Vicarious Nomads: Divine Mothers: A First Ashram Experience

Our host in Nasik, Prabhakar, called himself a motherless child. As he described the details of his traditional Indian wedding, it seemed that the fact that his mother had committed suicide hung like a cloud over his wedding. He explained it not with sadness. It was rather matter of fact, actually. While in the west the bride is the superstar of the wedding, in India, he explained, the groom is the celebrity. The mother has several important ceremonial roles in her son's wedding and his was absent. Mine was present. She had to break out of the hospital to be there, but she was there. Her only ceremonial roles were to walk down the aisle with my father and to dance with me. And she did both in her cornflower blue dress with her usual beauty, grace and style.

As my mom grew sick, she began to entrust this role of mother more to the world. With my marriage came a new mother, Ms. Annie Hollowell, who is a force unto herself. For me, she also combines the power, grace and style with the boundlessness and steadfastness of a mother's love. I have always had many mothers who have adopted me as their own, whether they were friends' mothers or simply community mothers. My mom e-mailed from her bedroom over her final months with Jane Wholey, an old family friend in New Orleans. And she promised also to be a mother to me as the inevitable day approached when my birth mother would no longer physically be here. It is a role she has taken quite seriously and with honor. As Annette and I planned to depart on this journey, Jane asked only one thing—for me to help her find an ashram for her to visit upon her retirement in 2012. I agreed, although we had no ashrams in our plans.

But we heard about Amma first from a German woman when we were on the beach in Ghana. “The Hugging Mother,” she is called, for her blessings are given in the form of hugs. That German woman whose name I forget told us that it was the most incredible hug she has ever experienced. We have heard about Amma many times since then. Even our Lonely Planet India has a special page about her that talks about how she is known for her all night hugging sessions, in which she hugs consecutive individuals for up to 22 hours at a time. In the last 36 years, she has hugged 31 million people, we are told during the orientation.

When we were in Fort Kochin, we attended a Khatakhali performance—a traditional stage performance of Kerala. Two or three main characters in elaborate costumes and makeup enact simple moral tales of good over evil. They only communicate through music, facial expressions (using the eyes and mouth), and mudras—hand symbols. Different mudras symbolize different words or concepts. The demonstration before the show covers everything from monkey to love. The mudras for mother and hugging, however, are the same.

We took a bus from Kochin to Allepey and a slow boat along the backwaters of Kerala to Amritapuri, where Amma's ashram is.

Amma means mother. The last time I met somebody called Amma was seven years ago in Dharamsala—Amma Adhe. She was an elderly Tibetan woman in her late eighties. We sat at her feet as she told us horrific and courageous tales of her life as a reluctant but determined Tibetan freedom fighter, and her 28 years of torture at the hands of the Chinese. Moved to tears by the visit, I bought her memoir. I called my mom that night to share her story. My mom read the book within days, reminding me of a unique connection I have always felt to my mother. In the Jewish tradition, religious identity is passed from the mother to the child. So, because of my mom, I am Jewish. And while she didn't practice much religion, she taught me that being Jewish means fighting oppression, wherever it may manifest. My mother and I have always shared a common compassion for the world with a commitment to working against injustice and oppression.

As I built a career in community service and volunteerism, my mom retired from one. As her and my father sold the community newspaper they had run for nearly two decades, she reminded me of a dream of her's. I first remember her talking about it when I was a teenager and those Sally Struthers' Save the Children commercials would come on. They would show some sad Ethiopian child with an inflated belly and flies buzzing around his eyes in a plea for money. My mom has given money to many causes, but as she retired from her most recent career, she wanted to give time and expertise. She wanted to volunteer internationally. Honored to be able to contribute to her realizing a dream, I started forwarding her opportunities as I heard about them. Within six months, she was flying to Chiang Mai, Thailand to work with Burmese refugees for a month through Unite for Sight, an organization about which she heard from me. Annette and I will be in Chiang Mai later this month for the first time. We will be attending a ten-day Vipassana silent meditation course, which happens to coincide with the second anniversary of my mother's death.

