A Disciple's Journal: In the Company of Swami Ashokananda

by Sister Gargi

  Swami: Learn to help it. One way of learning is not to give expression to what you observe.

  Dorothy: Isn’t there such as thing as aesthetic appreciation? When I was a girl, you used to get after me a lot for being so sloppily dressed. Once you said, “Think of the aesthetic side of it.”

  Swami: Yes, you dressed sloppily. That was tamas. Now go beyond that. Must everything I said to you twenty years ago apply to you now? If you can see the Divine Spirit in everyone, then you will see real beauty. Aesthetics! Worldly people run around to concerts and to art galleries. What benefit do they derive? Are they any better for it? Most aesthetic appreciation is sensuality. I admit that for spiritually minded people, music and art can be of value, but such people are in the minority.

  Don’t be conspicuous in any way. Don’t attract attention either by being so badly dressed that people wonder or by making yourself so attractive that people notice you and admire you. The senses of people literally feed upon you. You will be consumed. That is what happens to public performers—actors and dancers. They end up by becoming empty shells. It is a fact.

  Dorothy: How horrible! It sounds like something very strange is going on.

  Swami: Don’t be naive. You are too naive for such an intelligent girl. It is not strange. The senses are of the mind; they feed on the mind of another person.

  April 17, 1957

  I asked Swami about Fledermaus (my dachshund, whom I had left). She is old and in bad physical shape. The Williamsons, whom she had lived with and loved, have gone. She will have to live with strangers. The vet says she cannot live much longer—maybe days, maybe months.

  Me: Would it be all right to put her away? (What an awful expression!)

  Swami: Follow the custom of your own country, but let your sister make the decision. I cannot tell you what you should do. I am a Hindu and my ideas on the subject would be colored by the customs of my country. I can see merit in both ideas.

  (I expressed sadness for the awfulness of life, particularly the life of old animals and old people.)

  Swami: Don’t think about those things—that is self-indulgence.

  April 21, 1957

  Fledermaus died tonight.

  April 22, 1957

  I mentioned to Swami that in the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, Sri Ramakrishna said again and again that karma yoga was not meant for this age.

  Swami: By karma yoga he probably meant rituals, and so on.

  Me: Not always. He also spoke of serving man as God as karma yoga, and he said it was too difficult for this age.

  Swami: You have to remember that the conversations M [Ma-hendranath Gupta, the author of the Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna] recorded were given to householders. You must always take into consideration whom Sri Ramakrishna was talking to. He gave instruction that was right for the particular person. He didn’t think he had a message—Sri Ramakrishna just said what he had to say to whomever was there. He left it to his disciples to formulate a rounded message. That was Swami Vivekananda’s work.

  One might say that Sri Ramakrishna always insisted upon the harmony of religions. Yes, one could say that that was his message. Also, he always insisted that everyone must seek God. He insisted on that, too. He said that householders must go for days or weeks into seclusion for spiritual practice; when they had found God, then they could live in the world.

  April 24, 1957

  Swami: Keep constantly occupied. Work! See how Sri Ramakrishna made Holy Mother work. She was always busy.

  Me: I thought only people in a low state like me had to work all the time, so as not to degenerate.

  Swami: Do you think knowers of God don’t work? Have you got some idea that you will reach a point where you can just sit back and dream? That is your goal? No, you will always have to work. The spiritually enlightened feel that they are not working. They are the witness, but their bodies and minds are intensely active.

  Me: That would be all right. I would like to reach that state.

  Swami (firmly): You are going to reach it. You are going to reach it if it takes you twenty thousand years.

  9

  BONANZA

  During the course of my research on Swami Vivekananda, I tried to learn something about Mrs. Ole (Sara) Bull, who had advanced his work in New York and New England, and whom he admired and trusted probably more than any other American woman he knew. I read a biography of her husband, Ole Bull, written by Mortimer Smith (the ex-husband of Mrs. Bull’s granddaughter, Sylvea). Apart from information about Mrs. Bull, the book contained photographs that I wanted to reproduce.

