Dr. Aditya and the Clinic - Part 2

The following is the second half of a two part interview with Dr. Aditya Gait, a resident medical doctor and member of Ananda’s Kriya Yoga Community in the countryside outside of Pune, India. Dr. Aditya is also a Brahmachari member of the Ananda Renunciate Order.

J: There are good hospitals in both Pune and in Lavasa, but what sort of medical facilities are in the neighborhood of Ananda? Are there clinics nearby?

AG: There are small clinics in Pirangut, about 17 kilometers away, but they are quite expensive for the villagers and not at all up to the mark. Few doctors are available and they often give incomplete treatment. Two government dispensaries are in the area where we are staying but the villagers aren’t happy with their service and, again, the medicines are expensive.

I’m getting my medicines from a company in Gujarat that was started by a group who is consciously keeping prices low. Their medicines are at par with any drug company in the world but at only around one tenth the cost. I’m also trying to keep my consultation fees affordable for the villagers. They are twenty rupees only.

J: What sort of medical problems do you typically see in Watunde? What is the greatest need, locally?

AG: What you see mostly are the basic seasonal illnesses, asthma, and injuries. 60-70% of the ladies are deficient in iron and have anemia which leads to fatigue and pregnancy complications. Alcoholism is a problem but it takes time to gain people’s trust before it can be addressed. Malnutrition is not so common in the village but the tribal people who stay on the hilltop, some of them are malnourished.

In the long run, what will help most is better health education and reinforcement of things they already know but lack the initiative to do, such as better ways to cook food and how to grow healthier crops. They grow sugarcane as a cash crop but don’t grow spinach or other leafy, green vegetables. All of the villagers have cows but they don’t drink that milk. They sell it. We need to teach better hygiene also. The villagers know these things but are not putting them into practice.

J: Who typically comes to you now for medical attention?

AG: The people who now come are from the local villages (Watunde, Borde and Kharawade) and from the tribal village on the hilltop. The local village population is around thirteen hundred but only three to four hundred are staying at any one time. On any given day, eight to ten are ill. Last year I had medical camps in two nearby villages and got a very good response.

I’m sure if we build a real clinic with local people involved, I can reach maybe ten to fifteen villages in the vicinity. Almost all the villagers now have to go to Pirangut and that can be expensive for them.

J: Because you didn’t finish your residency, is there a problem with you operating a clinic and practicing medicine?

AG: I can serve as a General Practitioner but not as a Surgeon, but even as that, there are many surgical procedures I can do, especially in a life threatening situation or when in remote areas. When there is no one else to help, you have to do it. I do need a license to run a clinic and since I will also be the lab technician, I need a license for that too and in India, a special license is needed to run a chemist shop. Doctors don’t usually run chemist shops so I will need to explain the situation to see if they can give me that license. Those three things I need before I can run this clinic.

J: Because you are not from this area, have you been well received?

AG: Yes. I had that doubt too at first, but the villagers are happy. They see me as an outsider but when they also see that I am here to help them and my prices are very competitive, it immediately breaks that barrier. Being from an ashram also helps because they feel we are service oriented.
(Watunde Village at left)

You have to be absolutely selfless when serving in this way. There has to be no expectation that people should respect you because you are a doctor. In one of my rural clinics, someone came up to me and asked, “Where is your certificate? Where are you from? Why are you here? How much do you charge?” He was trying to intimidate me but in the end he shook my hand.

I was prepared for such things because I know that I am not from this part of the country. If you are absorbed in giving, you won’t have these problems. If you have expectations, things may go well for awhile but when something bad happens you will feel discouraged. You need patience. It takes time to build something and it takes time to build trust, but I could feel from day one that this is the right thing to do.

I’m learning to speak Marathi now which I only understood before but could not speak. Hopefully, by the time the clinic starts, I’ll at least be able to converse with the patients.

J: What comes next? What is your plan?

AG: If we can provide basic care and provide for some emergencies, I think that is what is needed now. With the container now here, setting it up is the next thing. Maybe in a few months we can have a lab for basic investigations and a place where people can come for urine and blood tests. I’d like a small procedure room and at the very least, a supply of medicines. I already have a basic surgical kit. Also, once we have a space, maybe visiting doctors can come.

Soon, we’ll run an electric wire from the community to the clinic and we are expecting solar panels from the USA. As you can see, we have a lot of space and there are no trees around the container so we can put up those panels to provide electricity for when the regular power goes out. A water tank and a composting toilet are also in the plan. Already we are planting a small garden.

J: That’s pretty ambitious. How are you able to fund it all?

AG: Up to now, it has been through donations, mostly from devotees in Pune. We have sent out mail seeking help in whatever form someone wants to offer it and have had a few replies. One devotee from America contributed a lot of surgical instruments, exactly the thing I needed.

