Chapter Forty-six

Mt. Abu

The scintillating heat that surges across India in early May will scorch the blouse right off your back, so I plan to spend the hot summer months in the higher altitudes of Mt. Abu. To reach the mountain, right on the border of Rajasthan and Gujurat, I have to cross the major plains of the subcontinent over to the northwestern wing of the country. Since it is rather remote, it only had status as a minor hill station. Some English did summer there, but it was not as popular as Simla in the Himalayas or Ooty in the Nilgiris. However, the former Rajasthani ruler, whom I met in Rajamundry, promised me that I would find plenty of trees there.

So I am off again to explore new scenes, hear new ideas and meet new people. India has never let my curiosity down when it comes to unique encounters. Even the train journey is no exception. My traveling companion is a young man, a Rajasthani—through and through. There are several clues to this identification, but the most apparent is that he tells me that his grandmother has a chest of gold jewelry, which she will gift him when he marries. Only Rajasthani grandmothers will be so flush with gold. He plans to use it to start a business. However, he has several other interests: the most pressing one being how to get me into the sack.

His argument has some merit. He is twenty and has been a virgin long enough. Recounting how he had seen a nude woman for the first time—in an American movie—he expresses his delight and astonishment at this most unforgettable experience. My brain rattles with the fact that, in Indian movies, they do not even allow a kiss on the mouth, yet they do not censor out the nude scenes in foreign films. Contradictions and inconsistencies.

However, my personal ruminations are short-circuited by a juicy story he begins to recount. Several of his friends had a sensual interlude with two Swedish nurses when they had come to Mt. Abu for a two-week vacation. The dear ladies taught the teenagers everything, he insists. Alas, and alack, this orgy took place while my present companion was out of town, so he missed out on all the fun. Now I am supposed to play the role of two young hot Swedes!

I explain to him that I am over twice his age, definitely old enough to be his mother. He insists that does not matter, the Swedish women were at least ten years older than his teenage friends. Besides, I do not look a day over thirty, he insists. Obviously, the boy will not need his grandmother’s gold; he is destined for great success as a diplomat. However, I do manage to resist the flattery.

Then he takes a thick wad of bills from his shirt pocket (carrying money unprotected on the chest seems to be a custom in these parts) and he tells me will be able to hire a taxi to Mt. Abu tonight and get the best hotel. With that, I see I have to change my tack. With a straight face, I request that he please explain to me why I would want to go to bed with an inexperienced baby like himself. Luckily, the comment does calm his enthusiasm long enough for us to reach our destination, where he quickly disappears into the dark.

Since we arrived at the Abu Road train station after mid-night, it is too late to find a hotel, and the retiring rooms are filled. As I enter the station office to get assistance, I read the large sign posted by its entrance:

          For complaints regarding corruption,
          Please contact the Chief Vigilance Inspector
          Rly phone 294, Free of charge.

I feel better already—what can go wrong when I have a vigilance inspector on call? Upon hearing my plight, the railway officer calls the peon, who carries a long string of keys on a frayed rope around his waist. The officer tells him to put me up in the first-class waiting room. I follow him to a large room, where he points out a wooden-plank bed. As he leaves, he demonstrates how to lock the door from the inside to secure myself. From outside, he waits to make sure I lock the screen door properly.

Unfortunately, a few hours later, a loud knocking on the door awakens me. It is the peon with a young German man and an Indian gentleman. They end up talking all night because the Indian wants a job in Germany. Oh well, at least I got a couple of hours of sleep.

On the morning I arrive at Mt. Abu, the sun is sparkling on the mountain top that was washed clean by an early monsoon shower last night. But the next day, I awaken to a wet gray morning. I am disappointed since I know that it usually rains here in the afternoons. If it rains in the morning, what will the afternoon bring? I lament ominously.

I always take a couple of days to find the best eating spots. I tried and nixed the Chinese place the first evening; ketchup on noodles did not get it. The following day, I spot an outdoor restaurant on the main road with a reasonable number of Indians seated at it (in spite of the fact that it has started to drizzle again), so I choose it as a likely place to get good food at a reasonable price. The Rajasthani thali consists of chapatis, rice, kidney bean curry, potato curry, dal and a cabbage and tomato dish—all you can eat. The dishes are heavily spiced, along with lots of oil, typical of north Indian cooking; which is the reason, I prefer south Indian food. However, I am always ready for a change.

The waiters, or bearers, as they are called here, keep coming around offering me more of everything. I take a small second portion of the kidney beans because the new taste is welcome. Then they keep offering me more, until I state, “Gobi bas; aloo bas; rajma bas”—in other words, enough of everything. When they still do not leave me alone, I top it off with a “Khanna hogyaa” [food is finished], while laughing at myself for showing off my minuscule Hindi. If India had only one language, I would have been able to progress past the kitchen-survival stage, but there is a different language everywhere I go. In spite of my protests, the bearers keep surrounding and pestering me, trying to give me more. Only then do I realize they are shining me on because they like to hear my heavily accented Hindi.

The next morning I find myself sitting on top of a holy mountaintop with pouring rain. I heard it several times during the night too. The streets are rivers; the steps from the hotel look like a giant cascading waterfall. From the balcony, I can see the coolies leaping through the streets to avoid being carried away by the current. So I am “in” for the day.

Later in the day, I am able to take off to find the post office and library. Returning from my errands, in the cold and dismal gray, I spot a flame under a big tree. It is a tiny tea shop being run by a boy of about fourteen years of age. I enter the establishment that consists of two benches with a tarp strung overhead. I start to sit down, but discover that the vacant bench is very wet. A farmer, who has stretched out to take a nap, occupies the other. However, upon seeing me, he rouses, gets up, moves to one side, and pats the dry bench to indicate that I sit there. I love these simple people and respect their noble demeanor. Whenever I have the opportunity, I show friendliness to them within the limitations of not being about to speak their language.

Waiting for the water to boil, I have time to look around. An elderly woman, who must be the teenager’s grandmother, is washing dishes. Using the rain water that is pouring from a spout between the roof and tarp, she catches her dishwater, then uses the mud from the bank of the small drain for her scouring pad. The Indians use lots of innovations for scouring pads: ashes, coconut husks, sand or even a dab of mud.

She does not see me until she has finished her task and is drying her hands on her threadbare sari. Upon observing me, her hands go automatically together at her chest in the traditional greeting. Her face is dark and wrinkled, but she has a sparkle in her eyes. “Namaste,” I return her greeting.

Anywhere you travel in India you will be able to find exceptional spiritual teachers. Even in little Bimili, in addition to Mataji Souris, there was a Swami Yogananda with whom I had discussions. Not surprisingly, several sages live here in Mt. Abu. Immediately, I am able to find a swami with Oxford English. After an in depth discussion on enlightenment, I ask Swami Maheshananda to clarify a couple of points on karma since I have been unraveling the nuances of its meaning lately.

I ask him, “In the Gita, Lord Krsna states that we do nothing; it is prakrti [creative Nature] that acts.”

He replies, “Now what you do in this life becomes your prakrti [temperament]. It is not that God is ordaining without referring to your past. It is true that it is God’s work, but he ordains according to your actions. As far as Arjuna was concerned, due to his own disposition, he was destined to kill those men. Although it may seem he acted from hidden causes, it was his own actions that led to war. So God ordains according to what we have done in our present life—and our previous lives.

“For example, a soldier has been ordered by the king to fight. As long as he fights, he is not to be punished because he is doing his duty. But once he enters a city and starts plundering the ordinary houses out of his own greed, he is accumulating karma, for he is no longer doing what the king has ordered. So if you do action only with a selfless attitude because it is your duty, you avoid any repercussion, or karma. We are independent only in our reactions: we can be attracted or repelled at what comes our way. However, we are not independent in what the result is going to be.”

Further I question him, “When Krsna shows Arjuna his cosmic form, it is as if the action of destroying the enemy is predestined, that it has already happened.”

“No, not already happened. The cosmic vision was what Krsna had ordained to rid the country of the corrupt Kuru Dynasty. This scene was what could happen, a preview, but it is not a fixed film. Preordination, not predestination.”

I find my discussion with Swami Maheshananda quite insightful; however, the person I really want to meet is Vimala Thakkar. I am pleasantly surprised at the diversity of the women I am have been encountering. Not that women sages are rare here; there have always been great ones who have been revered by the populace. The thing I find most intriguing is their individual uniqueness. Mataji Souris lives in a little paradise that exudes holiness and never leaves her home except for an annual visit to the Ramana Maharshi ashram. On the other hand, Swamini Sharada Priyananda travels all over Andhra Pradesh teaching the texts of Vedanta, while managing an ashram and school of a couple of hundred members.

