PENTECOST 2006 SPECIAL EDITION

ISSUE 7 - ISSN 1448 - 6326

INDIA, INCREDIBLE INDIA !

FRANK GERRY SVD

Abstract

The author, a Divine Word Missionary, narrates the story of his pilgrimage throughout Dharamsala, Rishikesh and Banaras in Northern India. His purpose, to experience something of the “interiority of soul” for which India is famous, is achieved through encounters with Tibetan monks, Buddhist scholars, Hindu swamis, Christian seekers and, most of all, simple believers of diverse religious traditions. Whereas the religious sensibility of the people inspires, the poverty confronts and leaves “something of a wound”. To the author’s surprise, he discovers ‘midst this amazing continent and people, with its profound sense of mystery, a new appreciation of the uniqueness of Christ who identifies with the poor and marginal. This is the other side of the call to self-transcendence which is also the call to evangelization—not through conversion “but simply to make Jesus known and loved”. [Editor]

INDIA, INCREDIBLE INDIA! That’s the message that greets you on arrival in the reception lounge of the Delhi International Airport. It’s true! You soon realise that one would need more than several lifetimes to experience the depth of riches in this land and its people.

Why am I here? What is the purpose of this visit to Northern India, the land of Hinduism? I came to experience a little of the “interiority of soul” that India is famous for. This might be characterised by the life of the sannyasi, who having left all wanders around India with a small bag over his shoulders, a stick in his hand and a begging bowl in the other. It is a life of total renunciation. Abhishiktananda writes about it:

At the depth of our deepest centre, beyond what in other cultures is termed ‘soul’, ‘mind’, or even ‘spirit’ . . . beyond, beyond, in the cave of the heart, the ‘guha’, at this point the Sages discovered God. At the same time, they discovered their own true self to be likewise beyond everything that signifies it – body, mind, thought or what is normally called consciousness. Sannyasa came from this experience. Without reference to this, the religious mind of India cannot be properly understood.[1]

For a number of years I have been reading about this in writings of Bede Griffiths and Abhishiktananda, to name just two. I wanted a closer look at the culture and the people from which this experience rose.

The first stop was DHARAMSALA, the seat of the Tibetan Government in exile. It was a gruelling fourteen-hour Indian bus-trip from Delhi. Simplicity and hospitality was what met us2, together with the special grandeur of the snow-capped Himalayas. I have to admit that I was quite anxious about my coming to India. There was so much that was unknown, as well as the uncertainty about my own health. So it was a great relief to be met in this simple, hospitable way by Tibetan monks living in exile. Tenzin Phulchung, a young Tibetan Buddhist monk, could not have been more kind and helpful. We had written ahead asking for accommodation in the monastery but on arrival we were told that was not possible, but there were rooms in the guesthouse just above the monastery. Phulchung took us there. We met him later in the monastery café and had breakfast with him. He told us of his family escaping from Tibet. There were about one hundred and twenty of them, mostly his extended family. They were stopped on the Indian border and made to wait about six months. It was summer and they were not used to the heat. About thirty of them died from the heat and starvation, including two of his brothers: “Whenever my father thinks of that time,” he said, “he shudders.” Phulchung had real concern for me, to the point of arranging my train trip to Saharanpur, advising me on the price of a taxi to the railway-station, then phoning two friends of his at my destination, asking them to meet me at the station, take me to their home for breakfast before putting me on the bus for Rishikesh. Phulchung spoke of the need for religions to be open and to work together for mutual understanding in the name of world peace. Evidently the suffering of his family was etched into his soul. It had become the source of his care and compassion for the traveller

There was nothing spectacular about Dharamsala other than the Himalayas and the courage and quiet tenacity of the Tibetan people and their monks. It had something of the quality of a frontier town. For the Tibetans it was a matter of getting on with life and helping one another. The struggle for their own dignity, freedom and culture was not displayed in any dramatic way but one had a sense that they were well organised and knew what they wanted.