I have kept prices very low, almost negligible, because I first must build a trust relationship with the local villagers. It isn’t my intention to make the clinic a profit-making business but I would like to see it grow and be financially stable to better serve people. Perhaps one day we can put it on enough of a healthy footing to attract more doctors and devotees who are in the healing professions.

In Maharasthra, we have the most health related NGO’s in rural areas in India, so a lot of doctors are service oriented in this part of the country. Many doctors want to serve but they find it difficult to take that initial step. I’ve also met doctors who are very keen on moving to our community but I can understand why, with families, they cannot abruptly leave everything to come here. I have to get things started first.

J: At the moment, what is your biggest need?

AG: Honestly, for now, I need money to get set up and started, to buy the medicines, and to bring in electricity, waterlines and utilities. Today we have one container, but in time and with peoples’ help, we could have a permanent building where specialists could sit. I don’t see why people someday would not come from Pirangut or even Lavasa to get treatment here because it would be holistic and nice.

(Watunde Village is located at the base of the big hill in the background of the photo above. See the same hill in the previous village photo. The Ananda community is 50 meters behind the photographer.)

J: What additional community projects are you working on, other than the clinic?

AG: A lot has happened in the last one and a half years. At the monastery right now, we are putting up solar panels so as to have electricity and, later on, for the clinic. Also, we are trying to get a solar pump ready to bring water up and are making a composting toilet and a shower house. We just finished our meditation space. Initially, I was working in the garden and was buying supplies in the city one day each week for the community kitchen but now others have taken over those tasks.

J: What does your family think of all this?

AG: They would be very happy if I came back home because my father has a clinic and he would be interested in having me help. They think I am just serving the rural areas and say, “Why don’t you see patients in the rural area over here?” But my aim is to serve Master’s work more than anything else. To be a channel in whatever way I can is the reason I am at Ananda. My mom is happy as she knows I am doing something good but my poor father doesn’t understand it at all. I love them and pray for them. I know Master will take of our souls.

J: What has been your greatest gain in this project?

AG: The immense satisfaction of serving: serving my guru, serving the local villagers, serving the ashram. Building a community and doing something for others to follow has brought me great satisfaction and contentment.

When Swamiji asked, “What do you think of a rural clinic?” I realized he didn’t want me to cut myself off from medicine. He was happy I had taken up this path but he also wanted me to serve. I’m happy to do so because I never disliked what I was doing before. It’s just that I like what I am doing now so much more. Swamiji asked me to do this thing and I know things will work out. This container seems so empty today but I have a strong belief that it is just the beginning for something much, much more.

If you would like to contribute to the clinic project in Watunde Village, please write to me at my regular anandaindia email address or at jayahelin@yahoo.com. I can put you in touch with Dr. Aditya, explain his needs, and clarify the options available to you.

Dr. Aditya Gait and the Clinic - Part 1

Aditya Gait is a member of Ananda Sangha helping to build a “Kriya Yoga Community” in the countryside outside of Pune, India. He trained as a medical doctor before joining Ananda and is now beginning a medical clinic to serve the needs of local villagers and community members. Aditya is a brahmachari member of the Ananda Renunciate Order and, in addition to his medical service, is actively engaged in the development of Ananda’s retreat and residential community.

The following is Part One of a two part interview conducted with Aditya in early July, 2010. At that time, he had recently purchased a shipping container from Mumbai and had placed it on a small parcel of land adjacent to our community with the intention of converting it into a small clinic. In this first part of the interview, Aditya tells of his early interest in medicine and of his coming to Ananda. In the second part, he will speak of his plans for the clinic.


Jaya: For the past year, you have been working as a medical doctor with local villagers, traveling here and there to see patients. I see you have now bought a shipping container with plans to convert it into a small medical clinic. How is it going?

Aditya: Swamiji has asked me that exact same question, at least seven or eight times, since we first came to Pune. It’s practically his first question whenever he sees me. I’ve been answering, “It’s going well,” but when he last came, I told him, “Swamiji, so many things are going on. I’m unable to focus all my attention on the clinic though I have been seeing patients.” He said, “I understand, but it would be nice if you can do something with the clinic which at the same time does not take all your time.”

J: Have you always wanted to be a doctor?

A: Yes. I was always interested in general medicine but never in surgery. After my internship, I applied for residency training at a hospital in New Delhi known for its program in community medicine. They told me, “Those seats are full, but we have one seat in rural surgery.” It was a pilot program combining general surgery, orthopedics, obstetrics, and all of the surgical things needed by a rural doctor. I had never been particularly attracted to specializing in those subjects but when they put that tag “rural” in front of it, I was interested. My sister is a psychiatrist and my father is a military physician and I thought, “I will be the surgeon,” and we could all serve together.

J: What was it about rural medicine that attracted you?

