7th April
AND IN THE EVENING HE CAME OUT when it was dark already. There was no talk to me, only in Hindi to others. Oh, yes, he did say that he does not believe in any kind of medicine; doctors know nothing. All depends on the Will of God, and our body is a wonderful instrument; the doctor can give it a little help, that’s all.
And this morning I am waiting for the electrician to remove the ceiling fan. It is already half past-eight and he is not here yet. One hour lost… I am at his place already at half past-seven as a rule.
And my longing is endless, the longing for Him. This is going to be my permanent state; it looks like it. But in stillness, in infinite longing, I am with Him. I hope I will be able to keep this state of being absorbed. But I am fool enough to lose it like so many other times.
The electricians came about ten a.m. What could I do? I was so upset.
“The parents of everybody are great; and I mean of absolutely everybody. The parents keep for you the Gate of Heaven open.
Respect is due to them. Otherwise when you are dead and come face to face with the Absolute Truth, it may ask you: You did not even respect your parents? Then it can become really difficult. Respect your father always,” he turned to me. I showed him photos which I received yesterday. “He is a very good man. I like him very much. A very fine man. I have seen him once or twice, so it seems to me.”
“Pictures of people come sometimes into the mind; you must have seen me surely also before you knew me. When L. wrote to you about me, you knew about me already; she showed me your letter.”
He smiled. “How will I live without seeing you,” I said with a sinking heart.
“One answer only: keep me in the heart of Hearts.”
“Keep me with you, don’t forsake me,” I said looking at his face full of light. He had a sphinxlike, stony expression.
“Only two days,” he said slowly as if savoring the words, “only two days and the physical nearness will be no more. The physical nearness,” he repeated.
“Your physical body will change much; you will not be the same,”
I said thinking of his illness. He smiled faintly.
“I change every moment; every second I am not the same.”
“Everybody does, but in your case it will be much more.” He lowered his head.
“Time passes and nobody can assess time. It passes forever… one cannot bring it back.”
Later he said: “We discourage everything which has nothing to do with the Absolute Truth. Anything. Only THIS has to be THE GOAL.”
56 Mounting Irritation
27th April, 1963, evening
“I HATE SMOKING BUT I DON’T HATE THE SMOKER. Otherwise how will he come round, give up?” I asked what he had meant when he said that nobody loves like a mother, and if mother-love is not also a Maha?
“Mother-love is not quite Maha. When the mother has one child who loves her and respects her and another who does not, she loves them both alike.”
This is not a proof, I thought; a mother will always do that. “But what I want to know is does this love remain? No? then it is all Maha!
And is father-love Maha or not?”
“Don’t criticize parents, otherwise you will criticize the Master!”
He is evading a direct answer, I thought, but I only said: “I criticized you so often.”
“You did not know; now you know, so don’t do it! Parents are the first Masters; don’t they teach you: there is one God; look towards Him! Never, never criticize parents!”
Speaking of love, later, he said: “I cannot love anyone except only my Master. At least not in the real sense. But there are people who are convinced that I love them very much.”
“But you will love a disciple by reflection, when he comes on the Line.”
He shook his head. “Two swords cannot be in one cover; in the heart there is room for only One…. In the real sense I cannot love but like this…. “And he made a gesture towards the room, “Many think that I love very much.”
“What a pity; what a lonely road it is… I did hope so much one day you will love me.” He shook his head.
“I loved my Rev. Guru, my Father. They did and they still do much for me. I can't say I love them, but as to say do they love me, how can I know? And if you say ‘I love’ it remains on the level of the mind; it won’t reach them…. But those people are very great; no one knows what they can do.”
“I would be satisfied even with a reflection, even with an illusion,”
I said, looking at him with aching heart. In reality I did not understand his answer….
