After my sojourn to Ramana’s caves, I was both elated and emotionally spent, so finding the Dreaming Tree restaurant was a welcome relief. I entered and walked up a flight of aged wooden stairs to the dining room. When I got to the reception area, the three women who had initially accompanied me to the caves were just paying up and readying to leave.. Four others from our group, seated at a table in the dining area, had just ordered and invited me to join them.

The Dreaming Tree reminded me of restaurants in Hawaii – rustic with the top half of the exterior walls open to the outside, a thatched roof, ceiling fans lazily circulating the hot air, worn wooden floors and low tables with comfortable cushioned couches with for seating. It was relaxed and casual, clearly a hangout for Westerners. The menu reflected that, which cheered me greatly for I was tiring of Indian food three meals a day. I ordered the “Guatemalan Breakfast,” consisting of two fried eggs, spinach, grilled tomatoes, fresh avocado, refried beans and cornbread. I shared my adventures with my newfound friends, mostly first-timers to India like me, who were suitably impressed with my undertaking. My meal was served much later than those of the others at the table, and although it was not quite what I was accustomed to in terms of flavor and other subtleties (the cornbread was dense, chewy and had a slightly gray color, for example), I was totally satisfied. I was delighted to be getting better acquainted with my fellow sojourners.. Several were from Eastern Washington State, where I had grown up and gone to college for two years, so we had much in common.

When the meal was over, my table mates directed me to Ramana Towers, where Deva would again be holding satsang. later that afternoon.  Confident that I had my bearings, I headed to the Women’s Collective to pick up my custom-made outfit, which was supposed to be done that day. En route I passed a number of beautiful, colorfully painted homes that I later found out were accommodations for tourists, including one with handsome images of Ramana and Hindu iconography painted on an exterior courtyard wall. Despite the upscale surroundings, there was a persistent unpleasant smell that came from a ditch running alongside the dirt road.

When I got to the Women’s Collective, the man I had dealt with wasn’t there, but another congenial man looked high and low for my order in a couple of dimly lit rooms lined with old-fashioned sewing machines, which nobody was using.. The floor around the sewing machines was littered with scraps of fabric and rolled bundles of samples and finished garments tied with strips of fabric. My things were nowhere to be found. After asking everyone in the area, he found the finished pantaloons and the ones being used as a pattern on the floor behind one of the sewing machines. Then we started the search for the top. Finally, he located a bundle containing fabric that looked familiar. Indeed, it was my top, cut in pieces but not yet sewn together. The man promised the top would be done the next day. I was disappointed but not particularly surprised.

.I found my way to Ramana Towers and climbed the four flights to the rooftop room where the satsangs were held. I was enthralled with watching people in this setting.. Seekers from far and near trickled in, a few Indians but mostly Westerners from Europe and the United States, virtually all dressed in Indian attire, which is not only attractive but quite practical in the tropical heat of southern India, since it is lightweight, loose and comfortable.. I was particularly taken with one older woman with weathered tawny skin and long straight white hair whose arresting green eyes seemed to carry ancient secrets. A beautiful beaded cloth purse that hung over her shoulder caught my attention.

Satsangs  generally follow a prescribed format: We meditate together as a group for 40 minutes to an hour, usually with Devaji meditating along with us in a chair up front.  Devaji then gives a 15- to 20-minute monologue after which he invites people to come up and sit in a chair facing him and ask questions (both Deva and the questioner are speaking into microphones so the crowd can hear), which can be personal or relating to a spiritual topic. Like many, I am usually ambivalent about going up to the chair; part of me yearns for the interaction and part of me is self-conscious and fearful, particularly if I am experiencing challenges, as I was in this instance.. Nonetheless, I screwed up my courage and went up to the chair. I admitted what was no doubt obvious to others -- that my protective mechanisms were running in high gear, that the environment felt unsafe and that I was feeling like nobody cared about me..

Deva responded that he was aware that this was going on for me but that he was waiting for me to break through my fears and speak up, since keeping silent is my default position. (The opportunity in such a setting is to break free of the barriers that limit us. In my case, it is to become more comfortable with speaking what is true for me, especially to an authority figure, since my early childhood training in a military family was to keep quiet and follow orders.. Being in this quite unfamiliar place halfway around the world was bringing up vulnerabilities that went way back.) Deva also acknowledged that he realized that making this pilgrimage was “a stretch” for me. As is typical, afterward I couldn’t really remember much about what he said, but it helped to have taken the chair, and I relaxed a few degrees. That night in the dining area at the ashram, Devaji came right over to me and gave me a hug.

After satsang, as we exited Ramana Towers, an Indian woman was creating a temporary mandala on the ground outside the hotel entrance, and a small crowd stopped to watched her artistry. Bent over at the waste, her arm was outstretched, dispensing white chalk in thin lines from her fingertips to create a beautiful lotus-shaped mandala in the dirt. We watched in fascination as she created the complicated image free-hand.

That night, desperate for sleep, I took an antihistamine at 8:45 p.m. and and didn't wake up until 6:45, the latest I had slept since we arrived.. Not even the early morning broadcast chanting disturbed me.. Mentally, emotionally and even physically I felt good when I woke up, but twinges of cramping turned into intestinal problems after breakfast. I decided to take it easy, checking in with my next-door-neighbor physician friend, who postulated that it was just a reaction to everything.. I had experienced the day before, particularly admitting my insecurities and fears in public to Devaji at satsang..

Later I felt well enough to attempt to pick up my outfit at the Women’s Collective. Hailing a tuk tuk with a couple of others from the ashram, we headed toward town. The air quality was terrible that morning. It was a festival day, so there were even more people out and about and things seemed even wilder than usual. The rik-shaw we took was festooned with a garland of fresh marigolds, and at one point we passed a processional that included a flower-bedecked truck traveling slowly while men walked alongside beating drums and scattering flower petals. The highway was covered with smashed flowers..

Low and behold when I arrived at the tailor’s shop, they found both the completed top and the pantaloons! I went down to pay at the store on the ground level where a miscellany of goods, all made by women, were offered for sale, and found a sheer white shawl that I couldn’t resist. The custom-made ensemble cost me about $18 and the shawl about $8 (it was more expensive than most). I felt a sense of accomplishment at having seen this interaction through to completion – though it remained to be seen if the clothes would fit or not.

