Enlightenment In This Lifetime: Meetings With A Remarkable
Woman
An Interview
With Dipa Ma tricycle
In conversations that took place in Calcutta in 1977, Jack
Engler got to know one of the twentieth century’s most accomplished
meditation teachers.
Among the first wave of young Americans venturing
into Asia in the early 1970s were Jack Engler, now a prominent
psychotherapist and supervising psychologist at Harvard University,
and Joseph Goldstein, cofounder of the Insight Meditation Society,
in Barre, Massachusetts. Both men were deeply influenced by Indian
meditation master Nani Barua (1911-1989), affectionately known as
“Dipa Ma,” and her teacher, Anagarika Munindra (1914-2003). Perhaps
what most characterized these young Americans and their approach to
the dharma was their boundless enthusiasm—and the plucky belief
that enlightenment could be attained in this lifetime. While many
Asians had come to believe that such high aspirations were best
deferred to a future life, Munindraji and Dipa Ma insisted that
such goals were not only to be encouraged but that they were also
entirely realizable.
Returning from their travels, Engler and Goldstein were both
instrumental in establishing the Vipassana tradition in North
America. To this day, both remain deeply indebted to the teachings
of Munindraji and Dipa Ma.
In the following section, Jack Engler shares for the first time his
conversations with Dipa Ma, which formed the foundation of his
doctoral work, and in a candid interview, he speaks with Tricycle
about his own journey. Joseph Goldstein, in the wake of
Munindraji’s recent death, remembers a teacher for whom he was the
first Western student, and ponders a world beyond the life of two
of his most treasured mentors.
Nani Barua was her given name, but in accordance
with Indian custom, she was known and addressed as Dipa Ma—“Dipa’s
Mother”—or even more simply as “Ma.” She was in her late fifties
when I met her, in 1975. She was a venerated teacher by then in the
small Buddhist community that had migrated from East Bengal, India,
to Burma during the British Raj, and then resettled in Calcutta
after Burmese independence. She taught out of the one room she
shared with Dipa, her daughter and only surviving child.
Dipa Ma (1911–1989) was without any of the outward
trappings or symbols of recognized Buddhist teachers—no ashram or
center, no titles or ordinations, and no degrees, monastic vows, or
attendants. Just a tiny woman in a tiny room in an impoverished
neighborhood of old Calcutta, unknown outside her circle of friends
and students, teaching in the traditional Indian way, at home all
day, every day, for anyone who wanted to come by and talk about
dharma. At the same time, she was a great yogi who not only had
experienced the depths of liberating insight but had also mastered
the deepest levels of samadhi, or singleness of mind, and most of
the siddhis, or psychic powers [see final page]—a rare achievement
in contemporary Buddhism, especially in Theravada. She was a gifted
teacher who had helped many of her students to realize their
essential Buddha-nature.
I met Ma in India while doing doctoral research for
the University of Chicago on the impact of enlightenment on the
structure of consciousness and mental life. There are actually four
enlightenment experiences, or “path moments,” in the way Theravada
practice is said to unfold. According to the tradition, and the
testimony of ancient and contemporary practitioners, it is in these
moments that the specific mental factors that produce suffering are
progressively eradicated. This is when fundamental and irreversible
changes are said to take place in the mind. For purposes of the
study, I needed individuals who had experienced this kind of
change. With the intercession of her teacher, Anagarika Munindraji,
Dipa Ma and some of her most experienced students agreed to be
“subjects” in the study. All had experienced at least “First Path”
in the Theravada system of practice, or what we call
“enlightenment.” All happened to be women. The men who had
experienced “path,” Dipa Ma said, were working during the day and
not available. So began a series of meetings with remarkable women
in that same little room throughout the spring and summer of
1977.