I came to the ashram, anticipating the profound. We are ten months into a journey that, in many ways, was borne out of my mother's passing. And it has led us here. It may only be a hug. But perhaps it will complete something.

As we are approaching 3:30 p.m., our boat takes us through a three kilometer gauntlet of Chinese fishing nets. We pass wooden boats with an eye on either side of the prow. Huge posters of Amma's smiling face hang on the boats like sails. A huge pink building appears on the horizon. It must be twenty stories tall. “Do you think that's the ashram?” I ask Annette.

“I hope not,” she laughs. “It looks like a hotel or a condo.”

“Who says ashrams have to be spread out and not up?” I joke. “The guidebook does say it is pink and that more than two thousand people live there.”

As we are both beginning to dismiss the idea that this hulking building could be the ashram, the boat conductor approaches. “Are you going to Kollam or ashram?” he asks. “Amma ashram,” I respond. “That is ashram,” he says, pointing to the twenty-story building. “We stop in five minutes,” he says. “Be ready.”

We slide on our shoes and bags and slip off the boat with maybe a dozen others. We walk across a pink bridge with Amma's face on it. A guard directs us to the temple and up the stairs to register. The place is buzzing with people, most of them dressed simply in flowing white, serenity and smiles on their faces. A few friendly people make sure we know where we are going. I recognize the spirit of selfless service. It reminds me of the welcome party when arriving at a Landmark course. We get checked in, tie our mosquito net over two thin mattresses we place next to each other on the floor in front of the window of our room. The “simple” accommodation promised on our online registration is quite nice. We can see our reflections in the huge beige floor tiles. We have a private room with our own bathroom and a combination lock. The combination is 2020. We return to the second floor of the temple a few minutes before 5 p.m. for our requisite orientation.

We watch a 45-minute video, mostly about Amma's humanitarian initiatives—cleverly and collectively known as Embracing the World. The video is quite professional. From my seat in the corner, I cannot help but notice the messaging and branding. I was responsible for these promotional videos for the last few years. And this one comes across like quite a professional non-profit organization with programs across the globe. It shows thousands upon thousands of people appearing for Amma's hugs. Some break down in tears. Some radiate with joy. Some are crippled. Some are babies. All races, genders, colors, ages. All walks of life. And the works are equal to it. Humanitarian relief. Amma presenting a million dollars to the Bush-Clinton Katrina Fund. A United Nations leader speaking to how critical Embracing the World was to the 2004 Asian tsunami relief efforts, despite and because of the fact that the ashram itself was flooded. The 2010 earthquake in Japan. Orphanages in Kenya. Housing. Schools. Enough, I notice, for Annette to wipe tears from her eyes. It is inspiring. But I am not crying. For much of the video, I wonder if they could be doing more than they are. “Have I become cynical about the non-profit sector?” I ponder silently. But I am called out of my head by the images in the video. Amma appears with world leaders. She receives a United Nations Humanitarian Award from Jane Goodall. And an honorary degree from SUNY Buffalo of all places. And wherever there are good deeds, there are thousands upon thousands of volunteers. Practically the entire thing is run by volunteers. “Wow. There is no power like the power of spiritually motivated volunteers,” I tell Annette when the video ends.

The woman leading the orientation explains she has been living in the ashram for twenty-six years. “The ashram is the international headquarters and spiritual center for all of this. It is built on the site and in the village where Amma grew up. Amma teaches three fundamental principles: love, compassion and seva. Love is God's love. It is non-judgmental. It is acceptance of everything and everybody just as it is. Compassion is the outward expression of that love. When you are overflowing with God's love, it manifests outwardly as compassion. And seva is Sanskrit for selfless service. Amma doesn't care what religion you are, just live in these three principles. We are all her children.”

The orientation and tour last for two hours. The ashram is a small city that buzzes with people in white. It has multiple cafeterias (all vegetarian), stores, laundry services, a pool. There are multiple new buildings under construction, not by people wearing white, just by ordinary shirtless and skirted Indian men. The main assembly hall is the size of Grand Central station. It is like spiritual summer camp. Information boards advertise massage, Ayurveda, yoga, tai chi, astrology, music, meditation and just about any activity that can be said to be spiritual. The ashram produces magazines, clothing, books, journals, jewelry, dolls of Amma and just about any devotional item one could imagine. And it all operates with volunteers. And operate it does.

