“I don’t need an answer anymore; I know what to do.” He nodded.
“That’s right; but you said that you are short of money. It will be done, it will be done…. Sometimes I speak, sometimes I don’t; sometimes I am short-tempered. There is always a reason for it.
Those who know, do not take it ill.”
“But how can I take it ill?” I exclaimed. “You do your duty, Bhai Sahib, and I try to do mine!”
“I am glad you think like this,” he said with a smile. The whole crowd filed into the garden, sitting or standing around him, still discussing the accident.
Later, in the room, he repeated that yesterday he did not want to discuss the money question, but he will do it now, and how much would I want. I said that I was thinking over what I would need. My monthly rent was forty rupees. If he could give me another hundred rupees, that would work out roughly at three rupees per day for food and any little extras. One hundred forty, per month; I think I could manage on that. He nodded.
“Three rupees per day for one person is ample; very many people live on much less. At any rate it is all your own money,” he smiled.
“No, it is not mine anymore,” I said, and I told him that, at first, I wanted to ask him to leave an amount for me in the bank, to draw for my needs, say, 2000 rupees, to last for one year. But then I dismissed this idea. It will be better if he just gives me each month for my needs.
Then I will be completely dependent on him. I feel that it is what he wishes me to be. “From now on I will be even financially completely in your hands.” I looked up. The expression on his face was most strange: so transparent, so still (old Tibetan, flashed through my mind), a smile, so mysterious, impossible to describe….
“Yes, this is my wish too,” he said very, very softly, and I was amazed, for his voice did not seem to be his usual voice at all—a pleasant baritone with a belllike ring in it—no, it was so still, rather high-pitched, as if coming from far away, as if he spoke in a sing-song of a different language. A kind… a kind… no, could not think; the mind suddenly, abruptly stopped, as if knocked out of action. I just stared speechless. His face was so tender. I never saw it like this.
How tender he can look. His strong, masculine face was capable of such a tender expression. I was moved by it when for the first time I saw him holding his grandchild in his arms, or was “fishing” for a Soul. But this time it was for me. It was never for me until now. For me was severity, a hard, stony face, or indifference altogether sometimes, but more rarely a kindly smile—that was all I could expect. Now, for the first time there was a quality in it which was… how difficult the thinking is…. Yes, I suddenly knew: dim memories were like this, memories of visions and dreams in the night… glimpses of places not from this world, as if of times so long ago.
I sat there full of speechless stillness and deeply moved. Pralaya (cosmic dissolution before manvantara, which is coming into manifestation) must be like that, I thought, and a deeply ringing gladness, like a Great Sound, permeated my whole physical frame.
In the evening I saw that he did not go to the bank. He looked grey and very weak. The night was restless. The body behaved as if in fever. The heat was great; I was not under fever… but he was.
26th May
IN THE MORNING everybody had left early, and he went to the bank.
Afterwards he gave me one hundred rupees and said that it should last until the end of June; the rent was already paid by me until the end of June, when I took the flat in May.
In the afternoon, I came at half past five, rather early, for it was very hot. Lately, Babu was never at home when I came at 4 p.m. to give him his lesson, so I stopped coming as early as that.
Guruji was sitting in the courtyard, and I asked if I could go into the room to sit under the fan. At first I sat alone in the dark room, listening to the peaceful sound of the softly revolving fan; then Satendra and Virendra joined me. Satendra was telling me that his father will never pray for the members of his family; according to the System it is not done. “He will pray for you being his Shishya.”
I said that once I was in big trouble, but his father refused to pray for me.
“That’s what he would say,” he replied; “but after midnight he prays every day; you could see him doing it if you were here. When everybody is asleep, he prays.”
I heard his voice in the garden and saw through the chik that he was standing outside directing Panditji who was sprinkling the place, splashing the water out of a bucket with his hand. Then he put the chairs out. I came out and he told me to take away the bottle with the methylated spirit because it smelled, which I did. I bought some methylated spirit for my cooker and had left it standing outside the door. When back, I saw him still standing in the middle of the garden. He looked up and smiled at me kindly. Then he sat down on the tachat. Nobody was about, a rare thing. He began by speaking about his Guru Maharaj… how he and his father were both his disciples.
“We are Hindus; he was a Muslim. Hindus are supposed to be proud. He made us stand, my father and myself, outside his door.
There we stood, for hours, with folded hands, in blazing sunshine, and he did not open. Everybody could see that we Hindus were standing in front of a closed door of a Muslim. He was a hard Teacher. Very strict. I was a wild boy and I did not like him at first. I suppose I had some narrow-minded ideas. I was very young, then.
One day I saw him coming through the gate with my father and other disciples. He stopped in front of me and looked at me and my heart melted. He said: ‘You will massage my feet tonight.’ So I did.
And from that moment I never looked back. My love for him grew all the time. He was a great man. Miss L. knew him.” He concluded.
How his voice changed… became so moved and tender when he spoke of his Rev. Guru Maharaj. I felt moved too, just by listening to him.
It was hot. The soil smelled fresh of moist earth where Panditji had sprinkled it. The garden was dry. Nature was waiting for the monsoon. I asked him how long will I have this fire in my body.