Dipa Ma herself was by far the most remarkable. She
was a woman in a setting where teachers were traditionally men. She
was a layperson teaching in a monastic tradition. She was a widow
and single mother active in the world, without the protection of
family, in an environment where women, especially widows, remained
at home. Above all, in a Buddhist tradition that historically said
the full dharma was only possible if you abandoned family life and
“went forth” into homelessness and the monastic life, she had
probably gone as far or farther in the practice than anyone I knew
or had heard of. That is still true now, thirty years later. She
was diminutive in stature, but no one I have ever met had a
stronger mind, or a bigger heart.
Amy Schmidt’s book Knee Deep in Grace
provides a more detailed account of Dipa Ma’s life and teaching,
especially the impact she had on others. In the following
interview, Dipa Ma describes in her own words some of the journey
she took to becoming the person we knew.
Dipa Ma herself did not speak or read English. Her
reflections on her life and the outcomes of her practice were
translated by a trilingual Bengali woman translator, Srimati V. Her
descriptions of her experiences in practice were translated by her
meditation teacher, Anagarika Munindraji, at Dipa Ma’s
request.
—Jack Engler
Early in my interviews with Dipa Ma, I once
said, “When I try to imagine the enlightened state, it seems kind
of gray and dull to me. Once you’ve extinguished all the desire,
anger, and passion, where’s the juice? Where’s the pizzaz? Where’s
the chutzpah?” As soon as Dipa translated my question, her mother
broke out laughing. “Oh, you don’t understand! Life was dull and
boring before. Always the same routine, nothing new. Once you get
rid of all that stale stuff you’ve been carrying around, every
moment is fresh and new, interesting and alive. Now everything has
zest and taste. No two moments are ever the same.” The truth was
not in her words; it was in her spontaneous laughter and
delight.
On a stifling hot day, Munindraji was talking to
some of Dipa Ma’s older female students about rebirth. Ma had not
been feeling well and seemed to be dozing against the wall in the
heat. Munindraji happened to mention the tradition that one must
take birth in a male body to become a Buddha. At that she suddenly
bolted upright from the wall and exclaimed, “I can do anything a
man can do!” We all laughed because we knew it was absolutely
true.
Childhood, Marriage, and
Motherhood:
What were some of the major influences on
you in childhood? I grew up in an
extremely close family in Chittagong [in East Bengal]. We are all
still close. Chittagong was a special place in those days. This was
the main area where Buddhism survived in India into the twentieth
century. It was a very open and tolerant place. Buddhist, Hindu,
and Muslim communities lived together in the same village. I was
very happy as a child, though I kept to myself growing up; I didn’t
play much with other children. I was particularly close to my
mother. I remember her as quiet and affectionate. She died
unexpectedly when I was eighteen. I was married at twelve, and only
saw her twice after I joined my husband in Rangoon two years later.
Her death came as a great shock; I contracted typhoid immediately
afterward. I didn’t get over her death until my first child was
born. My father, on the other hand, was strict, though he was
affectionate toward me. He was a man of strong principles. He never
bowed his head to anything he didn’t think was right. I inherited
that trait from him.
People often seem surprised by the extent of
your learning. Yet you didn’t go very far in school, did
you? I attended the local village
school up to Sixth Standard [sixth grade] before I was married.
That isn’t very far. But I enjoyed school a lot. Even if I was
feeling ill and my parents gave me permission to stay home, I would
slip off and turn up in school anyway. I loved to learn. My father
was very supportive and used to go over my schoolwork with me at
home. After marriage, there wasn’t any opportunity to continue
formal schooling. Bengali wasn’t taught in Burma, and it was
unthinkable anyway that a married lady of the house in the Bengali
community would go to school and study. So I studied at home on my
own, mostly books on Buddhism.
You were married very young, in accordance
with ancient Indian custom, even though your family was
Buddhist. I was twelve. My husband
was twenty-five. It was an arranged marriage. Because I was so
young, I was allowed to stay with my parents until I was fourteen.
When I stayed with my in-laws from time to time, I cried a lot. I
couldn’t settle down with them. I can still feel the fear in my
heart just thinking of my in-laws’ house. When I finally joined my
husband, it was a very difficult adjustment in the beginning, even
more difficult because we were living in Burma. I was extremely
lonely and homesick. I never feel alone now. Meditation is my
constant companion. But I felt terribly alone those first years of
marriage.