28th April
HAD A PEACEFUL NIGHT. One more day is left. Tomorrow there will be hardly any time left with furniture removing, shifting to Pushpa and so on. And I know, his statement is not at all correct. It is probably correct in the strictest sense seen from his own level. On the mind level there is no love, so much I know. But by reflection he must love me; he loves me already. He must, to be able to put me on the Line.
But he is a great Teacher; he knows my character: put an obstacle in my way and I will make a greater effort to overcome it. He sends me away saying: I will never love you. And I say: try! You will have to!
Because my attitude will be such that you won’t be able to help it! If you unite me with you as at the end of Yogic training the Teacher does, you will have to love me…. “I do only my duty, I am duty-bound,” he said. He will love me BECAUSE he is duty-bound, for to unite my Atma with his, how can that be done without love?
This morning I was sitting alone for a long time. Then the horrible Sannyasi of last year came. It is the last day; surely he will attract the most disagreeable types to give me the last bit of torture. For hours I listened to the croaking of the Sannyasi. He came out almost immediately as soon as the Sannyasi arrived. And he was friendly.
And he was radiant. Tenderly smiling, inciting the Sannyasi to talk. I cried a little. You don’t change your attitude to the last, I thought.
Kind to everybody but me. Then I saw him closing his eyes and becoming still for a few seconds. He is putting into the Sannyasi’s head to go, I thought; he had enough of him. He was in Samadhi for a few brief moments. And sure enough the man got up and went. But the old Maharaj kept calling him back, praising him about a lecture, talking to him, asking questions. At last he left.
“Finally I managed to get rid of him,” he said with a sigh of relief.
I laughed. “How you flattered him, encouraged him to talk; but you put it in his head to go. I watched you doing it!” I told him what I saw and he looked blank.
“You do it always!” I laughed, “and you put the idea into the head of your wife, or other members of the family, to come and interrupt when you don’t want me to speak, attract all sorts of people to create disturbance, when it suits you! Yes, I am accusing you of it, but you know that it is true!” He gave me a still smile, his face looked radiant.
Then I thought that I increasingly felt a mounting irritation against him. How irritating he can be… but in spite of that my heart was so heavy; tomorrow, tomorrow there will be hardly any time left, so many things have to be done….
29th April
HE SENT SATENDRA AND SITLA PRASAD with a handcart, and I got annoyed because they were so clumsily banging the wardrobe against the stone wall so that the varnish got scratched. I lost my temper with them; they were worse than little boys, the two of them. At last the wardrobe went and the tachat. I remained behind to collect a few things which could be useful in his household, like a plastic bucket, soap powder, a broom and a few other things, and took them to his place.
When I was entering his gate, I saw him sitting outside alone; he looked dark, his eyes flashing angrily. What’s on? I thought, a fear sprang up from somewhere deep. I saluted and was about to enter the courtyard to deposit the few belongings I brought when he stopped me.
“How did you dare to speak in such a way to my son? He is a man and you only a woman! And Mrs. Ghose’s dau
ghters laughed because you lost your temper with him!”
“But they both handled the wardrobe in such a clumsy way, banging it against the wall. If you will examine it, you will see it is badly scratched; if you were present, you too would have lost your patience!”
“What do I care about the wardrobe! You idiot old woman! I am glad you are going at last! You have no respect towards my children; you are good for nothing, old and stupid! Prof. Batnagar was here when Satendra complained about you; what will he think of you!”
I was so taken aback at this quite unexpected attack that I sat down stunned. I don’t remember even if I cried or not. Was like paralyzed, could not understand. Saw Satendra standing in the doorway regarding the scene with evident satisfaction, saw his brother looking at us from his side of the garden. He went on like that for quite a while. I think I cried, tried to justify myself, but I really don’t remember… it is completely effaced from my mind.
“Go!” he shouted, “I don’t want to see your ugly face again! Go away!”
Then I went, and when in the street looked back. He was still sitting in the same place, bent in two as though weighed down by a heavy burden. And this was the last impression of him which remained in my mind….
