I woke up early in the morning (early by my lax holiday standard, not the stringent Amritapuri standard) around 6.30am, feeling fine and rested. My sleep had been deep and uninterrupted, a minor surprise given that the physical conditions were less than sublime. Actually, I ought to amend that. Contrary to the impression I may have lent so far, the conditions, for sleep at least, were not all that bad. I forgot to mention earlier that there was a ceiling fan in the room which worked. However, the night was cool, so I only had to run it at a very slow speed.
More importantly, I was spared an attack by the Amritapuri Air Force (mosquitoes!). Amma's grace? Possible, but in this case I thought it likely that Amma's grace was working more at the back-end than the front-end of the phenomenon. The more classical explanation, suggested by my years spent battling mosquitoes in Kerala, was that these aviators, unlike those currently (this was at the time of the second Iraq war) poised over the Persian Gulf who are capable of working round the clock, tend to Shock and Awe at specific times of day/night (6am, 6pm and midnight being the usual timings when attacks are launched). Oops! Did I make an inadvertent political comment there? Sorry.
On second thoughts, I must censure myself more severely. That was a poor joke. I should probably have erased it but decided to let it stand as a monument to my own crassness. It is never a good thing to find humour, even peripherally as I did just now, in suffering. One must always sympathize with the sufferings of others. One is permitted to laugh at one's own sufferings, but who has the stomach for that? Not me for sure; everytime life has walloped me, I have found my tail between my legs.
Coming back to my non-story, the trials of the night were now a faint memory. I was upbeat enough to actually use the much detested toilet. After a bath, I stepped out to inspect the world. I made my way, once again, to the accommodation office. This time, the person on duty was an elderly man addressed by all as Achan (the Malayalam term for father, used in a general way by nearly all ashram residents, to respectfully address old people ; having never come across this practice anywhere else before, I found it quaint). I briefly explained my situation to him and sought his help. He was extremely helpful and sorted out my problem in no time.
He explained that the one-room apartment which I had heard about, and wished to stay in, was usually reserved for foreign passport holders or families - be they Indian or foreign. I guessed that foreign residents holding Indian passports such as I, who come visiting sans family fell between the cracks; either there were not enough people in this category or, more likely, such members as did exist, were less demanding (and therefore better sadhaks) than I was. Now here was a commentary on my year and half of carefully cultivated austerity (turning vegetarian etc.): It didn't amount to a thing! I had flunked the exam right then.
This Achan invited me to bring my luggage down from my room and park in his office until the Western acco office opened at 11am. He would make an exceptional recommendation and have them allot me an apartment. Whew! I gratefully accepted his offer of assistance and returned to his office with my luggage in tow. When I had settled myself in his office, I chatted with him when he was not serving any devotees at the counter. He made a lot of sympathetic noises about my predicament, and went out of his way to make me feel good, but in my heart I was ashamed that I had taken the soft option, sought and obtained privilege.
Even at that early stage, before I had interacted with other ashramites and come to appreciate the rigours of the monastic life, I sensed that his empathy was a product of pure compassion; it could not have been an objective position, as my so-called suffering was next to nothing, compared to what the brahmacharis and brahmacharinis (male and female renunciates, respectively) undergo on a 24/7/52 basis. I felt humbled and doubly grateful at being granted consideration that I did not really deserve. Further conversation revealed that Achan had been with Amma for 18+ years. It was now clear to me that the compassion and power of accommodation that he manifested (and I was privileged to observe) did not merely arise because he was sitting in the Accommodation Office but was a function of his long exposure to the mother lode of compassion - Amma.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Sunday, March 16, 2003
Part 5: Meeting Ms. Maya
Once I had made my big decision (to clean or not to clean, that had been the question), I went about executing it. I swept all the rubbish into the corner where the termite mound was located and cleared some habitable space for myself. It took me over an hour but it was not physically exhausting. Just tedious. Then I entered my version of hell - the terrible toilet and went about cleaning a bucket and broken mug in it. I also poured lots of water all over the place to clean it up, since I had no brush or other implements, to do the kind of job that really needed to be done. It occurred to me that things could have been a lot worse in a dozen different ways, and that I should be grateful for being spared a higher level of difficulty. For instance, what if there had been no water in the tap? Having grown up in parts of India where water is rationed, I was well aware that 24-hour water supply is only a dream for many people. At the end of it, I washed myself and then returned to the room.
