Karna, even drawing blood. When the Guru awakened, he questioned the boy about the wound. When Karna explained that he bore the pain of the sting because he did not want to move and disturb his teacher’s nap, the teacher knew what he had already suspected. “Only a Ksatriya could have bore that pain without a whimper,” declared the teacher.

So this is the tough stuff from which Avatars are made; they have a tough job to do, even fighting in battles against evil. The Brahmans were the keepers of the laws of dharma, but the kings were the protectors, not only of the people, but of dharma.

There is another reason for devotion to a guru. He has powers and he bestows grace for what are considered the Big Three here: health, wealth and progeny. Why doesn’t everyone profit equally from his grace? Sai Baba, our current Avatar, explains there are four channels of spiritual grace:
1) past karma, the personal factor from previous actions
2) past generations, the genetic factor, your ancestors earned it
3) sadhana, the self-effort we put forth in this lifetime
4) guru, the teacher who can remove some obstacles.

Naturally, his healings of the sick and crippled are his most notable miracles. These healings are often effected through the vibuthi, or ash, that he produces out of thin air. Some people think that he has it up his sleeve. Although I have not attended the ceremonies personally, I have seen films of his Siva Ratri ceremony. Annually, he produces heaps of vibuthi in huge earthen jars—much more than could ever fit up any sleeve. However, his most popular miracles seem to be the production of gold jewelry, often gold chains, right out of thin air. He has always been clear that the miracles are not the goal of his teaching. Nevertheless, he has to get the attention of humanity, for that reason only he performs the miracles. I should say “did” because last year he entered the final phase of his mission on earth. He announced that he will now be centered on teaching the highest knowledge and will no long be performing such miracles as producing gold jewelry.

There is no doubt that Sai Baba has healed many people. There are numerous first-hand reports. One book by an American psychologist recounts a raising from the dead of an American disciple. Sai Baba went right to the Madras morgue and retrieved the devotee, who had been laid out cold all day. Nevertheless, we are not given names and dates, so we cannot confirm the data. Although such occurrences are rare, they do occur here in India, and this is not the only time I have heard of such a miracle.

However, many people at the ashram have been disappointed with the master. Every day there is a line of wheelchairs at Darshan, accompanied by a family member. I talked to one of the women; she has been here with her son for four years with no results. When the child was born with such a crippling disease that he would never be able to walk, Sai Baba told her, “Bring the boy to me.” When the guru speaks, everyone obeys. I suppose the rule is “if you do not want to obey, do not consult a guru.”

So the woman brought her son here, and took an apartment in the Indian section. The rules are totally different for the foreigners and Indians. They can purchase a flat and have it for their own personal use. For the past four years, she has been wheeling the boy to Darshan every day.
Finally, in desperation, she told Sai Baba, “I don’t understand. The boy is not getting better.”

“Amma [Mother], it’s karma,” the Master replied.

She was totally shocked. Then why did he say, “Bring the boy to me.” Living in an ashram had been a real sacrifice. If she had been in her own family home, she would have had family members and servants to help her. She is now making arrangements to return home. Of course, the Master has never said he heals everyone. Otherwise, why would he have sponsored the construction of a hospital with western medical equipment here in town?

The first few days, I keep noticing lots of hushed conversations and having a feeling that something strange was going on. My roommate finally fills me in on all the intrigue. Less than a month ago, a foreign woman had gone to the bank in the town to withdraw money with the intention of going to Bangalore where Sai Baba was residing for the month. Everyone figures that upon leaving the bank, she was approached by a couple of villagers and asked if she needed a coolie. Since she did, they accompanied her to her room to get her luggage. When they got there, they bludgeoned her to death, took her money, and disappeared. Since this is a very small town, they were caught by the local police within twenty-four hours. This sort of crime is extremely rare in India; actually, this is the first time I have heard of such a thing in all my travels. Am I getting all the information?—is a valid question. I do wonder if the incident was reported in any newspaper.

The young woman’s brother came to India and questioned the Guru: “How could you let such a think happen?”

“It’s karma, my son,” was the Master's only answer.

As the days pass, I find out from my roommate that there have been two other tragedies here recently. Several months ago, Sai Baba had been personally escorting some foreigners through the final stages of the construction of his new museum, which has domes like a Hindu temple. The group had been standing under one of the domes, when Sai Baba turned and walked out the door. The next moment the roof collapsed, killing several of his guests. The apologists say that the guests did not follow the master as quickly as they should have.

