“Yes, yes,” he interrupted me hurriedly, “I know, I know.”
In this moment my heart stopped, my head began to spin, my breath came out in gasps; this time I was even more annoyed with myself, to be such a fool and behave like a stupid girl in his presence; also I saw that he wanted to go. Anger rose in me.
“You who are a maker of Saints, and know how to write on the back of human hearts, write on the back of my heart one letter—one letter only—that of Alif! Write it with living fire, to be consumed at your feet with eternal longing!”
I stopped. Looking at him, I thought it was a good speech. I quoted his own words, and I said my own bit; it should have made at least some impression on him.
“Yes, yes,” he repeated impatiently. His face was expressionless, stony and cold.
I really got angry now. We were sitting outside, he in his old brown winter coat, his back to the wall. It was a cool day of hazy sunshine. I leaned forward. “I challenge you to produce love,” I said, and I laughed. I must have sounded defiant, for I was angry.
He kept looking right ahead, his face had no expression. And then, with a voice which seemed not to be his own, but sounded as if coming from very far—from across eternities, flashed suddenly through my mind—he said: “Many people have challenged me, about many things, many people….”
“And so? Do you accept the challenge?” I insisted, I was still laughing. I saw him stiffen. He looked suddenly as old as humanity, as ancient as the hills, when with this very empty faraway look of his, the face hollow as if desiccated with age, very slowly, very softly, with a small thin voice he said in a kind of sing-song: “I accept the challenge…”
“Khanna!” (food) called out his wife, appearing at the door. He got up. “You can go; I am going to have my lunch.” His voice was his usual; he went in and closed the door behind him. He had tears in his eyes.
I sat alone for a while and felt the cool wind on my cheeks. Fresh January day in the plains, I thought mechanically. Had a poignant feeling of great meaning. Felt uneasy for some reason. Something was set in motion. Could it be a milestone, a turning point? Then I, too, got up and went home to cook myself something to eat.
In the afternoon, L. and I were sitting inside the room. He came in rapidly; his face was wet; he had a towel on his shoulder. His wife came in too.
“Mrs. Guru,” I began; I wanted to tell her something, and he usually translates it to her. He was proceeding to hang his dhotie on the hanger near the door when he turned round sharply: “It is most improper and disrespectful to call my wife Mrs. Guru, most improper! What will the people think if you happen to call her so in public? They will say: you do not know how to behave properly!”
I was dumbfounded, and said that I had no intention to be disrespectful; I simply did not know her name, so how shall I call her, what is her name?
“It will be even more improper to call her by her name,” he said sternly, standing in front of me. “Guru Mata, you have to call her; this is due to her! And it means the same as Mrs. Guru,” he added, turning away.
I said it was perfectly O.K. with me and did not mind how to call her. I understood that I obviously had done something very wrong according to the Indian code of behavior. Why the same expression should be right in Hindi, but wrong in English, was a mystery to me; still, I will do as he says.
5th ]anuary,1962
“WHAT DO YOU KNOW about the Sufi Tradition?” he asked in the afternoon. In the morning he did not speak to us at all, only in Hindi; many people were present, mostly from the province. My small notebook was hidden in my handbag just in case.
“Not much,” I answered. “Only what I have read in a few books when in Adyar. And as far as I understood, in the Sufi literature, surrender, as he used to emphasize, is not the end: a complete selfannihilation in the Master is required. The Master will ascertain by means of his powers if the Union is complete, and then will pass the disciple to his Master who is not in the physical body anymore. At the beginning the disciple cannot communicate with the Master’s Master directly without the help of his first Master, but later he will learn how to do it by himself, and at the last stage the pupil is passed on to the Prophet, not as Mohammed, as man, but as God, the Supreme Essence.”
He listened attentively, nodding his assent from time to time and murmuring: “Yes, yes, correct.”
“But this is such a tremendous Goal, it will require a supreme effort of the whole being—how can you say that it is effortless? How can such a thing be effortless when it is beyond even any possibility of imagination?”
“You will see later, how effortless it is,” he said softly; his face had the infinite compassion, and I felt disturbed, for I instinctively knew that it was I who was the object of his compassion.
“You were explaining to me your idea of merging into the Master,” he said later, sitting himself beside me on the tachat. I said that I did not know if this was the merging, only the Sufi book speaks of the complete annihilation into the Teacher.
“Yes, I know,” he continued, “that is difficult; it takes time, and for that purpose you must completely change your attitude. Your attitude is wrong! Completely wrong! I never criticized my superiors!”
“What is meant exactly by attitude? The right attitude of the mind?” I ventured, hoping to get some clear definition.
“No, of the heart. The right attitude of the heart! Mind is nothing!”
“Then help me. Give me longing, intense longing, and sorrow, and fear, and love. The other name for longing is Love,” I said.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, Love and Longing are one and the same thing; they are synonymous.” He kept nodding with a vacant faraway look, as if seeing something very far in the distant future.
Somebody came in, and he began to talk in Hindi. I sat there puzzled. He turned to me: “You will know later what I mean.”
All the while sitting near L., I kept thinking what he exactly meant by the wrong attitude. Suddenly, I understood. It was like a flash.