A: When in medical school in Pune, I was aiming to be an oncologist or a neurologist, but when I went for my internship in New Delhi, I saw that most of my patients had come from the rural areas. That made me ponder, “Why are so many people coming from the rural areas? Instead, we should be going there.”

When someone was ill, the whole family would have to come into the city, often causing major complications because of the delay. I soon realized what was required and decided to serve in the rural areas. That didn’t go down well with my family but I was very content inside because I knew that if I was to serve as a doctor, this was the way it had to be.

J: Did you enjoy your service as a doctor as you had expected?

A: Yes, but when I saw patients I would think, “Why is this happening to them?” I would see people with chronic illnesses which had no cure and I would ponder about why it was so. In pediatric surgery, I saw small babies being operated upon and wondered, “Why is this happening to them?” It was hard to understand. You know, such difficult things are equally bad news for a doctor as for a patient.

I thought about karma and why things happen, but I couldn’t explain this to my patients in a way that would help them. Very few were receptive and once they are physically well, patients don’t come back. I found that disappointing because I wanted to give them so much more. Some days I was happy and some days wasn’t when unable to save somebody. Things eventually came to a point where I couldn’t go on like that.

All the while, I was desperately asking God for help and I eventually came to realize I needed to learn higher things than what I was then studying. I believed in prayer but I just didn’t know how it worked. I believed also in miracles like we read about in the lives of saints and I thought it would be good to learn those things too. But, who do you learn it from?

It was then that I read Autobiography of a Yogi. It answered almost all my questions. I was very certain Yogananda had been with me before. When he spoke of reincarnation, I thought, “He has been my guru!” From then on, I was always questioning and asking, “What does he want from me?”

J: Is that when you came to know about Ananda?

A: I came to know of Ananda just before starting my residency, and wrote a letter to Swamiji, telling him I was a doctor, of my interest in serving people and that I wanted to learn Kriya Yoga. I asked him to please tell me what I can do. I left my phone number and email address but didn’t hear back. When his reply didn’t come, I thought, “Master wants me to continue in medicine.” I thought this because I got my residency seat at the hospital under very miraculous conditions, I must say.

My application was already five months late and the seat was available only because somebody else had become ill and had left it. I was told, “Be at the hospital at nine o’clock in the morning and the head of the department will interview you.”

The next day, on my way to the hospital, I was entering the Delhi Metro when a beggar called out to me. I had only ten minutes but I thought I could give him two, so I said, “What’s your problem?” I could see he had rashes all over his hands and he was blind. He said, “Can you please tell me where the President of India sits? I have to meet him.” This was a surprising question but I could see he was completely stable and not insane. I said, “That’s a very unusual request. How are you going to meet him?” The fellow said, “He told me I can come see him at any time,” and he pulled out of his pocket a picture. There was the President, Mr. Kalam with that beggar! He had met him in Lucknow and the President had told him to come see him if he had any problem. I asked him what his problem was and he said he needed Rs.2500 because he had been ill and spent everything he had on the clinic and private hospitals. “I don’t have money. I have not eaten for two days and my family has not eaten, so today if he can give me some money, I can go back home.” His request was so simple. He would ask the President to give him some money.

That was the ninth day of Ram Nomi, so everything was closed. I thought, “If I leave him like this he will definitely not reach anywhere. Because I’m educated and a doctor, maybe the guards would let me get near the President’s office.”

Only the day before I had been reading in Swamiji’s book, The Essence of the Bhagavad Gita, the passage where Krishna says to Arjuna, “Oh Arjuna, as long as you think you can plan this and manage that, I will watch. But the day you offer your life completely to Me, I will take complete charge of it.”

I was so thrilled when I read that line and I was thinking how nice it would be if God takes all charge. So, I said to God, “I’m taking this course for You and I want to help this man for You. Because You have put him in front of me, You must take care of my interview. I’m going with him.” So I went with the beggar and it was a very long day. At the President’s office we had problems and didn’t meet Mr. Kalam. Then I took him to an NGO but they could not help. I took him to a charitable person who also could not help. In the end, I had to pay him what money I had. He needed Rs.2500 and I had only Rs.1600, so I gave him that much.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon when I left him and I was wondering what must have happened about the interview. I thought, “Let me go and check.” I reached the hospital and knocked at that surgeon’s office but nobody answered. I peeped in and his secretary was sitting there. “Mam, is Dr. Khanduri there?” “Please wait,” she said.

I was sitting outside and eventually saw him coming along the corridor. I thought he might scold me as I stood to meet him. I said, “Sir, I am Aditya. You asked me to come for the interview today.” “Oh my God!” he said, “I’m so sorry. I made you wait so long!” He hadn’t come to the hospital the whole day! I didn’t want to tell him the whole story so I just said, “It’s fine, sir.” He said, “I had to interview you. Anyway, you know what? You are the only person.” He asked for my mobile and called someone, “This is the only guy and he wants the seat.” I was through.