Our guide leads us to a small building that used to be a cow shed. “Amma's father didn't like all the boys coming around after Amma,” she explains. “They already realized something very special about her when she was a teenager. They would sleep on the beach to be near her. So, her father had Amma stay in the cow shed. It was here that she first gave darshan. And this was the first temple, long before this ashram ever existed. Amma is a mahatma. We don't really have a word for what Amma is in the west--'saint' would be the closest to it. She is not bound by space and time. She can be in all places at all times. Indians believe she is an incarnation of Vishnu. She performed many miracles to prove to the Indians that she was, in fact, a god.” Our guide goes on to recount a tale of Amma turning water into a bottomless bowl of sweet rice that fed people for days. “We don't hear as much about the miracles anymore. There are so many more people that all the stories don't make it back to us.”

As twilight fades, we stop under a tree. There are hundreds of birds above. “This is an important place for migratory birds this time of year.” I look up to see egrets, crows, heron, osprey. Interesting that the birds flock here in much the way the people do. “It is very loud now, but the birds will go to sleep soon. Then you will hear the dogs. But that's India for you.” Our guide chuckles. As we approach the main assembly hall in the middle of the ashram, she stops us. “You can tell we are getting closer to Amma now. You can feel her energy.”

We end in the main assembly hall in search of a tall blond man who holds the darshan tokens. Darshan is what they call Amma's blessing sessions. One needs a token to receive one of her hugs. There is a separate system for International visitors. Separate registration. Separate orientation. Separate token distribution. There is even a Western cafeteria that serves pasta, pizza and veggie burgers, so that westerners can feel comfortable during their stay. I opt for the Indian meals that make sweat pour from every pore and are included with our 200-rupee accommodation fee. Annette enjoys grilled cheese sandwiches most days.

“International visitors receive darshan the day they arrive and the day they leave. So,” our guide explains, “each of you will have the opportunity to be with Amma and receive darshan at least twice. Amma also likes to make sure that Westerners get the opportunity to sit on stage with her. During your stay, each of you will have an opportunity to sit on stage with her for at least half an hour. There is a bulletin board that posts an updated list of who is scheduled to sit with her and at what times each day.” She points to a huge bulletin board with the words, “Stage Sitting List” across the top. There are computer printouts of lists, each with half hour slots. There are probably 800 names in all, separated male and female. They are in groups of close to twenty, half hour slots starting at 11 a.m. and ending at 9 p.m.

The darshan token man doesn't appear until after we have left. By the time we come back, we have missed him. We cannot get our token until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. Both Annette and I work on not being disappointed. But it doesn't take much. It is all the way it is meant to be, we concede, settling for our hug tomorrow. I sleep a deep and peaceful sleep, the best I have had in months.

We wake early for an hour of chanting, shortly before 5 a.m., followed by an hour of meditation at the beach. I find the meditation easy in this space. I am comfortable in my white and hopeful that ten days of meditation won't be as physically torturous as I previously thought. We nap. Then comes my time to sit on the stage with Amma.

I walk past metal police barriers, through a metal detector and up a long ramp to the stage. I am pointed to find a seat on the floor behind Amma. She is in the middle with countless people gathered around her. At least a dozen of them seem to be handlers. They hold people's heads in position, tell them where to sit, where to kneel. People sit in a line of white plastic chairs on either side of her, as they snake closer for her hug. Many bring offerings. Bowls of fruit. Floral garlands. Each is efficiently taken by a handler within moments of touching Amma's hands and placed in a bag behind her. Two huge china bags seem to be filled and replaced with an empty one every hour or so.

