If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir

by Om Swami

  Most of my clients thought astrological remedies would give them respite from their struggles. They believed that a talisman would manage, somehow, to change negative circumstances into positive ones even if they continued to make poor or harmful choices. People wanted to believe that planetary remedies would sort out their issues and a change in their mindset was not required. I saw that people were not ready to hear my truth. I felt exactly like Nietzsche, who once said, 'They don't understand me: I’m not the mouth for these ears.'

  I didn’t want lifeless charts and distant planets to dictate the course of my life, intrude into my plans and karma. I was determined to script my own future. With my horoscope in one hand and a matchbox in the other, I went to the terrace one day. My brother followed me. Sensing what I was up to, he rushed downstairs to tell our mother that I was turning my horoscope into ashes. Meanwhile, I set the paper on fire. She came up running and rescued the half-burnt horoscope from my hands.

  'You shouldn't burn a horoscope, Amit. It must be protected. It is an object of reverence.'

  'Ma, there's nothing sacred about a horoscope. I can't revere a piece of paper.'

  'A very learned Brahmin had written it when you were born.'

  'That doesn't mean anything. Do you really think a horoscope has my destiny already written? Even Rama's horoscope was matched with Sita’s. In fact, it was matched by the great sage Vashistha himself, but what happened? He was sent to exile and, later, he even abandoned Sita. Why?'

  'I don't have answers to your questions, Amit. What I do know is that just because we don't have the answer to something, it doesn't mean it’s false or meaningless. I'm not stopping you from believing what you want but I can't let you burn this horoscope.'

  ‘Ah, don't be upset.' I threw my arms around her and kissed her cheeks several times in quick succession. 'I can write my own horoscope whenever I want.'

  'You are very naughty and strong-willed,' she said. 'It doesn't hurt to listen to your elders sometimes, you know. I must go now, I was in the middle of boiling milk. I'll get a new horoscope made and won't give it to you,' she added on her way down.

  'Don't waste your money, Ma,' I said, laughing.

  Nevertheless, I was confused again. What if my mother was right, what if there was truth to all this and I was the one who couldn't see it? It was true that not everything my horoscope said materialized, but what about the parts where it was completely accurate, where it unerringly predicted many events of my life? I thought hard for a while, weighing the entire matter carefully, examining all aspects of astrology. Finally, I made a clear and firm decision: astrology wasn't going to be a consideration in my life choices.

  I had to go beyond astrology because it mostly dealt with the outcome, not the journey. It could predict from a chart whether a person would be a saint or a sinner but it was quiet on how one could go about it. It could show a moment but not the movement leading up to it. My horoscope said that I would achieve self-realization, but it couldn't tell me how.

  As I began to move away from astrology, I started focusing more and more on my meditation. At every opportunity, even while riding my bike or bathing, I would build my concentration on the sonic energy in the mantras. But I didn't see God, go into a trance or attain any special powers like the books were saying. Somewhere, I knew I was missing a key element. According to the sacred books, only a guru can guide the disciple and expound on the esoteric aspects of sadhana. While I understood that my journey of self-realization was my responsibility, I realized I needed a guru to help me unravel the mysteries of sadhana; it wasn't going to be easy to find success on my own.

  But where to go looking for a guru? I could not think of anyone better than my mother's eldest brother, R.K. Modgil. He was her idol and her ideal. Although he worked as a superintendent in the Indian Railways, this was not his speciality. He was actually an ardent Shiva devotee, and from the age of thirteen till his last breath, he visited the cremation ground twice a day and lit a butter lamp. No one knew what sadhana he did there because he never disclosed it. Like everyone else, all I knew was that he lit a butter lamp. Dogs, birds, cows and other animals followed him there on a daily basis.

  My uncle led a simple and truthful life and that is what always inspired me. It was so easy to talk to him; there was no pretence or hyperbole, just plain truth that would pierce my heart. I hoped that if he initiated me, I might start to get some results from my mantra sadhana. But, whenever I asked him, he gently dodged my request. I was not surprised. After all, there was no comparison between the two of us: he, in his fifties, had put in more hours of sadhana than I, at fifteen, had lived altogether.

  One day, we happened to be at his place. He had just returned from his morning visit to the cremation ground. 'Come with me,' he said. I followed him, and he took me up to the terrace. I noticed he was holding a tiny, round box in his hands. When he opened it, it turned out to be empty but for a little ash. He pressed his thumb into the ash and then rubbed it against my forehead. 'This is forty years of my tapas,' he said.

  I looked at him in wide-eyed surprise.

  'I've been consecrating this ash with the same mantra every day for forty years,' he added, 'and you are the first and the last to have it.'

  I knelt down in the greatest reverence, for he just initiated me.

  'What mantra should I chant?'

  'You will be travelling all over the world and I don’t want to tie you down by giving you a mantra that you must chant every day. Be free. Go live your dream. No power in the three worlds can stop you.'

  He gave me three instructions, principles of life, if you will. Any instruction from a guru to a disciple must remain between them. Only when the disciple becomes someone’s guru and wishes to pass on that message are the words uttered again.