Using newspaper sheets to cover the ground and some of my clean clothes (the change I had brought along) for a pillow, I laid down and prepared to sleep. My earlier feelings of inadequacy were gone and in their place now was a quiet pride. I had done it! Old Mr. Ego rearing his head again in a different guise: the hurt hen had morphed into a confident rooster. What a transformation in my attitude and outlook an hour of working had wrought! This had to be Maya (illusion). As I lay there musing, I noticed that I was starting to get attached to the very same room I considered to be a dung-heap not so long ago. Starting to think of it as "my room" even. The termite mound was still there in the corner but some of the cobwebs in my mind had cleared.
I went over all that had happened so far, in my mind, with a view to uncovering any lessons that might be embedded in my experience. The main theme that came to mind was: Talk is cheap; action is what counts. As I explained earlier, I have often made much of my being a sadhak around the house. Most of the time when I talk up my sadhana in this manner, I am kidding, but I now realized that there was something rotten at the core of my humour. It was really the ego, masquerading as humour, that had encrusted around the seed crystal of my pride in renunciation, my pride in being more spiritual than those around me. I guessed that while I had been cleaning my room and toilet, Amma had been doing the same with the toilet in my mind which, as far as I knew then, had never been cleaned before.
I also felt, at some level, that none of what had been happening in my life in the run up to this visit to Amritapuri was an accident. I had a strong sense then, which reappears from time to time, that the seemingly chaotic events in my life were all part of a deterministic scheme, a plan. Of course, it was also abundantly clear that I was several yugas (eons) away from figuring out what that plan might be. With these thoughts and others, I dozed off, imagining my head placed at Her feet, as is my normal practice.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
Using newspaper sheets to cover the ground and some of my clean clothes (the change I had brought along) for a pillow, I laid down and prepared to sleep. My earlier feelings of inadequacy were gone and in their place now was a quiet pride. I had done it! Old Mr. Ego rearing his head again in a different guise: the hurt hen had morphed into a confident rooster. What a transformation in my attitude and outlook an hour of working had wrought! This had to be Maya (illusion). As I lay there musing, I noticed that I was starting to get attached to the very same room I considered to be a dung-heap not so long ago. Starting to think of it as "my room" even. The termite mound was still there in the corner but some of the cobwebs in my mind had cleared.
I went over all that had happened so far, in my mind, with a view to uncovering any lessons that might be embedded in my experience. The main theme that came to mind was: Talk is cheap; action is what counts. As I explained earlier, I have often made much of my being a sadhak around the house. Most of the time when I talk up my sadhana in this manner, I am kidding, but I now realized that there was something rotten at the core of my humour. It was really the ego, masquerading as humour, that had encrusted around the seed crystal of my pride in renunciation, my pride in being more spiritual than those around me. I guessed that while I had been cleaning my room and toilet, Amma had been doing the same with the toilet in my mind which, as far as I knew then, had never been cleaned before.
I also felt, at some level, that none of what had been happening in my life in the run up to this visit to Amritapuri was an accident. I had a strong sense then, which reappears from time to time, that the seemingly chaotic events in my life were all part of a deterministic scheme, a plan. Of course, it was also abundantly clear that I was several yugas (eons) away from figuring out what that plan might be. With these thoughts and others, I dozed off, imagining my head placed at Her feet, as is my normal practice.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
Saturday, March 15, 2003
Part 4: Tests For A Yogi
The reason for my mounting exasperation must be obvious, but embarrassment? Being recently clued into some of the essentials of the spiritual orientation - renunciation, frugality, humility and so on, I was not unaware that my role in the acco discussion was turning out to be far from exemplary. The way I saw it then, the unreasonable and insensitive attitude of that brahmachari was bringing out the worst in me, those parts of myself that I would have preferred to keep buried, at least for the duration of my stay in Amritapuri. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I see it was all Amma's leela (play).