At another level, there was Ken Trimble and myself – our conversations, deep sharing, and growing mutual appreciation. I think Ken appreciated my accepting and sharing presence. I certainly admired his grit and determination in following a light, a call that was yet not clear to him. He spoke of Dharamsala as the best part of his pilgrimage although he had spent most of his time in India in the South, in Tamil Nadu. We attended a number of the prayer sessions in the monastery temple, although we had no idea what the content of the prayer was nor the reason for the banging of drums, cymbals, and the ringing of bells. Later we asked Phulchung about this. His response was to say something about wisdom and compassion. We were still in the dark. Ken had a great desire to see the Dalai Lama but we missed out by a day. His public audiences were over for the month. I noticed in the previous day’s paper that Paul Simon, the songwriter, had a private audience with him. Ken tried to convince the officials at his residence that we were worthy ones too but to no avail.

After three days there I moved on to the Chinmaya Tapovan Trust Ashram about eight kilometres away. This was the Mother House of the Chinmaya Mission in Templestowe, Melbourne. I had attended some courses there and the teacher, Brahmacharini Nivedita, suggested I visit there. It was a rather extensive establishment. At the time there were about twenty to thirty students of both sexes, Brahmacharis and Brahmacharinis, attending a ten-day course. I met the Swami in charge, asking him for his blessing. He gave me an apple. He invited me to the evening teaching given in Hindi. However, he spoke a few words in English, introducing me to the group and giving me a synopsis of his teaching for that evening. Afterwards he introduced me to a retired army brigadier whom he asked to speak to me the next day.

I attended their Morning Prayer and puja (worship offered to divine images) in the Mahasamadhi3 of Swami Chinmayananda. Later in the morning I spoke with the brigadier. He was certainly a contented old man, eighty-nine years of age, had lived a full family and professional life, and was now happy to renounce everything to seek simply the Glory of God. He spoke of Swami Chinmayananda in glowing terms: he was a young law and letters student, who joined the national herald as a journalist for the young4. The British imprisoned him for two years. While in prison he was given religious books and came to realise the riches within his own religious tradition. After release from prison he went immediately to Rishikesh to the well-known guru, Swami Sivananda. He stayed there five years. The Swami then advised him to go to the guru in Uttarkashi. He said, “He will answer your questions better than I can.” On arriving there he was ignored for two days. When the Swami asked him, “Who are you and what do you want?” Chinmayananda said that Swami Shivananda sent me to you. “Where is the letter?” “I have none.” “Go and get one.” He walked back to Rishikesh to get the letter. After two years there at Uttarkashi he was ready to teach. But where? His guru told him to walk all the way back to his home in Kerala – by going through the country on foot he would get to know the people and where and how he should teach.

The journey took him six months. In time he built not a cult but a teaching, centred on the Vedanta, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Brahma Sutras. During the rest of his lifetime he managed to spread his teaching far and wide, establishing two hundred centres of learning throughout India and around the world, many schools, hospitals, courses for nurses, and institutes of value management. The tribute at the entrance to his temple proclaimed him as one of the greatest sages of India in the twentieth century. I could acknowledge that and admire the Hindu roshis’ quest for the True Self as handed down to us in their Scriptures and incarnated still in gurus like Swami Chinmayananda. It is a total commitment.

My next destination was RISHIKESH, but how to get there? There was no direct route. It entailed a ninety- kilometre taxi ride5 (a thousand rupees), a four-hour wait on a cold and drafty railway platform, and then an even more dreadful night on an Indian train. I just endured the night and prayed for guidance on the following day. I had no idea what awaited me. It would be a step into the complete unknown. While waiting at the end of the carriage I spoke to a young air-force man. He was kind enough to promise he would tell me when my station arrived, for there were no announcements. I could not read the Hindu names of the stations and it was so easy to miss the one English name. He asked me who I was and what I did and where I came from? I told him I was a Catholic priest from Australia come to visit holy places. After that he called me ‘Father’. Later, as I was getting off the train, he said to me, “Father, I believe in God but I have forgotten about him.” I replied warmly, “He hasn’t forgotten about you.” Amazing the little moments and chance meetings between complete strangers that can mean so much!