“Yes?” he inquired, turning towards me as if I had said something.
“I have got it!” I said.
“And what have you understood?”
“What I seem to have understood is that, if I want the whole thing, I must behave accordingly. To follow the tradition the pupil has to obey implicitly.” I smiled at him.
“Yes, this is good enough; it is the beginning,” he smiled back. He sent me away earlier than L. When I was leaving, I saw this beautiful smile I loved so much and had missed all those days.
6th January
DID NOT SLEEP LAST NIGHT, was thinking and thinking. I must change radically.
“Please don’t think that I am displeased with you, if I speak to you like this; if I am really displeased, you can sit here for years and you will get nothing.”
I got nothing in those last few days, and my heart was so full of longing, so full of desire to go on. I really must try to swallow everything, must change completely. This morning I decided to behave as everybody else. I got up when he came in and will do that from now on. I saw that his best disciples do it. It seemed to me that he gave me an ironic smile, but perhaps I was mistaken?
In the evening after talking all the time in Hindi, he suddenly turned to me: “Mrs. Tweedie, how are you?”
“Thank you, I am well.”
“Did you sleep well?” he inquired.
I said that I did not sleep since midnight at all.
“And why?” he wanted to know.
“Thinking,” I said.
“Thinking what?”
Told him that I was reflecting on his words about me changing my attitude. He kept nodding. “Yes,” he said slowly, “Plenty to think about, isn’t it?” He did not speak to me anymore, but when I was leaving there was again this lovely smile like a warm greeting on my way home.
7th January
MR. CHOWDREY and another disciple were already in the room when I came in. They usually are both in Dhyana.
I sit quietly in my corner and begin to wait, listening to hear his step. He sweeps in quickly, blanket under his arm, mala wrapped around his wrist. Tremendous drive and dynamism are like a secret spring hidden somewhere in the recesses of his being. He looks so young. With elastic steps he crosses the room and sits himself on the low tachat. After that he usually does his mala, or chants Persian songs, or sometimes verses from the Ramayana. Or just chats with Chowdrey and the other fellow. To me he does not speak. But it is like a secret bond, a feeling of unity, a kind of complicity—of something that only he and I know—like a tuning of the whole of my being into him. Nothing is said. A smile and a nod when I leave. That’s all.
He told us that he is leaving for Lucknow. Before he left in the afternoon, he told us to come as usual, every day, the same as when he is here.
“If you come only when I am here, it means that you are selfish, wanting to get something. Service is attitude of the heart.”
I told him that it will be difficult to sit here without him, because of the boys throwing stones at us. He will tell his wife, he said. Will he not disturb his wife with such trivial matters? I said, hoping to get out of the unpleasant duty to sit here alone.
“My wife will not mind,” he said, “we like guests. Guests for us are sacred. We always have guests having food with us permanently, five, six, people, every day. No, you are welcome, why should my wife mind? Our culture is different; we are never disturbed.”
So, I came and sat there amongst fighting, dirty kids.
8th January
His BROTHER WAS SITTING with us in the morning in deep Dhyana.
Suddenly I noticed that my heartbeat changed. It was quite noticeable and quite sudden. It went powerfully, very rapidly, like a big powerful pump, on and on, and I listened to it thoughtfully. It was an ordeal to sit in the garden exposed to the curiosity of the urchins playing around my chair, and smelling most dreadfully. Had to complain to his brother, but could not complain constantly. As soon as he had left, they did it all over again.
9th January
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON he is supposed to come back. L. came to sit with me for one hour in the morning.
10th January
TRIED TO TUNE INTO his thought-process. One simple thought is not too difficult to catch, but the complete thought-process is very difficult. It seems to me that even if he thinks about ordinary everyday things, he is on a much higher level. But today I tuned into him for a fraction of a second in longing. There is this longing in me for the last few days. It goes with the more rapid heartbeat. Powerful and strong like a pull, and sometimes it is as if the whole body is being drained away, flowing away in the intense longing, leaving a kind of languor behind. I just sat there as usual, praying to Him to give me more of it, of this longing, for I can stand a lot more. More longing, more fear, strong and endless, and it should be like a liquid fire in my veins instead of blood. It was then that, for one splitsecond, I reached him in longing somewhere. He was in deep Samadhi, and I was with him in an infinite bliss, infinite pain of nonending longing….
11th January
“CAN YOU MAKE THIS LONGING STRONGER?’” I asked, bending forward.
He shook his head.
“No, this is not my method of training. I do it by and by… gradually. An exception was made for my elder brother by my Rev.
Guru Maharaj. I do it differently. One cannot give food intended for six months at one go. Little by little… “Later he said: “Never worry; leave the worry to me,” he laughed kindly. “Bodies are different… need different kinds of nourishment. Some need laughter; then they shall go where there is laughter. Some need solitude…. ” I knew that he meant L. and me. She needs laughter and reproached me because according to her I have no sense of humor. I know I need solitude.
12th January
DAY AFTER DAY to sit in these squalid surroundings amongst the screaming, noisy horde of dirtiest children, all running about the place, roaming freely everywhere… at times beyond endurance.