So the seat at the hospital was a precious gift and I didn’t want to leave it. I thought, “I should become a doctor. Maybe it’s not my good karma to meditate in this life,” but finally, things came to a point where I knew I wanted to heal people but not in that way.


J: Eventually, you decided to come to Ananda.

A: Yes, I finished one month short of two years in the residency program and then I came to the ashram. Obviously, my friends and family were not happy with me. They said, “It’s just one more year,” but I knew I had to come. Swamiji met me and said, “Do you have any questions?” I said, “No.” And he said, “Are you sure?” and I said “Yes.” And he said “Sure?” I thought, “There must be something,” and said, “Swamiji, I had this question a few days back when I was doing my residency. Everything was good. My teachers were good. My college was good. I was happy but I just felt it was incomplete so I came to seek God.” And he said, “Man’s highest responsibility is to find God and I think you have done the right thing by coming here.” I was so relieved, but the very next thing he said to me was, “What do you think of a rural clinic?” I had given up my stethoscope, my books, everything, but I said, “OK.” So this blue container is the result of all those things. I want to fill it back up with books and a stethoscope.

Part 2 of this interview will appear next week.

To Burn or Not to Burn

That is the question.

If you should drive to our property in the months of March and April, you will see the villagers harvesting sugarcane, wheat ripening, bullocks plowing fields, blackened hillsides and a hazy sky. If driving at night, you might even see a glow of grass fires, a common feature of the hot season in Maharashtra as farmers ready their fields for planting. The land is at its driest now and most easily set ablaze to clean the fields of last year’s debris and, in the villagers’ view, renewing them for the growth of new grass.

Last week the annual fires marched across our property, scorching the hills above our new housing cluster before creeping down to burn the grassy areas below. It was an impressive display, eliciting more than a few worried calls from Sangha members. The fire passed through the land in a couple of hours, leaving blackened ash in its wake but doing no long-term damage. As the fire approached, some asked if we “should do something about it.” Should we muster a crew to stop it? Were we in danger? I didn’t think so and discouraged firefighting as a waste of time and, to my mind, as too dangerous. Other than removing flammables from around the houses, I felt the best course was to simply get out of the way and let the fire take its course. In the end, I think this proved to be right, but the question remains, “Is the annual burning of the hillsides a good or bad thing?”

I’m of two minds about it. The major arguments against burning are:

1. Burning destroys the biomass that would otherwise decay to build topsoil, leaving the hillside soils devoid of organic matter and organisms.

2. Denuded hillsides are prone to erosion during the monsoon. Organic matter, grass and debris cushion the soil from the beating rain. Without organic matter, soil is less able to absorb water, resulting to heavy runoff.

3. Burning biomass is a major contributor to the “Asian Brown Cloud”, an unhealthy, atmospheric phenomenon of dirty air that hovers over the Indian subcontinent for much of the year. (The politically correct term is now "Atmospheric Brown Cloud") Many suffer from respiratory problems caused by the smoke that lingers in the air until the onset of the monsoon. Swami Kriyananda is a good example of this.

4. Fires hinder the natural reforestation of denuded slopes by killing seedlings. Once a forest is reduced to grassland by human harvesting and fire, it is difficult to regenerate a replacement forest in the presence of continual burning. Deforestation is a national problem as villagers chop trees, alive and dead, to supply their cooking fires. Deforested land holds less moisture, leads to failing springs and all the ills of reduced ground water.

If after reading the above, you wonder what could possibly be positive about burning, you might consider the following:

1. Annual fires prevent an unhealthy buildup of dead brush and debris. Because the hills are regularly burned, fires are fast and grass-fueled only, as opposed to the hotter, more intense fires that result from many years’ of unburned brush. Annual fires do not usually kill established trees whereas hot brush fires do. Where a regenerating forest has established a foothold, annual fires allow the trees to reach maturity. In fact, many of the first generation trees of the local forests protectively shed their leaves during the hot season, making them less subject to burning. Because burning is a fact of life in these parts, sooner or later all the hillsides will catch fire. Perhaps it is better to have multiple small, benign fires rather than occasionally large, destructive ones.

2. The villagers say that the ash from the fires acts as a fertilizer to promote better growth of grass after the monsoon for their cows and buffalo. This is probably so as it is known that potash has a stimulating effect upon germination in some soils. I notice the villagers will typically spread dead grass and small brush on a small portion of their rice paddy and set it afire. The resulting ash acts as a fertilizer for the rice seeds that are tightly planted on the spot of the fire. The seedlings will grow to about twelve inches by the time the entire paddy is flooded in the monsoon. They are then transplanted in small clumps about twelve inches apart throughout the field.

