I went there with him three times a week throughout my childhood, a Monday, Wednesday, Friday early morning ritual with the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. I have vivied memories of this dignified old man stripping down to nakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging as he neatly disposed of each item of clothing decency being salvaged at the very end by a slight turning away and a magnificent pair of imported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he was ready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming instruction, which in time beame swimming pratice, was gruelling but there was the deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water tuning rom molten lead to liquid light.

He never got them to go beyond wading up 

He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never got them to go beyond wading up to their knees at the beach and making ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if they were practising the breat-stroke, made them look as if they were walking through a jumble, spreading the tall grass ahead of them, or, if it was the front crawl, as if they were running down a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi was just as unenthusiastic.
Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find a willing disciple. The day I came of swimming age, which, to Mother´s ditress, Mamaji Claimed was seven, he brought me down to the beach, spread his arms seaward and said, "This is my gift to you."
"And then he nearly downed you," claimed Mother.
I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchful eye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and scarthed away at the sand with my hand turning my head at every stroke to breathe. I must have looked like a a child throwing a peculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me at the surface, I tried my best to swim. It was much more difficult than on land. but Mamaji was patient and encouraging.

When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turned our backs on the laughing and the shouting, the running and the splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, and headed for the proper rectangularity and the formal flatness (and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool.

I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One of my father´s earliers business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the family. I called him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India to indicate respect and affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, mamaji was a champion competitive swimmer, the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told me that when Mamaji was born he didn´t want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round.
"It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly apinning his hand above his head. "He caughed out water started breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood no his upper body. that´s why his chest is so thinck and his legs are so skynny."
I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. the first time he called Mamaji "Mr. fish" to my face I left a banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of counter obstetric gravity had begun to nudge his flesh down wards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning at the pool of the Aurobindo Ashram.

My suffering left me sad and gloomy.
Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me back to life. I have kept up what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high school, I attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor´s degree. My majors were religious studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid gland of the three-toed sloth. I chose  the sloth because its demeanour - calm, quiet and introspective - did something to soothe my shatted self.

there are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths, the case  being determined by the forepaws of the animals, since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had the great luck one summer of studying the three-toed sloth in situ in the equatorial jumgles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguing creature. Its only real habit is indolence. It sleeps or rest on average twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habits of wild three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic dishes filled with water.
We found them steel in place late the next morning the water of the dishes of swarming with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy here in the most relaxed sense. It moves along the bough of a tree in its characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour. On the ground , it crawls to its next tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated, which is 440 times slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour.
The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloth´s sense of taste, touch, sight and hearing a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it should look about is undertain since the sloth sees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited little reaction. And the sloth´s slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said to be able  to sniff and avoud decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reproted that sloths fall to the ground clinging  to decayed branches "often".
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm´s way, away from the notice of jaguars, acelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth´s hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry season and green during the we season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.

The  three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect armony with its environment. "A good-natured smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil, looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.

Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students-muddled agnotics who didn´t know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool´s gold for the bright-reminded me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded me of God.

I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinkingn lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.

I was a very good  student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michel´s College four years in a row. I got every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General´s Academic Medal, the University of Toronto´s highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have been recipients, were it not for  a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a  temperament of unbearable good cheer.

I still smart a little at the slight. when you´ve suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "you´ve got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don´t believe in death. Move on!" the skull snickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn´t surprise me. the reason death sticks so closely to life isn´t biological necessity - it´s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud. the pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarshihp committee. I love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rish experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi, Jerusalem and Paris.

I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hand a man nonetheless if he´s not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat o findia, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada.
It is my great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad hairdos. Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry.

Richar Parker has stayed with me. I´ve never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. they are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of thehuman heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even one. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.

The doctors and nurses at the hospital in Mexico were incredibly kind to me. And the patients, too.
Victims of cancer or car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled and wheeled over to see me, they and their families, though none of them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They smiled at me, shook my hand, patted me on the head, left gifts of food and clothing on my bed. They moved me to uncontrollable fits of laughing and crying.

Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, three steps, despite nause, dizziness and general weakness. Blood test revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of socium was very high and my potasium low. My body retained fluids and my legs swelled up tremendouly.I looked as if I had been grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was deep dark yellow going on to brown. After a weekor so, i could walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if I didn´t lace them up. My skin healed, though I still have scars on my shoulders and back.

The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful, superabundant gush was such a shock that I became incoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I rainted int he arms of a nurse.

The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada I used my fingers. The waited looked at me critically and said, "Fresh off the boat, are you? I blanched. My fingers, which a second befored had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. they froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn´t dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply  those words wounded me. they were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.