Many young Indian wives don’t know anything
about physical intimacy before marriage. They often find out about
it first from their husbands. How did you first learn about
it? The women in my family
instructed me about my duties toward my husband and about running a
household, but my husband was the first one to tell me about sex. I
was very shocked, very nervous, and terribly ashamed. I was afraid
of him at first. It took me almost a year to get over the shock and
the shame. But my husband was very gentle and kind, not the kind of
man who insisted on asserting his rights. He was extremely patient,
affectionate, and generous. He could get close to people in a very
short time. He was a rare human being. I’ve never come across
anyone like him. I’ve always considered him my first
teacher.
I understand your relationship was tested
almost immediately. Young Indian
wives are expected to have their first child, preferably a son,
within a year or so of marriage. But I couldn’t conceive. Year
after year went by, and still I hadn’t borne a child. But in all
that time my husband remained unfailingly kind and sweet to me,
unlike many husbands. He never criticized, never pushed, was never
angry, was always loving and patient. He had a good position and a
more than adequate income. We had many friends. Apart from not
having children, my life with him was very happy.
Meditation Practice:
You came from an old Buddhist family. Did
you start meditation practice early in life?
When I was young, meditation practice wasn’t that
common. One or two of the older generation practiced meditation,
but that was absolutely in private, not the way it is now. They
didn’t talk about what they were doing. It was only after I was
married that the idea of meditation became popular. I became very
interested and wanted to learn, but my husband said, “We’re such a
young couple. Why don’t we take it up later when we’re a little bit
older?” At that time the feeling was that spiritual practice was
not for the young but for the elders, after they had raised their
family and finished working. So I took my husband’s
suggestion.
How did you finally begin?
Out of suffering and desperation. After waiting
twenty years to conceive, my first child, a daughter, died three
months after she was born. After waiting another long four years,
Dipa was born. The following year a son died in childbirth. I never
saw him. I mourned the deaths of my two children for several years.
Just as I felt I was making some peace with the situation, I was
diagnosed with high blood pressure, which was seriously affecting
my heart. My condition worsened to the point that my life was in
danger. It finally reached the stage where my doctors expected me
to die at any time. At just that time, my husband, who had always
been healthy, came home from work one afternoon feeling ill and
feverish. Despite a doctor’s efforts, he died suddenly later that
day. It was a terrible shock, completely unexpected. I’d been
suffering so much, then this blow. Only Dipa was left. She was
five, I was forty-one.
When I realized I was dying, I knew I had to begin
to practice. I asked myself, “What can I take with me when I die?”
I looked around at all the things I had and knew I couldn’t take
them. I looked at my daughter and knew that as much as I loved her,
I couldn’t take her, either. So I thought, “Let me go to the
meditation center. Maybe I can find something there I can take with
me when I die.” I decided to leave and live in the meditation
center—I could die there as well as in the house. I told my friends
of my decision, despite knowing almost nothing about practice. They
were very supportive. I’ve always had one trait from an early age:
When I make a promise, I keep it. Before going, I gave all my
property and money to a neighbor and asked her to care for Dipa,
expecting I would never return. “Please take whatever I have and
care for Dipa,” I said. I was heartbroken and desperate.
What happened when you got to the
center? Friends went with me. We
were taken in by the monks, given basic instruction in mindfulness,
and told to report the next day at four in the afternoon. I was
walking over from the guesthouse the next afternoon to report on my
practice when I felt myself suddenly stop. I couldn’t move my feet.
I didn’t know why. I stood there puzzled for five or ten minutes or
more. Finally I looked down and saw that a very large dog had
clamped his teeth around my leg. My samadhi was already so deep
that the sense doors had shut down, so I never felt it. Seeing the
dog jolted me out of my samadhi and back to ordinary consciousness.