3. The local farmers prefer to keep the edges of their fields clean of debris to deprive snakes, rodents and critters from taking up residence and disturbing their crops. Clean borders are considered more aesthetically pleasing and eliminate wild seeds from competing with their rice, wheat and pulse crops. This translates into less time spent weeding. The problem is that burning of the paddy fields inevitably spreads to the hillsides.

My personal preference is for hastening the reforestation of the hillsides above the developed portion of our land. Now it is a mix of grass and scrub forest and, given time, I suppose second and third generation trees will eventually reestablish themselves. It will be slow going to say the least, but perhaps we can hasten the process through deliberate planting but how do we keep the trees alive during the burn season? I notice teak and other tall trees along the highways but not on our land. A tall forest with a full canopy would shade the land, build humus, cushion the monsoon rain, inhibit brush formation, promote wildlife, possibly increase spring flows and, ideally, be able to withstand grass fires. In such a managed forest, fire would move under the branches to keep the forest floor clean. The problem is that seedlings would have to be nursed and protected until they rose high enough to fend for themselves against the grass fires. This is highly labor intensive and with so many other things to do, it’s unlikely we can make more than a token effort to do this now.

I doubt we can change the pattern of annual burning, so I think it best to adapt to it. How can we do that? What might the best course be? For one thing, it means being prepared and not allowing a buildup of flammables next to buildings, orchards or anything we want to remain undamaged. It might even be in our interest to start the fires ourselves so they can be managed according to our needs, wind direction, dryness and timing. I’d much rather see the fires move down the slope than up. That way, like our neighboring villagers, we could make fire our friend rather something to be feared.

What do you think? I've turned the "Comments" option on for this post if you care to chip in with your thoughts.

Mud Trucks

Driving to Watunde Village each morning, it’s not unusual to see large trucks headed the other way into town, loaded with soil destined for landscaping projects at the many construction sites throughout Pune. Day by day, without pause, topsoil is strip-mined from the countryside to feed the growth ofIndia's cities, leaving behind a moonscape of gouged pits and subsoil fields. No one particularly likes these “mud trucks” but seemingly few care enough to do something about the environmental tragedy they represent. “After all,” the thinking goes, “India’s land has been raped for so many centuries, why bother about this small thing when a good profit is at hand?”

If you stand at a point on our land offering a good view, you will notice areas of excavation, particularly in Borde Village to the west. There, backhoes (called “JCB’s” in India) fill daily convoys of trucks, each capable of hauling three to four brass (1 brass = 100 cu. ft.) of soil. In Watunde, our village, you will find fewer large pits but many small excavations, usually the result of a farmer selling his soil for Rs.500/truckload. That’s about $10.00 US. The trucks come, usually in pairs, with a crew of eight to ten workers to fill them by hand in a half day when a JCB is unavailable. The soil is then transported to Pune in the afternoon where it is sold for Rs.5000/truck. Each worker makes about Rs.150 for his day’s labor while the truck owner or contractor keeps the rest after paying a royalty to the government (or the government agent who pockets the money). It’s a profitable business, especially if you can avoid paying the landowner or government, a practice not uncommon.

Our neighboring village of Borde is unusual in that the entire village is owned by one person, a descendent of a nobleman who was gifted the village in British days. I’ve heard that he is an NRI (non-resident Indian) living overseas who has never lived in Borde. In the intervening years of his absence, farmers have taken possession of the land, and in the face of multiple lawsuits, have claimed it as their own. Consequently, no one has clear title to property in Borde, making it fertile ground for poaching by the mud trucks. They begin by taking soil in a lightly inhabited zone and showly expand their operation. Should anyone complain, they give a small payment to keep that person quiet. It’s said that some villagers make a good living this way by extorting “tips” from the mud trucks to not raise a fuss. Also, because the Borde villagers do not have clear title to their land, some see it as in their interests to extract monetary benefits while they can.

A couple of weeks ago, Biraj asked me what was up with the new excavation on our neighbor’s property. I had no idea what he was talking about so I decided to investigate. To my surprise, someone had started harvesting our neighbor’s topsoil from a beautiful meadow of trees and grass and then driving it out across our property to reach the roadway. I could hardly believe it. Obviously, they had come and gone early because otherwise, I would have noticed them. Did Prakash, our neighbor, know about this or were the trucks stealing his soil?

Two days later, we arrived at our land earlier than usual to find two trucks backed onto Prakash’s property harvesting soil less than fifty feet from our property line. I was incensed and stormed over to confront the drivers and crew. “GET YOUR TRUCKS OFF THIS LAND AND DON’T COME BACK,” I yelled at the truck drivers. (It doesn’t work to be subtle or soft spoken in village India if you want to get someone’s attention.) The drivers were befuddled by the sight and sound of a strange gora (white guy) shouting at them. The workers paused while I delivered my tirade in multiple variations until there was little doubt they got my point. They were crossing our property with their trucks and I wouldn’t allow it. How many times had I heard in the past year these exact same complaints directed at me from one of a dozen neighbors on whose land I had inadvertently crossed onto? In such situations, the first thing a neighbor does is start yelling. The second is to block your access, so by this time, I knew the drill. Since the trucks were almost full, I told them to finish their loading and leave and then stomped off, looking for Prakash.

