In 2003, I returned to India for the second time since childhood to attend Amritavarsham50, Amma’s fiftieth birthday celebration — a huge, four-day event held in Kochi, Kerala. One of its most moving moments was a peace procession representing 193 nations, with participants carrying their country’s flag and sacred river water. I was thrilled when the organizers asked me to walk for Honduras and carry its water, which Amma would later pour together with the waters of all nations to bless the Banyan Tree of Peace.
As a teenager in the United States, I had marched in peace protests calling for American withdrawal from El Salvador and Honduras. Now I was walking once again for Honduras — but this time for an entirely different cause: prayers for world peace.
As we walked, onlookers would glance at me and call out, “Hungry! Hungry!” I was initially confused, until I realized they were reading the name of the country printed behind me — Hungary. Yet hearing the word “hungry” repeated again and again pierced my heart. It felt as though they were voicing the unspoken hunger of people across the world. In that moment, I caught a faint glimpse of what Amma hears — and responds to — unceasingly.
Amma teaches that there are two kinds of poverty: the poverty of food and basic needs, and the poverty of love. Perhaps this is why her charitable work has always moved me so deeply. As a child, I experienced both forms of hunger — material deprivation from an austere upbringing that sometimes used food denial as punishment, and an even deeper hunger for motherly love. A few months after Amritavarsham50, Amma invited me to the āśram to join her mission of love and compassion through selfless service.
Though I remain profoundly grateful for this calling, a life of sacrifice and service has not been easy for me. The COVID period was especially challenging — marked by sāḍhē sātī (an astrological phase of intense trials), prolonged quarantines, the collapse of my sēvā, clashes with authority, and the loss of physical proximity to Amma. Amma had always been my all in all, and being separated from her devastated me. Even after 20 years as a renunciate, I felt unable to surrender fully. Deprived of direct guidance, I fell into deep despair.
During this time, I dreamt that my room had been burgled and I was crying uncontrollably. In the dream, Amma came, held me, and said, “It’s good for you to feel what many people in India are experiencing.”
Soon afterward, we were asked to vacate our rooms so they could be used as quarantine facilities. What initially felt like yet another loss gradually became a gift. These sorrows — especially the pain of physical separation from Amma — pushed me to paint again for the first time since youth and to reconnect with Amma and the Divine through art.
Later, when I was given the opportunity to photograph women during the Amrita-SREE sārī and prasād kit distribution tour, I bonded deeply with them. Remembering Amma’s words from my dream, I realized that these small disruptions to my own comfort were enabling me to relate more authentically to women who had so little. The photographs I took were screened in the āśram auditorium for many years.
When I learned that I might travel with Amma to Faridabad for the inauguration of the hospital there, I eagerly anticipated being near her again, serving behind her chair during tea stops. Before we left Faridabad, serious health issues arose, and my doctor advised against travel. Feeling hopeless and disconnected, I began to believe that āśram life was no longer meant for me.
I asked Amma for permission to return to the West to seek help for menopause. She agreed. Under my breath, I said to her, “If you want me to come back, you will have to call me.” I knew she heard me.
Because my passport was in Amṛtapuri, I had to wait a week until a brahmacāri travelling for sēvā could bring it to Faridabad. He suggested I take the taxi arranged to pick him up from the airport.
Amma often explains that cars symbolize mamakār (the sense of ‘mine’), ahaṅkār (the sense of ‘I’) and ōmkār(the sense of the Divine). The taxi driver’s name was Ōmkār. I took it as a good sign.
On the way, Ōmkār picked up a friend. This made me uneasy, though I felt unable to protest. Three-quarters of the way to the airport, the driver stopped at a bus stop and ordered me out. I refused and called the taxi manager, explaining that I was frightened to be left there. Despite this, the driver insisted. I got out, and he drove off before I could retrieve my luggage.
I stood alone at the bus stop for a long time — the only woman there. Some men nearby looked intoxicated, possibly using drugs. One of them began harassing me. I shouted, “Go! Go!” but he wouldn’t leave. I kept calling the car service. Each promised arrival — five minutes — stretch-ed into nearly an hour. Meanwhile, the brahmacāri who had my passport had already landed and was anxiously calling.
Then a bus arrived, and a woman stepped off with a small boy, no more than two years old. I felt immense relief. The child looked like baby Kṛṣṇa to me. He smiled at me, then made a comically embarrassed face as his mother checked his diaper. I laughed — and he laughed back.