When I left home I had bragged to my family, and only half in jest, about how I was a sadhak (one who undertakes spiritual practice) and yogi (one who seeks union with infinity through disciplined self-control) unlike the rest of them who were all bhogis (materialists). I had talked about cleaning toilets and doing other menial work, in the spirit of selfless service that I had read so much about. At that juncture, locked into a losing argument with this seemingly uncooperative brahmachari, some of my lofty speech came back to haunt me, in the back of my mind. I gave up the battle and decided to accept whatever I was offered. He handed over a set of keys and pointed me in the general direction of my room. After a little bit of to-and-froing, I managed to find the room. It was in the building behind the new auditorium - where the Devi Bhavas (audiences with Mother in Her Goddess aspect) are held, near the front entrance to the ashram. I opened the door and stepped inside the room. I flipped the light switch on but there was no light. The room had a window which was open and I could see with the aid of the moonlight that was shining through.
There appeared to be a toilet attached to my room, so I walked over and took a look. There was a light in there which worked, so I switched it on. The toilet cum bathroom was an absolute horror. At least, it seemed so for someone with my background. You see, I am a bit of a hygiene freak. For a good part of my life, I managed to avoid ever using any public toilet facility. It is only in recent years, that I have managed to overcome this aversion, to a certain extent. That is the way my mother brought me up, and that is the way I continue to be, for the most part. There was no wash basin, only a tap mounted very low, just above the floor. Horror of horrors, I would have to do all my washing with the water from this tap, with a close-up view of an ugly, open drain right next to it. The commode was as unclean as the rest of the bathroom, which incidentally was just big enough for me to stand in. Fortunately the flush was working, and there did not seem to be any organic waste (crap) in the toilet. The toilet had a second door to the adjoining room. It was latched from the other side, but I latched it shut from my side as well for good measure. The last thing I needed was for someone to walk in on my ignominy.
I left the toilet light on and the door ajar, so I could inspect the room using the light. What I saw made my heart sink. The floor was littered. There was sand all over the floor, a huge ant-hill or termite mound in one corner, and some sundry waste (paper and rags) here and there. It looked like the room had been in use as a godown or storehouse for construction material. I recalled seeing just such a room where sacks of cement were stored, very near the gate on my way up, and figured that my room had been used for a similar purpose, prior to my arrival.
I went through a serious crisis of faith right then. Something like the dark night of the soul described in Christian literature! I felt weak, and wanted to sit down, and think through things, about what I should do next. There was no furniture at all in the room and I could not even sit on the floor without cleaning it up. At that point, I remembered that I had picked up a newspaper at the airport, so I opened my bag and fished it out. I spread a sheet on the floor and sat on it. I held my head in my hands, and in great agony, began to absorb the situation. My first reaction was to call off the whole darshan program and run far, far away from Amritapuri. Maybe my folks were right when they said I did not have the stomach for real sadhana (austerity). Yes, that was it, I should admit defeat, cut my losses and run. After all, I was a born loser, and this episode was not going to be a radical departure from the main trend in my life.
I experienced a range of emotions. I wondered whether Amma knew of my situation at that exact moment. Of course she did. She had to. Otherwise what was the whole point of my taking to Her? I alternated variously through remonstrance, despair and hurt before finally settling on surrender. The situation was here and it was incumbent on me to do what I could. It was time to think, to strategize. The unusual thing was, even as I went through massive doubt, I felt the presence of Amma, in a way that is hard to describe. I felt sure that She was completely awake, completely present, and right there with me, though clearly not in any corporeal form.
As I sat there resolving to leave at first light, I realized I had two options. I could either spend the night sitting up and thereby avoid the unpleasant task of cleaning up, or I could clean up and try to make myself comfortable and try to catch some sleep. My first inclination was to sit tight and wait for the morning to stage my great escape. Then I remembered I had newspaper, a towel and soap. I could use the paper to sweep the room and also to lie down on, in lieu of a mattress. The soap and the towel would be enough for me to freshen up after the room-cleaning job.
My spirits lifted a little, the courage flowed back into my system. My brain decided in favour of cleaning up. When that decision was taken, I immediately realized that it would be a waste to make all the effort to clean up the room and still give up on the rest of the program. Although I had given up the battle for Western acco with the brahmachari in the office, I still intended to make another effort to try for better quarters in the morning, something superior to what I had, even if not approaching Western standards. But for now, I would have to proceed on the assumption that my efforts would not bear fruit, that any other officials I might talk to, would be as hard on me as this brahmachari had been.