After a full week in Tiruvannamalai I was feeling more comfortable with my surroundings. However, as I observed in my journal: “I can’t say it’s all been a pleasure.”  One disconcerting element was that the toilet in my room smelled like sewage and intermittently I found it nauseating.  I finally broke down and bought some citrus toilet bowl cleanser at Nigiri Market that masked but did not eliminate entirely the odor.. Progress.

Another of the challenges was being constantly vigilant about what went into my mouth, including being sure to use bottled water when brushing my teeth and taking care not to swallow water when showering.. Easy to forget, especially in the morning when I was not fully awake and alert. Quite a few  people in the sangham seemed to be having varying degrees of digestive disturbance, and I was no exception. Unfortunately for me, it was hard to figure out cause and effect. My digestion had been touchy ever since my father passed away three years before. It had been accompanied by an almost constant burning sensation in my mouth that doctors hadn’t been able to accurately diagnose or cure.. The long and the short of it was that I could never sure when my digestive system was out of whack whether it was related to something I had eaten, attributable to the deep psycho-spiritual work that I was doing or it was the same-old same-old flaring up. Since I seemed to be faring no worse than anybody else, I didn’t spend too much time trying to figure it out except when it seemed like some treatment might be required.

Although I wasn’t feeling tip-top, I decided to go on an outing with three other women to visit the caves where Ramana had lived and meditated for the better part of his life.  We sojourned by tuk tuk on the now familiar route to the Ramana Ashram. We walked through the grounds to the and set off on a meandering uphill trail about 3-feet wide set with large flat stones that led up the mountain. From time to time we passed vendors in makeshift stands imploring us to purchase water or bananas or hand-carved stone Indian gods and goddesses. It was comfortably warm when we started out, but the temperature rose steadily as we trekked along.

In about a half an hour, we arrived at the Skandashram cave, where Ramana lived during the latter part of his life, from 1916 to 1922. At the entrance to the cave was a small enclosed porch where several people were meditating. The cave itself was small; an altar held a photograph of Ramana illuminated by the flickering flame of a votive candle. Four or five people were seated on the floor meditating.  When someone got up and left the entryway porch, and I hastened to take the spot. From where I was sitting I could see the photo of Ramana inside the cave. A sweet, loving energy permeated the small area. Periodically people stepped in, went to the door of the cave, leaned over to dip their fingers into the small bowls of sacred ash on the doorsill and touched their fingertips to their foreheads leaving traces of the ash – an gesture of surrender to the Divine. They then placed their hands in prayer position over their heart center, bowed and exited.

Once seated in the entryway, my mind quickly slowed to a stop, and I fell into a deep sense of peace and tranquility. I sat for about 10 minutes until one of the meditators in the interior cave got up and left. I crossed the threshold and took a place just a few feet from the altar. I felt like I was on holy ground. The sweetness and love only intensified in this chamber, and I became lost in the silence. After about 10 more minutes, my tranquility was interrupted by the thought that my friends, who had not joined me in the cave, might leave me behind. I came back to waking consciousness and emerged from the cave, blinking in the bright sunlight, and found them assembled and preparing to depart. Relieved to find them still there, I joined them, and we headed down a stone path toward the Virupaksha cave where Ramana had meditated for 17 years..

An old Indian man with no front teeth came over and talked to us in his native language, gesturing toward the path. He became our self-appointed guide even though we couldn’t really understand him. We followed him down the trail until we came to a patio arrayed with shoes and the entrance to the Virupaksha cave, where Ramana lived from 1899-1916. Our guide presented us each with a souvenir rock from Arunachala.

I took my shoes off and went in. It was pitch black except for a small candlelit altar to Ramana, which cast minimal light into the recesses of this much larger enclosure. I stood motionless, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light so I could determine if there was any place to sit. Suddenly, from out of the darkness, a hand reached out and grabbed hold of my arm. Initially startled, I relaxed when I realized that it was Beverly, someone from our group who had been going up to the Virupaksha cave every day and sitting for four to five hours. She led me back to a wall where there was an open space beside her. Generously, she offered me her meditation pillow, and I sat down. I felt like weeping from gratitude -- it was as if I had been touched by the hand of benevolence.

If anything, the spiritual energy in this cave was more potent than the other; it was drenched in an indescribable sweetness. Immediately I dropped into a deep meditative state and remained there about 25 minutes. As happened in the other cave, the peace was unexpectedly interrupted by thoughts of my traveling companions departing without me. I came back from the depths, reluctantly gave Beverly back her cushion and went outside. I felt washed clean by the sacred energy of the cave.

This time my friends were nowhere to be seen. With no small amount of trepidation at being on my own, I put on my shoes and started back down the path. I was soon joined by our self-appointed guide who greeted me, saying something I didn’t understand. I bowed to him with my hands in prayer position over my heart center and walked on. He followed me, and I quickly realized that he wanted money, so I gave him some rupees. He indicated, however, that I should not return the way I had come, motioning instead down a path that led in the opposite direction. I wasn’t at all sure that route would take me back to the Ramana Ashram. He was insistent, so despite misgivings I followed his directions and took the path downhill for about a half a mile, passing no other people. Finally, I came to an area that was surrounded on both sides by mounds of garbage and human feces.. I was becoming more uncertain of the soundness of my decision. I could see the temple of Tiruvannamalai at a distanced through the smog, but it was not near the Ramana Ashram. Finally, the stench and my better sense prevailed, and I turned around and headed back the way I had come. I didn’t care how much longer the route back was, at least it was somewhat familiar.

.By now it was sweltering hot, and I was perspiring. The climb was uphill, and I encountered lots of monkeys who were quite certain that I had food hidden somewhere on my person. The monkeys can be insistent and some, I had read, carry rabies, so I was a little skittish when they approached. I waved them off, and they scampered away but remained at a short distance just in case an opportunity presented itself. I made a few wrong turns and more than once succumbed to the fear that I was lost in the jungle, but finally found my way back to Skandashram Cave. I breathed a huge sigh of relief -- from there the return path was clear. No doubt I had never really been in any danger, but I was tired, a long way from home, and in a very foreign environment. I passed my ashram neighbor Amrita coming up the path. We exchanged a few words, but she was heading the opposite direction, so I was still on my own.

