Nine Lives (7 page)

‘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.”

‘By that time, our guruji had returned, and he gathered the community. By early afternoon all the gurus and
matajis
were there guiding her and sitting together around the bed. Others came to touch her feet. The room was full of people, and so was the veranda outside. Everyone was chanting the
namokara
mantra, singing
bhajans
and
kirtans
and reading the Jain texts which explain the nature of the soul. Everyone was there to support Prayogamati, to give her courage as she began to slip away.

‘Around 4 p.m., the doctor said he thought she was about to die, but she held on until 9 p.m. It was very peaceful in the end. It was dark by then, and the lamps were all lit around the room. Her breathing had been very difficult that day, but towards the end it became easier. I held her hand, the monks chanted and her eyes closed. For a while, even I didn’t know she had gone. She just slipped away.

‘When I realised she had left, I wept bitterly. We are not supposed to do this, and our guruji frowned at me. But I couldn’t help myself. I had followed all the steps correctly until she passed away, but then everything I had bottled up came pouring out. Her body was still there, but she wasn’t in it.
It was no longer her.

‘The next day, 15 December, she was cremated. They burned her at 4 p.m. All the devotees in Indore came: over 2,000 people. It was a Sunday. The following morning, at dawn, I got up and headed off. There was no reason to stay.

‘It was the first time as a nun that I had ever walked anywhere alone.’

The following day, after she had finished her breakfast, I went to say goodbye to Prasannamati Mataji.

‘Her time was fixed,’ she said quickly reverting to the subject of Prayogamati, like a pigeon returning to its coop. ‘She passed on. She’s no longer here. I have to accept that reality. All things decay and disappear in time.’

Mataji fell silent, apparently lost in thought. There was a long pause. ‘Now my friend has gone,’ she said eventually, ‘it is easier for me to go too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have seen over forty
sallekhanas
,’
she said. ‘But after Prayogamati’s, I realised it was time I should set out to that end as well.’

‘You mean you are thinking of following . . .?’