  I wrote to Mortimer Smith asking for his permission to copy the photos. In reply, he very kindly sent prints of them, granted me permission to reproduce them, and casually mentioned at the close of his letter that he had access to a collection of letters written to Sara Bull from several of Swami Vivekananda’s other disciples. Would I be interested in seeing them, he asked, and if so, could I give him my credentials?

  I at once bought some elegant stationary and spent many days composing and fine-tuning a letter so that every word would convince him of my probity, my sincerity, my good standing in the Vedanta community, and my panting, albeit scholarly, need for those letters.

  I waited in suspense. A few months later I received a large, beat-up suit box. It was full of letters written to Mrs. Bull by J.J. Goodwin, Leon Landsberg, Ella Waldo, Miss Hamlin, and other disciples of Swami Vivekananda. There were also many letters from Swami Saradananda and, most precious of all, original letters from Swami Vivekananda himself. The letters were not arranged in any order, either by author or by date. My first job was to sort them out and make a list of them.

  After writing to Mr. Smith to advise him of the letters’ safe arrival and to thank him, my next task was to have photostatic copies made in batches of one hundred sheets, so no sheet would remain out of my hands overnight. In all, there were more than four hundred sheets, including envelopes. The process took at least one week. When it was completed, I sent the originals, all tied in orderly bunches, back to Mr. Smith, who, in turn, restored them to his ex-wife, Sylvea. (Sylvea later bequeathed these priceless documents to the Vedanta Society of Northern California.) Next, Swami Ashokananda asked a few devotees who were good typists to type out the photocopies.

  Most of the letters pertained to a time that followed the period covered by the newly completed first New Discoveries book. It was as though Swami Vivekananda, pleased with my efforts so far, had pulled a string in the sky that released this flood of research material, allowing it to fall directly into my lap. (The letters would later become the main course, as well as the garnishing, of volumes 3 and 4 of Swami Vivekananda in the West: New Discoveries, published in the mid-1980s.)

  In connection with my correspondence with Mortimer Smith, I had been tempted to write to him at length, entering into a literary correspondence. It was caught in time.

  April 26, 1957

  Me: It is good I wrote at some length, at least, because his reply was informative.

  Swami: Yes, but be very reserved. Be extremely cautious. The mind is very tricky. Never trust it. Even Swamiji didn’t trust his mind.

  Me: Even Swamiji? I thought that after nirvikalpa samadhi—

  Swami: The mind belongs to maya, even the pure mind. Of course, Swamiji’s mind couldn’t harm him. But see how it made him suffer. He said his heart kept him entangled here. The higher one aspires in spiritual life, the more cautious one must be. The mind becomes extremely subtle, extremely sensitive. From the start one must form the habit of caution. Later, that habit will stand by you and protect you. You won’t have to reason about it.

  Swami, who was invariably right, would prove to be so again in the case of Mortimer Smith. Several years later I saw a picture of Mr. Smith in Time magazine and found him to be very attractive. Just then, he happened to write me again out of the blue to say that he was comin
g to San Francisco and would like to have tea with me. On hearing this news Swami said, “Sometimes desires have a way of being realized. The mind draws things. You were at peace—now here comes Mortimer Smith.” I told him it wouldn’t upset me, to which he simply replied, “Hmm.”

  A few days later, I received a note from Mr. Smith that he was arriving in San Francisco and would phone. The thought of meeting him made me exceedingly shaky. Mr. Smith’s voice on the telephone was very pleasant, although it was entirely unlike what I had expected. Since he had more materials for me, we had tea at the St. Francis Hotel, during which he also told me intriguing details about Mrs. Bull and her family. He was very helpful to my research, but he bore hardly any resemblance to his photograph in Time. My apprehension about finding him too attractive turned out to have no basis in reality.

  Swami said about this shattered dream, “It is said that nobody knows what the mind of a woman will do—I was certainly worried.” Then he went on to tease me, “In the eyes shining stars, but then in the heart mooning. One wakes from a many-splendored dream into the morning reality.”

  Swami Ashokananda’s concern for his disciples extended to every aspect of their lives, for there was nothing that did not bear upon their spiritual welfare. He kept his finger on our every thought and deed, as on the pulse of a feverish child. In his conversations, he gave the most ordinary things a spiritual turn.