On another occasion, several European women had inappropriately spent the night outside confines of the ashram. They wanted to sleep beneath the tree where Sai Baba had begun his spiritual life by meditating and performing miracles when he was a small lad. One of the women had rolled down the hill and had died shortly afterwards from internal bleeding. Some opined that she had been pushed by the villagers trying to rob her. Others said she had been quite depressed from not getting attention from the Master. No one knows for sure what occurred.

Because of the influence of my roommate, I happen to meet both of the ashram managers: one takes care of the finances and one takes care of the dirty work—like getting rid of any undesirables. A meeting of all the foreigners was called by this bouncer, a real bulldog. He appears in an up-roar because everyone has not showed up for his meeting. I venture to mention that the signs notifying us of the meeting were posted only an hour ago; perhaps that could be a factor. He is not interested in explanations; he vehemently declares that he will personally kick out of the ashram any foreigner not attending.

It soon becomes apparent why many had chosen to avoid the meeting: the manager loves to hear himself talk. He does report that there have been some negative incidents—with foreigners involved—but gives no actual information. It is only because of my roommate that I have any idea what he is talking about. Then the manager moves on to the subject of a dress code, and the sin of eating any food outside the ashram. He says the ashram food is cooked with special mantras. The people sitting at the back begin to slip out the door. He yells at them, but they ignore him; I feel sure they have already heard this rap too many times.

Visitors are continually coming and going. Since we have a couple of new women in our room, my original roommate decides to transfer over to “the barn.” I end up sharing the room with two delightful young women from Germany. The first one to arrive is an elementary school teacher. She is a wonderful inspiration and must be a joy to her students. The second one arrives a couple of days later. She has not figured out what she is going to do with her life yet. On one hand, she appears a drifter, yet she is equally determined in her quest to really find out what is important in life.

On her third day here, she comes back from Darshan in a stew. “Those Indian ladies really make me furious. I just can’t help it; they just push you over, so you can’t see a thing.”

The school teacher and I burst out laughing, “Oh, you did great. You lasted two days without complaining, that’s longer than most of us!”

The barn, actually there are three or four of them, is a world unto itself. For 2 Rps. per night, you get enough space on the cement floor for a sleeping bag and suitcase. I would say each barn holds about one hundred people: three rows of about thirty people each. Everyone shares the large bathroom across the back. These quarters are the only option for the Indian guests as they are not allowed to stay in the buildings we are in. Plenty of foreigners stay in the barn too because of the cheap price.

One day when I am looking in the barn for my friend to help her with a gardening project, I meet a lovely American in her early twenties. I particularly notice her because she is cooking on a kerosene stove. I tell her I would be willing to help her with money for food (it’s so cheap), since cooking rice and dal on a primitive stove can be quite a challenge.

“No, thank you,” she tells me, then explains that she does not eat in the dining hall because she is busy doing guru seva (service to the guru) while the rest of us are eating.

Later, my former roommate tells me the whole story. This young woman’s guru seva is to cook for the Master’s sister, who has an apartment here on the premises with all amenities possible. The young American woman goes there every morning after breakfast and prepares lunch for the family, including a twenty-something year old son. Here’s the corker: She cannot sit and eat the food she has prepared because she cannot sit at the same table with this young man. Single men and women do not sit at the same table together. So she serves them, then cleans up the dishes. By that time, the dining room is closed, so while everyone else is resting, she has to fire up her kerosene stove in the crowded, stuffy space of the barn.

“But why doesn’t she just bring some of the food with her to make her life simple.”

“Oh, no, they wouldn’t allow that. Food is expensive.”

“Does she get any special dispensation from the Master for this seva—besides sleeping on a pallet in a barn and cooking over a kerosene stove?” I have to ask.

“Well, she does get to have a private interview with him; I think she’s had one this year. He did send her a mango the other day, but it was rotten in the middle. She was very disappointed.”

The temple and its compound, surrounded by high walls, are closed except for the specific times of public programs. Since there are three to four people in each hostel room, there is simply no quiet place to be found for meditation. I finally find a tree away from the crowd to sit and read or think in peace. However, I still have a lot of extra time. One morning I see an elderly man doing some gardening, so I ask if he can use any help. Immediately, it becomes apparent that I will not be able to do anything to his satisfaction; however, I do engage in some weed pulling and watering.