Seeing us, the woman smiled and asked, “Amṛtānandamayī?” How did she know? I was alone, at a random bus stop in Delhi, wearing only a white salwār kamīz.
“Yes,” I replied, astonished.
She then said, “Ōm amṛtēśwaryai namaḥ,” with such force that it felt like Amma herself was reminding me to chant my mantra. Minutes later, another bus arrived, and the woman left with her child.
Earlier that morning, I had found a one-legged cricket in my room and had chanted the same mantra for it, praying for its survival or a better rebirth. The way this woman uttered the mantra reminded me of how I pray for helpless creatures. Perhaps, in that moment, I was the creature in need of grace.
Eventually, the taxi returned. I got in; my bags were still there. The driver and his friend were intoxicated. The driver kept falling asleep and the car kept swerving. I shouted and clapped my hands in front of his face to keep him awake. Time and again, other vehicles veered away from us at the last moment. That we survived the entire drive was nothing but grace.
At the airport, the driver stopped in the middle of the road and got out. The police ordered us to move. I then realized we were at the wrong airport. The only option was for me to drive. Though I had never driven in India and was terrified, I knew at least my eyes were open.
I took the keys, made the men sit in the back with seatbelts on, and faced one of my greatest fears — driving in a foreign country, on the opposite side of the road, with the gear shift on the left. My left hand barely knew what to do. Yet somehow, the car moved. I knew Amma was driving; I was merely her instrument.
I discreetly filmed the men as proof of their intoxication, since the taxi manager had not believed me. When we reached the correct airport, I handed the car — and the men — over to the brahmacāri. I felt compassion for the intoxicated men; they were young and destroying their lives.
On the flight, I had a nightmare similar to those from my childhood — men trying to abduct and violate me. I was pinned down, unable to escape. I awoke suddenly, freezing cold, and realized that Amma had not only saved my life that day but had also shielded me from a fate that had haunted me since childhood.
Shivering, I put my hands into the pockets of my jacket — one I had not worn in over a year — and felt something inside. It was Amma’s prasād candy, the one piece remaining after I had shared the others with homeless people in New York. The blessing I had given had returned to me. I felt profoundly grateful.
It was Ōṇam a few days later. I missed Amma deeply. That night, I researched ways to make taxis safer for women. I thought of proposing women-driven taxis to Amma.
Just then, I received a call: “Amma is talking about you.” She was recounting the taxi incident, praising my courage and asking young women if they could have done the same. Everyone was laughing — including Amma. At first, I was startled. The experience had been terrifying. Why was she laughing?
Then I understood. Amma was celebrating my victory — not the trauma. She was teaching me to focus on overcoming obstacles and not dwell on them. When Arjuna surrendered to Kṛṣṇa, he did not collapse — he rose to fight. As the Bhagavad Gītā says:
uddharēd ātmanātmānam nātmānam avasādayēt
ātmaiva hyātmanō bandhuḥ ātmaiva ripur ātmanaḥ
Uplift yourself by your own effort; do not degrade yourself. The Self alone is your friend — and your enemy. (6.5)
Though Amma worked through me that day, she gave me the credit. I felt like a zero, yet she made me a hero. From the way she said, “Ambujam got herself to the airport,” I understood her message: surrender is not passive resignation, but courageous action, one that is aligned with divine will.
This encouragement empowered me to return to the āśram and continue striving.
Recently, a renowned Vēdic astrologer told me that the sāḍhē sātī I endured was so severe that had I not been with Amma, I would not have survived. By her grace alone, I did — so that I may continue striving to fulfil the purpose of this birth.
Last April, while I was editing photographs, Amma called me and introduced me to tribal women from Wayanad who produce lemongrass essential oil using a solar-powered distiller provided by Amrita University. Though their oil was of world-class quality, they did not know how to sell it. Amma said simply, “They are hungry. Please help.”
The same word that had once pierced my heart — “Hungry” — returned through Amma’s lips. Through this project, she is addressing both the women’s hunger for sustenance and our own hunger for healing and motherly nourishment.
When I had COVID, I lost my sense of smell. Today, even birds and bees are losing their way home due to pollution and chemical interference. Amma is giving us tools to regain our senses and find our way back.
Smell is unique — it travels directly to the brain. Something pure can bring us back to our centre. Lemongrass oil refreshes body, mind and spirit, easing fatigue, tension and nausea. Its exceptional purity creates an immediate reset, reminding us of the healing, infinite love of Mother Nature — our source.Amma is always giving us exactly what we need. She is always with us.