The fear for myself and for Dipa came rushing back: “If I die, what
is going to happen to my daughter?” They told me the dog wasn’t
rabid, but I couldn’t get over my fear. I hurried to the hospital,
and then instead of going back to the center, I returned home and
resumed my life with Dipa. Gradually my fear of dying receded, and
my health slowly improved. I started practicing at home a little
each day. Munindraji used to come to the house and ask me about my
practice. Eventually he started encouraging me to come to Thathana
Yeiktha [a meditation center in Rangoon founded by the Venerable
Mahasi Sayadaw], where he had started teaching. So I made
arrangements for Dipa to stay with a trusted friend, and I
went.
What happened this time? I
completed the first course of practice [i.e., experienced
enlightenment or “First Path” in Theravada practice]. It took about
six days. After three months, I returned to the center at
Munindraji’s urging to practice for Second Path. This time it took
about five days. [J.E.: In accordance with Theravada custom,
Munindraji stopped me from asking Dipa Ma about her practice for
Third Path. She later told me it isn’t talked about because very
few people reach it.] [For more on the “paths,” or stages of
enlightenment, see the interview with Jack Engler]
Munindraji told me he also trained you and
Dipa in the eight jhanas [states of mental
absorption]. Yes. My daughter and I
used to play at moving back and forth as we wished between the
eight jhanas. You can stay in them for predetermined lengths of
time and emerge at precisely the time you’ve resolved. Once, with
Munindraji’s guidance, I made the resolution to enter and remain in
the eighth jhana for three days, eight hours, three minutes, and
twenty seconds. That’s just what happened. But jhana practice
doesn’t end suffering.
Munindraji also said he trained you and Dipa
to access the siddhis just to see if they were
real. He did. We experimented with
all of them. Once, for instance, I was able to walk into the room
of a professor at Magadh University and have a conversation with
him while one of his students was watching me meditate in
Munindraji’s room. But siddhis aren’t important. Enlightenment
brings purity and liberation and understanding. Siddhis often
become a hindrance because they tend to inflate ego. I don’t have
siddhi powers now. I could practice for them again, but it would
take a long time . . . maybe three days, if I really practiced. But
it is so much more important to be practicing for
liberation.
Outcomes of Practice
What changes did you notice in yourself
after experiencing First Path? I had
been overweight and had a number of physical ailments: high blood
pressure, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, trouble climbing
stairs, coldness in my extremities, insomnia. All of these got
better. Mentally, I used to worry a lot about the future: how I
would live, what would happen to me, how I would take care of my
daughter. I felt so much grief over the loss of my husband, and
that was a terrible source of suffering. I was burning day and
night with it. That burning grief cooled down and left, though I
continued to feel sad over losing him. I could accept that where
there is birth, there is death. I still think about him. Any
question of a permanent self became meaningless. For those who go
to the depths of practice, the idea of a permanent “self”
disappears.
Sense-desire comes up a lot in people’s
practice. Does it come up for you still?
It is important to distinguish between
sense-pleasure and sense-desire. There is nothing wrong with
sense-pleasure. Pleasure and pain are part of our human experience.
Sense-desire, on the other hand, is the grasping at pleasure or the
avoidance of pain. This is what creates suffering—grasping and
avoidance. Sense-desire comes up for everyone. It came up for me,
too. When it arose, I knew it—and that’s the way to overcome it. I
don’t feel sense-desire anymore. Sense-desire and anger don’t go
away after First Path. They are weakened after Second Path and
completely go away after Third Path.
Westerners seem to struggle a lot with
sense-desire and anger. I was older
when I started practice, so naturally my sense-desires weren’t as
strong. Sense-desire is also an instinct which remains in you
through cycles of rebirth. It is already very weak in those who
were born from the Brahma-loka [heaven realms], for instance. . . .
You can stay in the world of sense-desires and still be a good
Buddhist, though, because you can be out of the world at the same
time, in the sense of not being drawn in or attached. All who are
householders can proceed in this way. Buddha has said you can even
indulge in sense-desire and be a good follower of dharma, and for
most people this is part of an average, normal life.