However, Vimala Thakkar is involved on the national scene, as well as having international repute. I like her ideas and have even written two of her quotations in the notebook I carry with me. “Unless one sees the sanctity of life, the act of living is meaningless.” Well, one could ruminate over the significance of that one for years. The second one is equally pertinent, “To be religious is to be able to see the Whole, and the Wholeness concealed in the particular.”

The first time I heard of Vimala was at a conference for teens in Pondy last year, arranged by one of her disciples. So in addition to her spiritual guidance, she is a preeminent social and political activist in India. She speaks at many political conventions with an orientation to finding ways to unite the country to give security to the physical person and give strength to the inner being. She often corresponds with India’s political leaders. Whether they take her suggestions or not is another matter.

Fortunately, I am able to get her address with directions at the Post Office. The next morning, I get up early to be organized to call on Vimala at mid-morning, the best time to call on anyone here. I do find her at home and, since she has few visitors in this remote area, she seems quite open to take time to talk with me. When I introduce myself, she extends her hand for a hearty handshake, which has a force not foretold by her small size.

She is quite an attractive woman, with a soft countenance due to snowy white hair and flawless bronzed skin, yet her small body has a sturdiness that emanates vitality. Her dress is a simple white sari. I had always thought of her as a student of Krishnamurthi, but I am pleasantly surprised when she tells me that Anandamaya-Ma, mentioned in the Autobiography of a Yogi, also has been a significant influence in her spiritual evolution.

I had met Anandamaya-Ma myself in Bangalore for her eightieth birthday celebration—a very elaborate occasion. One day I was quite elated to be invited to her quarters for the early morning ceremony by two Indian women. Unfortunately, it turns out foreigners were unwelcome. I suppose no one noticed when I entered the room, but at the completion of the ceremon, given each morning by her husband, he came over and virtually pushed me out of the room. Meanwhile, my companions had procured a ride for us in the van that was going over to the auditorium. However, the offer was canceled when the driver saw I was with them. Although I have seldom endured this behavior, people who were discriminated against in so many ways are bound to have some prejudices—so they get to get even.

So those two great streams of the estatically blissful Anandamaya-Ma and the intellectual Krishnamurthi would have to produce someone who is very special. However, Vimala tells me she had other important influences also. “My father was an educated man; he studied law. However, before practicing law or starting a family, he took a two-year retreat to Uttarkasi where he studied Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Christianity and Zoasterism—all the religions of India. He felt that to be a citizen of India one had to understand all these religious theories. My father educated all of us children—that was the wealth that he gave to us. I received an MA in philosophy.”

Then she goes on to say something of her personal spiritual quest, “When it became apparent that I was going to take to the religious life—I suppose I was about seven—my father called me in to have a talk. He told me that I should talk to all gurus and sages, seek their teaching and guidance, but never was I to surrender my freedom to another. So I do not have a guru, nor am I a guru. I have listened to and discussed with many sages. When I first came here to Mt. Abu in the early ‘60’s I had classes with Swami Maheshananda. He teaches the ten major Upanisads.”

“Yes, I have already met him. He seems quite insightful. You were fortunate to study with him to get a good intellectual foundation,” I comment.

“Oh, yes, my classes with him gave me an important education in our classical texts. Then I was a student of Krishnamurti. I went to all his talks when he was here in India. For at least five years, I never missed one. Then one day I told him, ‘I understand what you are saying, so I am no longer going to attend your talks.’”

“‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am so glad to know there is one person who has understood.’ He then got up, went into the other room, and came back with a beautiful red rose and presented it to me.”

While we are talking, her secretary has been attempting to make a phone call, but the phone line is still dead after four days.

“Nothing works in India when it’s raining,” I comment.

“No, nothing works in India, period,” Vimala retorts.

“But somehow life goes on; it’s really somewhat of a mystery,” I observe.

“Oh, you’re right. A communist friend of mine from Estonia says he never believed in God until he came to India. After seeing this chaos, where the Government doesn’t function; the Judiciary doesn’t function; everything right down to the phones and electrical current is always out of order—yet life goes on. No one can understand why or how life continues here, in spite of the fact that no one or nothing works. After seeing this phenomena, my friend had to conclude, ‘There must be a God; that’s the only possible explanation.’”

After we both chuckle, she returns to her personal story. “My grandfather, on my mother’s side, was a great devotee of Swami Vivekananda. When we were small, he would take us to Belur where we all received the spiritual blessings of the great swamis there. So I really had these two great spiritual influences from both sides of the family, my father and grandfather.”

What a wonderful way to grown up, surrounded by so much love and profound insight—well, it's the land of the "children of light."

Since I am convinced that it is never going to stop raining, I decide I just have to tolerate the out-of-doors as is. So the next day I start around the lake with an umbrella as some protection. However, I luck out, for I have hardly begun my trek when the rain stops altogether. About one-third of the way around the small lake, I encounter a series of small temples and ashrams. Many of which have taken advantage of some natural caves in the granite boulders.

Then I spot a swami right out of Samuel Johnson’s Rassalas. He has ensconced himself in a cave, to which he has added a stone wall across the entrance to keep out the cold wind. Now he is setting the stones to line the path to his cave, and mending some damage from the recent heavy rain. There is something about this scene that brings up some very pleasant memory. I stand there mesmerized trying to allow it surface, for so long that he approaches me.

I smile and greet him. Then I try to tell him he has a pakkha (nice) home, but that’s about the extent of our conversation, due to the language barrier. Since the owner is friendly, I walk up the path to examine his quarters better. Actually, there are two small caves. One has a couple of natural stone benches inside—nice quarter for the hot season. Across the opening of what appears to be a larger cave, a wall of stone and clay provides protection. A small door leads into this one room efficiency. Then I notice that the cave is electrified: One naked bulb hangs a foot above the yellow and green door. Another wire indicates that he also has a bulb inside. I bid the swami good-bye and continue around the lake.

Almost a week later I pass by the same spot to find the same swami still pounding on rocks and heaving them around. He is definitely Rassalas’ hermit, I laugh to myself, for surely I am looking at a mirror. You’re not the only one who cannot sit still for a contemplative life, I acknowledge.
Around the lake, plenty of birds dart and flutter to catch my attention. Soon I reach an area with thicker forest where I also spot a new friend, a yellow bird with a brownish gray and white speckled chest and a rusty head. He is searching for berries along the stone wall between the road and the lake.

My stay at the hotel is going well, for the hotel manager knows some English, so I can communicate my few needs. For some reason, that I have never understood—and probably am better off not knowing—most places here have two faucets in the kitchen. One is designated as drinking water. So I obtain a large plastic bottle and send it down each day for drinking water, although I know it could very well be same water that I have in my bathroom tap. Anyway, one day I need some extra water and run down to the desk with the bottle. At that moment, all the staff—the manager, desk clerk, the cook, the cleaning boys—are all standing around the desk. When I ask for water, the manager takes the empty bottle from me, he hands it to the desk clerk, who hands it to the cook, who hands it to the assistant cook, who hands it to the small boy who helps clean, telling the lad to go get the water.

“I can’t believe what I just witnessed!” I exclaim. This is a scenario in living color of how any task is accomplished in India. Honestly, I have seen a man sitting in a chair observing a worker laying some brick. In Pondy, an overseer always sits at the door to watch the girls clean the rooms in the guest house.

Then there are other cultural encounters. One night I cannot sleep for music blasting over a loud speaker at the polo grounds until 2:00 a.m. Well, at first there was music, then several lectures, ending with one that sounded very preachy, just like someone begging, extolling. It definitely sounded as if they were trying to sell something. It does sound like one, but it couldn’t be a Christian preacher, not in this outback, I assure myself, because the whole thing started out with some Vedic chants.

“What was going on last night that they were blaring noise half the night?” I query the hotel manager the next morning.

“Some program in town,” he answers.

“But what were they talking about during that last hour?”

“Oh, there were several religious functions, that last one was some Christian preacher.”

“Christian...? I knew it.”

“Are you Christian?” he asks me.

“You do not think I would admit it after last night’s disturbance, do you?”

Will somebody please tell me how that Indian preacher has mastered the Christian intonations so that he sounds exactly like Elmer Gantry?

After a week, the full moon of July appears—it is the full moon that honors the teacher, Guru Poornima. I reminisce that it’s been exactly a year since I celebrated the occasion in Hampi. For the guru’s special day several people are coming here to give a music concert for Vimala. She invited me to join them. Someone has labeled music as the universal language, and I feel that is true. Good classical music of any culture can communicate a full scale of emotions. Not surprisingly, the Indians have even named them. The two musicians are teen-age girls who won first place in Gujurati state competitions in their age group. However, they only play music as a spiritual practice and recently turned down the opportunity to go to Bombay for a professional performance. Vimala definitely approved of their decision.