  April 29, 1957

  I came from the dentist and stopped at Swami’s door to salute him, Hindu style, with folded hands. Edna was in his office.

  Swami (to me): Well, hello! Have you been working?

  Me: No, I have been to the dentist.

  Swami: That is work. (To Edna) She has a look about her as though she had been working, concentrating. (To me) You have been concentrating on your teeth?

  Me: Yes, I certainly have. Then I decided to concentrate on the fact that I am not the body; I am the Self.

  Swami (smiling): It hurt?

  Me: Yes, terribly. I felt I was working out a lot of karma.

  Swami: No, it is not that easy.

  Me and Edna (surprised): It’s not?

  Swami: No. It is true that a person works out some karma through a severe illness. I have noticed that when people have been through a severe illness, they get a pure look. They look very innocent. (Laughing) But it doesn’t last.

  Me: Like going to bathe in the Ganges. The sins wait on the shore to jump back onto the bather.

  Swami: Yes.

  April 30, 1957

  Swami (to Virginia Varrentzoff about me): She is a very methodical person. I never used to think so, but she has her own way of doing things.

  May 3, 1957

  Swami talked to a large group of devotees about a Walt Disney movie that he had seen years ago. He described the story of Dumbo in detail. “Such a beautiful picture of mother love I have never seen anywhere,” he said. He had asked Miriam Kennedy, who was then a new student from Hollywood, to try to get still pictures from the movie, and she had managed to purchase three. “What trouble she went to,” Swami said appreciatively, “and how much money she must have spent!”

  May 13, 1957

  Swami came into the back office briefly this afternoon before going upstairs. He seemed very tired today, and his blood pressure has been dangerously high. Virginia was telling him about a girl she knows who is a little interested in Vedanta but who is mostly interested in getting married.

  Swami: That is the big trap. One gets married and has children. Life gets so complicated that it is not possible to undertake spiritual practice. A person is blessed when God makes life simple for him. When a person is close to God, he becomes very simple. Swamiji once said, “The greatest truths are the most simple.” God is very simple. When He makes someone’s life simple, it is a sign; he wants to liberate that soul.

  May 15, 1957

  Swami (to a group of devotees): Learn to take hard knocks from the world and remain soft. Don’t fight back. Be understanding. Practice positive kindness. The world will let you go. Goodness will be free to come out from you. Fear won’t block it.

  We arrived in June for our annual summer retreat at Lake Tahoe. In addition to Swami Ashokananda’s cabin, where visiting swamis also stayed, there were two cabins, one on either side, owned by devotees. Widely spaced, all three cabins stood on a forested hill overlooking the lake. Ediben Soulé’s cabin, where I usually stayed, was full to overflowing the summer of 1957 with her husband, Doug, her daughter, Anne, and Janet Blodgett, one of Anne’s young friends. Nor was there any room for me at Jo and Helen’s cabin. So Swami asked Jo to search for a resort cabin that I could rent nearby. All she could find was a place about seven miles away.

  The cabin Jo secured for me was a small, poorly lighted, flimsy one-room hut. When Swami admonished Jo for her poor choice, she assured him that it was the only place available for miles around. I moved in. There were no actual rats, snakes, spiders, or furry black moths, but the small derelict cottage gave the impression of harboring all these creatures. I did not much like it, but anything was better than not being at Tahoe with Swami.

  June 11, 1957

  Swami, Ediben, Jo, Helen, and I took a boat ride today to scatter Sarah Fox’s ashes in the lake on the Nevada side, where it is legal. [Sarah Fox, a disciple of Swami Saradananda, was highly regarded by Swami Ashokananda].

  Swami (seriously): Don’t talk shop while we are doing this.

  June 12, 1957

  Swami (about Sri Ramakrishna): Light poured from him, from all over, in all directions. We [meaning himself and the swamis of his generation] are just little pinpricks through which light shines.