It didn’t take long for Prakash to find me. He was mad. “What’s your problem?” he asked indignantly. He was trying to make a little money and saw nothing wrong with selling property he rightfully owned. I had no right to interfere. “Maybe so,” I countered, “but you are crossing our land and I won’t let you do it. If you continue, I’ll block your access and will never again hire you or your wife to work for us. You’ll become a stranger to me.”

This went back and forth for a few minutes and all the while a crowd of villagers gathered to watch the show, including the sarpanch. This was great entertainment, all of which had to be translated from Marathi to English and back, with a sprinkling of Hindi thrown in. In India, a crowd gathers for just about anything. I soon became aware that I had the crowd on my side and sensing that, I began to lay it on thick to Prakash, gesticulating and loudly invoking ecological havoc, stealing from future generations, money grubbing, greed, and the general destruction of Watunde Village. I even invoked the devas, saying they surely thought what he was doing to be evil. The crowd nodded and the sarpanch smiled, jumping in himself to lecture Prakash about sending his soil to Pune. As I came to hear later, the sarpanch and others had already been after Prakash for his dealings with the mud trucks and, because of some other shady dealings, he is presently in disrepute in the village. You could visibly see him shrink under the onslaught.

Feeling I now had momentum, I marched back to the mud trucks and began taking photos of the men at work from multiple angles, with special emphasis on the trucks and their license numbers. I took photos of the drivers and of Prakash. I could tell this made everyone very nervous. “What are you doing?” they asked. “Just keeping a record,” I said before inquiring, “Tell me. Did you get permission from the government? Are you paying royalties? Did you pay the talsidar? Do you have papers?” “Oh yes,” they replied quickly, but I had my doubts. “Maybe you should show me your papers and I can call my attorneys so they can talk to the talsidar about this?” This sent the drivers and Prakash into an extended discussion out of earshot, so I walked away. Ten minutes later they came over and suggested a solution. The trucks would leave. In return, I’d simply let the whole thing slide. We made a deal and the trucks have not come back. Yet.

I have to admit my motives for opposing Prakash’s soil harvesting were not entirely for noble, ecological reasons. I do believe that selling his soil is short sighted and destructive, but I’m not indifferent to the plight of farmers in need of cash or of their right to sell their land but in Prakash’s case, I know he is not a poor man. He has multiple pieces of property and is generally considered well off in the village. One of his sons is even attending college in Mumbai. But I also know that we have been trying to talk Prakash into selling to us the land from which he was taking soil. He knows we want that land as we have offered many times to buy it. My suspicion is that his harvesting plan, while paying him some ready cash, was also one more way of putting pressure on us to offer a higher price. A degraded piece of land in a prominent place next to ours would have been a terrible eyesore but I wasn’t about to succumb to that tactic. Too many times already we have paid money to buy ourselves out of a difficulty and have had it come back to bite and cause us problems. Also, by acting strongly in such a situation I had gained “face”. While unimportant to me, it's meaningful to the villagers.

I think the selling of topsoil says something about changes taking place in India. Most of the harvested soil comes from marginal farmland, not from fields easily irrigated. The valuable land in the floodplain is capable of two or three crops each year because of available water, whereas the upper lands produce one meager crop after the monsoon. These drier lands are no longer economical but by selling the topsoil a farmer can get at least a little income now from his holdings while the future will simply have to take care of itself.

Is it any wonder that the younger generation is no longer interested in farming? What future does the land hold for them other than back-breaking labor and limited opportunities? With education expanding, energetic kids want something more and head to the cities to find it, letting the marginal fields lie fallow and the better fields to be tilled by their elders. I look to see who is working in the fields and see few young people. A good giveaway is to see how the men dress. The older generation wears the traditional white Nehru cap, white kurta and white trousers. Pravin, a young man from the village who sometimes paints for us when he doesn’t have better things to do, wears a baseball cap. You rarely see the Nehru cap on someone younger than forty unless he is a politician.

Education in the villages is changing India. The country’s challenge is to keep up with the pace at which young workers are migrating away from the villages by providing decent jobs and economic opportunities in the countryside as well as the city. In Watunde, most young men leave, coming back only to visit or help the family from time to time. For now, I think most girls stay behind but that too is changing. Each Saturday I pay our village laborers. As I give them their weekly wages, I ask them to sign their name in our labor book to show that they have been paid. Nine out of ten men can sign their names. Nine out of ten ladies cannot. The exception is the girls who almost always sign. That’s progress.