By now I was gaining confidence, but I still stopped at a stand along the way and bought a lovely small stone carved Ganesha, the Hindu elephant god who is the remover of obstacles. Eventually the ashram came into sight, and I relaxed. Once I was back to the section of town I was familiar with I set out to find the Dreaming Tree, a restaurant that I had heard about from others in the sangham. I was tired, quite hungry and very thirsty. I crossed the main paved road and walked along a few dirt side streets, some with what smelled like raw sewage running in small ruts alongside. I had to ask for directions several times but I finally found saw a sign for the restaurant in the distance.. Sustenance was at hand.

Next: A Western meal, going up to the chair, and picking up my clothes from the tailor
 
 
 

I began to develop a morning routine over the next few days, waking up before dawn and going to the rooftop of the neglected house for yoga at dawn. Doing yoga on the tile floor was challenging, so I bought a yoga mat at the Nigiri Market for a little over $3, which served a dual purpose..

In an attempt to make my sleeping arrangements more comfortable, I had borrowed the thin mattress (and I use the word advisedly) from the second twin bed and piled it atop the mattress on the bed where I was sleeping. The thin inflatable pad I had brought went on top of those, and finally, I added the yoga mat to my mound o’ mattresses. That tipped the scales, and I finally had enough cushioning to feel comfortable.. I had to take care, though, not to move too far in one direction or another or I would fall off my stack.

I could feel that the subtle energies of the body were really being activated by the mountain and by spending so much time alone meditating.. Doing sun salutations as the day was breaking behind the holy mountain was powerful stuff. However, I began to notice that feelings of jealousy and unworthiness were arising.. It seemed that everybody else had their particular buddies and friendship circles, and I wasn’t a part of any of them. Even the people I knew, it seemed, had no interest in me, including Deva. Being no novice, I simply observed the feelings without acting on them. I knew that part of what I was feeling was attributable to being far from home and in a foreign environment. I also knew that as it pertained to Deva, I was projecting my issues around authority figures onto him. The strong feelings of love and devotion that I felt for him were intermingled with a sense of unworthiness and powerlessness that related to my father and dated back to early childhood.

I had been aware before I embarked on this journey, that it would open me up to the arising of old outworn patterns, which is part and parcel of what an undertaking like this is all about. Meditating in such an atmosphere and being in this kind of spiritual setting, thins the walls that hold these constructs in place and allows them to emerge and be seen for what they are – memories that activate a concomitant set of physical, mental and emotional responses. You can’t be free until you’re no longer a slave to the past. Knowing all this didn’t make it fun, but at least I had an idea of what was going on and that therein was my work.

In the tradition from which Devaji’s teachings spring, when difficult material is playing, the approach is to stop and simply be with whatever is arising -- embracing and holding everything with as much acceptance and tenderness as possible. So that’s what I did. The feelings did subside intermittently, but they were quite persistent, not surprising since they had been running the show my whole life.. I took some consolation in the fact that all this time alone left plenty of room for journaling and writing poetry.

On the third night I slept fitfully, woke up at 3 a.m. and was unable to get back to sleep. Finally, I got up, showered and went for chai at 6, then took my yoga mat to the rooftop. This morning, however, when I finished yoga, I felt shaky and queasy. I went to breakfast but could barely eat, so I went back to my room and rested all morning, sleeping a little. In the afternoon, I reached out to my neighbor Amrita, who not only had been to India many times before and is experienced at this type of work, but she is a doctor, and I knew her to be extremely compassionate.. I spilled my story to her and after some wise counsel and a homeopathic remedy, she invited me to go to town with her and another woman. We shopped at the Women’s Cooperative, where I had been before to have clothes made, then went to Ramana Towers, where Devaji would be holding satsang later in the day.

 I had a spinach and cheese omlette for lunch, which settled in pretty well, and then we went upstairs to set up for satsang.. I helped arrange the plastic chairs in rows in a bright sunlit conference room with windows on three sides on the rooftop of the hotel. When that was done I went out to enjoy the view overlooking parts of the city and watch a pair of monkeys cavort.

The satsang, which is Sanskrit for “in the company of truth,” was attended by a number of people from our group, a contingency of Western seekers from around the world, and a few Indians, 40 to 50 people in all. It followed Devaji’s usual format. After we meditate together for a while, he offered a 15- to 20-minute monologue on the non-dual teachings, and then invited members of the audience with questions or concerns to come up to a seat facing him and dialogue.. It was, as usual, powerful, particularly the interactions.. Watching the kind and skillful way Deva helps people disengage from the story of their “problem” and contact the truth of who they are -- the love and beauty that lives in the stillness of the heart -- always moves me..

After satsang, my own painful story was running again as it seemed that nobody wanted to connect with me for a trip to Ramana Market and a tuk-tuk back to the ashram. I started off on my own, but soon ran into a woman from our group who was very friendly and interested in doing the same thing I was.. So -- as I would come to observe over and over on this trip -- it all worked out.

After returning to the ashram I learned that others also hadn't been feeling well, including one robust man who had been so gung-ho he had climbed the mountain on the same day we arrived. So at least in respect to what was happening in my physical body, I wasn’t alone..

My other consolation was that spending so much time alone was awakening me to so much beauty – the scintillating aliveness of everything was almost vibrating, throwing off a kind of internal light. I could hardly walk through the grounds without gasping in astonishment over something.. The dried leaves on the ground, the flowers, even the most common objects took on an intensity that was staggering.. I was becoming more sensitized to everything -- sounds, tastes, nuances of every sort. This is what happens when we slow down, reduce the external stimulation, quiet our minds and simply be with ourselves.. I wrote the following poem in response to the impact on me of the mango leaves that.I walked through on my way to and from the dining area.

                                                       Flaming Leaves
                                                    Flaming leaves burn
                                                The ground where I walk,
                                             Fueling the hunger in my heart,
                                                  And igniting the passion
                                                      That is always there
                                                            Just waiting
                                                    For the slightest rustle
                                                          To be kindled
                                                   Into a bonfire of love..
 
Coming next: Meditating in Ramana’s Caves

After lunch, Richard and I crossed the street to the Ramana Ashram, an assortment of structures that organically took form over time to accommodate the needs of the great Indian saint Sri Ramana Maharshi (1879-1950) and the community of devotees that grew up around him. The walled complex today houses classrooms, accommodations for pilgrims, a gift shop and a shrine to Ramana, among other things. We walked through a large shady courtyard, took off our shoes as is customary before entering virtually any building in India, and climbed a few stairs to Samadhi Hall, the shrine to Ramana, an open-air pillared marble structure encased within a larger enclosed building..