Twice I cried in sheer despair. But the most frustrating fact is that I do not get even one question answered. As soon as I ask a question, everybody present begins to discuss it, expressing their opinions in which I am not in the least interested, for I wanted HIS answer. He will sit there, listening to everybody, smiling politely, until in sheer despair I will say that it was after all I who had asked the question and wanted his answer, and as I do not get it except as a lot of useless arguing from everybody else, I won’t say anything anymore. And he just turns to me and smiles at me in the most maddening way.
Since 3 a.m. I could not sleep but my tummy did not trouble me as it did of late. The bathroom is far away across the courtyard and it is difficult to go there in the middle of the night. By the time I dress and reach there and come back I am so completely awake that I cannot fall asleep anymore. I mentioned it to him in conversation. By the way, I noticed that as soon as I mention a trouble, or a minor difficulty to him, behold, the difficulty is no more! Of such instances I had quite a few already. Sometimes I notice it only when it is gone already. Yes, it is of no use to be resentful and fight against the circumstances and create a barrier; I will not change India, nor the people, nor his environment. It is much better to make up my mind to bear them patiently. So much more, because I had ample proof that in no matter what beautiful surroundings I am, I don’t see them; I long to be in his presence, I saw it happen in Adyar.
“Criticize yourself, criticize yourself constantly, and you will get somewhere.”
13th January
WHEN I WAS COMING in the morning, I saw the kids again easing themselves on the pavement just in front of the gate. They all had a green diarrhea… must be a kind of disease, perhaps contagious. I knew that I had to tell him one day or another, and not only for my sake. I decided that it had to be done… it represents a danger for everyone, but I did not think that the opportunity will present itself so soon. He swept in, with his light step, blanket under his arm. He was smartly dressed because his daughter, who lived somewhere in the North, was expected sometime about mid-morning. He chatted with his disciples, and seemed to sparkle.
Seen from where I was sitting, his Indian style hat (topi), looked like a cardinal’s hat. I saw his profile, his beard, the lively expression when speaking and laughing, and for the first time I noticed a special light around him. A kind of luminosity. I kept staring at it.
Durghesh, his daughter, arrived with some members of his family who went to meet her at the station and they all went inside. L. and I, we were sitting outside when he came out and sat down with us in the sun.
“Bhai Sahib,” I began in a low voice.
“Yes,” he said and from his expression I knew that he was aware that I was about to tell him something disagreeable. Told him then that all the children ease themselves right in front of the gate, every morning; I see them when I arrive. The garden smells like a latrine and it is difficult to avoid the excrements when trying to enter the gate. One has to be careful to step over them. L. said that it was very true and most disgusting. He was surprised. I suggested that he should ask Poonam, his youngest daughter… and in this moment Poonam came out and when asked told him a long story in Hindi. He was very annoyed and said that he will see that it should not happen again; he has three outside toilets (the toilets inside the courtyard are for the use of his family only), and he called the kids and began to tell them off. His wife came out and there was a lively discussion in Hindi. A sweeper-woman came in, whose child had just died; she was weeping and the Guru was talking to her exclaiming every moment: “Hari Ram!” In between I tried to tell him that we did not see such conditions in our country… human beings living like animals, most undignified and a distressing spectacle. Such conditions I have only seen in Old Delhi where Pakistan refugees live and it seems the same here in his front garden! And I have to sit here… it is like sitting in a toilet; children urinate even near the chairs where we sit.
L. is also here, but her ca
se is different—she is half-conscious most of the time, but I have to sit here in full consciousness, have to endure it. It is a psychological torture.
“Yes, yes,” he was speaking quickly, as if impatient. “You told Pushpa, all those were my children, and you have committed a great blunder!”
I said, “Yes, I confess, I did, quite at the beginning.”
“Every fool can tell you that all of them cannot be my children,”
he said angrily.
“But if they all play together how was I to know who is and who is not! It is a known fact that Hindus have very numerous families; at first I thought they were all yours; later I knew they were not and I told Pushpa that they belong to some dirty people who live in your courtyard!”
I could see that he was irritated, but I continued to speak as quickly as possible to be able to tell him all I wanted before some interruption came, and L. helped me by telling that people from Europe would judge wrongly… we do not know the conditions in India. Bending down he swept his grandchild who was sitting on the floor into his arms and went outside the gate into the street. The sweeper-woman with a bucket of water got busy near the gate. After a while he came back. There was no frown on his brow… he was smiling kindly. I was glad that I told all I wanted to tell even at the cost of him being angry; perhaps it will be a help to others who come here and he will send these dreadful people away. But I doubted .. ..
He sat with us for a long time, talked a lot and was very kind. The feeling of power was tremendous; I felt as tense as a string.
In the evening he was not well. We sat till 8:30, and when I went home was worried for him. From what he said, it seems that it was not his own fever, but somebody else’s, he took upon himself. We want him well for the sake of all of us. Many people came, the stupid old swami also. He talked with them; I was glad just to sit there. At home had some food, went to bed and prayed for him… and praying fell asleep. Woke up several times in the night and everytime I opened my eyes I saw his face. A great vibration was in the whole of my body.
Daughter of Fire Page 12