Stopping a couple of mud trucks on our neighbor’s land won’t stop the strip mining of soil. I’ve already noticed the same two trucks taking “mud” from another piece of land close by. It seems that the country has neither the will nor resources to bring such practices under control. There are too many vested interests in the status quo, allowing deforestation, water pollution, erosion, and habitat destruction to become rampant. As it stands, officials who monitor these often put assessments into their own pockets and do nothing constructive, making everyone cynical about the government’s motives for charging royalties. Few believe that it is really concerned about the environment. “The babus simply want more money.” It will probably take a large environmental NGO to get behind farmland preservation to exert enough influence to affect change. Degradation is rampant in India and the country seems powerless to do anything meaningful about it. At least, that’s how it appears to me but I know I'm an outsider and maybe should resist making hasty judgments. I remind myself that India is, after all, an overwhelmed and over populated country with limited resources. We have to give it time. My feeling is that education is the long-term answer. When I see the swarms of uniformed kids walking to school each morning, waving to us as we pass, I see India’s future and feel hopeful. Like I said, it will just take a bit of time.

Keeping it legal

It seems that every Ananda community, whether in Assisi, California, Seattle or India, must deal with the problems of government regulations, bureaucratic oversight, difficult neighbors and legal hurdles. Things are no different in Pune although I find the form these take here to be more entertaining (or exasperating) than I’ve been accustomed to expect.

For the last year we’ve been working to receive permission to build a community with multiple uses on land that is reserved solely for agriculture. Since the concept of “community” as we use it is not familiar to local planners, we sometimes employ the term “institute,” even though all the locals simply say we are building an ashram, a term everyone knows and accepts. We’ve had to first establish an Ananda Sangha Trust in the state of Maharashtra (no small task), transfer our property ownership into this entity, consolidate our land holdings into one unit, define the official boundaries and then apply to the appropriate commissions for zone changes. It all seems so cut and dry on the surface but it’s only now, after one year of work, that we are taking our official submissions. In the meantime, our development has been constrained by local, village requirements, meaning that we can construct no more than 4000 sq. ft. of building space. Anything more must be designed in such a way as to be considered “temporary”.

It’s amazing what is considered temporary. It's such a loose term that just about anything could potentially qualify. It seems that the primary consideration is whether a building has a standard, permanent foundation dug into the ground with a solid roof over it. This is why the monks have built on concrete posts and pillars. Rammed earth buildings are “temporary” because they can be pushed over if necessary. I imagine a wood frame building on piers like those found in America, whatever its size, would be considered temporary because everyone knows those things won’t last beyond a lifetime. It could be argued that everything is ultimately temporary, so why worry about it? That argument might work on the village level, but because we are doing something broader, we have to proceed in a way that also satifies the higher scrutiny of officials in Pune. That’s a lot tougher.

You may have heard of Tip O’Neill’s quote, “All politics is local.” Doing a construction project in a small village in the countryside of India has reminded me of the truth of that statement. You may aim to change the world, but first you need to fix the neighborhood path. The other day I got a call telling me that someone had decided to dig, in protest, a trench across our road so as to block traffic. Road blocking is a familiar, local tactic. If you are upset, you block someone’s road and make angry threats in a very loud voice. He was sending a message that “he wasn’t going to take it anymore!” Unfortunately, I had no idea what our neighbor was so mad about, but after a little digging, it turned out that he and his wife were angry with the fellows who had originally built the road five years ago. They had failed to pay them for a small corner of their property crossed by the road. The villager had now decided that it was our job to resolve this for him. Did he ask us for help? Did he come and talk to us first? Of course not! He simply dug up the road. That’s how things work here.

Since the wife worked as a laborer on Swami’s house, I asked to speak with her. I reasoned, I complained, I appealed, I waved my arms and threatened dire consequences. No luck. She and her husband simply said they would continue to dig up the road unless they received satisfaction ($$$). Eventually, a nephew appeared to argue on their behalf. He looked like a Bollywood thug. A crowd gathered to enjoy the scene, multiple phone calls were placed until finally Amol (an Ananda Sangha Trustee in Pune) counter-threatened to stop the entire project and lay everyone off for a month if the road damage continued. This got everyone’s attention and brought an end to the argument. Stopping work was serious and the couple could ill afford to be the cause of their neighbors’ loss of wages. We soon came to an agreement. We would intercede with the previous owners on the couple’s behalf in an attempt to resolve their problem. They, on their part, would cease being a nuisance and repair the road. We had to go through this entire drama to reach an agreement that could have easily been achieved if they had simply come and talked to us first. But, the villagers aren’t used to dealing with common problems in any other way.