Ramana experienced his spiritual awakening as a teenage boy after he was struck by an acute fear of death, which he decided to embrace fully. In so doing, he essentially died to this world while still in his body, and realized union with the divine (Samadhi). Soon after this experience, he left his family and traveled to Arunachala, where, according to Indian legend, Lord Shiva is said to have manifested as a column of light then assumed the form of this unprepossessing hill. Ramana lived his entire adult life at the base of this holy mountain.

Along with a few other visitors, Richard and I wandered about the shrine, the predominate feature of which is a flower-bedecked bronze statue of Ramana sitting in lotus position. An air of deep reverence and tranquility pervaded the room. We circumambulated the shrine and lingered in silence in the hall for some time, basking in the light, clear energy.

Eventually we wandered into the nearby gift shop. Shelf after shelf carried photos of Ramana, books about him and other writings related to self-inquiry and the non-dual tradition for which Ramana has become known around the world. I selected a 5”x7” black-and-white photo of him at an older age -- his eyes deep pools of love.. I had read books about Ramana and practiced self-inquiry but this was my first encounter with him in situ, so to speak, where I could immerse myself in the environment that supported him. I was both excited to find myself there and feeling a little numb, brought on by jet lag, culture shock and some deeper issues that were being stirred up by the very fact that I had embarked on this pilgrimage..

Richard and I spoke little as we left the Ramana Ashram and hailed one of the tuk-tuks clustered outside the gate to take us back to the Suddhananda Ashram. Quite weary by the time I got back to my room, I gratefully took a rest before cleaning up for dinner.

The ashram dining area is a large covered open-air structure divided into two sections, both with a concrete floor and surrounded by a low wall. Bisecting the two is an aisle with all the dishes and utensils stored on one side and a long row of sinks on the other.  The main section, where we usually congregated, had two small wooden built-in tables at one end. If you didn’t take a seat at these tables, which together could accommodate only about 8 people (there were over 20 of us), you could sit on the surrounding ledge or on the floor. The routine was to go to the central area and pick up a round metal plate, several small metal bowls, a metal cup and utensils. We then lined up in the second section where food was served cafeteria style out of large metal vats by Indian men and women who spoke little English, though they smiled responsively when greeted.

These first meals were typical of the food we would be eating for our entire stay. It was vegan and sufficiently flavorful to be satisfying. I would soon learn that basically, every lunch and dinner consisted of one or two kinds of thin soup; a dal or vegetable main dish; white and/or brown rice, yogurt, a flat bread and a salad. Occasionally we got a sweet pudding-like dessert. The main dishes were a varying mélange of vegetables and legumes such as okra, carrots, onions, peppers, cauliflower, potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, garbanzos, mung beans and some things I didn’t recognize, cooked together until soft. Of course, Indian spices prevailed. Breakfast was a thin oatmeal, a vermicelli noodle dish or another melange of cooked vegetables and fruit, usually pineapple or small bananas, more flavorful and with a smoother texture that those we get in the U.S. The food was healthy, filling and tasty. Memorable? No, but it was certainly more than adequate. There also was a purified water dispenser, essential for Westerners who have to beware of unfriendly critters in the tap water.

The final step in the meal ritual was washing the dishes at the long row of concrete basins where mosquitoes congregated thanks to the running water. Food waste was dumped into a central pail to feed to the peacocks who strolled the grounds around the perimeter. Rather than liquid dish detergent, small metal containers of a gritty green paste and thin washing pads were used to clean the dishes, which were then set out across the aisle on a low shelf to air dry and be ready for use at the next meal.

This first week we enjoyed conversation in the dining hall, taking the opportunity to get acquainted with one another since in the weeks after we would be in silence.

Next: Public Satsangs and Growing Internal Discomfort

I managed to keep my composure throughout the ride into Tiruvannamalai (Tiru for short), though I was definitely on sensory overload. So much to take in and all of it so vastly different from what I was accustomed to at home.. The tuk-tuk driver followed the main highway all the way into town and let Uma, Richard and I out on the edge of the commercial district. The 10-minute trip cost about 150 rupees or $2.40, which we shared.

We walked a short distance down an unpaved side road to a bare-bones office furnished only with a desk and a few chairs where the man who owned the van that transported us from the airport ran a money-exchanging business with his brother. The exchanges were moving along satisfactorily until it was my turn, when it was announced that they were out of money, and I was asked to please wait while the brother went to get more rupees. We made conversation for about 15 minutes until he returned with a thick handful of bills and exchanged my $200 for about 13,600 rupees -- which lasted me the entire trip. This was to be my first lesson in how India works, which is to say totally on its own terms and timelines.

Uma went her own way, and Richard, whom I barely knew, and I ambled off on an informal walking tour of the area. We returned to the main highway and strolled for a short distance, passing a mélange of small shops, a table stocked with rugs and towels, fruit and vegetable stands, a vendor offering coconut milk extracted from fresh coconuts, mounds of papayas for sale and other small-scale commercial enterprises.

I had been advised ahead of time about the need to dress appropriately. Women are expected to have their shoulders and chests covered, not only with a blouse that falls to below their buttocks, but also with a scarf draped over the bosom to further conceal any curvature. It is also customary for women to have their legs covered. I been told about Western women being assaulted for improper dress, so I was concerned about not causing any offense -- not just because of fear of reprisal but out of respect for their customs. I had brought a few outfits that fit the bill, but I was going to have to shop for more if I didn’t want to be hand-washing clothing every day.

Occasionally as we walked along, beggars approached us, hands outstretched, pleading for money. I had been told that the government discourages tourists from giving money to beggars, so I simply smiled, put my hand over my heart and said “namaste” as warmly as possible, a practice I would repeat throughout the trip. It tugged at my heartstrings, though and I felt a mix of emotions. Already I could see that this trip was shaping up to be a stretch for me, even though I have been traveling and living abroad since I was an infant.

Eventually Richard and I came upon a women’s collective that had been recommended by Uma where goods made by Indian women were sold.  (It has been clearly demonstrated that if you want to improve the economy in a Third-World country, give women the means to earn an income.) We wandered into one building in the complex that housed three rooms filled with bolts of colorful fabric and a rack of garments.