Well, the next day started great! I was just about swept off my feet. Two young Tibetan women came running along the platform and when they saw me they asked, “Are you Frank Gerry?” Both of us were relieved to meet. They were the friends of Phulchung and they invited me to their home for breakfast. They had risen at five-thirty to get to the railways station on time. The older of the two, Pasang, had an amazing temperament – confident, forthright, generous, simple and pious. She took my backpack and slung across her shoulder. She baked Tibetan bread for me, fried an egg, and made tea. With pride and deep devotion she showed me what she called her ‘home monastery’ – a room of Tibetan saints, prayer wheels, goblets of water (a morning offering of her mother) and lamps galore. I took a photo of her there in her little prayer-room. After breakfast her mother returned home to greet me. Pasang gave up her job in Delhi to look after her mother when the father died. Together they make and sell alcohol. It only takes about four hours, made from some sugar compound. They sell it in glasses at two rupees, as well as in bottles. It is their livelihood. An older man was pumping the water from below. Pasang said, “Since I suffer from tuberculosis, the doctor said I should not pump the water. It is very hard to do that.” They were making whatever the drink was while we ate, and Pasang said to me, “Do you notice the sweet smell?” I said I couldn’t because my nose was a bit clogged up. She got up immediately and got me a little bottle of what smelt like liquid tiger balm. She said, “You take this with you.” She also gave me a blanket to take along. Their home was dark, lit by candles, with a tarpaulin roof, and an extremely narrow winding stairway built against the wall.  I could imagine Pasang’s mother having difficulty with those stairs very soon. After breakfast they took me to the bus station and made sure I had a seat on the bus to Rishikesh. They left me with a feeling of sheer amazement and deep appreciation of such generous help to a complete stranger. I would like to stay in contact with them. So I have their names and address.

The trip to Rishikesh was anything but pleasant. My stomach began to play up just after we left the town. Evidently the drink of warm water that Pasang gave me when I first got to her home had not been boiled. It was a dreadful time, spent on the edge of disaster. Would I have to ask the driver to stop so I could relieve myself by the side of the road in full view of everyone – a la Indian style? I found myself reciting the Jesus Prayer, and as I did I smiled to myself: Have mercy on me! Fortunately, mercy was granted for I managed to hold it altogether for ninety minutes until we reached Haridwar, the next town. We had a twenty-minute stop over there. The rest of the trip was pleasant enough though I wondered what awaited me in Rishikesh at the Divine Life Society, as I was not sure I could stay at the ashram. I didn’t have long to wait.

While filling in the customary forms at the reception centre, I could not find my passport. It wasn’t where it should have been. It was a feeling of horror, of complete disaster – and I felt a fool before the Swami and the General Secretary. I searched everywhere while they looked at me in disbelief. After some time, I tried to phone the last two places where I had been – Pasang in Saharanpur. She was out. I phoned the Chinmaya Tapovan Trust back in Dharamasala. The secretary in the office was out to lunch. I came back to the Swami in his office. He was pondering with another, ‘What to do?’ This had not happened before. I excused myself to the Swami, saying I would go outside and look again in my little bag while he decided what to do with me. I felt shattered. I had come all this way and now what? In utter desperation and well nigh sheer hopelessness, I put my hand on to the bottom of my bag, and lo and behold the passport was lying on the bottom. Since it was the same colour as the bag I didn’t see it when I looked into the bag, when my fingers touched the bottom, there it was. Thank God!

I put my disappointments, confusion, and personal troubles behind me and entered into life in Rishikesh.  The place was special to me because it was associated so much with the story of Abhishiktananda, the Benedictine monk who came from France in the late ‘forties to help found a Christian monastic lifestyle suited to India. He eventually moved north from Tamil-Nadu to become something of a wandering hermit. It was here too where he had the heart attack in the town bazaar. A friend happened to be passing by in a taxi and recognised him, as he lay there helpless.

The Sivananda Ashram was my abode. A big, busy place! It gave me an impression of being conscious of its own importance. One of the lasting memories I have of my time there is the sound of an old ‘monk’ chanting again and again, over a period of sixty minutes and more, the mantra OM Namo Narayanaya – God, worship to you!  His croaky old voice went on and on, proclaiming his faith and stating his prayer. I was deeply moved. There was morning prayer at 5.00 am, followed by meditation, followed by a short talk on meditation and the spiritual life. There was a good sprinkling of Westerners present, some being able to join in the Sanskrit hymns, prayers, etc. Later, there was also what sounded like a litany in praise of OM. At each phrase, a flower was put in front of the idol’s altar. In the evening there was a gathering in the Mahasamadhi Temple from 7.30 till 9.45. The message that was coming through to me was what seemed to be the relentless pursuit of the True Self by the renunciation of all illusion. It sounded unforgiving in its relentlessness. They call the discovery of the Self as REALISATION – that is, awakening to the REAL, by letting go of the unreal. I guess the unreal would be very much the dreams of our ego.