Before the music begins, she gives a short talk on the value of music in our lives. First, she emphasizes that the strains of music are healing. Since the creation ismade from sound, as well as light, playing and listening to music is a sadhana (spiritual practice) to purify the neurological make-up of the body, that is, to remove the imbalances.

She continues to explain that all sadhanas are for the purpose of purifying the physical/psycho-physical element of the seeker. Enlightenment is a by-product, or a corollary, of that purification. In the case of music, purification comes from both the sound waves, as well as the light inherent in the sound of spiritual or classical music.

When the musicians are ready to play, Vimala reminds us that Indian music is not listened to with the ears, but with the physical body. I seem to catch the knack of listening with the body rather easily. As I relax into the notes of the sitar, I experience that the sounds penetrate right to the heart. I feel grateful to be here today in such an uplifting atmosphere.


I have made a new discovery: thermos cooking. My stomach had begun to rebel against the heavy north Indian cuisine; plus the weather continues to be so bleak that many times I cannot get out because of heavy rain. The idea is great for cooking hot breakfast cereals—with no burnt, sticky pan to clean. The cracked wheat I find in the market here cooks in a couple of hours. I am really enjoying having a hot breakfast on these cold mornings. However, I am leery that my 220-volt coil will hold out with all the use. I doubt I will be able to find a replacement here. For lunch, I cooked carrots with butter and fresh chopped coriander, along with the cracked wheat—no spices. I am spiced out for now.

As the dreary days pass and the mold starts to grow on my suitcase, backpack and camera bag, I find that one of my favorite pastimes is thumbing through my travel guide. I am searching for the nearest place that will not have such a heavy monsoon, yet will be a refuge from the heat. I picked Pushkar as the most likely place.

Before leaving I go by Vimala’s to wish her farewell. After some general talk, I draw her into another discussion about herself. I am always interested in a person’s life story, specially these women who have chosen a spiritual life. It’s noteworthy how the influence of their fathers played an important role. She recounts that when she was only about twelve that she ran away from home to meet Anandamaya-Ma and to ask her for sannyasa, the renunciation vows.

“As soon as I arrived, Amma sent a telegram to father informing him that his daughter was safe in her care. Then she told me, ‘My dear, sannyasa is in the heart, not in some cloth. You continue with your studies. You begin with the heart.’ Then I was put on the next train home to my father, accompanied by a brahmacharini.”

“You were sure fortunate to have the influence of such great saints in your life.”

“Yes, I was fortunate to be born into a spiritual family. I knew from a young age, about six or seven, that I only was interested in the spiritual life and spiritual pursuits. So I was saved from getting involved in, and bogged down by, the world, then having to pull myself out of it. It was much easier this way.”

“I can certainly imagine, but not from first-hand experience. I had never even heard of a life of spiritual pursuits at that age. My life was oriented outward totally: How to make your way in the world—while managing to avoid God’s punishments, of course.”

Later, in the course of conversation, I mention that I had also visited Satya Sai Baba’s ashram, since he is THE Indian phenomena today. I end my observations with the comment, “I am sure some of his miracles are authentic, but I’m interested in transformation—that’s the real miracle.”

“But through your contact with Swami Chinmayananda and other teachers, you must have made some changes in these past years.”

“Well, yes, if you put it that way. I am less unconscious; that is, I am more aware of my feelings, motives, intentions, and inhibitions. Definitely, I am less fearful. Also, I am more conscious of other people and their journeys in life, which gives me a lot of compassion. But I am also aware of all the time I’ve wasted getting carried away with numerous projects, planning to have time for meditation—some day.”

“So now you feel you want to move to a deeper level of experience?”

“Yes, that is true. Yet, I value your concept that meditation includes the whole being—all of life. Intrinsically, I know this to be true; yet I remain hard on myself. I remember Krishnamurti said when he went on walks he never recalled having even a single thought. Whereas, I have so many.”

She replies, “Well, he may not be a valid measuring stick for you. K never studied philosophy. He only went through high school. He had not filled his head with so many ideas and concepts that we need to live in today’s complex world. Remember too that his every need was always taken care of. He never needed to deal with matters in the material world, like yourself.

“Your thoughts are the momentum of all your past physical and mental activities. It’s inevitable that you have many thoughts.”

“I have been aware that Krishnamurthi was always taken care of. It is true he did not have to work one day of his life. You’re right; he’s not really a model for someone like me, who will have to work to support myself financially for the rest of my life.”

“He was unique,” she remarks reflectively.

“Unfortunately, that book has recently come out about a long-term affair he was carrying on with his manager’s wife.”

“Yes, it is unfortunate. If there were any charges to be made, they should have been brought out while he was still alive, so that he could refute them.”

“That’s true, but there are stories that, when crossed, Krishnamurti could be ruthless. These sexual scandals have been a common occurrence with India’s holy men in the Western countries, although many are kept secret. I think this book brings out what has been bothering me about these situations. I have thought about this guru/sex thing because I want to be open. I do not want to be run by any puritanical conditioning.

“However, I have concluded that there is always another person involved. Shouldn’t these teachers be aware of the guilt—and just plain confusion—this secrecy is causing in their partners? Anyway, if they are seeing everyone equally, as the scriptures say an enlightened person does, why do they always pick the youngest and prettiest?”

Vimala laughs, but declines to make any further comment.

After a few moments of silence, I mention that in spite of the chaos, corruption, contradiction and just plain filth, India still continues to produce saints.

“You are very perceptive to be able to make that observation. In spite of all of India’s negativity that is so overwhelming, her spirituality is one great treasure that she continues to give to the world.”

“In spite of it all, that treasure endures,” I agree with her, as I get up to leave.

I feel truly grateful that I have met three special teachers—I consider Swamini Sharada Priyananda a sage, Mataji Souris a saint, while it seems that Vimala Thakkar is actually both. Nevertheless, they all gave me the same personal advice. They say silence of the mind is the most important sadhana.

Vimala told me, “It is the exposure to the silence that loosens the grip of the conditionings on the brain and leads to their becoming ineffective. It is the period of total silence, or non-movement of the mind, that activates energies lying dormant in us.”

India does continue to produce saints in spite of contradictions and inconsistencies—or maybe it's because of them.

Chapter Forty-seven

Land of Kings

D uring the pleasant train journey to Ajmer, I pass the hilly area that is typical of southern Rajasthan. Rajasthan, the land of monarchs, is as unique as any other part of India. The princely caste, the Rajputs, “sons of kings,” are half native stock, with the other half a mix of Hun and Scythian blood, donated by former invaders. Known for their outstanding valor throughout their history, the Rajputs were often contracted to fight for contenders to the throne in Delhi. First they fought with the Moguls, then against the war-mongrel Mogul, Aurangbad, and later for the British. Unfortunately, neither were they adverse to fighting among themselves. The present epic of Rajput—therefore, Indian—history may have been different had they been united to fight against the British.

I had been in Rajasthan ten years ago when I was traveling with Swami Chinmayananda. It appears to me that here one finds all the best and worst of the treatment of women. Much of Rajasthan is desert, therefore, poverty-stricken, so this contributes to some extent to the polarization of cultural mores. On one journey, I shared a compartment with four young men from Jodhpur. They were all married, traveling first class, indicating that they were middle-class types. As always, they were quite open about discussing their personal affairs. As it turns out, one of them was unmarried because he had an older unmarried sister; therefore, he was ineligible until that burden was lifted. That is, no one would contract a marriage with him for fear he might have to support his unmarried sister. I know another Brahman woman in Madras who no one would marry because she was the sole support of her widowed mother. On the other hand, there are fewer unmarried women here; their marriage is a family responsibility. And the women want to marry. Several educated Indians have mentioned to me the sad state of so many American women who have to remain spinsters all their lives. I mention to them that many American women are quite happy in their unmarried state, but the Indians will never understand.

Since we were pulling into Jodhpur late, the young men who were my traveling companions were concerned for me. Although they knew Jodhpur well, they had never heard of the address I had been given, which was the home of the gentleman who had organized Swami Chinmayananda’s lectures. One of them even volunteered that I better go to his home for the night, but frankly I feared causing a family problem for him in case his wife happened to be a jealous type. I decided to stay in the train station, so I slept on a rope bed—a first for me—in the ladies’ waiting room. This is the common mattress throughout rural India. The ropes are tied in knots in a lattice pattern, which provide a sturdy enough support, but not exactly made for comfort.

After a leisurely breakfast at the station restaurant, I rounded up one of the railroad officials and an elderly gentleman who spoke English to give instructions to the rickshaw driver. I had been in India long enough to know that it is best to set up a conference among the locals if you are going to an unknown place. Yes, they knew the place, but it was a military cantonment.

With some reservations, we took off in the right direction, hardly knowing what to expect. As it turned out, the address was indeed a military headquarters, but my driver had the good sense to inquire for the exact name of the family. We were instructed to go behind the tall stone wall to the servants’ quarters. That seemed strange, until I saw the place: a large stone two-story building. I inquired and was told that this was the Singh’s home.

