Here is a beautifully written account of a young Jain nun called Prasannamati Mataji. It’s a story about her absolute commitment to an extremely austere path, and her friendship with another nun. You will be inspired, saddened, and perhaps, disturbed. There is not a lot of literature about Jainism, so this is a rare opportunity to get a peek into that tradition.
It’s by William Dalrymple, a historian and travel writer, adapted from his book Nine Lives:
Two hills of blackly gleaming granite, smooth as glass, rise from a thickly wooded landscape of banana plantations and jagged Palmyra palms. It is dawn. Below lies the ancient pilgrimage town of Sravanabelagola, where the crumbling walls of monasteries and temples cluster around a grid of dusty, red-earth roads. The roads converge on a great rectangular tank. The tank is dotted with the spreading leaves and still-closed buds of floating lotus flowers. Already, despite the early hour, the first pilgrims are gathering . . .
Read the entire story here at the Washington Post.
I wonder what you will think at the end of it . . .