“Let’s see,” he said reflectively, “you have completed your 54th year; well, you can have it till you are 65; it depends…. “
I was horrified: “I will not survive this torture for so many years!”
“It will be on and off; you won’t have it all the time. One day you will understand; just now, understanding is impossible for you.”
He said it with infinite softness, closed his eyes, muttered something, arranged his legs in a different Asana, and went into deep Samadhi.
27th May
A MAN CAME TO SEE HIM from Delhi. He was from the radio and a journalist. He asked if Bhai Sahib would be interested in principle to give a talk on the radio, or if an article in the paper would be more suitable. He said that he was not interested at all.
“It does not belong to my work; we never advertise. It is not found in the public places; it is not sold in the market….”
“May I ask a question?” the young man asked. He behaved very respectfully and clearly was impressed. No wonder, Guruji made an impressive figure, all in white, full of dignity, and we his disciples, all seated around.
“Ask as many questions as you like, even the most difficult ones; and if I cannot answer them for you in ten minutes, to your full satisfaction, it is my lack of knowledge and not your lack of understanding. My knowledge is not in the books. It never was.
Only fools and idiots write books for money. What knowledge is in books? Did books ever make somebody realize God? It is all nonsense!”
What an answer… only the Great Ones can be so humble. That should be written on my banner as an inspiration for the rest of my days: “If I cannot explain it to you to your full satisfaction, it is my lack of knowledge and not your lack of understanding.” Here is a guideline for the future… a clear pointer for me….
At home there was such loud music from a loudspeaker nearby, a wedding, or a festivity of some kind. Could not sleep. And had a bad head cold into
the bargain; the body felt miserable, full of perspiration, could not breathe freely and was feverish.
28th May
HE IGNORED ME COMPLETELY. I greeted him as usual when I came in. He was walking up and down on the brick elevation in front of the house, mala in his hand. Had a premonition of some trouble brewing, but chased this thought away. He gave me a quick look and continued to walk up and down. Then I noticed: the Great Separation was here… it is useless to try to describe it to someone who never experienced it.
“Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt weisst was ich leide” (“Only those who know the longing know how much I suffer”). Was it Schiller or Goethe who wrote it? It is a peculiar special feeling of utter loneliness. I use the word “special” intentionally, because it cannot be compared to any kind of feeling of loneliness we all experience sometimes in our lives.
All seems dark and lifeless. There is no purpose anywhere or in anything. No God to pray to. No hope. Nothing at all. A deep-seated rebellion fills the mind… only this time it mattered less than usual.
The mind was in such a state… there was so little left of it. No trouble at all to keep it still; it was automatically blank. I just sat there; the thoughts, if any, happened to float in, were drifting slowly, lazily, passing by as if on a screen, and then all was blankness once more. This state was not new to me; it had begun to come on periodically for the last few months, increasing gradually in intensity, each time it happened.
There is a wind coming from the deserts of West Pakistan which is blowing in this part of north India, from the end of March till the rains of the monsoon begin. It is called Loo. It usually starts at 6 a.m.
and lasts till sunset; it can push up the temperature to something around 120° in the shade. The nights are still, full of stars and ovenhot.
A sheer agony. My eyes were constantly red and inflamed from the perspiration running into them. Men went around with twisted handkerchiefs around their foreheads to prevent the perspiration from running into their eyes, and some wore permanently twisted towels round their necks. I had showers three or four times per day.
But there was no relief… the water tank is on the roof, and the water is boiling hot.
Today the Loo was terrible; the temperature was 117° yesterday in the shade, so the papers said. Today it felt even hotter. My kitchen was so full of the wind that from time to time I had to escape into the room under the fan while in the midst of cooking. It did not help much, though. It felt like the entrance hall of hell…
29th May
THIS MORNING the Loo storm began at half past five in the morning. It increased during the day to a violent dust storm, and was blowing all day till seven in the evening. The air is dark with evil smelling dust which the wind sweeps up from the unpaved streets. To think what we are breathing in makes me shudder. For two days the head cold has not improved. To get at least a little relief from the heat, I kept wetting myself under the shower and sat wet under the fan. I was warned against doing it, but as usual did not heed the warning.
Thought that nothing could happen to me; how can one catch cold in this heat? The result was a bad cold; I was feverish, and last night the breathing was difficult. When I mentioned it to Bhai Sahib, his only remark was that he too could not sleep because of the heat, and he kept twisting and turning all night.
“You take too much upon you,” I said, but he jerked his shoulders nonchalantly. “You strain your body too much: meditation during the night, you don’t digest your food, and all day long people are sitting here, all wanting to talk.” He looked at me ironically, as if to say: and you? You, too, sit here and want to talk to me… but all that he said was:
“When I cannot sleep, he, my Rev. Guru Maharaj, is with me.
When I am asleep, I am with my superiors and with him too. It is of little importance if I sleep or not.”
I could not sit in the garden because of the dust. In the street when going to his place, I could hardly fight against the wind, and was pressing my handkerchief to my nose and mouth in vain protection against the fine powdery dust. The swirling gust of the strong wind filled the air with so much dust that one could not even see the ground under one’s feet. My eyes watering, I kept sneezing and coughing—it was very tiresome… had a severe headache.