When at home, I collected my last belongings mechanically, took a rikshaw to go to Pushpa’s place. When passing his premises, had no desire to stop and go inside to say goodbye.
Pushpa and family saw me off to the evening train to Delhi. The journey was uneventful. Pushpa’s relatives met me at the station.
They were pleased to have me with them, and I spent a lovely day; in the night we all slept on the roof. It was very hot. I cried practically all night.
My last night in North India…. In the morning all the family including the grandmother came to the airport to see me off. And all the time while the plane was flying to the south I cried and cried, so that the lady sitting next to me finally asked if I was well and if she could help me. I told her that I was upset because I was leaving India where I had made good friends, and she was most sympathetic. Joyce met me at the airport in Madras. Her flat facing the river is so lovely, and I spent two days packing and talking about Bhai Sahib and him alone. And Joyce told me that she never felt such a deep peace as when we were together. Those were two lovely days, hot, full of fragrance of flowers—all the shrubs were flowering around the windows. And my longing was as endless as the sky. On Friday at six in the evening, Joyce took me with the car to the airport. In Bombay I learned that the schedule of flight was changed; instead of waiting until one a.m. for the London plane, it left at half past ten. We were rushed through the customs and we were off. Also, instead of flying via Cairo, Rome, Geneva, Paris, London, we went back to Delhi and the route was: Beirut, Geneva, Paris, London. When the plane was three-and-a-half hours from Delhi in the night, I was thinking that we must be somewhere above Persia or the Arabian Desert. And I began to cry. It was the sacred land, the birthplace of Sufism…. Thrown out by a Sufi, going towards a dark and, very probably, a terrible future, I cried desperately and complained to Him about my Teacher who turned me out….
It was dark; all were asleep; we were cruising at 30,000 feet altitude.
In London, Maritje (whose daughter is in Bombay) met me at the airport, and I went to Andree who could not come because she had a bad leg. Very swollen and painful. I stayed with Andree. Was trying so hard to find a room, but it proved to be very difficult. I wanted to be near her, and Kensington is an expensive district and I was very poor. After three weeks I felt that I overstayed my welcome; it was evident from her attitude.
I was so desperate; even asked a policeman if he knew something, and he said that I should try in Holborn district because here all accommodations are so difficult to find and are expensive. But after two days I saw a notice on the board of the tobacconist in Ladbroke Grove: a flatlet to let, £2.10 per week. I immediately inquired. He looked at me and said: “Madam, I don’t think that it is for you; it is very small, rather for a student.” But I asked to see it. The flatlet consisted of one room five by ten feet. A bed, a tiny dressing table there was no room for even a chair, only a small stool; inside a built-in cupboard in the wall was a wash basin, a small cooker and a very small wardrobe. The small room was literally sticking out into the traffic. On the first floor, corner Lad broke Grove and Holland Park Avenue, the roar of the traffic was deafening. And his words came into my mind: “You must be able to sleep in the street; why not? Is the street not also His?” I would be sleeping as if in the street here, and the branches of the large beautiful plane trees practically touched the window panes…. So I took it. The price was all I could afford. For the moment it was the right thing for me. And what a discipline it would be… after that, every other room will be like a ballroom for me… to learn how to live in such a small place is a great lesson. And one month after arriving in London I moved in.
On the 16th of May I wrote a letter to him… a letter of recrimination and reproach; it was a bitter letter. But I doubt that he ever read it. I said in it that probably I won’t write to him; it won’t be welcome. But on the 22nd May I began to write to him regularly two or three times a week. I could not help it. Told him about my work, my life, everything. After three months I got a letter not written by him but dictated to somebody, that he was very ill for two months.
He had an amoebic abscess on the liver which burst, and he nearly died of it. So my letters must have accumulated; he probably never read them; his children probably did.
His letters were few and far in between, mostly dictated to others.