  That day, he brought his horoscope to me. 'I have just one question,' he said.

  I knew his question wasn’t going to be an easy one.

  'What is the date of my death?'

  I was a little shaken. 'Mamaji, 'I can calculate it but my astrologer's code of conduct prohibits me from disclosing such information.'

  'I already know my date. I just want to confirm it.'

  I couldn't refuse him. His word was my command. We agreed that he would write down the date he knew, and I would do the same on another piece of paper. Then he would give me his slip and I would give him mine. I was curious to find out if he truly knew the date. Mine was a matter of calculation, although deep and intense, but his would be a matter of intuition. Could intuition match the precision of calculation? I took out my notepad and started my calculations based on his horoscope. After an hour, we exchanged slips.

  When I read the date he had written, I knew right away that hiding behind his ordinary appearance was an extraordinary consciousness. He had completely mastered his intuitive faculties. Obviously, I never forgot the date and neither did he. Several years later, I would call him from Australia one day before his date of departure from this world. He was in hospital to undergo a minor surgery. Fit and healthy, he had even played basketball before going into the hospital. We were both sentimental over the phone.

  'Do you think I will come out of the operation theatre?' he asked.

  'Yes, why not? Not only that, you will play basketball again.'

  I was happy to lie and I was happy to believe in that lie. At that moment, how dearly I wished for my own prediction and his intuition to go wrong. Mamaji’s doctor declared the operation a success, and admitted him into the ICU so he could recover. He did not come out of it alive.

  I was nearly fourteen when a scholarly figure, Prof. A.P. Sharma, entered my life. A PhD in English Literature, he had known my father from his college days and had recently moved back to our town after his retirement. An excellent palmist, he read my palm and I his horoscope the very first day we met. We both made predictions about each other and laughed. When two tradesmen of the same trade meet, there is little they can do to impress each other but, in my case
, I loved Prof. Sharma from the outset. Cultured and soft-spoken, he was full of warmth.

  He lived alone in his old paternal house. Other than the hundreds of books that took up most of the space in the house, his only other possessions were some bookcases, a bed, a sofa, an almirah and a study table. He had piles and piles of notebooks too, full of literary criticism and his musings on life. He adored his books and never left home without locking the bookcases.

  I would visit him several times a week and thoroughly enjoyed his company. He would work with me to improve my English-language skills. English literature was his passion, and he would quote Austen, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Keats, Frost, Whitman, Dickens, Hemingway, Wordsworth, Wilde and others without ever opening a book.

  He often highlighted passages in his books and scribbled his thoughts along the margins of the pages. Writing in books was something I never appreciated. My philosophy was simple: books were for reading and notebooks were for writing. To me, books were an immaculate work of art and marking in books was like drawing graffiti on a Picasso. You don’t spoil what you love.

  That said, his love for English literature and language and was infinitely more than I could ever imagine. For me, language was a functional tool, a craft even, to convey what I had in my mind. For him, it was not just a medium of communication but an art through which he created a whole new world. 'When you write, I want the writing to be so taut that if anyone is to remove even a comma from your sentence, the entire paragraph will have to be rewritten. When you speak, I want you to struggle, not because you cannot think of words with which to express yourself but because so many rush to your mind that you have to really choose to pick the word that is most apt, that is perfect,' he said more than once.

  One of our favorite pastimes was to sit in the soft winter sun and read classics. I would read and he would peel oranges, carefully removing the pith, putting the pips into a bowl and giving me the juicy segments to eat. During those hours spent in the sunshine, he often read my palm and made remarkably accurate predictions. We also talked a great deal about other things. There were no restraints or rules in our conversations, and my age was not a bar.

  'Why don't you tell me about your girlfriends?' he asked once.

  'Girlfriends? I don't have any.'

  'I don't believe you!'

  'I'm telling you the truth, Uncle.'

  'How can this be? You are young and expressive. You get good grades and the whole school knows you because of your astrology. Some girl must have a crush on you, or you must be attracted to someone.'

  'But it's true; I don't have anyone.' I felt rather shy having this conversation with him.

  'The religious texts say that until one is twenty-five years old, one should be a brahmachari.'

  'This is old school. You must live your life, you must enjoy it. All our sages had consorts.'

  'No, I think the ancient books have some truth to them. Besides, who has the time for a girlfriend? When will I do my reading, play chess, practise astrology or play the keyboard if I start devoting time to a girlfriend?'

  'Oh, you are so uptight, Amit. Why are you so rigid? Loosen up a bit.'

  'How will I spend time with you if I have a girlfriend?'

  'You are all head and no heart. Never mind, one day you’ll fall head over heels for some girl and won't be able to live without her.'

  'That will never happen, I know myself. I won't marry.'

  'Your palm says it loud and clear. The line of marriage is pink, unbroken and strong. You will be married before you turn twenty-eight.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'What is wrong with you? You scare me with your ascetical and religious bent.'