Swami Sivananda, the Founding Guru of the Divine Life Society, was a true gem and a giant of a man. From an early age he cared for the poor and was against caste discrimination. He became a doctor and served in Malayia for about ten years. In helping an old sannyasi to recover his health he himself was led to a religious conversion. He left Malayia, came to Rishikesh, found a guru, and entered on the inner journey. He lived in seclusion for twelve years after which he founded the Divine Life Society. He emphasised service, love, meditation, and realisation. He was passionate about all four.  The present guru in residence was Swami Chittananda. However, he was not well, being of an advanced age. I believe he is known in India as the St. Francis of India for his care of lepers.

While there in Rishikesh, I visited the Shanti Kutir under the sponsorship of the Abhishiktananda Society. Swami Atmananda and Swami Videhi gave me a very warm welcome. The former is from Belgium and the latter from Kerala, India. Their aim is to establish an interreligious ashram, according to the spirit of Abhishiktananda. A small property on the edge of the Ganges, about four kilometres north of the town, was purchased last August 2003. It will not be officially opened until after the next monsoon season. Presently, there are three in residence – the two swamis and one brahmachari. It was good to spend an hour or more with the two swamis. We talked of Abhishiktananda, of his disciple Mark who has not been seen for over twenty years and whom they believe to still be alive up in a cave in the Himalayas. The kutir will keep a low profile in accordance with its own nature. In their future life together they envisage a life of meditation, respect for religions other than their own, study of religious traditions and philosophy, and a search for the God Beyond All Names. As well, they will help others to meditate. That evening a small group was coming to meditate with the two men. In their meditation room they have the sacred sign OM on the wall. At the back were pictures of Krishna, Christ, Siva, and the God Mother. In talking to the two swamis I could sense I was talking to two men who lived deep in the spirit. Their eyes had that look about them. They were eminently present to me but at the same time their eyes told me that they have looked long for the light beyond the darkness. I sensed there was an immense depth behind their vision:

The Christian, once he is freed from his egocentric conditioning, is carried off inwardly to the Father, the primordial Source, and outwardly towards his fellow men; in this he discovers himself in his fullness through the unique, yet two-sided, transcendence of himself – with Jesus perfectly obedient to the Father, and prepared like Jesus, with Jesus, to give his life for others.6

I do not know if I am correct in saying this but this two-sided action seems to be essential to the Christian depth experience, for again according to the words of Abhishiktanda, “Nothing but the kingdom of heaven has in itself an absolute value to which all else should be sacrificed. The Gospel is incompatible with half-measures.”7 I do not know if the two-sided action is essential in respect of Hindu tradition. There, salvation seems to be very much an individual thing. The Hindu seeks salvation, Moksha, through the process of renunciation of one’s desires and the illusions of our world. In contrast, the great Hindu poet, Rabindranath Tagore, offers a different approach as seen from the following poem taken from his classic work, Gitanjali. He seems to come at the same goal through a process of transformation rather than renunciation:

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.

My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple.

No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight.

Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love.8

The conversation on the terrace of the kutir, just above the famous Laxman Bridge and overlooking the Ganges, was a moment of light. I look forward to future developments of this interreligious ashram, founded in the name of Abhishiktananda. Memorable too was the walk along the Ganges back to the Sivananda Ashram. On the far side were the dwellings of many sadhus and holy men. It was noted in the handbook, INDIA, of the Lonely Planet Series, that criminals masquerading as sadhus in Rishikesh had murdered seventeen tourists over the past ten years or more. Beware, Francis!

I was happy with what I had experienced so far on my journey. Apart from the individual sadhus and sannyasis that roam the streets and roads of India, and witness “to the Mystery that is beyond all names, a reminder to everyman of the inner mystery of his own true self,”9 there are many established places of spiritual sustenance for those who have the hunger. Monasteries are at the heart of Tibetan Buddhism, and the monasteries are not cut off from the people. The people go there to turn the prayer wheels that contain innumerable written mantras and to honour their Buddhist saints. While I do not think ashrams are at the heart of Hinduism, they are visible signs of spiritual discipline and learning. Again, they are not cut off from the people. It would appear that the people could avail themselves of the service and devotions at their pleasure or need. I said goodbye to Rishikesh, taking the train back to Delhi early in the morning. From there I proceeded to BANARAS.

