Nine Lives Page 4

  “By following the Jain dharma, by living a life full of good deeds, you can gradually erase your bad karma. And, if you are lucky, and steadfast in your pursuit of this goal, you can finally achieve moksha.”

  “At the end of two years with the Sangha,” continued Prasannamati Mataji, “I finally made up my mind that I would take diksha. That November they plucked my hair for the first time: it’s the first step, like a test of your commitment, because if you can’t take the pain of having your hair plucked out you are not going to be ready to take the next step. That day, I performed a fast, and that evening one of the senior matajis of the Sangha applied the ash of dried cow dung. This acts as a sort of natural antiseptic if you bleed, as well as stopping the hand from slipping during the plucking.

  “I had very beautiful long thick hair, and as I was still very young my guru wanted to cut it with scissors then shave my head with a razor, so as not to inflict such pain on me. But I insisted, and said there was no going back now. I was a very obstinate girl: whatever I wanted to do I did. So they agreed to do what I wished. I think everyone was rather amazed at my stubbornness, and my determination.

  “The whole ritual took nearly four hours, and was very painful. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help crying. I didn’t tell my parents about my decision, as I knew they would try to stop me, but somehow they heard, and came rushing. By the time they arrived, the ceremony was almost over. When they saw me with a bald head, and scars and blood all over my scalp where my hair had once been, my mother screamed, and my father burst into tears. They knew then that I would never turn back from this path. After that, whenever the Sangha would arrive at a village, the maharaj would show me off: ‘Look, he would say. This one is so young, yet so determined, doing what even the old would hesitate to do.’

  “It was about this time that I met my friend Prayogamati. One day, our Sangha happened to walk into her village, and as her father was a rich merchant, who lived in a very large house, they invited us to stay with them. Prayogamati was the same age as me, fifteen, a beautiful, fragile, sensitive girl, and she came down every day to our room to talk to us. We quickly became very close, talking late into the night. She was fascinated by my life in the Sangha, and I had never met anyone who seemed to understand me the way she did, someone who shared all my beliefs and ideals. She was about to be engaged to the son of a rich diamond merchant, and the match had been arranged for her, but she told me that she was really much more interested in taking diksha. She also knew that her family would not allow her to do this.

  “After a week, we left the village, setting off to the next town on foot before dawn. That evening, Prayogamati borrowed some money from her mother, saying she wanted to go to a circus. Instead, she took two outfits from her room, and jumped on a bus. Late that night she found us and asked the maharaj to accept her. Her family realised what had happened, and her father and brothers came and begged her to return, but she refused and our guruji said it was up to her to decide. From that point we were together for twenty years. We took diksha together, and travelled together, and ate together, and spent our monsoon chaturmasa together. Soon we became very close.

  “Except for the chaturmasa, it is forbidden for us to stay long in one place, in case we become attached to it. So most nights we would sleep in a different place and our life together was full of variety. Some nights we would stay in the house of a rich man, sometimes in a school, sometimes a dharamsala, sometimes in a cave or in the jungle. Jains regard it as a great honour to have us, and Hindus also come to do darshan. So if no Jain house is available, Hindus would always be happy to take us in. We cannot eat food cooked by Hindus, but we can take raw materials from them and cook it ourselves.

  “People think of our life as harsh, and of course in many ways it is. But going into the unknown world and confronting it without a single rupee in our pockets means that differences between rich and poor, educated and illiterate, all vanish, and a common humanity emerges. As wanderers, we monks and nuns are free of shadows from the past. This wandering life, with no material possessions, unlocks our souls. There is a wonderful sense of lightness, living each day as it comes, with no sense of ownership, no weight, no burden. Journey and destination became one, thought and action became one, until it is as if we are moving like a river into complete detachment.”

  “We lived in this manner for a full four years before the time came for Prayogamati and me to take formal diksha—much longer than we had hoped, or expected. But both our families said, ‘Let our other children get married first.’ We both agreed to this, as we didn’t want to upset our parents any more than we had already. But we came here to Sravanabelagola and took a vow in front of Bahubali, promising that as soon as the family weddings were over we would take diksha. The wedding of my brother was in January of the fourth year, and finally, in March, the day of our diksha arrived.

  “Our maharaj and the matajis dressed up my friend and me as brides. We wore identical clothes, jewellery and mehndi [henna decorations on the hands]. We even looked alike, so often people confused us. All my childhood, I never wore any jewellery, just a watch and a single gold chain around my neck. But for the diksha, we were dressed in jewels and diamonds then taken together in a chariot around thirteen villages near our family haveli at Karavali in Udaipur district. Before us went drummers and trumpeters and men clashing cymbals, and as we passed, we would throw rice and money to the crowds. Every day we would give food to the people–sometimes we would feed a whole village, sometimes we would just distribute sweets or dates and jaggery. For a whole month this continued until we were thoroughly sick of all this display. This surprised both of us, because this was a day we had longed for: for four years now we had delayed the ceremony, and now it was upon us, all we wanted was to get through it, and head off back on the road.