When I met them, I got the whole story. Mr. Singh’s grandfather, a Rajput nobleman, had been awarded this property from the Jodhpur monarch for outstanding services rendered in battle. You may remember in the movie Gandhi, Sardar Patel had been running about the country and finally obtained the last signature of kings of the 565 kingdoms, large and small, that had not come directly under British rule during the Empire. Some of the kingdoms were quite large, particularly here in Rajasthan, and were ruled by traditional kings. They were the 235 monarchs who qualified for a seat in the Chamber of Princes, formed in 1921. The remaining 330 were small holdings administered by ministers, former generals as with the Singh’s holdings, and even zamindars (landlords) with large properties, particularly in Bihar, Bengal and Orissa.

Mr. Singh’s grandfather’s dominion was small, but included enough land to grow sufficient crops to support a palace and staff. One of the reasons that Sardar Patel had been able to secure the signatures from all regents and landlords was that they were allowed to keep their personal holdings. In addition, they would receive a monthly stipend from the Government. That was in 1947. In 1971, the amendment giving privy purses to the ex-regents was eliminated from the Constitution. The payments had been a heavy burden on the country’s budget, but their purpose had been served. No one could argue that India could no longer afford to support 565 regents.
So in 1971, these feudal lords were left to fend for themselves. Those with large holdings could easily survive; some turned their summer palaces into hotels; others held vast agricultural lands. However, the smaller ones had fewer options. The Singh family had rented their ancestral palace out to the military, and now were living in the former servants’ quarters. Fortunately, they had been generous to their servants, so their present home was quite ample and adequate for the small family: Mr. Singh, his wife, one young son, and his mother.

The mother was in the vanaprastha, retirement, phase of her life, so she lived the traditional semi-ascetic life, spending most of her day in the prayer room. She seemed quite content and only asked that her food be cooked by a Rajput. She had given up everything for the sake of Democracy, but to have her food cooked by a low caste shudra would have been the last straw. By the way, she informed me that all Americans are shudras, the service caste.

For me, this visit had been a memorable occasion because it was the one and only time I ever encountered a ghost. In general, many Rajput castles are said to be haunted, but this building had been the servants’ quarters. Be that as it may, Mrs. Singh had mentioned that there was a ghost hanging around that sometimes bothered her. Naturally, I rejected the idea with my usual Yankee skepticism.

Then one night, I was awakened suddenly, like I had been startled by something. It was unusual, but I did not think anything about it. Then the following night, rather early in morning, I seemed to be half-awake, yet I was dreaming that someone was trying to kiss me on the mouth. I was puzzled and tried to push him away. When I did, a powerful force grabbed my neck and shoved my face into the pillow. I really felt that I was being seriously suffocated. After a real struggle—by then I was totally awake—I finally managed to turn over and get my face out of the pillow. No longer a skeptic, I told Mrs. Singh she had better find someone to exorcise that ghost.

I had recently been told of such an exorcism when I visited the Shringeri Matha in Karnataka. In a nearby village, a young girl seemed to be possessed by a spirit and was displaying extremely bizarre behavior. They called the Shingeri pontiff to the village to solve the problem. Using his intuitive power, he looked into the situation and found that, just prior to the difficulty, a man had died in the village. Due to a sudden downpour during the funeral ceremonies, the ritual at his cremation had not been completed. No one thought anything about it, but the man, in spirit form, was furious. He began to plague anyone he could to get the villagers’ attention. The acharya simply ordered that the complete ritual be performed again. The village priest carried out the instructions and that was the end of the problem.

The younger Mrs. Singh was quite effusive and open. One day she confided in me another story of the trials of being a woman in India. Her younger sister had committed suicide. Apparently, there was a “love” relationship involved, but since the sister was attending a foreign university no one knew what happened: “We have no idea at all.”

I asked if she thought the sister had been jilted. She replied that it certainly was a possibility. One might assume the broken relationship would have been intimate for the young woman to be in such despair, but it’s not necessarily so. Just having been engaged was a point against her, having been engaged to a foreigner was another nine points against her. She could have never married in India. Another tragedy for an Indian woman who dared to love.

One aftrenoon, all of us stuffed into a car and took off through the desert some ten miles outside of the city. There we visited a woman, about sixty years of age, who was considered a saint by the locals. I cannot confirm her spiritual attainment, but she certainly was a very interesting phenomenon. She had not eaten food or drunk any water for some thirty years.

Widowed at a young age, she could not marry either. The Rajasthan territory was one of the foremost practitioners of sati, where the wife, or sometimes wives, accompanied her husband to heaven via the funeral pyre.

Sati was truly an act of the deepest devotion to the husband. Of course, the woman believed in reincarnation and often wanted to continue the next life with the same man. Once I found the same sentiment in an anonymous English elegy: “When two souls have finally found each other, there is established between them a union which begins on earth and continues forever in heaven.” To the women’s minds sati was not a horrible thing, but a tribute to their love. Throughout Rajasthan, one will find monuments to commemorate their act of devotion.

Sati has been outlawed; first by the British, then by the Indian Republic. However, the practice was slow in dying among the Rajput nobles. There continues to be an occasional infraction of the law. Even today in such cases, the woman continues to be deified by other women.

The practice may have begun when the women of besieged towns immolated themselves to avoid capture and the inevitable ravaging by the Muslim conquerors. The most famous case occurred in Chittor where three different times in 1303, 1535 and finally in 1585, the city was attacked. Finally, knowing that defeat was inevitable, the men rode out to face certain death dressed in the orange robes of renunciation, while all the women of the town committed sati. After the third raid, Chittor was not rebuilt and remains a ruin.

Many customs in Rajasthan have grown out of their fear of Muslim conquerors. For example, the women practiced a type of purdah, keeping their faces covered with the end of their sari when in public. Their living quarters were always on the second floor for security. The rooms had latticed windows, so they could observe the world below without showing their faces.

Although the law has eliminated sati, the government has not provided sustenance for the widow if the family does not help her. Unfortunately, in poorer families, the young widow is left to fend for herself in a cultural milieu that has no place for her. In the case of the woman we were visiting, she had one saving grace: one son, only about twelve years at the time. He gave her a reason to live. Besides, he would soon grow up, marry, and support his mother. However, within a few months of the death of her husband, the son was killed in an accident. The distraught widow headed for the desert to die.

Sitting out in the hot sun for days without food or water, she awaited Lord Death’s arrival. She could not return home for she had none. Her parents would not take her back after her marriage, and her husband’s family did not want the burden. Even VijayaJayaLaksmi Nehru, the sister of the future Prime Minister, suffered deplorable treatment at her husband’s death. Without an excuse, her in-laws actually robbed of her husband’s business holdings.

In the present case, after several months, it became apparent that the woman probably was not going to die. Sometimes the local villagers would pass that way, looking for forage for their animals. They noticed her, but left her alone. However, as time passed, they began to question her and found out her plight. They offered to bring her some food, but she refused. If she was doomed to live, the gods would have to sustain her; she would take no food. The village men insisted upon helping her to build a little shelter from the sun.

After some years, several young women came to stay with her, treating her as a spiritual guide, honoring the fact that she had conquered death. Nevertheless, the disciples had to have food and water. The teacher divined the spot where they would find water. So she moved down the wash to the site of the well where they now live in simple mud huts. The widow remains alive and very well. The Rajasthani prince I met in Rajamundry told me that there are many such women in Jodhpur.


So this is my second trip to the land of the kings. I arrive in Ajmer in the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to find a place to spend the night and to look around. Although the town seems quite small, it has historical significance. Here in the Ajmer palace in 1616 was the first official encounter of East and West. Sir Thomas Roe, the ambassador of King James I of England, presented his credentials to the Emperor Jahangir, the heir of the illustrious Empire-builder Akbar. Even today, it remains a holy pilgrimage destination for Muslims to honor the great Akbar.

In the central district, the highlight is a Jain temple. As you enter, you are warned by a sign: “Smoking and chewing of beetles is prohibited”—referring to the beetle nut of paan. Inside large glassed galleries hold two scenes: the first of a golden mountain, fashioned of 150 kilos of gold, representing Mahavir’s birthplace in Bihar. Second, a replica of all the Jain temples in India constructed with 850 kilos of gold. Built by a wealthy diamond merchant in 1865, twenty master craftsman worked for fifty years to complete the temple and its contents. The merchant’s family still live in Ajmer—with diamonds embedded in designs on the ceilings of their home—I am informed. The founder of the Jain religion, Mahavir, was a contemporary of Buddha.

