Nine Lives(8)

“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.