Once I decided to clean up, it seemed logical to stick it out a little longer, if I had to derive some return on my investment (of effort). My strength increased and I resolved to stick to my original program. I would survive somehow, I told myself. I would certainly make an effort to get my room changed, but if that failed, I would still be able to survive. I was pretty sure there would be some kind of shop on the campus, where I could purchase whatever I needed - some cleaning equipment, a bucket, sheets and whatever else.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
When I left home I had bragged to my family, and only half in jest, about how I was a sadhak (one who undertakes spiritual practice) and yogi (one who seeks union with infinity through disciplined self-control) unlike the rest of them who were all bhogis (materialists). I had talked about cleaning toilets and doing other menial work, in the spirit of selfless service that I had read so much about. At that juncture, locked into a losing argument with this seemingly uncooperative brahmachari, some of my lofty speech came back to haunt me, in the back of my mind. I gave up the battle and decided to accept whatever I was offered. He handed over a set of keys and pointed me in the general direction of my room. After a little bit of to-and-froing, I managed to find the room. It was in the building behind the new auditorium - where the Devi Bhavas (audiences with Mother in Her Goddess aspect) are held, near the front entrance to the ashram. I opened the door and stepped inside the room. I flipped the light switch on but there was no light. The room had a window which was open and I could see with the aid of the moonlight that was shining through.
There appeared to be a toilet attached to my room, so I walked over and took a look. There was a light in there which worked, so I switched it on. The toilet cum bathroom was an absolute horror. At least, it seemed so for someone with my background. You see, I am a bit of a hygiene freak. For a good part of my life, I managed to avoid ever using any public toilet facility. It is only in recent years, that I have managed to overcome this aversion, to a certain extent. That is the way my mother brought me up, and that is the way I continue to be, for the most part. There was no wash basin, only a tap mounted very low, just above the floor. Horror of horrors, I would have to do all my washing with the water from this tap, with a close-up view of an ugly, open drain right next to it. The commode was as unclean as the rest of the bathroom, which incidentally was just big enough for me to stand in. Fortunately the flush was working, and there did not seem to be any organic waste (crap) in the toilet. The toilet had a second door to the adjoining room. It was latched from the other side, but I latched it shut from my side as well for good measure. The last thing I needed was for someone to walk in on my ignominy.
I left the toilet light on and the door ajar, so I could inspect the room using the light. What I saw made my heart sink. The floor was littered. There was sand all over the floor, a huge ant-hill or termite mound in one corner, and some sundry waste (paper and rags) here and there. It looked like the room had been in use as a godown or storehouse for construction material. I recalled seeing just such a room where sacks of cement were stored, very near the gate on my way up, and figured that my room had been used for a similar purpose, prior to my arrival.
I went through a serious crisis of faith right then. Something like the dark night of the soul described in Christian literature! I felt weak, and wanted to sit down, and think through things, about what I should do next. There was no furniture at all in the room and I could not even sit on the floor without cleaning it up. At that point, I remembered that I had picked up a newspaper at the airport, so I opened my bag and fished it out. I spread a sheet on the floor and sat on it. I held my head in my hands, and in great agony, began to absorb the situation. My first reaction was to call off the whole darshan program and run far, far away from Amritapuri. Maybe my folks were right when they said I did not have the stomach for real sadhana (austerity). Yes, that was it, I should admit defeat, cut my losses and run. After all, I was a born loser, and this episode was not going to be a radical departure from the main trend in my life.
I experienced a range of emotions. I wondered whether Amma knew of my situation at that exact moment. Of course she did. She had to. Otherwise what was the whole point of my taking to Her? I alternated variously through remonstrance, despair and hurt before finally settling on surrender. The situation was here and it was incumbent on me to do what I could. It was time to think, to strategize. The unusual thing was, even as I went through massive doubt, I felt the presence of Amma, in a way that is hard to describe. I felt sure that She was completely awake, completely present, and right there with me, though clearly not in any corporeal form.