It wasn’t ten minutes after the road issue was resolved that I noticed a bunch of cleanly dressed, mustachioed men with sunglasses talking to our backhoe driver. You can easily spot the Indian politician and government official. This fellow and his henchmen had come from the talathi’s office to shut down our construction work because we hadn’t received the proper permissions from his office, or so he claimed. (The “talathi” is like the tax collector and registrar of government records. In India, it’s a prized post because of the many fees that pass through his office, making wealthy whoever holds the position.) To every assertion by the talathi, Biraj calmly explained in his broken Hindi that we were perfectly within our rights and no such permissions were necessary. "Toddle along, old chap and let us be." The fellow became increasingly frustrated by our lack of submissiveness to his position until he finally puffed himself up and asserted in English, “I AM GOVERNMENT!!”

After fifteen minutes of back and forth dickering (He making demands and we playing non-comprehending simpletons.), we called our attorneys. They quickly pointed out to this fellow that he was totally mistaken and that he should ask his supervisor to show him all the papers we had already submitted. The attorneys knew that no bureaucratic subordinate in his right mind in India would ever ask his boss for such a thing because it was highly likely the supervisor didn’t know the legalities or had ever read whatever documents had been submitted. He didn't do such things and that such a request would only cause embarrassment. This was something a subordinate could never do. To save the inspector from having to approach his supervisor, our attorneys volunteered to provide him with photocopies of everything in ten days. In this way, no one would lose face and the inspector would then be in the clear. He was now happy.

All the while this was going on, I could see one of the henchmen making surreptitious gestures toward me. He wanted to convey something, so afterward, when the above negotiations ended, he let me know through our labor foreman that the talathi had visited us at this particular time because was hoping for a “gift”, this being the season of Diwali when the giving of gifts is customary. I sent back an inquiry about what type of “gift” the talathi had in mind. “American googles (sunglasses), a baseball cap and some cash would do nicely.” After all, it was the day before Diwali.

Two weeks ago, Arjuna Lucki arrived from Italy to offer his help with our construction projects. Arjuna is one of the leaders of our Assisi center with extensive construction experience, he being the driving force behind the creation of our beautiful Temple of Light in Assisi and the temple/dining room/kitchen at the Expanding Light. He came to Pune with the thought of helping us finish Swami Kriyananda’s house but quickly realized there is little for him do to directly speed that project along. For now, it’s mostly in the hands of our contractor. Knowing of Arjuna’s fondness for temples, I suggested he help us erect a simple, temporary mandir (temple) we had been hoping to build before the end of the year. We need something to last us for a few years until we can afford to build a more substantial building and had been thinking of a pandal (tent). It was just the right project to get Arjuna excited and, as suspected, it wasn’t long before thoughts of a simple pandal had expanded into a pavilion with a blue mosaic-covered, ferro-cement roof shaped similarly to that of the temple in Assisi. To keep it within our budget, the sides would be open or closed with canvas. (See photo.)

As Arjuna and I were talking over the design with our local architect, a thought kept going through my mind, “How in the world are we going to justify this as a ‘temporary’ building?” We arranged a meeting with our attorneys and presented them with the dilemma. “Tell me again. What is this building for?” they asked. “It’s a place for satsang, puja, meditation and that sort of thing.” Hmmm. Thinking. Big smile. “No problem. It’s a mandir (temple)! Here’s what you do. Make a picture of what the mandir will look like when finished and put it on a big banner. In big letters, have a name for the mandir on the banner, something that clearly identifies it as a religious place. Dhyanmandir, or something like that. Place this at the site, and at the bottom, put our mobile numbers so that if anyone shows up asking questions, they can call us. Don’t say anything if officials come. Just have them call us. Oh, and one more thing. Make sure to start the project with a big puja to which all the local people are invited and hand out lots of sweets after. You won’t have a problem.”

We haven’t tried this yet, but maybe this is what we’ll do. We’re still thinking about it. In India, if you want to build a temple, it’s hard for anyone to object. You see temples everywhere and in the most unlikely of places. If someone gets inspired, they erect a temple without bothering with government regulations. That’s just how it is.

Arjuna has now returned to Italy for a couple of weeks to take care of personal business before returning in time to start this project in November. I’m hoping he’ll have a chance to show the design to Swamiji for his feedback. If everything goes well and we can squeeze enough money out of our limited budget, we hope to finish our “temporary” temple within a couple of months.

As you can tell, we have a lot on our plate. When it will be completed is anyone’s guess but we’re hoping to have Swami’s house habitable by the end of the year. “Habitable” doesn’t mean completely finished but we should have the inside working. We won’t have the staffs’ quarters done and landscaping will still need lots of work, but no doubt we’ll be far enough along to begin thinking of what comes next. Retreat? Flats? There will always be something.

Much joy to everyone,

Jaya

(PS: If you would like to help us manifest our new mandir, you can contact me at my normal email address or at jayahelin@yahoo.com for information about how you can contribute.)