From the rack, customers select garments they want replicated (or they can bring their own), then choose fabric to have the items tailor made.. I selected a pair of Ali-Baba style pantaloons and a simple, loose-fitting V-neck top that fell to mid-thigh. I took great delight in poring over the colorful bolts of cotton fabric and making my selection -- watermelon color for the pants; apricot for the top, embellished with orange embroidered trim -- brighter colors than I normally wear at home, but hey, I’m in India.

I took the garments over to a woman who took some quick measurements of them, which she wrote down on a slip of paper.  I then took the slip of paper and fabric bolts to a somber young woman in the next room who measured and cut the fabric and a length of trim. I was then sent off across the patio to a retail store to pay for everything. That accomplished, I was instructed to return to the original building and climb a flight of external stairs to find the tailor for measurements..

Richard was also having some clothing made, and so we both walked back to the original building, climbed the flight of stairs and entered a long dark room lined with sewing machines. Fabric and items of clothing were strewn about on the floor. In a back was the tailor, a balding middle-aged man. I showed him the pants and top I wanted made and handed him the fabric. Without taking any measurements, he looked at the prototypes, looked appraisingly at me and assured me that everything would fit. I was not convinced, but he was insistent. The clothes, he said, would be ready by Thursday (this was Saturday). Richard and I exchanged a look as if to say, “Yeah, right.” We were already coming to understand the Indian relationship with time.. Nonetheless,. I came away feeling flushed with success at having completed this much of the transaction.

Richard and I resumed our exploration of Tiru, dipping into the Sri Ramana Market, located directly across from the Ramana Ashram, and the Nigiri Market. Both are grocery stores, but quite different in flavor. The Ramana market is a funky health food store and organic market with brusque clerks who displayed a bit of impatience with the largely Western clientele that passes through its doors. Aged wooden shelves hold a variety of items rather haphazardly displayed, ranging from household cleaning products, to beautiful silk saris, to essential oils, to dried goods, Indian spices and seasonings and English chocolates.. Nigiri, by contrast, is a bright, clean, well-lit store, reminiscent of a Western supermarket, though smaller, offering a wide variety of food, fresh and dried, a good deal of which was unfamiliar to me.. I would return often to these two stores for supplies over the course of my stay.

By now it was lunch time and we were getting hungry, so when Richard and I spied the Akasha Restaurant, which was on our recommended list, we went inside.. It was exclusively filled with Indians, indicating to us that we would be getting an authentic experience rather than something tailored for foreigners.. We were seated and ordered what seemed to be the only offering on the menu. The pleasant waiter returned with a large tray for each of us lined with palm leaves on which there were seven or eight metal bowls filled with a variety of items. I recognized yogurt, something made of beets, and a dish with noodles in it that was somewhere between a drink and a pudding. We were a bit baffled by most of what we were looking at. Fortunately, an Indian family at the next table recognized our dilemma and explained to us what was in each of the bowls.. They had spent time in the U.S. and were eager to be of service and talk to us about their travels.. Over the course of what turned out to be a delicious lunch, Richard and I got to know one another a bit, and I began to relax a little about being a stranger in a strange land..

Next: Ramana Maharshi
 
 
 

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The rest of my first day at the ashram is a blur except for a short foray up the mountain with a few others from the group. I was game at first but found that the loose-fitting cotton Ali Baba-style pantaloons and top that I had purchased back home for the trip, kept getting hung up on shrub thorns that were at least 1½ inches long. I could barely take five steps before needing to stop and disentangle myself again. I realized that I didn’t have the patience or energy to deal with this frustration, and I didn’t want to ruin my clothes, so I requested that we save that journey for another day and return to the ashram. The others good-naturedly complied.

At some point in the day I learned that Jay, my companion in line at Emirates Airline who had been bumped from our flight, had resolved his ticket problems and would be flying out from San Francisco that day to join us tomorrow. I was cheered by this news..

We gathered in the broad walkway outside the temple hall to wait for dinner, which was supposed to be served at 6. At 6:30 we were told it would be delayed for another hour. Too exhausted to wait any longer I went back to my room and dined on dried apricots, figs, part of an orange and some trail mix and fell into bed at about 7. I finally slept – the first time in about 2½ days..

Going to bed early, no later than 8 p.m., became routine, since I (and everybody else) was awakened before dawn by chanting being broadcast at full volume over a loudspeaker. I lay there in the dark allowing this development to sink in. It was 5 a.m., and I definitely was not going back to sleep. I am not normally an early riser, but it was clear that I would be from this point on. I learned later that the chanting came not from the Suddhananda Ashram but from a temple across the street. Later in the early morning that chanting was countered by more chanting broadcast from another location in the opposite direction, creating a cacophony of dueling voices and instrumentation. It persisted for the better part of the day. Not the quiet environment I had expected.

I showered, dressed and ventured out to get some hot chai, which was put out in the dining area at 6 a.m., then went up to the rooftop to meditate.. Daylight was breaking as I approached the old house, and by the time I was seated in one of the plastic chairs, the first rays of sun were beginning to fan out behind the mountain, casting an spray of soft pink light up onto the peak of Arunachala, as though in homage to the mountain. It took my breath away.

I turned my attention inward and took stock. I was still sleep deprived and feeling jet lagged, and I was both excited and apprehensive about what lay ahead. Although I knew that what I had traveled all this way in search of -- a deeper realization of the Divine -- had nothing to do with my physical comfort or discomfort or my mind's projections about the future., I was still caught up in mental activity.. The tourist in me also was curious about this very foreign place I found myself.

We had a week of free time before the formal retreat with Devaji was to begin. The first two days after our arrival were wide open. The following several afternoons Deva would be giving public satsang (a Sanskrit word meaning “in the company of truth”) at a hotel in town, which most of us would be attending. Then we would settle in for two weeks of silence and twice-daily satsangs in the ashram temple.. After the formal retreat began, we would, for the most part be staying on the grounds, which meant that whatever shopping and sightseeing I wanted to do had to be done this week.

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I I was anxious about getting some Indian money, so after breakfast (I’ll write about food later) I went out with two others from the Mt. Shasta sangha, Uma and Richard, to exchange dollars for rupees.. Uma, who had been to India several times before and knew the ropes, was our leader. The three of us walked to the ashram entrance and snagged one of the small bright-yellow open-air motorized vehicles called tuk-tuks that were waiting outside the wrought-iron gates.

