Current of Grace

Here at last in the bustling, dust filled city of Chennai, the middle of the night appears not much different than the middle of the day except for the absence of a blazing sun overhead. Suddenly my black slacks and winter boots feel uncomfortably warm and out of place. My friend Renate and I have been traveling for almost thirty hours and it’s now two in the morning, India time. A kind, Indian gentleman at baggage claim smiles and offers to lift our heavy bags. We exchange a few words. He is from Philadelphia returning to his hometown of Chennai for a wedding. We thank him as he points us towards the exit. The ashram has sent Prabhu to meet us at the airport. Although Prabhu has never met us, he easily identifies our pale American faces in the crowds attempting to exit the airport. A circle of women in colorful saris standing beneath harsh, white, street lamps glance our way. Malnourished dogs run loose, digging through scattered piles of trash while barefoot children laugh and play in the parking lot of the airport. In no time at all our bags are packed in the rear of his car and we are flying down the road, dust streaming through the open windows. We weave in and out of construction sites, dodging buses, trucks, mopeds, bicycles, scooters, some with lights and some without, horns honking loudly, dust swirling. Chaos! Renate and I are now wide awake despite the late hour. I soon discover that everyone in India drives this way. Strangely enough, a few weeks into my journey, I begin noticing a rhythm and flow to the apparent madness. In fact, I have come to view the rather sketchy “rules” of the road as a playful, although dangerous, dance. Peering from the windows of our cab, my eyes meet a completely foreign landscape, cows standing and lying by the side of the road, men squatting at open air stands that sell hot tea, coffee and coca cola. Makeshift store fronts resemble bombed out shelters, and amid wandering cows and fast-food stands appear a multitude of temples, temple upon temple in every size, shape and form, as plentiful as the cows. Suddenly, we come upon one such temple perched atop a bullock cart, festively decorated with fresh flowers and strings of colorful lights. A procession of chanting devotees follow the caravan offering “puja” (worship or devotion). Traffic slows, then comes to a complete halt in order to make way for the traveling temple to cross the road. Prabhu, catching my eye in the rear-view mirror, excitedly points to the caravan shouting, “God, God!” The worshippers are all waving, smiling and cheering. We wave back, cheering them on. Today God is colorful indeed! At last, we arrive in Tiruvannamalai, our final destination, in record time (under four hours). Tiruvannamalai, a city 120 miles southeast of Chennai with a population of approximately 150,000, is located in the southeastern state of Tamil Nadu, South India. The town was built around a large temple at its center commonly referred to as “Annamalayar”. It is a city filled with spiritual seekers from Europe and around the world, as well as religious ascetics called “wandering sadhus” who traditionally shun worldly comforts and possessions in order to pursue the goal of spiritual enlightenment. I suppose I am here as a seeker in my own right for the purpose of deepening my spiritual practice and to pay homage to Ramana Maharshi and the holy mountain, Arunachala. The ashram staff have gathered at this early hour to greet us with open arms. Under the direction of Jan, our American guide and ashram manager, we are given a grand tour of the grounds as we follow along a winding stone path lined with lush, green foliage and colorful flowers in bloom. My only concern is the absence of toilet paper in the bathrooms. However, we are instructed to clean ourselves using cups of water as is custom in parts of India where the plumbing cannot handle paper products. The interior of the ashram stands in sharp contrast to the conditions beyond its walls. Although everywhere in India dust permeates the air, not a speck appears on the polished tile floors. “Arunachala Ramana AHAM Ashram” is modern with spacious showers, lovely gardens, and even a washer and dryer. And out back is a clothes line, wash tub and faucet for scrubbing clothes by hand. An orderly atmosphere, with loving attention to detail, imparts a sense of hominess and ease. I close my eyes, breathing in the palpable stillness of this spiritual oasis. Awaiting us in the kitchen is a prepared meal of hot oatmeal, bananas, walnuts and tea. The ashram is owned and run by Americans and we are assured the food and water are safe for our consumption. Before breakfast, however, I hurriedly make my way to the staircase that leads to the rooftop in order to catch a glimpse of one of the most ancient sites in all of India - Arunachala, the beloved mountain that has called me here. The “red mountain”, as it is sometimes referred to, is said to impart a fierce grace upon all who fall within its magnetic gaze. I marvel at its rugged splendor. Overcome with emotion, tears of joy wash the dust of a long journey from my tired eyes. After breakfast I retire to my room, dozing on and off as a cool breeze gently flows through the ashram windows, carrying with it the sounds and scents of a strange new land where all concerns of a busy life quietly melt away. I slowly drop into a timeless dimension in which there is not a care in the world.