On the evening of July 16th, I stepped out of Gandhi International Airport into muggy New Delhi, and my glasses became foggy instantly as sweat began to bead on my freckled forehead. My vision was impaired, but my sense of smell was certainly intact. Coming from a family of several generations of brick manufacturers, I knew immediately what Delhi felt and smelled like to me: a brick kiln, which was firing clay [and perhaps the contents of a dumpster]. As I used my trembling finger to swipe my lenses clean, I was immediately overwhelmed the warms of people coming, going, and simply being.

We must never lose sight of the Holy Task, that of Self Knowledge, or Self-Realization.

I am in a slightly bewildered state, having just come to the completion of two major projects; which, with my head down, had consumed much of my time and focus over the last two years. One of them is my new website, and the other is the submission of half my life’s work to a publishing company.*

My boy, who is nine, said to me, “Mom, I know it’s weird, but I don’t think I’m alive. I don’t think you’re alive either.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, intrigued. “Do tell!”

“Well, I’m not me, and you’re not you; we’re just atoms.”

It was the first time that I had heard of the Maharshi or of Tiruvannamalai, so I wrote down both names. But how was I to get there? It was right down in the South, and my funds were almost exhausted. However, the next day I saw an advertisement in the paper for an ex-army man to run a canteen in Madras. I applied and was at once given the post and my fare paid.