Two weeks seemed a long time to linger on the banks of the Ganges. I wondered would I be bored. The truth is I needed that time for the city, the Ganges, and all that belongs to the Ghats to cast their spell upon me. They certainly did that!

The initial reaction bordered on horror – the dirt, the dung, the decay of the buildings along the Ghats, the sight of people of all ages bathing in Mother Ganga, sacred to them as a manifestation of the divinity, and yet alive with filth, corpses, and all manner of bacteria. The sheer different-ness jarred the senses. The “in-the-face’ normality of it all for the Indian confronts the foreigner like nothing on earth:

On the antiquity of Banaras, which he visited in his journey around the world, Mark Twain quipped, “ Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.”

Unlike these other ancient cities, however, Banaras is a city whose political history is little known. It has rarely been an important political center, and the rise and fall of kings through its long history have no role in the tale of the city’s sanctity told by its own people. Kashi (read Banaras) is said to be the city of Shiva, founded at the dawn of creation. It is not the events of its long history that make it significant to Hindus, rather, it has such a long history, and it has survived and flourished through the changing fortunes of the centuries because it is significant to Hindus.

There is another important difference between Banaras and its contemporaries: its present life reaches back to the sixth century B.C. in a continuous tradition. If we could imagine the silent Acropolis and the Agora of Athens still alive with the intellectual, cultural, and ritual traditions of classical Greece, we might glimpse the remarkable tenacity of the life of Kashi. Today, Peking, Athens, and Jerusalem are moved by a very different ethos from that which moved them in ancient times, but Kashi is not.10

What Diana Eck says is absolutely true! Time and tide matter little to the locals all intent upon a holy ritual on and in a very holy river. One needs time to distance oneself from that first reaction, for the actual scene is quite simple and straight forward – people inhabiting the ghats, being themselves in all manner of ways – bathing, washing clothes, meditating, cremating the dead, worshipping at the innumerable shrines along the ghats, young boys playing cricket, dogs sleeping, carabaos wandering along as though they were there before humans appeared, goats chewing at whatever they could reach, sannyasis continuing on their way with their belongings, (the tin can, their pole, and what little clothing they had), widows looking for a handout or simply offering their worship early in the morning at their favourite shrine. In all, there was peace, there was joy, there was reverence, and there was faith – testimony to a way of life that hasn’t changed in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. Yes! The Ghats at Varanasi do cast a spell! I felt privileged to be allowed to wander there uninhibited and safe, like someone walking through an ancient museum piece teeming with life.

One memorable moment was of a crippled sadhu singing in praise to his God. Dr. John Dupuche11 and I thought he was in his middle-forties. He was a midget, with a crippled hand and leg; in fact, there was very little to him as he sat there under the tree around a shrine of Lord Shiva. However, there was an ocean of joy and love in his eyes and in his song. He sang in praise of Lord Shiva – in his rags, with all his belongings in a bag at his back.  Incredible India!

John and I together took in many of the sites and some of the ceremonies. We walked along the ghats, visited its sacred sites, joined in the throng of worshipers at the Kedara Ghat, found our way through the narrow lanes to the Vishvanath temple, did the outer pilgrimage of the five temple stations around the city, travelled up and down and across the Ganges, talked and dined with Dr. Bettina Baumer, President of the Abishiktananda Society, bartered with merchants selling shawls and saris, drank innumerable cups of sweet Indian coffee, bunked and dined at the respectable Ganges View Hotel, worshipped with the Sisters of Mother Teresa and the Little Sisters of the Poor, both of whom have a presence there at the Ghats, enjoyed wide ranging conversations with guests at evening meals at the hotel, and sat quietly with worshipers on the night of Lord Shiva’s Feast as they honoured their deity.

Mid this uncompromising array of Hindu festivals and scenes, there is a small but meaningful Christian presence there along the ghats – a convent of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity, looking after disabled children and aged people. We had Mass there one Sunday. On the final Sunday we had Mass with the Little Sisters of Jesus also present there – their aim is to make Jesus known and loved just by the manner of their life and presence among the people. Last year they celebrated fifty years on the Ghats. Since their house is small, they asked the bishop if they could have a Mass on the Ghats. The bishop replied, “Ask the people.” The people said, “Yes!” Many of the local Hindus join in helping the Sisters celebrate Christmas. One old man who sells balloons on the ghats likes to decorate their courtyard with his balloons and hang them over the crib of Jesus. Sister said tears roll down his face as he sits before the crib contemplating the Christ Child. 