As I sit on stage, most of the time I can only see the bun in Amma's hair, partially covered by a white scarf. I crane my neck, but it is difficult to see Amma around the other stage-sitters, the handlers and the devotees. She is short. And, while on a platform, she is seated. What I can see, however, is absolutely profound. I see the faces of each person as they approach her on supplicant knees and hug her. It is incredible. Never in my life have I seen worshippers from the angle of the divine. I don't often get to stand or sit on sacred stages. At best, I am in a pew. Usually, not even that. It is so moving. Some people are sobbing. Some are glowing. For each, though, there is a look of incredible devotion and love in their eyes. As I sit there, I wonder whether it matters if Amma is a God or not. Perhaps all that matters is that people believe she is. And that is enough for her to cure their ailments. Enough for their lives to be transformed with the blessing of a single hug. I am humbled.

That afternoon is time for my seva. I take an assignment washing pots. I am told dishwashers and pot washers are always what's most needed. All of the seva opportunities around Amma, I imagine, are first to go. I quickly dismiss my aspirations of working with the magazine or chopping vegetables. After all, we are only here for three days. The pots are washed in a greasy shed behind the kitchen. There are three of us, but only two sinks and two hoses. So, I settle for being the one who rinses the pots and puts them away. The other two gentlemen speak limited English. One is German, I believe. The other, French. But we communicate enough to wash every dirty pot we see and cover ourselves in water despite our aprons. After an hour and half, Annette and I return to our room for showers and naps.

I wake up hungry. To our surprise, I find the sign in the main assembly hall reads “ALL TOKENS.” That means it is our turn to enter the darshan line for one of Amma's hugs. Annette and I split up. She goes to the right side of the stage (women's side) and I go to the left. I leave my shoes before the metal detector. I am surprised to find the line relatively short. I am on stage in a matter of minutes, snaking my way through five rows of chairs, seven or eight each, toward Amma's embrace.

I sit in silence and watch. I am nervous. Will I break down and cry in her arms, I wonder, like only a child can in his mother's embrace? That moment when we know everything is going to be all right and we don't need to hold it together anymore. Will I see my mom in her and experience a connection to universal motherhood? My palms are a bit sweaty. I close my eyes and try to meditate. But I open them again. Every minute or so I have to slide down to the next chair as another of Amma's children receives his or her embrace from God. There are fans blowing around Amma. I notice a cool breeze when I reach the front row. There is an air vent above. Should I have brought an offering, I wonder. But the questions all quiet down as I grow closer. I accept that I will say what I say. I will know what to do when I reach her. And it will all be perfect. After all, isn't it always in a mother's eyes? That is part of the divinity of motherhood.

It gets crowded as I move closer. I am crowded in among handlers and stage sitters at my toes. I kneel. “Language? English?,” an older gentleman asks me with a wide smile. “Yes,” I say calmly with a nod and a smile. I kneel. They push me forward firmly and lovingly. Amma reaches her arm around me and rests it on my shoulder for a moment while I reach my arms around her waist. I bury my face in the white robes just below her right shoulder. I close my eyes. She smells sacred. Sandalwood and rose water, I guess. But my thinking mind didn't record it. Surely the scent is recorded somewhere deeper in my experience, in that level of consciousness that records smells and remembers things the conscious mind cannot seem to. She holds me for what seems like a long time. It may have just been a minute. Then she pulls me close. Perhaps she clasped her hands together behind my neck. She whispers in my ear. “Merdu, meru, merdu, meru,” it sounds like. I know not what it means, merely that it is a blessing. And I need not know what it means. I don't even try to figure it out.

Then she lets go. She shoves a small brown bag in my hand—prasad, blessed food. I stand, bow, smile, walk toward the edge of the stay, turn around and bow with hands folded. And slowly, I walk barefooted off the stage. I walk down slowly and sit in a plastic chair in front of the stage. I feel peaceful—beyond peace, blissful. It is all so beautiful. As I sit, I notice that a band has gathered. They begin playing quietly and beautifully, seated before the stage. I open the small brown paper. There is a small orange hard candy inside. I open it and put it in my mouth. It tastes delicious. I chuckle to myself.. Of course mother gives me candy. Just like the dentist. I savor it. I savor the music. I savor the present moment. I watch for Annette's turn. My thoughts slowly return, rising like the sun as it slowly wakes the world and disturbs the peace and silence of the dawn. Soon, I see her receive her hug. She comes and sits next to me. We sit in a peaceful knowing silence for a moment, anticipating nothing. The bliss fades as the evening eases into night

“I am clear now,” Annette says to me as she sits next to me in one of the thousand plastic lawn chairs in the main assembly hall. “It isn't that they think that Amma is a conduit for God. It is that she is a God.”