Early the next morning, a short bus ride lands me in Pushkar. Since Mt. Abu cost me double my usual budget for food and lodging, I am happy to find out that prices at this pilgrim center are dirt cheap. The tiny village of Pushkar has all the best of India—sun, color, flowers, temples, sacred cows and a holy lake. You can enjoy it for only $5 a day, up to $25 a day if you prefer to stay in an old palace.

Since I have the whole day ahead of me, I leisurely check out the place before deciding where to stay. The town is built around a holy lake that attracts crowds of devout Hindus on the pilgrimage trail. The lake is surrounded by steps, to facilitate entering the holy waters. According to the Puranas, once when Brahma, the Creator deity, passed this way, he happened to drop a lotus. Of course, water sprang forth from the dry desert in the spot where the petals fell. The Hindus are very serious about preserving the sanctity of this sacred place. They would be very offended if anyone tread on the ghats, steps, with shoes or took photos of their sacred ablutions.

The first trip down the bazaar street, I only notice shops with colorful wares and enticing silver jewelry. Next trip I look between the buildings to see many passageways down to the lake through the gateways of old family temples. Next trip, I glance up and note the latticed window where the women used to observe the life below them. Next day, I wander off the main bazaar street where I find many surprises of native architecture.

While I am strolling around, one problem does surface. It seems that foreigners here are known for buying ganja, marijuana, for all the shopkeepers call out to ask if I want to purchase some. A few days later, when I dress in my simple sari to go to the Brahma temple, they all love it. I get several “Indira” calls here, as I did in the South. Soon everyone recognizes me and leaves me alone about the ganja.
d
I choose to stay in the Krishna Guest House because it is so fine: every clean and very stark and very cheap at $1.00 per day. The main structure is actually an old temple, owned and operated by avery kind Brahman family. My room is part of the shelter where the pilgrims used to bed down for the night. The priest tells me that there are not as many pilgrims coming here these days. Nevertheless, they do keep the little Krsna deity alive with mantras and offerings.

Another thing I like is its restaurant, which is on a balcony, overlooking the main street. I love to sit there and sip tea as the crowd arrives at the near-by temple for their morning worship. I think it’s a Vishnu temple—no foreigners allowed. As I watch, a group of middle-class women pass by in their colorful billowing nylon saris, an offering of flowers clutched in their hands. Then a troupe of dark-skinned pilgrims arrive, sporting their bright flower-printed skirts of red and orange. Draped over their heads and shoulders are bright green half-saris, only half concealing their personal trove of silver bracelets and necklaces, which are typical of the Rajastani peasants.

Several entrepreneurs mix in with the pilgrims. A country musician is sawing the strings of his homemade lute in a monotonous strain. An orange-clad sadhu drifts past, nosily reminding the pilgrims that it is their duty to give to the renunciates. A jazzy tune wafts across the street from the loudspeaker of the music store. Looks like the sadhu scored, but it appears as if the businessman did not give up to expectation. The sadhu does not look pleased. A camel saunters by pulling a cart-load of motley-looking pilgrims; they must have been on the road for several days. Beeping cautiously and continually, a motor-scooter winds its way through the clusters of people.

The road does not fit the usual formula that I have found in the rest of India. In Pushkar distances are short, so 95% of the people walk, 1% have motor scooters, 1% bicycles, 1% jeep or car; no buses or trucks allowed, except on the outlying roads.

I spot a couple of men who sitting on the stone wall encircling a small Jain temple. I watch as money changes hands with a third party. Then he carries off stacks of dried cakes of cow dung, the common fuel in this area. A young European, a cigarette hanging from his lips, sports a garland of pink roses, intended for the deities. Any number of cows plod past, one by one, through the crowd; they remain totally unfazed, for they have seen it all. Three young lute players, about twelve years of age, descend on the European, but it looks like they aren’t having much luck. He does not reach into his pockets. The jazz from the loudspeaker seeems to drownsout the soft drone of the lute. Four young women pass, dressed in the brightest of green and hot pink, each carrying a baby about one year old.

A young prostitute, properly attired in the traditional Rajasthani dress—skirt with half sari, tries to attract a young European male, but he turns away in a posture of rejection. She is non-pulsed; she has eyed another white male in my roof-top restaurant. As she swings her head with soft gentle motions, she suddenly pauses and spits into her cup—oops, cultural gap. The young man appears unmoved, as he continues to sip his morning tea.

The villagers of this area are a tall, dark, handsome group, particularly noted for their love of bright colors: a printed or decorated skirt and plain blouse with a half-sari for the women and yards of bright cotton create turbans for the men. On the full moon of Karik (Oct.-Nov.) they have their famous camel fair. All the villagers from near and far come here to Pushkar to sell and trade their camels and cattle. Promoted heavily by the Rajasthan tourist office, the fair brings some 200,000 visitors annually. The majority are put up in tents, for the accomodations in Pushkar are limited. The entertainment includes such events as camel racing and folk dancing performances.

I believe these original people could be the ancestors of the gypsies in Europe, at least those in Spain. Linguists there studied their native chants and found that the words were Sanskrit. They definitely have the same tall, lean look as these Rajasthanis. I am afraid life has always been tough for these desert dwellers, even today, so it’s plausible that they would have choosen to migrate.

I love exploring new places, even the restaurants, for I the owners are often present to glean information about the area. This is the best place I have found for a variety of food, so in my reconnoitering I have been able to find a new restaurant to try every day. My favorite is Kashmiri rice at the Rainbow, which has the best views too. The rice cooked with spices and mixed with candied fruit, raisins, with fresh apple and banana. All the shops and restaurants are centrally located, except my favorite tea stall, which is back by the bus stand.

Right under a spreading banyan tree with a bird feeder with dozens of ring-necked parrots, this tea stall is my favorite place to sit and drink tea. Watching the antics of India’s largest and most colorfuls parrot keeps me entertained for several cups (tea cups are tiny here). They even hang upside down on a branch to make sure they get the next vacancy on the seed tray. To me, it is surely worth the ten minute walk. Then I discover the garden of the Sarovar Restaurant for breakfast, so that also makes it worth the trip. Since the service is so slow, I get to sit for an hour watching the varieties of small birds before I am served my porridge. I do not complain; I could sit here all day enjoying all the birds.

One day a rather dignified-looking swami shows up at the parrot-banyan tree tea stall. I pay for his tea, as I often do when a swami happens to be having tea when I am. Later in the day, I am walking down the main street and see him sitting on the curb, puffing on a bedi (local cigarette). For no reason at all, I take out a 10 Rps. note and hand it to him. It will be enough to cover the cost of his food for a day. All of a sudden there is a great commotion around the corner. A cripple throws his crutches in the air and comes running toward me with great glee. Has there been a spontaneous healing? When I recover my senses, I realize that he only wanted a hand-out too.

In spite of the lake, Pushkar is predominately a desert reality, surrounded by immense sand dunes. I would say that it is an oasis at the desert’s edge. Near the Brahma temple, I find the spot to contract for camel rides. The proprietor tells me about the overnight excursions into the desert, which sound rather intriguing—specially the part about sleeping under the stars. However, since I have no companions for such a lengthy jaunt, I settle for the three-hour round of the nearby sand dunes.

Three hours turns out to be plenty. It may have been the awful heat radiating off the pink sand, or the unusual height, or simply the shifting motion of the saddle, but whatever it was, I had to put myself in “tolerate it, it can’t last much longer” mode for the last hour of the journey. The two young Germans, who formed the remainder of my group, seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. At least they say so, their faces flaming red and dripping with sweat, as we sip sodas with fresh lime afterward. I wonder if there is any way to go on an overnight trip to the desert without the benefit of a camel.

One morning I pack up bread and butter with bananas and apples for both breakfast and lunch, then head for the desert. I had spotted a place where the giant pink sand dunes, a granite mountain of many colored stones, and blue sky—all meet at a small pond. I figure it must be a good bird-watching spot, so I also carry along a pound of bird seed. As I approach I reaffirm my intuition, for I see two female peacocks at the water’s edge.

Immediately, a mongoose slithers through the taller grass on the other side of the pond to escape my intrusion. I sprinkle some seed on the bank, then wander off to explore the mountain. When I return I sit down to relax in the shade of a tree to eat my lunch. Afterwards, I just lie back and watch the many birds that the seed is attracting. Lots of quails and doves are around, but I spot about an additional dozen varieties. I acknowledge how good it feels to be warm and dry. Indeed, I feel very happy to be out of the rain—this sun is a nice change from that damp, dark room in Mt. Abu.

However, I have to recant on my assertion that "there is a holy man in every town." I suppose in deference to the Brahman/temple culture they have not settled here. Then too, it’s quite small to produce many donors. So my days are spent with more mundane investigations. I am continually fascinated by this world I living in. I am always talking to people, plus I have to time read here.

