By Broughton Coburn
Vishnu Maya, known as Aama (Mother) by way of everybody in her tiny Nepalese village, used to be dwelling excessive within the Himalayas while she befriended American Peace Corps employee Broughton Coburn in 1974. In 1988, Aama came visiting him--on a visit prescribed by way of village monks as a fashion for the eighty-four-year-old, four-foot-eight lady to earn advantage through creating a tricky trip past due in existence.
Aama in Americais a bright chronicle of what grew to become a twenty-five-state, coast-to-coast event. Guided through the perpetual interest and deeply religious orientation in their creative, unpredictable shuttle significant other, Coburn and his fiancée progressively started to view their nation from a wholly new standpoint. "Beneath the uniform, advertisement, man-made pores and skin of our country," Coburn writes, "Aama came across a tradition and panorama that used to be alive and sacred, and he or she advised us towards it."
Aama in the USA is on one point an offbeat American travelogue. yet on one other it's a profound...
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Extra info for Aama in America. A Pilgrimage of the Heart
Aama smiled whimsically at the ironic image of an old village woman recast as world traveler. Tutay’s Mother darted her tongue out a half inch and clenched it between her teeth in amazement and disbelief. Didi and I watched from the porch. “When my dharma son calls me, I have to go,” Aama continued. “But where will I find someone to look after my buffalo? Your children and all the other village kids go to school nowadays. There’s so much work—the house needs new thatch, the chicken shed is falling apart, and the hay needs to be restacked to keep rain from leaking into the pile and rotting it.
I wrote Didi’s phone number on a slip of paper and gave it to Sun Maya. Before Didi and I left, Aama and Sun Maya discussed the future. The cow wasn’t giving milk and would fetch a poor price, but Sun Maya should try to sell it anyway, Aama said, in order to pay off her debt to another relative, the village moneylender. “With all the energy and work we put into them, the cattle and water buffalos seem to benefit more from us than the other way around,” Sun Maya said, smiling. I had never heard her complain before nor seen concern show on her face.
Life in Aama’s village had been my second youth; without trying to, Aama had guided me out of the loss I felt following my mother’s death and into the nonindulgent rhythm of her family and village. I was returning to my second home. But was Aama still alive? It had been two years since I had last trekked up this hill to see her, and I had not received a letter from Sun Maya, who knew how to write, in over a year. The expression on the face of the woman carrying fodder on the trail didn’t tell us, though she would have known.
Aama in America. A Pilgrimage of the Heart by Broughton Coburn