As I sat there resolving to leave at first light, I realized I had two options. I could either spend the night sitting up and thereby avoid the unpleasant task of cleaning up, or I could clean up and try to make myself comfortable and try to catch some sleep. My first inclination was to sit tight and wait for the morning to stage my great escape. Then I remembered I had newspaper, a towel and soap. I could use the paper to sweep the room and also to lie down on, in lieu of a mattress. The soap and the towel would be enough for me to freshen up after the room-cleaning job.
My spirits lifted a little, the courage flowed back into my system. My brain decided in favour of cleaning up. When that decision was taken, I immediately realized that it would be a waste to make all the effort to clean up the room and still give up on the rest of the program. Although I had given up the battle for Western acco with the brahmachari in the office, I still intended to make another effort to try for better quarters in the morning, something superior to what I had, even if not approaching Western standards. But for now, I would have to proceed on the assumption that my efforts would not bear fruit, that any other officials I might talk to, would be as hard on me as this brahmachari had been.
Once I decided to clean up, it seemed logical to stick it out a little longer, if I had to derive some return on my investment (of effort). My strength increased and I resolved to stick to my original program. I would survive somehow, I told myself. I would certainly make an effort to get my room changed, but if that failed, I would still be able to survive. I was pretty sure there would be some kind of shop on the campus, where I could purchase whatever I needed - some cleaning equipment, a bucket, sheets and whatever else.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
Saturday, March 08, 2003
Part 3: A Sullen Welcome
The roads began to get narrower and the ride became more bumpy. I guessed that we were approaching Amritapuri. My American companion had woken up from his nap by now, seemingly refreshed. He immediately entered into a discussion with me on how we should divide the cab fare between ourselves. I had called up the ashram office from overseas and booked a vehicle to ferry me to the ashram, and at that time they had indicated that I was to pay 1200 Indian rupees or so for the service. Since that was what I had contracted over the telephone, I was prepared to pay that amount, without making a big deal out of the fact that I had to share the cab with another person. Since in my view, the charge was not exorbitant, the amount was small and it was after all going to charity of one kind or another, I was prepared to pony up the full share.
However my American friend was very keen to work out some kind of sharing arrangement so that the burden could be reduced, possibly by half. Knowing that my friend's financial condition was significantly inferior to my own, I sympathized with his attempts to derive some economy from the transaction, but I was also not comfortable with the ethical implications of striking a private arrangement, that would end up depriving the ashram of a legitimate due. I did not wish to start my visit to Amma on such a note of dubious economy. It seemed clear to me that our dharmas (duties) in this matter were different, since our conditions were different. So I suggested that he pay whatever he was comfortable with, but indicated that I did not intend to haggle. Anyway, it turned out that the money had to be paid at the ashram office, and not to the driver, so an adjournment was forced on us.
Our taxi stopped outside the front gate and we made our way inside on foot. It had been raining, not right then but before, and I carefully negotiated the puddles with my luggage. The American had nothing to carry except his pillow and blanket and he bounded off, like a rabbit, after saying good-bye. Before leaving, he pointed out the building where he was staying, and told me that was the building where most of the visitors from outside India were usually housed. I had made enquiries before my departure and had been told that the Western Acco was the thing to take.
It was way past midnight and there did not seem to be too many people about. I asked someone for directions to the office and was pointed one way. I lugged my bag and walked that way, only to be redirected elsewhere. The fun of the taxi ride had clearly ended. Delicately stepping over puddles, while carrying heavy luggage in the middle of the night, was not my favourite thing to do, obviously. Eventually I found the acco office, at the foot of the temple. There did not seem to be anyone on duty there. I was starting to get a little concerned. Was nobody expecting me here? If they sent a cab to pick me up, surely they should have someone at the office to process my accomodation? No such luck. This was no hotel, it was becoming clear.
