A Sri Lankan encounter with Super Swamis

by Tissa Devendra

To be absolutely honest, I never actually met the first of these swamis. Way back in 1953, I was a young field officer in Trincomalee Kachcheri, just a few months after leaving University. Veteran “junior” [i.e. subordinate] officers were assigned to ‘teach me the ropes’. After a strenuous day of being jolted in a jeep along pot-holed tracks and inspecting crudely built peasant cottages I was relaxing on the Kuchchaveli Rest House verandah with my ‘guru’ Lohitarajah. He was a son of the soil who knew every inch of the District, and was a superb raconteur. “Can you remember that cluster of rocks, I pointed out to you, far away in the Periyakarachchi jungles? They’ll tell you a fine story – if only they could speak….” he said, smiling to himself. I rose to the bait and egged him on.

THE CAVE

“A few years ago villagers foraging in the jungle for wild honey found that one of the larger caves had been cleaned out, an iron trident garlanded with marigolds stood at its entrance. Just inside, seated cross-legged on a deer skin was a well-built swami, luxuriantly bearded and surrounded by the usual paraphernalia of swami-hood. Once his sonorous chants had ceased, he deigned to satisfy the villagers’ awed curiosity. Up in the Himalayas he had received a divine message directing him to go to this very village, in the Eastern jungle, which was suffering from drought, poverty, sickness, infertility and a lack of spiritual guidance. The Masters’ message was that his Divine Mission was to minister to these needs. His aura was so overwhelming that the enraptured villagers fell at his feet and swore fealty. Back in the village the good news spread fast and a steady trickle of men and women trekked to the swami’s cave with their humble offerings of simple food, fruits, honey and flowers. He responded with sonorous chants in a strange tongue and simple talks extolling the usual virtues and, also, unquestioning devotion to him as representing the Divine.

Nobody knows how, but the rumour spread that the swami had power to conduct a special pooja by which childless couples could achieve conception. The man had to come first and spend a full day of fasting and austerities. The woman had to spend a full night of devotions in the holy cave. Post pooja, the women returned at dawn with seraphic smiles – and conception duly followed. Everybody was happy. …

Some months later, a husband had gone one morning to reclaim his wife who had been summoned for an extra special pooja. The cave was empty, the fireplace was cold .His wife was nowhere. All he found was a luxuriant pile of hair from the swami’s beard.

He returned home sad, but also happy, that his wife and the swami had flown through the air to the Himalayan snows …..Did you observe, sir, the number of fair and lovely young teenagers in this village of sun-burnt, emaciated peasants? “

This was the swami whom, sadly, I never met in Trincomalee.

THE SHAWL

About twenty years later, the vagaries of government transfers brought me back to Trincomalee – this time as Government Agent and de jure ‘first citizen’. Among my assorted duties was to welcome any VIP who deigned to visit the town. Trinco had a strange appeal to the spiritually inclined. Its Swami Rock, which ancient temples once crowned, was Sri Lanka’s easternmost headland on which the rising sun first cast its rays. Quite apart from the Koneswaram Kovil on Swami Rock, the town and its environs were sprinkled with a number of other kovils, large and small. This ensured a sizable crowd of believers in Hinduism’s pantheistic deities, with an inherent tendency to have faith in ‘holy men’. Among the professionals [lawyers, politicians, teachers etc] this traditional tendency was overlaid by faith in a hair-haloed godman from South India. Altogether, fertile ground for exotic swamis.

One evening, my wife and I were invited to the welcoming ‘pooja’ of a visiting swami from somewhere-in-India. The function was in the hall of a Hindu school, whose musicians played a medley of devotional Carnatic music till the swami arrived. His entrance was greeted with a loud collective gasp from the gathered multitude. As he slowly advanced along the central aisle, beaming benignly to left and right, we realized that the gasp was not due to any spiritual aura that he emanated. He was stark naked! Only a strategically clutched shawl hid his masculinity from the naturally curious. He was a fairly short and pudgy man with the requisite long beard, long locks and beatific smile There was a flurry of activity on the stage as a flustered Principal shooed her schoolgirl singers away from any glimpse of the divine. As the swami mounted the stage we understood why the organisers had covered the head table with a capacious table cloth – which ensured that, once he sat down, the devotees would see him only above the waist, thus eliminating any profane curiosity.

The swami’s principal acolyte, and translator, was a fair and buxom lady in a rich saree who spoke excellent English. Rumour had it that she was [what else?] a Maharani who had renounced her wealth to become the swami’s ‘chela’ cum- business manager. The swami began proceedings by launching into a solemn dirge-like chant. Once this ended he preached his sermon in a strange language – neither Tamil nor the Hindi familiar to film-goers. Fortunately, before we lapsed into incomprehensibility and boredom, Madame translator came to our rescue and shared her Master’s thoughts with the assembled ‘devotees’.