I find lots of reading materia: newspapers and used books abound. When in India, definitely read the newspapers. After you pass up the political scandals, you will find it full of history, culture and social comment. There is practically no crime here, so the news has always centered around more mundane matters. I read a most compelling piece by Sanjay Ghose Bajju that is headlined: “No Time for Childhood,” in which he recounts the life in a small hamlet in Rajasthan.

Most of the villagers here are dependent on water from shallow wells that catch the rain. The village he wrote about was such a village, with the land surrounding the village considered common land, for animal forage, as well as shade and water. So to cultivate food and fodder, the village held land at another site where they migrated for an annual crop during the rainy season. Due to many years of drought, they had switched to farming at home, for they no longer had any animals that could destroy their crops. Because of the hard times, many of the villagers had given up and migrated into towns for minimal-skilled labor jobs.

This season one family migrated to the old land holdings and spent two weeks digging out shrubby weeds with their bare hands, assisted by their young son. Then they planted winter wheat and left their eleven-year-old daughter behind to tend the crop, weed, water and even spray pesticides. The father would travel over occasionally to help her out and check on things.

The hamlet is so small that there is no medical aid at all. When a ten-year-old girl came down with a bad case of whooping cough, she had to be taken to a distant hospital. She refused to go without her mother. So her seven-year-old brother was left to watch the family crops as well as manage his usual chore: taking out 33 goats to graze daily. His mother would be away for a week, but he assured her that he could manage. That's childhood in the Rajasthan villages.

By chance, the government is putting in a canal for irrigation in their old deserted crop site. Technically, the land is owned by the villagers of the hamlet. However, the Government officials insist that they only have the right to farm it, not to sell it, for they do not have any deed. But somehow the Government has the right to sell it; even though they do not have a deed either. The irrigated land is going at 17,000 to 30,000 Rps. per 6.32 hectare. One farmer was informed that the canal is going be available to irrigate over 40 hectares of his land. However, he has no resources to invest in the leveling required, the purchase of seeds, fertilizers, or any expertise in irrigation culture. The Government offered to trade him one irrigated plot of 6.32 hectares if he gave up his claim to the 40 hectares. He does now see how he can support a family of six with the produce of 6.32 hectares, so he declined. That's exploitation in the Rajasthan villages.

If that news article does not convince you of the difficulty of lifehere in the desert, this story surely will. One evening in my wanderings, I stop by to check out the Peacock Hotel. Since it’s slightly off the beaten track, it has large grounds with a lovely garden and even a swimming pool. The owner happens to be in the shop, where I look at some Rajasthani mirror work at very reasonable prices. Findign him to be a very amiable person, I mention a story I read of the Rajasthani mirror embroiders, who were complaining about exploitation. The merchants can sell their work at even one hundred times the price they pay the seamstress who did the labor. The principal problem is there is no public transportation to their desert villages due to lack of roads. So the women have no way to sell their own handwork to shops in the cities.

One Rajasthani women who served as spokesperson for the group was rewarded a prize at a special handicraft show in Bombay. The villagers collected the money to pay her fare to the city. She had made the trip because she was to be gifted by the Prime Minister—at that time, Indira Gandhi. The simple, yet astute, village lady never lost her balance in the fanfare; she had an agenda. When handed the award, she personally invited Indira to visit her village. The Prime Minister said she would love to do so. In extracting this promise, the country woman knew she was also exacting a promise of a road. Indira certainly could not walk the 15 km. in the blazing sun as the villagers had to do to get to and from the nearest road. Alas, Indira was assassinated before the promise was fulfilled.

Pushkar is good to me, not one monsoon storm while I am out discovering the haunts of peacocks—and I do finally find several peacocks in the wild. You can see them here strutting on the grounds of the government hotel, but I find wild ones in a wooded area that looks as if it once was an estate garden. Peacocks are such a joy to watch as they shimmy and shake, then spread their tail feathers. Although we only get a light shower in the afternoons, they seem to know that it is monsoon time, for they are only active with their mating display during the rainy season. To top off my nature discoveries, I have also find lots of rose gardens, acres of pink cabbage roses, grown to adorn the temple deities, I’m sure.

I love my little room in the temple with its simple bright white walls. The only decorations are some recesses for oil lamps and a large stone archway that used to open to the temple, which is now boarded up. A long porch runs outside the entire length of the temple, edged with a variety of trees in the yard. After dark, I lie out on the verandah under the bright stars shining in a deep black sky. I watch the wind play in the trees that are backlit by the lights beyond the compound wall. Oh, how I love this world. It is such a wonder, such a mystery, such a delight. This must be the reason I am not committed enough to spiritual practices; I am such an enjoyer of the world.
I am enchanted as I see the smiling beautiful face of divinity peeping out at me from every nook and cranny.

In the seventh chapter of the Gita, Lord Krsna said, whenever you see anything bright and beautiful, know that it is I, for I am the inner most essence in everything:

           For all creatures have their wombs in my highest nature....
           On me all the universe is strung, like pearls on a thread.
           I am the liquidity in the waters,
           I am the radiance in the moon and sun;
           The sacred syllable [Om] in all the Vedas;
           The sound in the air, the vitality in man.
           The pure fragrance in the earth,
           And I am the brilliance in the sun;
           The life in all beings,
           And the austerity in ascetics.
           Know me to be the primeval seed of all creatures,
           I am the intelligence of the intelligent,
           The splendor of the splendid, am I.

I spend three peaceful weeks in Pushkar and could have stayed longer, but I have other commitments this fall. Also, I have a couple of stops to make before leaving Rajasthan, including a village in the mountains that one young man told me was India’s Switzerland.

Chapter Forty-eight

India's Switzerland

I will have plenty of time to find India’s Switzerland since it is still morning when my train arrives in Beawar, the nearest large town. After inquiring the direction to the bus station, I set out on a short jaunt that turns out to be much longer than I had anticipated. The route takes me right through the middle of town, past the parade ground. I find it crowded with school children since it is India’s Independence Day. I pause at the back to see what is going on, but unfortunately I soon become the center of attention. I am thronged by male teenagers, and I do mean thronged. Fortunately, a policeman sees my plight and escorts me out of the mob. I hurry on my way.

When I arrive at the bus station, I cannot find the town “Koothada” listed on the roster, so I circle around back to look for an office. There I find a large room with doors wide open. A group of about six men seated around a small table are engrossed in a discussion that I sense is not urgent business, especially when they all turn to my direction when I enter the room. While I have their attention, I explain to them that I want to go to a small village, named “Koothada.” One man gets up to bring a chair so I can sit down at the table with the group. Uttering not one of the questions I usually get when I meet a stranger, they drop every concern and concentrate solely and completely on the task at hand: “Where is Koothada?” After some lengthy banter in Rajasthani, they all agree: “We do not know of such a village.”

I give them the little additional information I have: “I was told that it is near Bhim, but I can reach it by direct bus from Beawar, a journey of about 23 miles.” Still no note of recognition on their faces, so I continue with my last scrap of information: “Mr. Poonam Chand Singhwi Sajjan lives there.” This comment triggers another lengthy discussion; after which, they finally decide on the village that fits my data.

Unfortunately, I had written the name down incorrectly, creating somewhat of a stone in the rice, as we say here. The name of the village was Kookda or Kookra. These irregularities occur because of the transliteration into English. Since a workable system was never devised, all sorts of variations exist. A good example is that “Panjab” is incorrectly pronounced “Poon-jab” in English. Whoever translated it figured that the Hindi “pan” is pronounced like the word “pun” in English, so “pun-jab.” Then for no apparent reason, we turned the “pun” into “poon.” This is only one of many puzzles, especially when you hit the double consonants of the Indian languages.

The conclusion is that the bus I want will leave at 1:00 p.m. Suddenly, one of the gentlemen remembers that the driver of that particular bus should be in the station at this very moment. Someone runs to bring the driver. Since he doesn’t speak English, the others report to me, “Yes, we made the correct decision. Sri Singhwi lives in Kookda.”

Having successfully completed our business, I get up to leave. “Sit!” I am ordered with the usual hand signal for “wait.” They tell me tea is being brought. Well, this is a new twist, I smile to myself. Usually, tea is served before one is even allowed to state one’s business; here it appears when the concern had been completed successfully.

Soon I am on my way—over hill and dale—to Kookra. After a short walk down a dusty path, lined with white plastered houses, I reach the Singwi residence. He is now retired, living with his wife, a son and daughter-in-law. They greet me and invite me in, just as if they have been expecting me. I explain to them that I had met their son in Mt. Abu. He had told me of his wonderful village. He insisted that I must see “India’s Switzerland” before leaving India.

“So I have come for a few hours, or a day, I really do not have a plan,” I assure them. I am carrying such a small suitcase that it will not look as if I am anticipating a long stay.