I knocked on the wooden door of the office and after a while, a brahmachari (disciple) opened the door. He was bearded (I did not know then that all the brahmacharis looked like that) and rather sullen, having apparently woken up from sleep. I explained who I was and where I had come from, and made it a point to stress that I wanted the Western accommodation, and that money was no object. He asked me what passport I held, and I had to tell him that it was Indian but I stressed that I was a permanent resident of country X, in the expectation that I would be granted the acco normally given to foreign visitors. He turned a little hostile and began to interrogate me, "The Western acco is for Westerners. Are you a Westerner?" I had to say no. I tried to explain that while I still held an Indian passport, I had been living outside India for many years, but my explanations did not appear to be cutting much ice with him. I was starting to get exasperated and also embarrassed. I thought to myself, "Why is my precise status in my country of domicile so important to this matter? If I am willing to pay, why can't I have what I want?"
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
However my American friend was very keen to work out some kind of sharing arrangement so that the burden could be reduced, possibly by half. Knowing that my friend's financial condition was significantly inferior to my own, I sympathized with his attempts to derive some economy from the transaction, but I was also not comfortable with the ethical implications of striking a private arrangement, that would end up depriving the ashram of a legitimate due. I did not wish to start my visit to Amma on such a note of dubious economy. It seemed clear to me that our dharmas (duties) in this matter were different, since our conditions were different. So I suggested that he pay whatever he was comfortable with, but indicated that I did not intend to haggle. Anyway, it turned out that the money had to be paid at the ashram office, and not to the driver, so an adjournment was forced on us.
Our taxi stopped outside the front gate and we made our way inside on foot. It had been raining, not right then but before, and I carefully negotiated the puddles with my luggage. The American had nothing to carry except his pillow and blanket and he bounded off, like a rabbit, after saying good-bye. Before leaving, he pointed out the building where he was staying, and told me that was the building where most of the visitors from outside India were usually housed. I had made enquiries before my departure and had been told that the Western Acco was the thing to take.
It was way past midnight and there did not seem to be too many people about. I asked someone for directions to the office and was pointed one way. I lugged my bag and walked that way, only to be redirected elsewhere. The fun of the taxi ride had clearly ended. Delicately stepping over puddles, while carrying heavy luggage in the middle of the night, was not my favourite thing to do, obviously. Eventually I found the acco office, at the foot of the temple. There did not seem to be anyone on duty there. I was starting to get a little concerned. Was nobody expecting me here? If they sent a cab to pick me up, surely they should have someone at the office to process my accomodation? No such luck. This was no hotel, it was becoming clear.
I knocked on the wooden door of the office and after a while, a brahmachari (disciple) opened the door. He was bearded (I did not know then that all the brahmacharis looked like that) and rather sullen, having apparently woken up from sleep. I explained who I was and where I had come from, and made it a point to stress that I wanted the Western accommodation, and that money was no object. He asked me what passport I held, and I had to tell him that it was Indian but I stressed that I was a permanent resident of country X, in the expectation that I would be granted the acco normally given to foreign visitors. He turned a little hostile and began to interrogate me, "The Western acco is for Westerners. Are you a Westerner?" I had to say no. I tried to explain that while I still held an Indian passport, I had been living outside India for many years, but my explanations did not appear to be cutting much ice with him. I was starting to get exasperated and also embarrassed. I thought to myself, "Why is my precise status in my country of domicile so important to this matter? If I am willing to pay, why can't I have what I want?"
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
Saturday, March 01, 2003
Part 2: American Devotee, Indian Chauffeur
A little detour before we get around to narrating how the Mother Of All Truckers ran me over...this is India after all, and here we never go directly from point A to point B without going everywhere else first!
Before we began the ride, my American fellow traveller requested me to sit up front with the driver. He wanted to lie down on the back seat and sleep. He had come prepared with a pillow and a blanket. I was happy to oblige. The thought that my American brother was possibly a shade more attentive to his personal comfort, than I might have expected from a long-time follower of Amma, did cross my mind but only very briefly. I was in a happy, expectant mood and my mind did not pursue that line of thought very far. At another time, in another place perhaps my mind would have given that vasana (the tendency to evaluate others and spot their defects) greater play, but not that night.
So I sat on the front seat with the driver and brother Sam (not his real name) tucked himself in on the back seat. I initiated conversation with the driver in Malayalam. Before launching my
expedition to Amritapuri I had developed the intention of talking to as many people there as I could. Extensive socialization is not something I am normally pre-disposed to engage in, being an introvert for the most part, but I was determined to milk this trip for all the experience I could gather.