  June 13, 1957

  Ediben spent an hour or so at Swami’s cabin this evening. Swami Akhilananda, the head of the Boston center, was there as Swami Ashokananda’s guest. She told me that Swami Ashokananda had made faces of disgust at Swami Akhilananda when he spoke naively. At one such remark, Swami Ashokananda had exclaimed, “Bunk, brother!” They laughed over stories that Swami Akhilananda told, such as the one about Saint Theresa when she came down from heaven to see how things were going with her convents. Saint Peter had asked her to phone him. She phoned him from New York and Chicago, each time saying, “Saint Peter? This is Saint Theresa. I find things going very well.” Then she phoned him from Hollywood and said, “Hi Pete, this is Tess.” The swamis laughed uproariously.

  June 14, 1957

  There was a dinner party at Ediben’s cabin. After the meal, Swami Akhilananda told Jo many complicated Indian recipes while Helen took notes. Then he told us the story of how he had been mistreated by Swami Paramananda when he first came to this country as his assistant in 1927. Later, Swami Akhilananda had started his own center in Providence, Rhode Island, with the help of two wealthy devotees, Mrs. Anna Worcester and Miss Helen Rubel. There had been many compensations for the initial period of suffering.

  “I am amazed at it,” he said, his face wreathed in smiles. “Such grace! I have no qualifications at all, and yet I am asked to speak everywhere; everyone loves me.”

  When Swami Ashokananda said, “I think we should go now,” Swami Akhilananda said to him, “I can see how much these people love you, and I love you; so I want to do something for them.”

  Everyone: Now?

  Swami Akhilananda (mysteriously): Yes, now. I want to do something.

  Swami Akhilananda had relics of Sri Ramakrishna, Holy Mother, Swamiji, and Swami Brahmananda in a small pillbox, which he carries always in his vest pocket. We washed our hands and rinsed our mouths and went into Ediben’s room, where her shrine is. There was a breathlessness. Swami Akhilananda handed Swami a small bottle of Ganges water, which he also carries with him. Swami sprinkled himself—tongue, head, and chest—and then sprinkled us on the head. Then Swami Akhilananda handed his box to Swami, who touched it to his head. Swami Akhilananda then held it on the top of Ediben’s head, mine, J
o’s, and Helen’s, as we stood in a row.

  June 16, 1957

  As usual, we visited Swami’s cabin after dinner. At the time, I was writing song lyrics for the dedication of the new temple, and I worked on this with Swami awhile, sitting on the floor by his chaise longue.

  Swami phoned Sacramento and San Francisco on his newly installed phones—a yellow one in the bedroom, a gray-green one on a jack in the living room. “I selected the colors myself,” Swami said. He loved these phones, testing the bells, tightening the mouth and earpieces. One would think he had never seen a phone before. All these years he has had to phone from a small, cold, smelly booth down the hill, standing for hours.

  While he was phoning Mr. Clifton, we were sitting quietly—Swami Akhilananda, Jo, Helen, and I. I was sitting on the floor opposite Swami Akhilananda’s chair, but at some distance, for he had his feet up on the ottoman. I noticed that my shoes were dirty, and started to dust them with a piece of Kleenex.

  Swami (suddenly and without covering the phone): Mrs. Burke (he pronounced it Barke)—what a place to clean your shoes, under the nose of the swami!

  Me (abashed, to Swami Akhilananda): Excuse me, Swami.

  Swami Akhilananda (in fits of laughter): No, no.

  Swami: Apologize to the swami.

  Me (again): Please excuse me.

  Swami Akhilananda (still laughing): No, no . . .

  Swami: Do it somewhere else. (I went behind a chair and finished the shoe cleaning.)

  The mountainous area north of Lake Tahoe used to be called Mount Rose, a name derived specifically from the conical peak that reached 9,000 feet above sea level—the highest peak of the mountains surrounding the lake. The peak was rosy in color, and its upper reaches, rising above tree level, were as bare of greenery and the glint of water as is the planet Mars.

  Swami wanted to buy a piece of this isolated, high-altitude desert, sparsely strewn with huge granite boulders, and to build a monastery there with the local stone. Ediben and Jo managed to dissuade him; although the air may have been pure and the glimpse of the blue lake lying far below enchanting, there was no electricity, water, or firewood, nor was there any means of emergency communication with the outside world during the long, snowbound winters that would inevitably grip the mountain in their frozen embrace.