Although it’s already 2:00 p.m., they are just eating lunch when I arrive. When they insist that I join them, I dig in. Since I had only eaten my usual travel food of bananas and hard biscuits today, I have no trouble relishing the rice with spiced dal. Then I am told to “take rest.” I have learned that when in India do as the Indians do. If I do not “take rest,” it will throw the whole household off kilter, for they would feel obligated to stay up to entertain the guest.

Nevertheless, someone must have been carrying messages during the rest period. Immediately after the rest, I am told to “take bath,” for we are going to meet someone. I figure I have to meet the village head, or someone like that. After I bathe and change saris, the son escorts me down a path across a green field to another section of the town. I am surprised to note that he is carrying my suitcase with him, but I say nothing.

Soon we enter the gate of a white-washed high-walled home, apparently the nicest and biggest in the village. After crossing a large open patio, we go up a narrow staircase to the second floor. On the shady verandah, I see a striking woman, dressed in pure white cotton. She must have some spiritual status as several villagers are sitting on a rug spread in front of her. When I am introduced, I get the feeling she was expecting me. With her mediocre English, she welcomes me and asks me a few questions about myself. After some fifteen minutes, the son gets up to go and tells me goodbye.

That is how I find out that I am to stay here with the Jain sadwis (feminine form of sadhu). The one I just met is the mother; she has two young nuns traveling with her, who are her daughters. Their father also is a monk, but he always travels alone.

Sadwi Sheelprabha tells me that she and her husband had been living a normal householder’s life in Maharastra state when they met a Jain saint. He instructed them in the scriptures and meditation. Living a spiritual life appealed to them, so after some years of practicing meditation, they decided to retire from the worldly life and take the Jain vows. You cannot call them monastic vows because there is no monastery. Quite the contrary, they have to be traveling constantly, staying a maximum of three days in one place—except during the rainy season. For those three months, they must choose one place and stay put. This is also practiced by Hindu sadhus,— for it is difficult to obtain food and pure drinking water during the monsoon. Kookra is the place these sadwis— chose this year.

In general, the villagers consider it a great honor to serve and feed the ascetics. Especially someone like Sheelprabha, for she is quite learned in the Jain scriptures and gives spiritual discourses every day. Naturally, I ask her if she knows of the unusual Jain saint I met in Hampi last year, I am surprised to learn that she does not.

It is really difficult to describe these three nuns, dressed in their simple unhemmed white cotton skirts and shawls. Sheelprabha is the most gracious, graceful person I have ever observed. I could call her the most beautiful, but the truth is that she is rather plain physically. I do not know if it is a spiritual radiance or what, but she definitely shines.

And it is not from Ivory-clean skin. Jain ascetics cannot bathe, neither can they use any mechanical object. The justification is to avoid killing any living creature, even bacteria. They even carry little fluffy white mops to sweep off the spot where they will be sitting and they wear little white cotton masks to avoid inadvertently inhaling an insect, thereby condemning it to death. In lieu of bathing, they take a small handkerchief and dip it in cool water, then gently rub it over their own skin to refresh themselves.

Since razors and scissors fall into the category of mechanical objects, they are taboo. Therefore, maintaining the bald head of the ascetic is a little tricky. Every year they have a hair pulling ceremony. They do not pull out the hairs one by one, but in small hanks. The girls, still in their late teens, swear to me that their mother is an expert hair-puller, so there is minimum pain.
When the parents first took the vows, the three daughters went to live with their grandparents. The youngest one, about fifteen, still lives there. However, since the rainy season coincides with her school vacation, she is now with her mother and two sisters. She tells me that she is also considering joining her family. It is one thing to take to the ascetic life after one has married and had children and tasted life, but quite another when one is only a teenager like these young girls.

Although we get clouds daily in the afternoon, the monsoon is really light in these parts this year. Actually, it’s an advantage for the nuns since one of them has to go out each day and collect their daily food from a designated home, as if she is begging. If it is raining, they cannot go out, even to collect food, so they do not eat that day. It is another one of those injunctions about bacteria on their skin having a rough time and drowning. To make things easy, I eat with a kind family across the complex.

I spend a lot of time with the sadwis. At first crack of dawn, we all head for the field with our mugs of water, just like the peasants all over India. No one in the city or country uses toilet paper; splashing one’s genitals with cool water does work just as well. I hate to think of the condition of the landscape if the peasants used toilet paper.

After a light breakfast, we go out for a long walk. The sadwis are accustomed to walking from village to village, so they easily keep up with me. In every direction, the countryside is beautiful with green grass and foliage, interspersed with smooth gray boulders. One afternoon we hear some young men singing. As it turns out, they have all gathered to raise the walls of a home of a friend. They are all singing as they do the work together. I know that in northern Maine they still get together for barn raising, but do the sing?

After lunch and a rest, Sheelaprabhu gives a discourse, which I do not attend due to the language barrier. However, it is well attended by the villagers. In the evenings, I always join them when they sit out under the stars and sing bhajans in a tiny village square. This section of the village was definitely built for security. The houses are joined together to make a two-storied wall that serves as a fortress. There are two entrances and both have heavy wooden gates with heavy chains, which now remain thrown to the side. In addition, the maze of interior pathways has several gates that must have served to slow down any marauders. All the tiny courtyards are open to the sky. I always look forward to the informal get-together and singing under the stars. The group always manage to get one song out of me. I am a mediocre singer, but they do not know the difference. They always appreciate any attempt I make.

One day a young man, around twenty years old, shows up at our abode. When he arrived home from college, Prahalad heard the news that there is an American in the village and has come to investigate. His name tells me that he is a Hindu, probably a Brahman. Since I am about to set out on my daily walk, I invite him to come along. Because of the threatening clouds, the nuns are not able to join me today.

Although his family is from Udaipur, Prahalad is well informed about the local people. He shows me a weed that they squeeze to extract the juice, which is mixed with peanut oil to make a great hair oil; where as in the South, they use coconut oil. All Indians, male and female, oil their heads as protection from the sun. There is also a local strategy of putting a peeled onion under the hat to prevent sunstroke.

I was right about Prahalad’s caste. His father is the doctor of the village. In the North, in addition to the normal duties of teachers and priests, commonly the Brahmans were the doctors. Actually, he is the doctor for over twenty small hamlets, for he is the only doctor in a thirty mile radius. When I go to meet him, back over on the same path where Mr. Singhwi lives, I find the wooden benches, which line the verandah of his office, are crowded with poor villagers. Dr. Vyas is a true saint. He could be living off the family business, a marble foundry, but he had always wanted to be a doctor. Instead of setting up an office in a city and raking in the rupees, he has a low-paying Government job here in the outback.

Just how outback? I am informed that the village elders have had a meeting since my arrival. They are sure that I am the first white face ever to enter this village. I am surprised, considering the fact that I was also informed that this was a prime area for growing opium during the Raj. I take it to mean that the British operated their enterprise only through native agents.

Not only does Dr. Vyas take care of the patients who come here, but two days a week he packs up his black bag and takes off on his motorcycle down dirt paths to visit the hamlets not accessible by automobile. The Vyas family lives in a simple home with one large room serving as bedroom and living room with a small kitchen off to the side. The only sign of luxury is a television; one of three in the village. Of course, Mrs. Vyas invites me for dinner, so we send word back over to my usual dining place. They are living the traditional life of the Brahman. Their type may be few and far between in today’s India, but they still do exist.

On Sunday afternoon while I am visiting them for tea, I suddenly hear the sounds of drums beating and bells ringing nearby.

“What is that?” I inquire. “Is there a festival?”

“Oh, no. The villagers must be having one of their ceremonies for healing snake bites,” Dr. Vyas informs me.

Do my ears ever pick up! “Healing snake bites!? Where?”

“At that little mandir [temple] down by the bus stand. Haven’t you noticed it?”

I had to admit I had not. “But can we go and watch the ceremony? Will they allow a white face?”

“Sure, I don’t see why not,” Dr. Vyas encourages me.

Prahalad is happy to accompany me, so we take off down the path, only a few hundred feet away.
Although all the parties are present, the ceremony has not yet started. The fire pit is being prepared. The drummers and priests are gearing up. The father and mother of the victim are standing to the side holding their baby, who has been bitten on the bottom of her foot. Another spectator tells us that they had to take a two-hour bus ride to get here.

To the beat of the drums, one of the priests is working himself into a frenzy while another stands guard against the danger of a fall. Suddenly, the priest gives a wild shout and one leg  jumps up and locks itself back behind his other knee, so that now he is hopping around the mandir with on only one foot. He circles it three times in a frenzy of swoons, swoops and pins. He then puts his mouth on the wound itself, sucks, pits, sucks, spits, then repeats it one more time. The female drummer is pounding hysterically while the fire bellows black smoke over the whole scene. Then, in a momen— it is all over. The priest puts his foot down and appears completely normal. Gently, he hands the baby back to the grateful parents.

