Nine Lives (6 page)

‘In those early days, we also began to learn how to meditate. Our guru trained us to get up at 3 a.m., and on the days we were not travelling, we would spend the early morning – the most peaceful time of the day – in meditation, striving for self-knowledge. We were trained to think of the twenty-four
Tirthankaras
, to visualise them, and to contemplate within our hearts their attributes, their lives and the decisions they had made. We were shown how to sit in a full lotus – the
padmasana
– with our eyes closed. My ability grew with my studies: first I studied the Sanskrit scriptures, then during the meditation I would recollect what I had read, and attempt to visualise what I had studied. Like a spider making a cobweb, with meditation you need patience to keep building. Once you know all about the
Tirthankaras
it is not difficult to picture them. It is like a child learning to cycle: as you cycle, you master the art, until eventually you hardly notice that you are cycling at all. But as with the bicycle, the first steps can be very hard, and very disheartening.

‘Learning the scriptures, learning Prakrit and Sanskrit, learning to meditate, learning to accept
tapasya
– it is all a very slow process. When you sow a seed, you have to wait for it to grow and become a tree and bear fruit – a coconut palm will not fruit for many years. It is the same with us. There is a lot of time between sowing the seed and reaping the produce. You do not sow the seed and expect to get the fruits the next day. With our
tapasya
, with the deprivations we experience, you do not expect to get immediate rewards, or even necessarily to get the rewards at all in this life. You may only get the rewards many lives into the future.

‘Like the
Tirthankaras
,
you should have faith in the Jain path: faith is everything. For without the spiritual knowledge that the Jain faith contains you can never attain liberation. Spiritual knowledge is like ghee in the milk: you can’t see it, so initially you just have to trust that it is there. Only if you learn the proper techniques can you reap the full benefits of the milk’s potential: you must learn the way of splitting the milk into curds, then how to churn the curds and finally how to heat the butter to get ghee.
The sun is always there, even if the clouds are covering it. In the same way, the soul is trying to reach for liberation, even if it is encumbered by sin and desire and attachments. By following the Jain path you can clear the cloud, and learn the method to get the ghee from the milk. Without the Jain dharma you are a soul tormented and
you cannot know any lasting happiness. But with a guru to show you the right path, and to teach you the true nature of the soul, all this can be changed.

‘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 I 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 three 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 on to 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.