  “But the day of diksha itself made it all worthwhile. I really think it was the happiest day of my life. Both our parents came, and all our relatives. It was a huge public event—20,000 people gathered, and it became impossible to control the crowd.

  “On the final day, the day of the diksha ceremony, Prayogamati and I both fasted: no food and not a drop of water passed our lips. We rose very early and offered food instead to our maharaj, and then we left the house and walked to the stage where the ceremony was to be held. For the previous fortnight we had gone everywhere in chariots or on the back of elephants; but now it was back to our own two feet. When we got to the stage we said prayers in praise of the Tirthankaras, and then we formally asked permission from the maharaj to take diksha. He gave his assent, and amid lots of trumpeting we were led off the stage.

  “Then came the time for saying farewell to our families. We both tied rakhis around our brothers’ wrists—a final expression of sisterly love—before saying goodbye to them. After that our relationship of brother and sister was supposed to end—they were to be like strangers to us. Then we said goodbye to our parents; we embraced and wished each other farewell. After this, they were no longer our parents—they were to be just like any other member of society. We all wept, but I think our parents were also proud of us: to have a monk or a nun in the family is considered a great blessing in our community. And after all, we had left our families for several years by this stage, so it wasn’t a great change for them. In their minds, we had taken diksha many years before.

  “After the farewell, we were led off for the hair-plucking ceremony. This time we had to do it ourselves, which was much harder. After it was finished—it only took half an hour as our hair was already short—we were given a holy bath in a shamiana tent. We were both stripped and washed by other matajis in a mixture of milk, ghee, turmeric and atta, and then in a final bath of water. For us it was like a baptism. When we both came out, we were given robes of white cloth. Our ornaments were taken off, one by one, a symbol of our sacrifice.

  “Then we were led back onto the stage, and told our new names. I was no longer Rekha; for the first time in my life I was addressed as
Prasannamati Mataji. For the first time my friend became Prayogamati. Then we were both lectured by our guruji. He told us clearly what was expected of us: never again to use a vehicle, to take food only once a day, not to use Western medicine, to abstain from emotion, never to hurt any living creature. He told us we must not react to attacks, must not beg, must not cry, must not complain, must not demand, must not feel superiority, must learn not to be disturbed by illusory things. He told us that we must be the lions that kill the elephant of sexual desire. He told us we must cultivate a revulsion for the world, and a deep desire for release and salvation. And he told us all the different kinds of difficulties we should be prepared to bear: hunger, thirst, cold, heat, mosquitoes. He warned us that none of this would be easy.

  “Then he gave us our water pot and peacock fan, the symbol of our commitment to non-violence, and we were led off the stage for the last time. In our new position as munis, we were led through crowds of people, all of whom were now asking for our blessing.

  “That night we spent on the roof of the house where we were staying. The following morning, we got up before dawn and ate—we had fasted all the previous day. Then without telling anyone, we slipped away. We looked for the signs that led towards Gujarat, and began to walk.

  “Only then did we really begin our wandering life as fully ordained nuns.”

  “Everyone had warned us about the difficulty of this life,” said Prasannamati Mataji. “But in reality, we had left everything willingly, so did not miss the world we had left behind. Not at all. It is the same as when a girl gets married and she has to give up her childhood and her parents’ home: if she does it in exchange for something she really wants, it is not a sad time, but instead a very joyful one. Certainly, for both Prayogamati and me, it was a very happy period in our lives, perhaps the happiest. Every day we would walk and discover somewhere new.

  “Walking is very important to us Jains. The Buddha was enlightened while sitting under a tree, but our great Tirthankara, Mahavira, was enlightened while walking. We believe that walking is an important part of our tapasya. We don’t use cars or any vehicles, partly because travelling so fast can kill so many living creatures, but partly also because we have two legs and travelling on foot is the right speed for human beings. Walking sorts out your problems and anxieties, and calms your worries. Living from day to day, from inspiration to inspiration, much of what I have learned as a Jain has come from wandering. Sometimes, even my dreams are of walking.

  “Our guru had taught us how to walk as Jains. While walking, as well as meditating on the earth and the scriptures, and thinking of the purpose of our lives, we were taught to concentrate on not touching or crushing any living creature. You have to be aware of every single step, and learn to look four steps ahead. If a single ant is in your path you should be ready to jump or step aside. For the same reason, we must avoid standing on green plants, dew, mud, clay or cobwebs—who knows what life forms may be there?

  “Not hurting any sentient being and protecting the dharma is really the heart and soul of the dharma. We believe there is a little of paramatma—the spirit of God—in all living creatures, even those which are too small to see. So much of our discipline is about this: only drinking filtered water, only eating in daylight so we can really see what we are eating. At the end of each walk we do a special ritual to apologise for any creatures we have inadvertently hurt.