Afterwards, we onlookers sort of mill about. As we pass the baby’s mother, I smile, but make no gesture toward them. From previous experiences, I do not want to frighten them. However, it appears they are not superstitious, for she lifts the baby toward me. So I respond and hold the little black-eyed doll for a few minutes. Miraculously, she seems to be totally calm after such an ordeal. But could her passivity be due to the snake venom taking effect, I fear. I am relieved that the mother was satisfied with my cuddling her baby and did not expect me to give it a blessing.

When we return to the house, I question Dr. Vyas, “Now won’t you give the baby some medical treatment, just to back up their witch-doctoring?”

“No, it’s not necessary,” replies Dr. Vyas. “What they do always works. It’s been working before I was here, and it will still be working after I am gone.”

It was easy to ascertain that these priests were not your standard Brahmans, but it turns out neither are these aboriginal practices from time immemorial. This ceremony was a gift of a Jat king of the 1700’s. The Jats, as well as Rajputs, are the Ksatriya caste in Rajasthan. Somehow this monarch had been bestowed this particular art of healing by invoking Lord Tejaji. He passed on the knowledge as a gift to humanity. As it turns out, there are some dozen of these small open-air mandirs scattered throughout Rajasthan.

The next day when I am wending my way across the fields via the earthen dikes, I happen to see the priest who went into the trance yesterday. Today he is a farmer hoeing corn with his family, like any ordinary laborer. When he sees me, he comes over to greet me and calls his two teenage daughters over also. After he introduces us in Hindi, he signals me that he wants me to bless them. Oh, dear, I am to bless the daughters of a man who cures snake bites! Contradictions and inconsistencies. It does not compute, but neither do I want to show any disrespect. So I smile and place my hands on their heads in the traditional sign of a blessing. See there, you survived it, I tell myself. It really would be wonderful if I could truly bless these dear people.

In talking with the Vyas family, I discovered that there is a school in a third section of the village that I had not yet discovered. The next morning when I head in the general direction I find it easily. As I approach a rather large single-storied complex, I find a large room with an open door that looks like it may be the office. I stick my head in to ask directions. The moment I do I surmise that I have entered at the wrong moment.

“I see that you are busy. I can come back later,” I start to retreat.

“Oh, no. We were just finishing our discussion. Come in. Come in,” replies a dignified gentleman, definitely a Brahman. As I enter the room three or four village men, two of them quite elderly, rise to leave. The meeting seems to change its tone at my sight. The teenage boy who was the center of attention also gets up.

The gentleman who is officiating approaches the boy and looks him straight in the eyes, “The next time, we will call the police. You do understand that.” He is so short that he has to look up to face the boy, but he stands his ground. I am sure the boy knows he means business.

As the group exits, he turns to me, “How may I help you?”

“Are you the principal?”

“Yes, I am.”

I give my name and tell him just by happenstance I am visiting the village. Curious about the quality of the school, I just dropped by. “Frankly, I was expecting a one-room school for such a small village, but this is quite a complex.”

“Yes. We have children who come from all the hamlets around here. Some walk for five miles through the mountains to attend classes here.”

As we walk down the long shady verandah, he shows me various classes with lessons in progress. After the third classroom, I have to ask, “But there are hardly any girls in the classes. Only two or three in each class of twenty.”

“Yes, that is correct. You see the girls will be doing housework, so their mothers do not feel there is a need to educate them in the schools. They feel that they get their education at home. We probably would get a little better response if it weren’t for the long distance; however, in general, that is the attitude.”

As it turns out, the mountains are dotted with hamlets. One afternoon, I walk over the hill to the closest one. The first hut I encounter is that of the local leather worker. If I had not seen the cow skins, I would have noted the rank smell. His hut is on the outskirts, which is typical for his untouchable status. However, I am puzzled that he is located right on the path, which indicates I may be entering through the back door of the community. I wander down the lane that passes through a number of houses, scattered sparsely along the dirt path.

Then I see a stream in the distance that must be responsible for creating the expanse of green fields. From my position, the crops look like corn and wheat. I am standing on the side of a mountain that is solid granite, so not particularly easy to navigate. Especially with clay pots of water perched on one’s head, I think, as I watch the village women go by. The broken clay shards scattered about verify my conjecture.

Some children come to retrieve me to guide me to the home of a retired army officer. The gentleman is quite charming and seems quite comfortable talking and joking with the crowd of children who have gathered in his yard. It appears he has a certain status, so I wonder if he was one of the gentlemen in the school conference the other day. He serves me milk, which was prepared, that is, boiled and sugared, by his niece. He has no wife or daughters, so his brother’s family, in the cottage next door, provide him with meals.

He tells me that all the boys in these villages join the military as it is their dharma, duty, as Ksatriyas. Even though the Ksatriya caste consists of everyone from the king to the general to the foot soldier to the cook, the Ksatriya code is no small list of duties. Of course, they are fewer than the Brahman’s allotment of duties, but still a formidable register of do’s and do not’s, should’s and cannot’s. The caste system may limit some, but it also protects the ones who have less. The poor villagers of lower castes never had to fight wars. The duty of the Ksatriya was to protect them, not to exploit the manpower of the poor. On the other hand, when I lived in Vermont, I never met a poor farmer who had not been drafted into the military.

There is a big difference in what is expected of the castes. Since Brahmans have the greater knowledge, they have more responsibilities, and are meted out heavier punishments. A good example of the difference according to caste appears in the Mahahbharta. When four men were brought to the king to mete out justice for the crime of murder, he inquired as to the caste of each one before sentencing them. They happened to be of the four castes. The lower caste Shudra (service) received four years’ imprisonment because his intellectual understanding was not as developed. The Vaisya (merchant, landholder) received twice that sentence. The Ksatriya, whose duty is to protect the people, was sentenced to sixteen years in prison. Whereas the Brahman, the upholder of knowledge and truth in the society, received the death penalty.

To keep their skills honed, the Ksatriyas also like to hunt. In fact, during the past several centuries, it was their greatest passion when there was no war. However, Ksatriyas are not allowed to hunt now, Mr. Singh informs me. Recently, a tiger was taking some of the cattle in several nearby villages, but to shoot a tiger would have meant a heavy fine. The villagers had to contact the Forest Department, which sent out an Official to dispose of the marauder.

Because of the Rajput’s passion for the hunt, Rajasthan contains some of India’s greatest game preserves. The gem is the Keoladeo Ghana National Park at Bharatpur. The site was once a dip in the land, which only filled up during the monsoon season. To develop it, a Jat ruler diverted water from an irrigation canal, so that birds began to winter here—more migrants from Siberia. At peak migration, some four hundred species of birds can be sighted, with impressive numbers, like two thousand painted storks nesting in one square kilometer. During the Raj, twice a year, spring and fall, at least fifty British VIP’s were invited for a big shoot. The goal was to bag one hundred birds each in one day, mostly ducks and geese.

However, for number of birds, instead of variety, you could not beat Gajner Lake near Bikaner, now an official wildlife sanctuary also. It was a favorite with the British viceroys; even the prince of Wales hunted there on his visit to India in 1905. In those days, some one hundred thousand sand grouse drank at the royal lake. Lord Mountbatten was able to bag fifty in one morning’s shoot.

Undoubtedly, the tiger hunts were a favorite way to polish up the British dignitaries. The Ranthambhor National Park was also a hunting preserve of the rajas. The huge parcel has rivers that provide protection, food and water for a group of protected tigers, under the Tiger Project. Several people have told me that the tigers there are rather passive, so most people do see one on the jeep tours.

Kookra is truly so beautiful that I start imagining what it would be like to settle here in a little cottage. But what would I do? In less than a week, I am having some moments of feeling bored, and useless. Sometimes I feel it is apparent that I am just in India to rub out old battle scars from family, school, marriage. The peeling off the socialization and mental patterns seems to take place automatically and spontaneously in an environment that does not continue to enforce them. At home, my life was always a long list of things that I had to do. My theme was always, “Oh, I can do that.” Here nearly every day, I am confronted with some reality in which I have to say, “There is nothing I can do.” For example, the ancient maps and books in the school, the girls who do not attend classes, the flies I see on a baby’s face, the distances the women have to carry water, the inadequate gardening tools. There is simply nothing I can do.

My last morning in Kookra, I awaken to a quiet fresh green world. The birds sing, the trees shimmer, the corn grows, the breeze whispers. A perfect day for traveling. I receive quite a sendoff. The elders present me with a garland of paper flowers, then we take a group photo. Afterwards, I pick up my bag and head for the bus. Tears are in my eyes as I board the bus. The young conductor refuses to take my fare, indicating my status as a guest in his territory. How can there be so many soft gentle people in this world? How have they managed to endure in a world where survival of the strongest with the biggest guns has been the perpetual game?