I learned that the driver had landed his job as ashram taxi driver through another branch of Amma's establishment in North Kerala. I tried to probe his attitude to and feelings for Amma but he was not very communicative. I asked him what he thought of Her and he said that since so many people come to see Her, and since She is doing so much by way of charity and education and so on, She must be good. I was a little disappointed that he seemed to be making intellectual deductions about Her goodness from circumstantial evidence, and was either unable or unwilling (more likely the former) to provide a first person view. On the other hand, I was happy to note the absence of any serious reservations or negative views.
I got the sense that he was not really into the spiritual circus (I use the word 'circus' not to display my personal irreverence but as an extrapolation of how I thought he might view it) but more concerned about his material situation. I detected in him a certain grudging acceptance that he was reasonably well off considering his family situation (which incidentally, we happened to discuss; he had some responsibilities but there did not seem to be any life and death issues) and considering that there are people in India and elsewhere in the world who are infinitely worse off. However I also caught a whiff of discontent, something in his manner that suggested he was not satisfied with the way things were and wanted something better. "Who does not?", I thought.
I am really getting into the swing of things with this narrative. For the uninitiated, that means we are in for a long haul here, a long and boring ride to nowhere in particular. I would urge all those I have bored thus far to take the chance to exit and not read any further. I am extremely sorry, dear brothers and sisters, but I cannot control myself. My verbosity knows no bounds! Once I let the words flow, they flood the plain. A flood of the very plain (dull), to put it otherwise, for those who are fond of puns and word play. But for those who wish to poke around in the garbage heap of my recollections, in the hope that a useful nugget or two might turn up, I shall continue.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
Before we began the ride, my American fellow traveller requested me to sit up front with the driver. He wanted to lie down on the back seat and sleep. He had come prepared with a pillow and a blanket. I was happy to oblige. The thought that my American brother was possibly a shade more attentive to his personal comfort, than I might have expected from a long-time follower of Amma, did cross my mind but only very briefly. I was in a happy, expectant mood and my mind did not pursue that line of thought very far. At another time, in another place perhaps my mind would have given that vasana (the tendency to evaluate others and spot their defects) greater play, but not that night.
So I sat on the front seat with the driver and brother Sam (not his real name) tucked himself in on the back seat. I initiated conversation with the driver in Malayalam. Before launching my
expedition to Amritapuri I had developed the intention of talking to as many people there as I could. Extensive socialization is not something I am normally pre-disposed to engage in, being an introvert for the most part, but I was determined to milk this trip for all the experience I could gather.
I learned that the driver had landed his job as ashram taxi driver through another branch of Amma's establishment in North Kerala. I tried to probe his attitude to and feelings for Amma but he was not very communicative. I asked him what he thought of Her and he said that since so many people come to see Her, and since She is doing so much by way of charity and education and so on, She must be good. I was a little disappointed that he seemed to be making intellectual deductions about Her goodness from circumstantial evidence, and was either unable or unwilling (more likely the former) to provide a first person view. On the other hand, I was happy to note the absence of any serious reservations or negative views.
I got the sense that he was not really into the spiritual circus (I use the word 'circus' not to display my personal irreverence but as an extrapolation of how I thought he might view it) but more concerned about his material situation. I detected in him a certain grudging acceptance that he was reasonably well off considering his family situation (which incidentally, we happened to discuss; he had some responsibilities but there did not seem to be any life and death issues) and considering that there are people in India and elsewhere in the world who are infinitely worse off. However I also caught a whiff of discontent, something in his manner that suggested he was not satisfied with the way things were and wanted something better. "Who does not?", I thought.
I am really getting into the swing of things with this narrative. For the uninitiated, that means we are in for a long haul here, a long and boring ride to nowhere in particular. I would urge all those I have bored thus far to take the chance to exit and not read any further. I am extremely sorry, dear brothers and sisters, but I cannot control myself. My verbosity knows no bounds! Once I let the words flow, they flood the plain. A flood of the very plain (dull), to put it otherwise, for those who are fond of puns and word play. But for those who wish to poke around in the garbage heap of my recollections, in the hope that a useful nugget or two might turn up, I shall continue.
Om Amriteshwaryai Namah
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