After a few days, when he sees that I am willing to do the dirty work, he sort of warms up a bit. Then slowly from him and others, I piece together the story of his life here at the ashram. He retired and came here twenty years ago with his wife, who is crippled. I did not completely comprehend if she was crippled when they arrived, or became so later. Anyway, they live on the floor of one of the barns. I assume that they never had the money to buy a flat in the Indian quarters. Seeing this helpless lady lying out on a simple pallet is one of the saddest sights I have ever beheld. She is totally dependent on her husband to take her to the bathroom, bathe her, and feed her.

The gentleman took on the task as ashram gardener as his guru seva. He tends the gardens around the buildings, but his master work was a large plot of ground at the back of the compound, he set to work to create a little paradise. His eyes lit up as he described the special trees and flowers he had procured from all parts to embellish his “Garden.” He had a special collection of seed foreigners had brought him. However, last year, in spite of the fact there is plenty of empty space in the ashram grounds, his garden was demolished. The exact site was deemed the best place to put the block building of condos for foreigners—a pretty lucrative business in itself.

I meet several English women here who have already paid their 3,000 pounds to purchase a condo in one of the new block buildings. However, they just found out they may have to wait up to twenty years before their block is constructed. These payments have been collected from some four hundred foreigners and there are only sixty flats ready. When they signed up, certain other privileges were available, which have since been withdrawn.

One woman who had purchased a flat had had a mystical experience in which Sai Baba appeared to her while in England. I find that most of the people here have had some type of mystical encounter with him. I met an American young man who told me that he had come here because Sai Baba had appeared to him in a dream and told him to come. I wondered if he was surprised at what he found at the ashram. He readily admitted that he was disappointed that there was no quiet time or place for meditation as he expected. However, he is finding the experience here quite meaningful since he has discovered that he is confronting his belief system at any given moment. “Especially when I go into that temple for Darshan and see those idols and those people bowing.” So this is your basic dichotomy of jnana (knowledge) versus bhakti (devotion).

One day I finally manage to get a front-row seat, partly because I figured out that if you go over to the side you have a better chance. Sai Baba stops right beside me for a few moments to gather letters and to speak to someone. Just as he moves in front of me so I could get a close look, the woman next to me starts to grab at his feet, he seems to recoil and hurries on. However, I turn out to be in a perfect spot for his next act.

The favored spot for Darshan is the covered porch by Sai Baba’s quarters. Needless to say, only men are allowed, except for one woman, one of the protector dragon ladies. So we will assume, only those known to Sai Baba are present. Today, after leaving the women’s section, he strolls over to that porch. He stops and talks casually with several devotees. Then out of the blue, I see him lift his arm and give it a kind of twirl. Suddenly, a golden chain appears like a flying loop, so that he actually has to seize it out of the air. So I get to witness one of his miracles: the manifestation of a gold chain. That is, I assume it is gold. Even Indians have investigated thoroughly the phenomenon to make sure it is not a hoax. Do not think the Indians are totally gullible. In Bangalore, one master said he was going to bring rain to stop the drought. When it did not happen, the usual crowds around him disappeared over night.

According to Hindu thought, we are all divine; thereby, we are directly connected to divine energy and intelligence. Obviously, it is easier to project our divine energy on some unique persons. Instead of maintaining that my own innate divine nature created a certain miracle in my life, it is somehow easier to say, “The Heavenly Father, or Bhagavan, or my Guru did this or that for me.” Does the person, or Guru, or teacher, benefit from being a conduit for others? In other words, does he become a more powerful source by virtue of our projections? It does seem likely. Satya Sai Baba is one who certainly falls in the category of being the “significant other divine” in many people’s lives. In fact, one could say he benefits from playing this role.

Being a master in India does have benefits. Sai Baba lives just like a king. He has the best car in the state, almost in the country. His devotees claim the car does not matter to him. Frankly, I cannot see him traveling about in an India’s homemade Ambassador car either. On the other hand, he is able to fund charitable projects that no ordinary person could possibly do. Clearly, since he does not have to pay any workers, he can accomplish much more than the ordinary person.

I only stayed for two weeks, but it was long enough to ascertain that whatever goes on here is not enlightenment, as defined by Hindu philosophy, nor by me. I did not find one person who was the slightest bit cognizant of their own divinity; all were content to hail that of the teacher.