You haven’t lived until you’ve been a passenger in a tuk-tuk on a highway in India. There is no ride in an amusement park that could compare for thrills.. Cars, buses, vans, motor scooters and bicycles whiz along on the road intermingling with pedestrians, dogs, cows and an occasional monkey -- nobody seemingly concerned about safety or order. Horns are blaring, but not in an aggressive way, more as a form of communication – “I’m here;” “I’m behind you;”  “I’m passing.”  Vehicles constantly darted in and out in a kind of insane dance.. On a two-lane, two-way road, vehicles passed one another with no regard for oncoming traffic. I cannot tell you how many times I looked up to see, for example, a truck and a bus side-by-side coming straight at us in both lanes with the shoulders on either side occupied by pedestrians, bicyclists, animals. or all of the aforementioned. Somehow, miraculously, our driver would dodge and weave and leave the danger behind us. It was so surreal and the driver so calm that I couldn’t even be alarmed – at least not until I got safely back to my room and reflected on what had transpired. Even then, I could only shake my head in disbelief.

Coming next: Buying custom-made clothes and visiting Ramana’s ashram.

I felt a deep sense of relief when our van turned onto the grounds of the Suddhananda Ashram, and I knew I had arrived safely at my destination  – halfway around the world from my home in California.. In contrast to what I had just observed on our drive, from the airport the ashram seemed peaceful and almost luxurious..

Our baggage was quickly unloaded, and I was directed to my lodgings. I pulled my suitcase along a tree-lined, dirt path past small pink-brick buildings until I came to a place where three independent single-story brick structures faced each other in an informal circle.. My home-away-from-home was on the right – a flat-roofed, L-shaped building with a concrete porch fronting three apartments.. Mine was at the end of the short leg.. I discovered from the signs posted on the doors that Amrita, a physician from Florida whom I had met at a previous retreat in Mt. Shasta, was to be my neighbor in the middle, and Karen, a fellow devotee from the Monterey Peninsula, in the other end unit. I was happy to have people I knew nearby..

I unlocked the wooden door with an old-fashioned key and entered a sparsely furnished room with two twin beds and a bathroom.  The beds had thin leaden mattresses over a plywood base, one flat lifeless pillow per bed and thin blue and gray striped coverlets. The floor was dusty and dotted with insect carcasses. The bathroom had an open shower with two large crusty plastic buckets overturned on its plain unpolished tile floor, a small white porcelain sink with a mirror over it and smelly flush toilet. Toilet tissue could not be flushed and had to be placed in a paper bag and disposed of in the trash can outside my dwelling.  I had been forewarned that there was no hot water. The room wasn’t dirty, neither was it exactly up to my standards of cleanliness..

Most health information I had received back home about visiting India was somewhat alarming to say the least. Based on cautionary warnings from the Visiting Nurse Association (VNA), I was concerned about -- among other things -- mosquitoes that could carry dengue fever, so I slathered on insect repellent and put on netting that goes over the head and face for protection while I unpacked. On the advice of the VNA, I had taken the precaution of spraying all my clothing with a particular type of insect repellent before I left home.. In retrospect, my initial fears and precautions seem amusing.  I was so out of my element!

Within a day, however, I abandoned the mosquito netting altogether. There were no mosquitoes in my room and no way for them to get in so long as I took care not to leave the front door open. I did, however, continue to apply insect repellent when I went outdoors, for the open-air dining area was another matter, where water for washing dishes and standing buckets of leftover food scraps attracted lots of mosquitoes..

I unpacked my belongings, arranging my clothing on built-in shelves in an alcove outside the bathroom, spread my thin inflatable sleeping pad over the mattress on the bed nearest a small built-in table and made up the bed with the sheets I had brought along.. For the first time in about 30 hours I laid down for a rest. After a short while I realized it was fruitless.. I was much too excited, so I decided to explore my surroundings instead. But first I needed a shower.  Somewhere along the line I had been informed that there was not hot water, so this was only the first of what would be the fastest showers on record for me..  It was, shall we say, an invigorating experience..

At this point, I was in the grips of fear. I was feeling alone and unsafe and questioning why I had undertaken this journey. The interesting thing about a pilgrimage like this is that you set out seeking to expand your spiritual awareness, but first you get to experience whatever is in your own consciousness that gets in the way.of that. In my case, it laid bare an underlying insecurity and mistrust. I was afraid of doing anything wrong, that if I made a mistake the consequences would be dire.. I've been on a spiritual path long enough to recognize that this was an opportunity to break through some old outworn conditioning, so I just took some time to sit with the feelings and they began to subside.

Clean and refreshed, although mentally foggy, I went outside and encountered my neighbor, Amrita. We greeted each other affectionately, and she offered to show me around as she had been at the ashram before.. We ambled along dirt and gravel paths past several small boxy pink-brick buildings tucked beneath mangoes, jacarandas, hibiscus and other flowering shrubs and trees whose varieties. I did not recognize..

She took me down a palm-shrouded dirt road that led to a handsome but neglected Colonial style two-story stucco house with a flat red-tiled roof. We went up a flight of external stairs to the rooftop where I got my first extended glimpse of Arunachala, the holy mountain that annually attracts hundreds of thousands of spiritual pilgrims from around the world. This rooftop would become a daily refuge for me and others from our group, who would come to bask in the beautiful, clear energy of this remarkable mountain, the incarnation of Shiva (the Absolute).

The mountain itself is not visually noteworthy compared to peaks say in the Rockies or the Cascades.. It is not tall; in fact, one can hike to the summit and back in an afternoon. From the vantage point of the ashram, the ridge line sweeps up to a small promontory on the left-hand side then dips back down in an arc before swooping up to the summit – somewhat like uneven humps on a camel. But despite its humble appearance, there is no denying that this mountain emanates something quite indescribable..

I found a plastic chair and sat, drinking in the unbelievable peace and tranquility. This is what I had come for, this sense of being in the presence of the ineffable.. Every time on this journey I would find myself faltering, I would return to this rooftop and gaze in silence at the holy mountain and feel my burdens drop away.  This would be only the first of numerous experiences that cannot be explained except to attribute them to the special powers of this extraordinary place where I would find myself for the next 3½ weeks.