Do you experience anger at
all? As soon as it comes, at the
very start, I’m aware of it. It doesn’t get any
nourishment.
What do you do when you begin to feel
irritation or anger? Anger is a
fire, but I don’t feel any heat. It comes and dies right
out.
Do you still find yourself acting against
the precepts sometimes? After First
Path, I found I couldn’t intentionally do something which grossly
violated the Five Precepts [the precepts lay practitioners agree to
follow: to refrain from lying, stealing, improper sexual conduct,
killing, and taking intoxicants]. If I did, it was usually a reflex
action out of habit. I knew it right away, and I acknowledged it
and asked forgiveness. After Second Path, right action became
second nature. It seems natural to me now.
Have your relationships changed—the way you
relate to others and interact with them?
Yes. Before, I used to discriminate: “This is my
friend”; “These are my relatives.” And there was attachment. Now I
feel loving thoughts and metta [lovingkindness] toward everyone. I
don’t discriminate. I don’t say, “This is my daughter—I have to
give her more attention.” My love feels the same toward
everyone.
Before Dipa was born, I wanted to adopt a son. My
husband said, “There are lots of boys everywhere. Why don’t you
give your love to them as your son?” I didn’t understand it at the
time, but it was a great teaching.
Do you enjoy others’ company now, or do you
prefer to be alone? I love to be
around people who talk about dharma or the mind, or about
themselves. I like to hear about these kinds of things, and I like
to help if I think I can. But ordinary or useless talk doesn’t
interest me, nor does going out to visit someone just to visit. In
that case, I would rather be by myself.
Are you ever lonely?
I enjoy being alone. I never feel lonely. I used to
spend a lot of time going here and there, meeting this person and
that person. Now I’m not interested in that. Whenever I’m alone, my
mind automatically turns inward, observing the way body and mind
are working. I do what is necessary day to day, but with
detachment. If my body needs food, for instance, I eat. Whenever I
meet a friend or relative, I don’t get into much conversation about
what is going on at home or about daily affairs. I ask whether they
are practicing meditation, and if not, why not, and I encourage
them to devote themselves to it and not waste time.
Is still living a lay life and having all
the day-to-day household and family concerns a hindrance to your
practice? No. Whatever I am doing,
mindfulness is present. In fact, meditation made me much more
certain of my responsibilities toward my family. I became more
confident as a mother, for instance, more certain of my
responsibilities toward Dipa. I was asked to stay in Burma and
become a sayadaw [J.E.: an honorific used for an accomplished
teacher; there were no female sayadaws at that time to my
knowledge], but I didn’t want Dipa to lose touch with her Bengali
roots and people. So I moved us back to Calcutta from
Rangoon.
How do you experience this life now? Is it
something to be enjoyed, or something to detach from and leave
behind? There is nothing ultimately
desirable in this world, nothing to cling to. But still, we can
make good use of everything in it. So samsara [the phenomenal world
of suffering] is not to be rejected. It can be used for personal
betterment and to help others.
Has your basic outlook on life changed as a
result of your practice? It’s
changed greatly. Before, I was too attached to everything. I wanted
so much. Now it feels like I am floating free, not attached. I am
here, but I don’t want anything for myself any more. I’m living,
that’s all. That’s enough.
Are you afraid of death?
No. I understand the living death. I have already
seen death and dying in living, and I accept them as part of
life.
What kinds of things make you happy
now? What makes me happy has
changed. Before, I used to take a lot of pleasure in nice clothes,
nice friends, nice food. Now if I’m allowed to hear dharma,
practice meditation, and work in my own way, I’m happy.
Do you think it is possible for a human
being to be completely happy in this life?
As long as one is not yet arahanta [fully
enlightened], has not yet extinguished all the “fetters” [specific
types of mental activity that bind one to the wheel of existence],
one is not fully happy. My journey is not over. There is still work
to be done.
What kind of work? Mind should be
entirely free from greed, hatred, and delusion. I still experience
some.