They never dealt with important spiritual matters, only his family affairs… chatty, insignificant letters. But I was not put off. I felt that it was deliberately done. It was a test. Such a man am I; you still want to come back? He seemed to imply. But I kept writing for two-and-a-half years. I never got a direct answer to any of my letters.Just a few lines from him about unimportant matters. And very rarely in the bargain.
Then I met H. And the sign was given that here is work to be done.
By now I knew how it worked, the Hint, so I became interested in her.
And then one day he told me in one of his letters to bring her with me when I will come back in ‘65. But this was much, much later. And in fact in December 1965, we both went to India to him. But in the meantime I had to put her through a definite training, and after four months she had the state of Dhyana by His Grace….
PART TWO - THE WAY OF NO RETURN
57 Return
1st January, 1966
THOUGH WE ARRIVED HERE, H. and I, on the 15th December, it is only now that I begin to make entries into my diary. But before I commence to relate the events in chronological order, I had better note down what he said yesterday concerning the Yantra. When we came to him yesterday afternoon, about 4:30, he was sitting outside, a man sat in front of him, a thin man, obviously very worried. Bhai Sahib was writing something on small pieces of paper.
“The children of this man, four in number, are suffering from smallpox,” he said to us, looking up with a kindly smile when we were sitting down. “I am giving them Yantras. And it is absolutely sure, without any doubt, that the children will be all right. When this Yantra is used, death cannot come near; death goes away. I am thinking how to teach you this Yantra.” He looked at me smiling kindly, his eyes narrowed to a slit. “But how can it be done? English language is written the other way round from Persian.”
“Perhaps I can learn it by heart how to write it?” I ventured, thinking what a great service to humanity it would be if one has the power of this Yantra….
“I am thinking… I will find the way,” he laughed… this laughter of his, so young, with the bell-like, metallic ring in it. He continued to write. We sat quietly. He lifted in the air one small piece of paper covered with Persian writing: “This is the Yantra.”
“I was thinking that a Yantra is rather a Symbol; like a five or six pointed star or a syllable, something like that.�
��
“Yes, it is usually so. But I was left completely free by my Rev.
Guru Maharaj; I can do as I like. And I preferit this way. I am quite, quite free,” he added with great emphasis and a faraway look.
If he is free, he will find the way to teach it to me, even in a language foreign to him, like English, I thought, watching how he was folding the paper. I even stood up and went behind his chair to see how he did it.
“This Yantra is against smallpox, cholera, plague, typhus, typhoid fever, and other things. And the person does not die if the Yantra is tied on him. Cannot die. Death keeps away.” I asked where one should tie the Yantra.
“If it is a question of children, it is tied around the neck, but in the case of adults it is tied under the left armpit of a woman and under the right armpit if it is a man. The Yantra is dipped into the wax, then put into a cotton cloth and then tied on. So if one takes a bath or is washed, it is not spoiled or damaged. Never, even for a moment, should the Yantra be removed. If it is removed, the person dies. So if a person is intended to die, somebody will remove the Yantra. You see, two orders are running parallel. Somebody is destined to die. In this case one of the family, or friends, or perhaps someone present will remove the Yantra. While the Yantra is there, the order is there and he cannot die. So it is bound to be removed. Sometimes people come and ask and I don’t answer. I keep silent. If they insist I say: “Yes, if you like, you can remove it.” This is the end, of course….”
“Is this Yantra against T.B. also?” asked H.
“No, not against T.B. There is another Yantra for that. But if T.B. is at the initial stages, no Yantra is needed for that. The illness is made to go away without it.”
He gave the completed Yantras to the man who left touching his feet.
“Never, never, charge anything for this sort of thing, not even a nayapaise (a small Indian coin). If I would have charged, I would have been a millionaire. Many people came to me to have a Yantra; all are helped, it never fails; but it must be given free, as a service, without a charge. Tell them to give something to the poor after they have been healed, but never an even number, always an odd one.
Daughter of Fire Page 61