Coming next: Getting My Sea Legs






 

After seeing my luggage safely ensconced atop one of the two vans that would take us to the Suddhananda Ashram, I boarded and found a single seat by a window. There were 7 or 8 of us squeezed in and around baggage and other paraphernalia. The van was owned and driven by a Tiruvannamalai businessman who had provided this service before for Deva’s groups, so there was a sense of confidence that we were in good hands..

Since this was the first time we had really had any opportunity to be together, we chatted a little and shared nuts and dried fruits we had brought along as snacks.. Suddenly, I realized how tired I was, and since I couldn’t see much of anything anyway, I laid my head back and rested for a while.. I say “rested” euphemistically since the ride was hardly smooth.. We seemed to travel in fits and starts as the van would pick up speed and move at a good clip for a while then suddenly slow down to a crawl and inch along bumpily.. Peering out the front windshield I could see by the headlights that the road looked badly rutted, in fact, as though it weren’t a road at all. I later was told these were places that had washed out in monsoon rains and had not yet been repaired..

We rode along in this erratic fashion for over an hour, then the van slowed down and stopped alongside a brightly lit roadside concession stand.. I stumbled out of the van and looked around in an exhausted daze.. It looked like a scene out of a movie.. Garish lights illuminated a bare-bones open-air structure that housed rough-hewn counters and steaming metal vats filled with chai, which was scooped out and poured theatrically in a long brown waterfall from a ladle held up high by an Indian “barista” into individual metal cups sans handles.. Even in the pitch black of this early morning hour (sometime after 4 a.m.), the place was filled with people.. Those in the group who had been on this pilgrimage before marched right up to a wooden counter and ordered.. I carefully observed the protocol, then followed suit, ordering a single shot of chai and some packaged biscuits (cookies), which I paid for with rupees that Jill had loaned me.. The steaming hot chai, milky brown and slightly viscous, was a godsend.. I cupped the hot metal cup in my hand and inhaled the spicy fragrance before taking a welcome sip.. It was more intensely flavored than the chai I was accustomed to in the states and gave me an instant lift. The caffeine would begin to work its magic soon after we boarded the van, which was good timing since dawn was breaking and I didn’t want to miss a thing.

.As the darkness faded and a soft rosy light began to illuminate the landscape, I got my first glimpse of the countryside.. Tall palms stood like statues above flat terrain of red-brown earth dotted with shrubs and littered with trash.. Women in traditional colorful India saris were outside makeshift dwellings – thatched huts and rudimentary structures fashioned of sticks, tin, cloth and/or cardboard -- sweeping the dirt in front of their doorways.. Outside many of the front doors were beautiful lotus-like symmetrical shapes fashioned from white sand trickled onto the dirt.  

Although it the sky was still bathed in the pink light of dawn, I was amazed at how many people were already out and about. A number of women were en route to a central water source, balancing metal jugs on their heads.. Cows, their bones showing through their hides, were tethered outside of shanties.. Skinnier dogs – all mid-sized, short-haired and looking like they came from the same mother -- sniffed about, obviously seeking some morsels of sustenance..

By now we are joined on the highway by trucks, buses, cars and motor-scooters carrying entire families, including infants.. Nobody seems to be obeying any formal rules of the road..
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We passed through small villages, then finally as the sky turned blue, we reached the outskirts of Tiruvannamalai. Colorful stalls and more substantial concrete or stucco buildings lined the two-lane road, some filled with goods for sale others appeared to be living spaces.. In a several-block-long section, sadhus (holy men) with their wild unkempt hair and bright orange robes, sat or reclined on blankets on the concrete sidewalk apparently oblivious to the cacophony all around them..

Finally we turned into a gated driveway and pulled up a tree-lined dirt road, stopping in front of some brick buildings.. At long-last, after more than 30 hours of travel, I had arrived at my destination.!

Next: Settling In

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Last year on this very day I was in the air on my way to Southern India on pilgrimage with my spiritual teacher, Devaji. It has taken me this long to integrate the experience, but I am finally moved to write something about it.

As with all such adventures, this one began as soon as I made the commitment to go, sometime in July of 2015. At first, all I felt was elation at the prospect of visiting the holy mountain of Arunachala, where the great Indian saint Ramana Maharshi had lived for the bulk of his life.. As the time for departure got closer, however, fear and trepidation began to arise, as it so often does with any significant undertaking.  

I had never been to India before so I wondered, would this be too much for me? The trip alone was daunting: a 15-hour non-stop flight from San Francisco to Dubai, then a 4-hour flight to Chennai, India, and finally a 4-hour van ride to the Suddhananda Ashram in Tiruvannamalai where we would be staying for nearly a month. The culture – so different from our own – the poverty, pollution, congestion.. How would I respond? Then, of course, there is the very real possibility of disease – whether food- or insect-borne.. I began to have second thoughts and called my teacher and others in the sangha (Sanskrit for like-minded community) for reassurance, which they readily offered.. I calmed down and got down to the business of preparing for the trip, which required passport renewal, getting an Indian Visa, shopping for all the accoutrements that would be useful in an austere environment and obtaining necessary shots and preventive medications.. The story of obtaining an Indian Visa could by itself fill up this space, so I’ll skip that. Suffice it to say, that it was a good introduction to the chaos I would soon be experiencing.

We were departing at 3:30 in the afternoon  from SFO, flying Emirates Air. I took the shuttle mid-morning from downtown Monterey and was sitting alone with nobody in the adjacent seat until a stop in Marina where a woman sat down beside me.. We smiled at each other but did not speak, both immersed in our own thoughts.. The shuttle arrived at the international terminal of the airport without incident, and I headed off on my adventure, feeling a bit overwhelmed..

I located the Emirates counter and was about to get in line when I noticed a familiar face – someone from Devaji’s sangha in Lake Shasta in Northern California, where he is based.. I breathed a sigh of relief. Diana and I embraced, and she introduced me to a man named Jay, also from Shasta.. Diana was already checked in, so Jay and I, who were both flying economy, got in the Emirates check-in line together and exchanged pleasantries while we shuffled along.. I was taken with the beauty of the Emirates flight attendants with their crisp red suits and red fezzes decorated with a swath of white chiffon-like fabric draping down to their shoulders..

I made it through the check-in without a hitch, but there was a complication with Jay’s ticketing that eventually led to his not being able to board, with no certainty the problem could be easily resolved. It was an unsettling beginning -- for him in particular -- but also for me -- to discover right away that some obstacles could not be overcome. -- my worst fear in venturing out into such foreign terrain.