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

She explains that she talked with a woman who has been coming her for years about it.

We wake up the following morning a bit later for chanting. I sit on the floor. I am beginning to recognize the chanting. It is the archana—the thousand names of the divine. It is the same chanting we heard in Bangalore. It happens here twice a day. In the afternoon, they have two huge screens that show the words and the translations. Then 6 a.m. chai. Meditation follows. I can feel the previous day's cross-legged sitting in my thighs. There seem to be more ants than usual. I leave the beach early for yoga. The movements are slow, the breath and mind intentional. It reminds me of tai chi classes years ago. Silently chant in your head. “Na” when you inhale. “Om” when you exhale. The movements are focused on our lower backs. “Lead with your heart, not your head,” exhorts the instructor. “We already use our heads too much.” She is speaking of a particular pose, but might as well be talking about our lives. All of it, like everything in the ashram, occurs under a photograph of Amma's peaceful smiling gaze.

More seva follows yoga. I wash dishes silently, surprised at how clean, dry and systematic it is in comparison to yesterday's pot duty. A mug comes across. It has Amma's name on it. How would one wash God's mug,? Just the same as everybody else's. After all, what Amma is teaching is express divine love to all creatures. The divine is in everybody, everything. Is she God? I don't know and will never know. Was Jesus god? And what did people think of him in his time. All of the spiritual leaders I have ever studied or learned about had been dead for some time already. This is the first that I have met while she is alive. And the first who is a woman at that. I don't know exactly who or what Amma is, but she is a spiritual leader of some sort. And she emanates an aura of peace that encompasses this ashram, at the very least. It is a beautiful place to be.

That evening, Amma leads meditation at the beach. She sits on a platform surrounded by children. At first, she does not speak. A man at her feet speaks through a microphone. He welcomes us. Recites a prayer. Instructs us to sit in a comfortable position. Close our eyes. Focus on our breath. Focus deep within us. On divine inner stillness. Peacefulness. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Na. Om. Na. Om. Then a long period of silence. There must be six hundred people sitting on the beach. But I hear only the sounds of the waves, my breath, an occasional crow. I open my eyes for a moment to find Amma smiling, her eyes open also, looking at me.

I close my eyes and return to my breath. My foot tingles. It is falling asleep. Soon, I can no longer feel my right foot. I uncross my legs and recross them, this time placing my right leg over my left. As the blood returns to my leg, I expect that painful feeling of pins and needles. But, it does not hurt at all. It just wakes up. Soon, my left leg falls asleep. But when I adjust, it is the same. No pain.

A bird shits on my right hand. It is watery. I quiet reach into Annette's bag to find a tissue and return to meditation. The man at the microphone calls our attention back to the world. Then Amma takes the microphone, speaking in Malayam. The man at her feet translates. The boy next to her lifts her arm and tucks himself underneath it for a hug. He introduces the conversation—a continuation of last week's discussion about how to stay positive and hopeful in life. A dog wanders up to the platform and plops down on Amma's right side. He reaches back to itch his back leg. Amma reaches for a pen to help him itch. Another of her assistants joins the effort. Meanwhile, a woman in a wheelchair speaks about the impact Amma has had on her life. She speaks of divine intervention and a mother's love that has helped keep her hopeful in the face of pain and crippling. Amma is listening to both her and the dog. And presumably to all of her children. And then, abruptly, she ends the session. The man with the microphone explains that those who arrived today and are leaving today can come for darshan. We are leaving at 7 a.m. tomorrow, so this includes us. Eventually, a crowded jumble of people turns into two lines. Again, I find my nose tucked into Amma's bosom. But it is not the same as yesterday. I suppose not many things are quite like the first time.

Annette and I leave the following morning before sunrise with hopes of returning some day.