Sadly, these proved to be of the most banal and clichetic variety, exhorting all to do good, be good, honour our gods etc., etc. We were then invited to close our eyes and meditate for a few minutes. A tinkling bell roused me from drowsiness. We were then invited to walk up to the swami and share our problems with him. These were expressed via Maharani who translated back the great man’s thoughts. We watched this laborious process for some time, made our ‘humble excuses’ and left. My recollection is that this swami gathered few, if any, adherents in Trincomalee. His linguistic limitations and aversion to clothes did not go down well with the rather proper middle class of Trinco. Nor did it raise a ripple among the “peasants and workers” who were not wooed away by strange swamis. He left in a few days.

THE BOY

Some years later Trincomalee attracted the attention of yet another swami – a precocious young boy, an American of Indian [Bharat, not Mohican] descent. By the time he reached us, after a gruelling schedule, the little chap had fallen victim to an unholy bug. No big ‘darshan’ was possible in the few days he planned to stay here. A deeply spiritual Hindu engineer offered him hospitality in his official bungalow, within earshot of the holy chants and tinkling bells of Koneswaram Kovil.

A quiet trickle of ‘devotees’, or the merely curious, visited the bungalow to catch a glimpse of the holy boy. They were met by yet another of those statuesque Indian ladies who cluster around swamis. In excellent English, with the hint of an American twang, she explained the swami’s background. His father had been a great guru who had achieved enlightenment after years of austerities and studies at the feet of great Masters in [where else?] the Himalayas. He then descended to the Gangetic plain and wandered around gathering a considerable following. Celibacy he scorned as contrary to the Divine spirit. He chose a [what else?] a Maharani as his Consort and spiritual partner. Some time later his Voices from the Himalayas directed him to share his wisdom with the ungodly multitudes of America. Once in America he gathered thousands of disciples. This meant the development of a large temple complex, complete with radio and TV station, printing press, publications, devotees’ cottages and meditation halls – all run by a faithful corps of business managers. Soon after their arrival in the US, the Maharani gave birth to the first born American swami. As the boy grew older his swami father tutored him extensively on swami-hood – as his heir apparent. The father now grew increasingly feeble and, before he left this world to join his Himalayan Masters, he presided over a great ceremony where his son was anointed as his spiritual, and material, heir. Soon after this, the swami ceased to be alive.

The boy who was now visiting Trinco was the great man’s heir. Unfortunately, he could not address us as his voice was too weak due to a throat infection. But he would deign to give us a ‘darshan’. We peered into a room wreathed in incense where, beneath a large picture of his bearded father, a young boy with sleepy eyes sat cross-legged on a divan. He was rather plump and wore Mickey Mouse printed pyjamas. After a few minutes of gawking , he wearily waved his hand – either as a gesture of blessing, or bored dismissal. Back with his ‘minder’, we were given parting gifts of several richly printed journals, carrying the thoughts of the past and present swamis. They were larded with colourful advertisements for the products of his American Centre – books, pictures, records, prayer beads, robes, health foods etc. These proved to be far more entertaining than the cloudy meanderings of the swamis, great and small.

Next morning the entourage left Trinco – whether for the golden West of the American prairie or for the snowy peaks of the Himalayas , we never knew.

THE HANDMAIDENS

The last of the swamis I encountered before I left Trincomalee, had sent out an advance party to scout the terrain and do some ‘softening up’. They discovered a swami-friendly environment and distributed elegantly produced hand-outs in impeccable English. These claimed that the swami had been a highly qualified engineer [just like the Beatles’ Maharishi] before he got The Call, from the Himalayas [where else?]. He learnt that his mission was to go forth to godless America and there establish an organization to spread the virtues of meditation, love and Indian culture. He then founded his Heavenly Spirit Foundation. It was pretty clear that his target audience was our town’s English-friendly ‘elite’ – not the humble Tamil devotees of our many kovils. The best available hall was hired for the ‘darshan’ and, as-per-usual, the Government Agent was invited to ‘grace the occasion’.

The great day came. Trinco’s ‘elite’ and those ready-to-believe filled the hall. As we rose to greet him, he walked majestically down the central aisle, flanked by tall blonde lovelies draped in cream silk sarees – “daughters of the gods, divinely fair and divinely tall” [as Tennyson sang]. The swami was a tall, handsome man with an elegantly groomed beard and flowing locks. No saffron robes for him. He was in a silken ‘kurta’. He sat himself on a divan and summoned a few of the blondes, calling them by the Indian names he had bestowed on them – Padma, Geetha and the like. He directed them to sit on the floor and tune the Indian musical instruments allocated to them. With this quiet thrumming and twanging in the background, our swami – in excellent English –spoke to us of his Divine Mission and the support, spiritual and material, he expected from us. Prospects of visits to the American Headquarters were gently hinted at. Detailed information was available at the hotel [not ashram] where his party lodged. We were then lulled by a medley of North Indian ‘raags’ played by the lovely handmaidens on the stage . The swami then went around, in a cloud of musky perfume, attended by his handmaidens, and spoke to us exuding warmth and sincerity.

To what heights of material [and spiritual?] success had his Himalayan Masters led this engineer – I thought to myself, in admiration, as I returned to the everyday world, sadly devoid of golden-haired handmaidens.

Sunday Island, Sril Lanka