As I headed toward the departure gate, Deva and his traveling companions, who were flying business class, were likewise finishing checking in. I was warmly greeted and felt a layer of concern melt away.. I made a light comment about “following him wherever he was going,” only to be told that Deva and the others were going to the business-class lounge, where, of course, I wasn’t allowed.. Feeling embarrassed and deflated, I mumbled something inane, and we parted company..  Deva was experiencing serious back issues and was traveling business class for the first time in his many pilgrimages to India to ensure some degree of comfort. From my perspective, however, any compassion for him was overtaken by feelings of abandonment and feeling small and unworthy, a theme that was to recur during the course of this trip..

Two others from the sangha in Shasta appeared, Richard and Jill. Jill, who had made this trip before, took me under her wing and kept me company as we went through security, found our gate and settled in to wait to board our aircraft. I noticed that the woman who had sat next to me on the shuttle was also on the same flight.

To my delight, I would soon discover that Emirates, which is subsidized by the wealthy United Arab Emirates government, is a first-class airline with delicious food, attentive service and touches of elegance not seen in most American airplanes, such as polished wood-trim on handles in the bathrooms and on stair-railings..

My first meal, however, did not end well. After dinner was over, the passenger sitting next to me asked for a glass of water. When the flight attendant tried to hand it to him, something went awry and the entire glass of icy water was spilled all down the front of me. I jumped at the shock of it and exclaimed, “Oh my, that’s refreshing!” trying to be a good sport about something that could not be changed. The attendant got me a towel, and I dried myself off to the best of my ability, but I was wet to the skin and there was nothing to be done about it. My first test.

The flight was long but, other than the soaking, uneventful. We had just enough time at the terminal in Dubai to get to our gate.. The terminal in this oil-rich city is stunning in its glitziness, the wealth of the country readily apparent. There was a mélange of people milling about, waiting to board the flight to Chennai and by now few of them were English-speaking. About 10 of us had been traveling together from San Francisco, and we were joined by a few others who had come in from other U.S. cities..

The four-hour flight to Chennai was equally uneventful. As those of us who were all going to Suddhananda Ashram gathered to claim our baggage, I noticed my fellow passenger from the Monterey shuttle.. Low and behold, she too was part of our group. We were formally introduced and had a good laugh at the coincidence.. Going through customs in Chennai was a stark contrast to the glamour of the terminal in Dubai – the facilities were plain, run-down and almost seedy..

By the time we got through customs and found our vans it was around 3 in the morning, and I had already been traveling for well over 24 hours.. I was both exhausted and exhilarated.. It was hot, humid and surreal, with bright lights everywhere and people thronging, even at that hour. I was introduced to a young man named Daniel from the Palouse country in Eastern Washington State, which is where I went to college my freshman and sophomore years, and he helped load my luggage atop a 12-passenger van, one of two that would transport us to the ashram.

I am in India!

Next post: Getting situated at the ashram.

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On the day after the election, I was in a state of shock and incomprehension, but I found a way, thanks to my spiritual teacher Devaji, to view things from a higher vantage point, seeing it all as an egoic play of consciousness that gave me an opportunity to root myself in the stillness and peace that is at the core of my being rather than being pulled away by external events, no matter how concerning. That sounds pretty high-falutin, but it worked and I stayed in my heart and grounded..

Unfortunately, that perspective has not been inconsistent. My response to this election has been like the unexpected death of a loved one.. One minute I am fine, and then I am hit with a wave of grief, then disbelief, then fear, then confusion, then anger and then the mind goes into overdrive, wanting to figure it all out. It’s a cycle that tends to repeat itself.

Although I have been watching it all with some dispassion, I realize that I have been holding something at bay -- riding the surf but somehow not letting it really touch me..
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Today, however, is another matter. I am awash in grief and anguish and helpless against the force of it. I have been talking to a friend on an off all morning wrestling with the feelings and searching for some deeper meaning. Subtly and not-so-subtly I have been trying to make this discomfort go away.. Why can’t my years of meditation and spiritual practice allow me to move through this with more equanimity?

I finally came to the conclusion that I just need to let it rip.. I need to feel this tidal wave of grief because on the human level it is about things that matter, and it is an authentic expression of who I am and the kind of world I want to live in. I feel things deeply, and that's good. The perceived challenges to everything I hold dear -- freedom, honesty, tolerance, compassion, kindness, understanding, fairness, equality, justice and tikkun olam (Hebrew for care for the Earth), now that's something to be gravely concerned about. And I am..

The outcome of all this in the long term, may turn out to be positive, but the short-term consequences are uncertain.. There are going to be casualties along the way, and I don't know whether I will still be here when the tide turns.. At this moment, I am digging to find the heart, the courage, the fortitude, the resiliency to face this because (a) I don't have a choice and (b) how I respond makes a difference.. How each and every person responds will make a difference.. Right now I can’t find my highest and best self because it is awash in a flood of emotions that cannot be suppressed, nor should they be.. Today I am going to weep and wail, and tomorrow I am going to pick myself up and see what emerges out of the emptiness left behind after this storm subsides..  

I don’t know what form that might take, but like countless others I am going through a deep soul-searching that eventually will lead to some kind of action.. But I do not want to act when I am overtaken by swells of emotion.. If I do that I will only contribute to the polarization that’s come to the surface in this election..  I need to open completely to this tsunami and let it be the vehicle to a deeper realization of the inherent wisdom that lies beyond the mind’s limitations.. Even though it’s hard to access when the mind is spinning its story of imminent disaster, it’s always there and is always a refuge, providing what we need to know, when we need to know it.  

I am clear that I will spend more time in meditation than I have been, and I would predict that my form of action will be to encourage others to do the same so that we can collectively calm the waters.. If each of us follows our heart’s imperative, if we act from love rather than fear, hate and reactivity, if we do the things that we are deeply called to do, then we can be powerful counter-agents for good..

True power is not force, as Gandhi, Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela, so clearly demonstrated.. True power emanates from soul-force, from alignment with our spiritual essence, which is pure love, peace, joy and wisdom.. When we are centered in that then no power on earth can imprison us.. Let’s see what we can do when we come together and harness this mighty force of love to liberate all beings from the chains that bind and the ignorance that separates us..