Om shanti shanti shantihi
After leaving Kovalam, I went to Kollam to start my backwater trip up the coast. The backwaters are a series of interconnected canals, lagoons, lakes and rivers that line India’s west coast. After a 2-hour jaunt I arrived at the ashram of Sri Mata Amrithanandamaya, hereinafter “Amma” (too much chance for misspelling), the “Saint of the Backwaters”.
Over 1,000 people live on the ashram of “Mother”, about 500 of them westerners. In all fairness, the ashram does some amazing work: they’ve built a free, state-of-the-art hospital as well as 25,000 homes for the poor; they provide widows’ pensions and build schools, etc.
But, in all honesty, there’s something a little creepy and Stepford Wife-y about the whole environment. Not from the Indians, mind you, but from the westerners. Ashram Westerners fall into two categories: the post-Woodstock, airy-fairy tribe, and the second, more frightening white-clad, Pious Westerners. The beatific smiles, the knowing glances, the serious-as-cancer demeanor; these people make Mother Theresa seem like a tramp.
Now, don’t get me wrong; Amma is a nice big brown lady who gives good hugs. She does darshan daily, which means that everybody who shows up gets a hug from Amma. This is highly unusual in Hinduism. Normally darshan is just glimpsing a saint or a god, but she actually embraces.
As I lined up for my hug with the Divine Mother (as she is also called), I have to admit that I was a little nervous. I had been told to expect something magical, an energy, a sense of compassionate understanding. As I was wiped down with a tissue – so as not to soil the holy Mamma – I was thrown on my knees by an overworked, over-important, overzealous disciple. My turn: She grabbed me, held my head and whispered “Donut King. Donut King. Donut King.” (I think that’s what she was saying; it was in Malayalam, the only palindromic language.)
Did I transcend? Did I feel anything? Well, she smelled like jasmine, and I think I could hear some Keeblers Niblets swimming upstream through her ascending colon. Was she God? For me, no. Ashram culture proved to be just another niche that I don’t fit into.
Who knew there were so many niches in the world? Ashrams seem like a great place, if you want to escape from the world and be loved. But can’t any religion provide that love without the required renunciation of society/people/country/mankind? Amma is a mother to her disciples, but you know, she was in tough competition with my Mom, who I’m sure could have had an ashram. In fact, if I told people I was a turnip and could cure warts, I could probably find 1,000 Indians out of a billion to believe me-which in turn would bring the damaged, wealthy westerners.
To be fair, I should have stayed for Sunday night’s 9pm Devi darshan, where Amma wears a colorful sari and becomes the holy mother. However, I was already committed, as at 9 on Sunday, I become Charles Dickens, writer of novels.
So, that’s ashram life in Kerala. I am going to Sai Baba’s ashram in about 5 days; he’s the biggest, the best, the afro-iest guru in he world. I’ll report later. So, friends, if you’re feeling compelled to travel to Amma’s for divine love, it’s kind of a long way to go for a hug.
P.S.: The big guy was watching out for me, though. I changed 200 dollars and had the money in my locked pack. My pack was razored while on my back in a crowded bus. All they saw was my journal and left the wad of cash. Now that’s a miracle. After the razoring, I must report that I am growing a little suspicious of some of my Indian friends, and the theft of two watches in as many days. Oh, well. Travel tax, I guess.
