Anamika = Nameless One

This is part of my ongoing series on the Mahabharat, an epic poem of ancient India. For links to all previous Mahabharat posts go here. Or you can simply click on the Mahabharat page link above.


Mother's Day is coming up and I've got my mother on my mind. So I'm reposting this because I think it's apt:

One story in the Mahabharat is so striking that every holy teacher I've ever listened to has told it.

It's the story of Anamika. The nameless woman.


There was once a sage of deep and pious bearing. Having renounced the world and all material pursuits, he dedicated himself to the path of knowledge and peace. Every day he would sit beneath a tree and meditate, focusing his entire being on the name of God, connecting his inner consciousness to ultimate reality.

He practiced this path for many years until he was an old man. He lived in poverty, sleeping on the floor of the forest, begging for a little food every once in a while from the village people who were glad to give such a holy man something to eat.

One day as he sat alone under his tree a bird above defecated on his shoulder. The wet sensation of the dirt on his body brought the sage out of his deep meditation. In annoyance, he glanced up at the feathered being who'd offended him. Light shone from his eyes upon the bird and before he knew it, the creature was burnt, the ashes of it's body falling to the ground.

The sage stared in astonishment at the remains of the bird before him. He'd done that? He'd done that!

In all these years of practicing his meditation, he'd not known that he'd acquired such powers. He could burn a bird to ashes with just a look!

It was the result of the awakened consciousness within his being, he knew. His connection to the Supreme had released latent powers of yoga from inside him.

Having just discovered this stunning ability the sage could no longer meditate that day. He shook himself and stood, peering closer at the fallen bird. He still could not believe that he had done that. He'd certainly not meant to. He'd have to be careful in the future not to harm other creatures this way.

He went to the river and bathed the bird's dirt from his body. Then picking up his begging bowl he took his staff and made his slow way through the forest to the village that was some distance away. He wandered amongst the huts for a little while before choosing, at random, a hut.

"Alak Niranjan!" He cried so the people inside could hear. He waited a while but no one appeared with any food. "Alak Niranjan!" he said again and waited.

Still no one appeared.

The sage began to frown. Here he was, a great sage asking for food, and no one from this house was coming to donate any. And he, an accomplished yogi, was going to go hungry!

He could only call once more. It was a rule among sages that they could only ask for alms three times from any one house. And if they recieved nothing then they fasted for that day. Would he have to fast this day because this house was so stingy that they wouldn't give a sage any food?

"Alak Niranjan!" he said again, giving them their last chance to serve him.

The front door opened and a lady appeared, bearing a tray of rice and fruit and vegetables. She came towards the sage.

"Why did you make me wait so long?" he demanded to know. "Don't you realise that if you'd delayed anymore I would have been hungry all this day?"

The lady looked directly at him as he berated her. She was of indeterminate age, dressed modestly with her red veil covering her dark hair.

"You would have been guilty of making a sage go hungry," he continued. "I'm an accomplished yogi. You don't know my mystic powers."

She took a deep breath. "Great sage, I am not a bird."

He'd opened his mouth to deliver another scold when the meaning of her words hit him. He gaped at her, his beard quivering as he stood open-mouthed.

No one knew of the bird. He'd told no one. He'd been alone when it had happened. He'd been deep in the forest with no one of the village nearby. This woman had been in her home all this time. How did she know?

She bowed her head. "Please forgive me for the delay in coming out," her voice was gentle and humble. "I heard the first two times when you called but wasn't able to respond as quickly as I would have liked."

"Yes, yes," he mumbled, "but how do you know about the bird?"

She shook her head and smiled, saying nothing.

"Really, tell me. How do you know?"

She still said nothing.

He stared at her, understanding dawning on him. "You are enlightened," he whispered. "You are so enlightened that you knew everything before I even said a word." He folded his hands and bowed. "Great lady, please forgive my earlier impudence."

"Oh no," she said, "there is no need."

He blinked at her. "But how did you come to be enlightened? Do you practice meditation? Do you go on difficult pilgrimage? Do you perform long acts of worship? Tell me, please, how have you come to your depth of knowledge?"

"Great sage," she said, "I do not meditate, nor do I go on pilgrimage, nor do I spend so much time in acts of worship."

"Then how-?"

She put her tray down upon the porch step and moved to the front door of her house. She pushed it open and stood aside so the sage could see.

There were children and a man sitting cross-legged upon the ground of the hut, eating the noon day meal. It was the ordinary sight of any family sitting together to eat. There was bread and rice and vegetables on their plates and they looked up as the door opened, gazing in curiousity at the person outside.

The sage was confused. He looked back at the woman.

She shrugged. "I don't meditate, I don't go on pilgrimage, I don't perform great acts of worship," she said simply. "I only serve my family. That's all."

Still the sage was confused.

"My husband has just today returned home from a long journey. I was caring for him when you called for alms and that was what caused my delay in coming out." She let the door slide shut and walked back to face the sage.

She clasped her hands. "Knowing that my duty is to my family above all others, I live my life in simplicity. I put all my energy into caring for them and loving them and giving a peaceful home to them because I know that in serving my family I serve my Lord. That is my path and the source of my enlightenment."

The sage stared at her. "Just that?"

"Just that."

There was a deep silence around them as the sage stared at the ground, contemplating this revelation. This lady had not left her home. She had not renounced the world. She had not distanced herself from those she loved. Living here, amidst all the distractions of the material world, she had reached the pinnacle of knowledge.

He looked back up at her. "Will you teach me?"

She smiled. "Certainly."


The Mahabharat calls this lady Anamika. Anamika means nameless one. Because Anamika is not any particular woman, she is all women.

All women spend their days taking care of their families. Whether they are white or black, rich or poor, sick or healthy, they give all their energy in nurturing and loving their families.

It seems like such a simple thing, to take care of our family. But every woman knows that it's not easy. It takes strength and patience and forebearance. It requires selflessness, steadiness, a willingness to give and expect nothing back.

What the Mahabharat is saying is that ordinary women are extraordinary. They have knowledge that men, even enlightened men, have not. And despite their knowledge and their patience and their strength, they are not arrogant. They do not demand adoration from those around them. They do not ask for anything for their sacrifices. They simply give and give and give and smile while they give too.

This is Godliness. This is a path to enlightenment.

The Mahabharat is saying that to know the truth there are many paths. But one of the simplest and best is to be Anamika.


Go here for the previous Mahabharat post entitled Mercy Part II.

Go here to view the next Mahabharat post entitled How should we do this?