  You are all head and no heart. This became his standard line. This was how many conversations would end when he was unable to discern an emotional side to me. The truth was that in spite of my trying, I couldn’t feel any attachment. I did not miss anything or anyone, not even Prof. Sharma. I tried mixing with friends, with other people, but I found little joy in these associations. I wasn't doing this deliberately; this was just the way I was. On this particular occasion when he spoke about my marriage with such conviction, I did wonder if he was right about my life. It was true that both my palm and my horoscope predicted marriage. Was I really in control of some preordained destiny? I thought about this for a while, and then decided I wasn’t going to let a certain line on my palm dictate my future for me. I was determined to write the script of my own life.

  Engrossed in my thoughts and a little agitated, I left Prof. Sharma’s house without saying goodbye. When I reached home, I found my mother sitting by the altar reading a sacred text as usual. That evening, she was studying the Bhagavata Purana, the epic narrating the glories of Lord Krishna. Rather than giving her the usual peck, I just sat down near her.

  'You know, Mum,' I said, 'I can be whatever you want me to be—a high-ranking official, businessman or professor. I only have one request: please do not force me or expect me to get married. I want to give my life to a spiritual cause. No one believes me when I tell them I will not get married.'

  She could have easily brushed off my thoughts, dismissing my request as a teenager’s idealism. Instead, she said, 'I believe you. You are free to lead your life the way you please. I will never bind you to something you don’t like, Amit. We can revisit this when you grow a bit older though. Who knows, you may have a change of heart. Why don't you want to marry, anyway?'

  I replied, ‘I have seen more than three thousand horoscopes. Everyone has similar problems. What are they doing? They are born, they go to school and college, get a job, get married, have kids, go through the grind, become old and die. After hearing the problems of married people, I can categorize them into two types. The first involves people who are unable to make their marriage work. Though they have been married for quite a while, each day is a drag and they part ways eventually. Then you have the ones who are trying hard to make it work. Even for them, most days are tiring, but in between disagreements and confrontations, between the arguments and bickering, they also have good moments.

  All in all, it's too much work. Most people get married because they feel the need to do so, but I don't. More importantly, marriage plays no role in my path. Instead, I wish to do penance in the woods like the legendary Dhruva, like our sages of ancient times. I want to see if God really exists.'

  'If?' she said in surprise. 'Why do you do various sadhanas now if you still doubt God's existence?'

  'I do sadhana because I want to see him, Ma. I want to meet my creator. I believe he exists but how can I be sure until I see him? I doubt his existence sometimes because if he really exists, why is there suffering and misery in the world? If there's one God, why are there so many religions? Why did he allow it?’

  'Faith, child. Faith erases all questions.’

  'I wish! Faith does not erase questions. It only ignores or discourages them.'

  'I know I can't win this debate with you. I just know that God is real. He protects, provides and is watching over us.'

  I wanted to continue but there was a knock on the front door. It was Prof. Sharma. He had come to check on me, thinking he had upset me. I was only too happy to see him again. He had brought mangoes as a peace offering.

  For reasons I never quite understood, he loved me deeply. He had two photos of me in his wallet. Each time I got a passport picture clicked, he insisted on having one. The latest photo would go in his wallet and he would use the older one as a bookmark. He would make tea for me and serve it in an exquisite bone-china cup and saucer that he wouldn’t allow anyone else to touch.

  I had nothing to offer him, yet every gesture of his was full of care and love for me. 'I'm at the twilight of my life, Amit,' he would often say after a drink. 'I won't be there to see you grow and conquer the world, or partake of your success. I wish I had not been born so early.'

  His eyes would well up.

  'But can you promise me something?'

  'Yes, Uncle
. Anything for you.'

  'When I die, I would just like you to be by my side. I would like to hold your hand in mine and breathe my last.'

  I assured him I would be there for him, without knowing if it would happen that way. It didn't. I gave him that reassurance because he was looking for it. But, thinking about his death, I didn't feel any pain of separation. Maybe he was right after all: I was all reason and he was all feeling.

  Once, there were floods in our region. From the roof, you could see animals, furniture, utensils and many other unidentifiable objects floating down the streets. When the flood waters ebbed after some days and we entered our house, the most terrible thing was to see my books dead. They were swollen exactly like corpses and lay soiled and defaced. I put them in the sunlight, hoping to dry them, but the pages just curled in the heat. And they stank. Left with the memory of what they had been, I couldn’t bear looking at them anymore. I didn’t want to sell them to the scrap dealer, for you don’t sell love. On a sunny day devoid of wind, I took them to the terrace and cremated them. All of them. Then I picked myself up and moved on.

  Meanwhile, my parents decided to build a room on the first floor of the house so that we would have shelter should such a situation arise again in the future. The vendor who supplied us the building material was a man in his mid-thirties called Parvesh Singla. The first time I visited his shop, we had a casual conversation and connected immediately. After that, we began meeting frequently.

  Like Prof. Sharma, he cared about me deeply. Once again, I could not quite comprehend why. I was unable to understand why a successful businessman like him hung out with a teenager like me.

  I asked, 'Why do you spend so much of your time with me? You buy books and pens for me, you take me out for dinners. Why?'

  ‘I don't know what draws me to you, but you have this pull, Amit. You seem to have no confusion of any sort. And I always wanted a brother like you.'