Of course, Benares is more than the Ghats. It is a sprawling city, one of the most ancient in India, but without any evidence of city planning. It just seems to have happened. It lies between the rivers Varana and Asi, and perhaps its main focal points are temples. The fact that it has been destroyed a number of times over the centuries by marauding armies hasn’t helped. There are alleyways leading in all sorts of directions, though it is here in the alleyways that you get a feel for the pulse of the city and the history that inhabits it – mosques, temples, and markets. The predominant feeling is life is for living. There are all sorts of little one-room businesses, plenty of fruit vendors, yet each looked to be happy to offer what they had even though others might have something better. In other words, there was a place for everyone. There did not appear to be any undercurrent of unrest. The bonhomie seemed to ride easily on the surface. There was some very evident tension highlighted by security guards around the Vishnavath temple. This temple is adjacent to a mosque built over the ruins of a Hindu temple. Still, when Mother Teresa was beatified last October the whole city joined in the three-day celebrations. 

For all this, the city left me with something of a wound. The rickshaw drivers and the men who row the boats up and down the Ganges were happy enough to take the ten rupees or whatever from a local, for they knew the people could not afford more even though the work was often very arduous. But the foreigner and the tourist? He or she could certainly pay more. Often in handing them the same fare I felt uncomfortable as if there was an injustice and a loss of self-respect for the rickshaw drive or the rower, even though nothing illegal took place. On giving them a little more, I saw a look in their eyes that was not only one of gratitude but what to me seemed a redeemed self-respect.

CONCLUSION: Finally, at this moment of conclusion what do I have to say? There is no doubt about “the interiority of soul” I spoke of at the beginning of this reflection. One can see it in the ashrams, read about it in the lives of the gurus and rishis, and see it in people and sannyasis wandering the streets or sitting by the side of the road. But the surprising outcome for me from this journey to India has been to discover in a new way the uniqueness of Christ. I did not expect this. I am not speaking here of a theology of fulfilment or a theology of complementarity between Christianity and Hinduism, that one can read about in the works of Bede Griffiths and others. Without in any way wishing to denigrate Hinduism and the great gifts it offers to the world, nor trying to anticipate or foresee what the theologians might in future discover about the uniqueness of Christ in himself and Christ in relationship to the religions of the world, let me simply state that I found Christ is unique in one special existential way. Abhishiktananda put it this way in the foreword of his book, Guru and Disciple:

The Christian once he is freed of egocentrism is carried off inwardly to the Father, the Primordial Source, and outwardly towards his fellowmen; in this he discovers himself in his fullness through the unique, yet two-sided, transcendence of himself – with Jesus perfectly obedient to the Father, and prepared like Jesus, with Jesus, to give his life for others.

This is the uniqueness that has stood out for me at this time in India. In the gospel, Jesus proclaims, “The Father and I are one”12. He knows that intimacy that Hindus speak of when they mention the word non-dualism or advaita. But Jesus has a sense for something else that is also precious – his identity with the poor: “Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do to me.”13 This is the uniqueness I am talking about. It has to do with how I experience Jesus the Christ. Self-transcendence is required in both directions. Hinduism shows us that transcendence in one direction but I believe it needs to be more intent on discovering the other, the second moment. I may be wrong but that is my impression, although I know that five weeks in India can only give one a partial glimpse of the full reality. As I said at the beginning, one needs more than one lifetime to know and experience India.

While at the convent of the Little Sisters of Jesus, I read of this short conversation between the Founder of the Sisters, L.S. Magdeleine, and Mahatma Gandhi’s secretary, Dr. Ramachandra in 1974: “We’ve never sought to convert people”, Sister Magdeleine said, “but simply to make Jesus known and loved.” Ramachandra replied, “I’ve been waiting so long to hear that.”

To make Jesus known and loved!  Is there a better way to evangelise?

Epilogue:

“India only reveals herself to those who are prepared to be still and over a long period to listen humbly at close quarters to the beating of her heart; only to those who have already entered sufficiently far into themselves, into their own depths, are able to hear in the inner chamber of the heart that secret which India is ceaselessly whispering to them by means of a silence that transcends words. For silence is above all the language through which India reveals herself . . . and imparts her essential message, the message of interiority, of that which is within.”14