A young Indian woman with a small child was sitting with him.
One could see that she was in trouble; he spoke to her kindly and was giving advice in some complicated family matters.
When I went there at 6 a.m., the Loo storm was beginning to die down, but it was still unbearably hot. I sat in the room in complete darkness under the fan; the doors and the wooden shutters on the windows were closed. In spite of that, fine dust, like powder, was accumulating on the window sills and under the doors. He was in the next room praying silently. Panditji was wetting the ground outside, as he does every day before putting the chairs out.
Then we went out. It was already bearable. The wind nearly stopped. People began to arrive. As soon as he appeared, my mind stopped abruptly. I just sat there, felt giddy, completely lost, in a void. What a nice state it is to be mindless.
Pushpa sent me a message that she was back and wanted to see me.
Went to the Kirtan. When returning, saw everybody in the garden and sat there with others till 9:30. There was much longing.
25 Who Will Remember?
30th May, 1962
WILL I EVER REMEMBER those days, without peace, days with no mind, and of the most exhausting heat? Of the most terrible longing? When the call of the Indian woodpecker is in the air—I call him the sugarmill bird—his voice sounds just like a sugar press working at full speed. One’s head is like a leaden weight sitting on the neck, the bones of the skull like an iron ring pressing tighter and tighter around the brain. All the objects in the room are so hot that sometimes it burns the fingers when touching them. And it is hot… it is hot…
oh, is it hot!! And the mind does not work. I fail to understand the simplest things and forget what I did only one moment ago….
The longing… seems part of my blood…. When it is throbbing in the background softly, it is a wonderful feeling, mindless as I am. But… when it begins to be a torment—which it is more often than not—then it is the darkest thing in the world. There is nothing darker, nothing emptier, nothing so full of indistinct terror. And there is a moment when the longing, the mindlessness, the stillness, and the terror form a complete circle, in which the disciple is made to revolve endlessly; nothing is left out, and the body is included in it too. Yes, I am bound to forget those restless days, the longing, the fragrance of some exotic blossoms flowering nearby, the blinding light, and the bliss occasionally coming from… where? I don’t know….
How can I remember if there is hardly any mind left to think? With WHAT will I remember? Those priceless days? I know they are priceless, because they are leading me somewhere, in a definite direction; but where? I don’t know….
“Have you ever been drunk?” I asked him jokingly, as soon as I arrived. He was already sitting outside; only one man was with him, but he did not understand English.
“No, never,” he answered.
“Well, I have been sometimes, long ago when I was young. My husband was very fond of drink, and I too had sometimes a bit too much. I know how it feels, and now it feels just the same as if I were drunk. I cannot even walk properly.” He did not answer. Proceeded to tell him about my experience of trying to live practically without mind…. What a pity it is that I won’t remember these states in the future, the states which are leading me into a dimension not known to me. No one will be there to remember, for there is no mind. I talked for a while; he listened quietly. We were not interrupted, not even once.
“Where is intellect, there is no love. Love begins where the mind stops.”
Pushpa brought me from Delhi a very nice flower pot, a red one on a white tripod in which she put cactuses—two small ones, one yellow and one green, like round, hairy balls. I had pleasure with them
and put the pot in my veranda. I went for lunch at Pushpa’s and learned that K. Junior was going to London and wanted £ 100 to be put at his disposal there.
He was standing in the garden when I came, looking at the sky. A dust storm had been gathering on the horizon for the last half hour.
As soon as he saw me, he went in and closed the door. I went into the doorway, not daring to go into the room, and sat there in the passage in the whirling dust. He was inside the courtyard, where Panditji was wetting the pavement stones with a hose. He did not take the slightest notice of me; his back was turned; he was talking to his wife and to his brother, and I sat there crying bitterly. How hopelessly inadequate I felt: mind not working, only half-understanding, and feeling deeply the humiliation of not being asked into the room in these appalling weather conditions.
The dust storm soon subsided, and Panditji began to wet the ground in the garden. Guruji came out and began to walk up and down, while Panditji splashed water about, with a serene smile on his face.
Panditji always looks so serene, existing in a world of his own, distant, tranquil, living very much his own inward life, mostly sitting in Dhyana, or massaging Guruji’s feet. Sometimes, one could see him standing and staring with wide open eyes… and such an expression of bliss, such a tender quality in his face, a happiness unknown to me and probably to others. He was a silent man; very often he walked about, smiling to himself as though he were observing things so strange and wonderful… which all others knew nothing about. He was a bit of a mystery to me.
Prof. Batnagar came and we had a talk. He said that I do such a Tapas (penance) by staying here in circumstances to which I am not at all accustomed: I probably get so much bliss and happiness, otherwise I would not do it.
“Oh, no, no bliss, such things are for other people; I have trouble only.” Bhai Sahib, who was talking to a group of villagers turned and looked straight at me. His eyes were shining like diamonds in the half-darkness, illumined only by the light of the street lamp filtering through the foliage of the tree. Prof. Batnagar left soon.
Daughter of Fire Page 25