  “But it was while walking that Prayogamati began to realise that her health was failing. Because she had difficulty in keeping up with me, we noticed that there was something wrong with her joints. She began to have real difficulty in walking, and even more so in sitting or squatting.

  “For ten years her condition got worse: by the end, it pained her to move at all, and she had difficulty moving or sitting. Then one afternoon she was studying the scriptures in a monastery in southern Karnataka when she began coughing. Her cough had become worse and worse, and she had begun to make this deep retching noise. But this time when she took her hand away from her mouth she found it was covered in blood. After that, there was nothing more for a week, but then she began coughing up blood very regularly. Sometimes, it was a small amount—just enough to make her mouth red—at other times she would cough up enough to fill a small teacup or even a bowl.

  “I guessed immediately that it was TB, and got special permission from our guruji to let her see a doctor. Western medicine is forbidden to us, as so much of it is made by using dead animals, or by torturing animals during the testing process. But given the seriousness of the situation, our guruji agreed to let a Western doctor look at her, though he insisted that only herbal medicine could be given to her and only at the time of her daily meal.

  “Prayogamati remained very calm, and for a long time she hoped that she might still recover her health. Even when it became clear that this was something quite serious, she remained composed and peaceful. I think it was always me that was more worried. She kept assuring me that she was feeling better already and that it was nothing serious; but in reality you didn’t have to be a doctor to see that her health was rapidly deteriorating.

  “Her digestive system became affected, the bloody coughing continued, and after a while she started showing blood when she went for her ablutions too. Eventually I got permission to take her to a hospital where she had an MRI scan and a full blood test. They diagnosed her problem as Cox’s Syndrome—advanced TB of the digestive system. They said that her haemoglobin was very reduced, and her chances were not good. One doctor said that if we had come earlier they could have helped, but we had left it much too late.

  “That same day Prayogamati decided to embrace sallekhana. She said she would prefer to give up her body rather than have it taken from her. She said she wanted to die voluntarily, facing it squarely and embracing it, rather than have death ambush her and take her away by force. She was determined to be the victor, not the victim. I tried to argue with her, but like me, once she took a decision it was almost impossible to get her to change her mind. Despite her pain and her illness, she set out that day to walk a hundred kilometres to see our guru, who was then in Indore, staying at the Shantinath Jain temple.

  “We got there after a terrible week in which Prayogamati suffered very badly: it was winter—late December—and bitterly cold. But she refused to give up and when she got to Indore she asked our guruji’s permission to begin the process of embracing sallekhana. He asked Prayogamati if she was sure, and she said yes. When he learned that she would anyway probably not have very long to live, he gave his assent.

  “Throughout 2004, Prayogamati began gradually reducing her food. One by one, she gave up all the vegetables she used to eat. She began eating nothing at all on several days of the week. For eighteen months she ate less and less. Normally sallekhana is very peaceful but for Prayogamati, because of her illness, her end was full of pain.

  “My job was to feed her, and look after her and read the prescribed texts and mantras. I was also there to talk to her and give her courage and companionship. I stayed with her twenty-fours hours a day, and took the leadership of her samadhi. Throughout she tolerated everything, all the pain and discomfort, and stayed completely calm—such calmness you can hardly imagine! I always enjoyed her company, and always learned from her, but never more than towards the end. She showed how it is possible to keep quiet and smilingly show acceptance no matter how much you are suffering. Such a person will not be born again.

  “By September 2005 she was bedridden, and I remained continually by her side for three months, until the beginning of December. By this stage she was eating only five things: pomegranate juice, milk, rice, mung dal and sugar. Every day she would eat a little less. In the last weeks she was given protein injections by a Jain doctor, but she was very weak. She had to summon all her strength to perform the observations that have to be followed during sallekhana. Despite not eating, and hardly drinking, her body had somehow swelled up because of the disease, and she continued to lose a lot of blood every
time she performed her ablutions. At the end, she was also running a terrible fever of 105 degrees, and was covered in sweat. In the afternoon she would feel cold; in the evening she would burn. I asked the doctors, what is the reason for this? They did some tests and said that she had caught malaria as well. They gave her some injections, but it didn’t really help.

  “During these last days our guruji was not there—he had gone away for a function. So for the last days I was the only person she knew in that temple, though many munis were there to sing and chant and support her.

  “The next day the fever was still there. Again the doctor came, and she asked for some food, but she could not stand—in fact she could not even open her mouth. He advised her to drink half a glass of milk, and this she took. For some reason she wanted to clean her teeth, but she didn’t have the strength, and the doctor advised her to rest. She was very frustrated by this.

  “Just after 1:30 p.m. I went to take my food, and was just about to start eating when Prayogamati cried out loudly. I rushed to look after her—it was clear her condition was not good at all. There was no one around except a boy at the gate, so I sent him off for the doctor. When I came back, I held her hand and she whispered that she wanted to stop all remaining food. Her suffering was too much for her now. She said that for her death was as welcome as life, that there was a time to live and a time to die. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘the time has come for me to be liberated from this body.’