CHAPTER: 2 My Mother's Death and
|
||
| My mother's greatest desire was the marriage of my elder brother.
"Ah, when I behold the face of Ananta's wife, I shall find heaven on this
earth!" I frequently heard Mother express in these words her strong Indian sentiment
for family continuity. I was about eleven years old at the time of Ananta's betrothal.
Mother was in Calcutta, joyously supervising the wedding preparations. Father and I alone
remained at our home in Bareilly in northern India, whence Father had been transferred
after two years at Lahore. I had previously witnessed the splendor of nuptial rites for my
two elder sisters, Roma and Uma; but for Ananta, as the eldest son, plans were truly
elaborate. Mother was welcoming numerous relatives, daily arriving in Calcutta from
distant homes. She lodged them comfortably in a large, newly acquired house at 50 Amherst
Street. Everything was in readiness—the banquet delicacies, the gay throne on which
Brother was to be carried to the home of the bride-to-be, the rows of colorful lights, the
mammoth cardboard elephants and camels, the English, Scottish and Indian orchestras, the
professional entertainers, the priests for the ancient rituals. Father and I, in gala spirits, were planning to join the family in
time for the ceremony. Shortly before the great day, however, I had an ominous vision. It was in Bareilly on a midnight. As I slept beside Father on the
piazza of our bungalow, I was awakened by a peculiar flutter of the mosquito netting over
the bed. The flimsy curtains parted and I saw the beloved form of my mother. "Awaken your father!" Her voice was only a whisper.
"Take the first available train, at four o'clock this morning. Rush to Calcutta if
you would see me!" The wraithlike figure vanished. "Father, Father! Mother is dying!" The terror in my tone
aroused him instantly. I sobbed out the fatal tidings. "Never mind that hallucination of yours." Father gave
his characteristic negation to a new situation. "Your mother is in excellent health.
If we get any bad news, we shall leave tomorrow." "You shall never forgive yourself for not starting now!"
Anguish caused me to add bitterly, "Nor shall I ever forgive you!" The melancholy morning came with explicit words: "Mother
dangerously ill; marriage postponed; come at once." Father and I left distractedly. One of my uncles met us en route
at a transfer point. A train thundered toward us, looming with telescopic increase. From
my inner tumult, an abrupt determination arose to hurl myself on the railroad tracks.
Already bereft, I felt, of my mother, I could not endure a world suddenly barren to the
bone. I loved Mother as my dearest friend on earth. Her solacing black eyes had been my
surest refuge in the trifling tragedies of childhood. "Does she yet live?" I stopped for one last question to
my uncle. "Of course she is alive!" He was not slow to interpret
the desperation in my face. But I scarcely believed him. When we reached our Calcutta home, it was only to confront the
stunning mystery of death. I collapsed into an almost lifeless state. Years passed before
any reconciliation entered my heart. Storming the very gates of heaven, my cries at last
summoned the Divine Mother. Her words brought final healing to my suppurating wounds: "It is I who have watched over thee, life after life, in the
tenderness of many mothers! See in My gaze the two black eyes, the lost beautiful eyes,
thou seekest!" Father and I returned to Bareilly soon after the crematory rites
for the well-beloved. Early every morning I made a pathetic memorial-pilgrimage to a large sheoli tree which shaded the smooth, green-gold
lawn before our bungalow. In poetical moments, I thought that the white sheoli flowers were strewing themselves with a
willing devotion over the grassy altar. Mingling tears with the dew, I often observed a
strange other-worldly light emerging from the dawn. Intense pangs of longing for God
assailed me. I felt powerfully drawn to the Himalayas. One of my
cousins, fresh from a period of travel in the holy hills, visited us in Bareilly. I
listened eagerly to his tales about the high mountain abode of yogis and swamis. "Let us run away to the Himalayas." My suggestion one
day to Dwarka Prasad, the young son of our landlord in Bareilly, fell on unsympathetic
ears. He revealed my plan to my elder brother, who had just arrived to see Father. Instead
of laughing lightly over this impractical scheme of a small boy, Ananta made it a definite
point to ridicule me. "Where is your orange robe? You can't be a swami without
that!" But I was inexplicably thrilled by his words. They brought a clear
picture of myself roaming about India as a monk. Perhaps they awakened memories of a past
life; in any case, I began to see with what natural ease I would wear the garb of that
anciently-founded monastic order. Chatting one morning with Dwarka, I felt a love for God descending
with avalanchic force. My companion was only partly attentive to the ensuing eloquence,
but I was wholeheartedly listening to myself. I fled that afternoon toward Naini Tal in the Himalayan foothills.
Ananta gave determined chase; I was forced to return sadly to Bareilly. The only
pilgrimage permitted me was the customary one at dawn to the sheoli tree. My heart wept for the lost Mothers,
human and divine. |
The rent left in the family fabric by Mother's death was
irreparable. Father never remarried during his nearly forty remaining years. Assuming the
difficult role of Father-Mother to his little flock, he grew noticeably more tender, more
approachable. With calmness and insight, he solved the various family problems. After
office hours he retired like a hermit to the cell of his room, practicing Kriya Yoga in a sweet serenity. Long after
Mother's death, I attempted to engage an English nurse to attend to details that would
make my parent's life more comfortable. But Father shook his head. "Service to me ended with your mother." His eyes were
remote with a lifelong devotion. "I will not accept ministrations from any other
woman." Fourteen
months after Mother's passing, I learned that she had left me a momentous message. Ananta
was present at her deathbed and had recorded her words. Although she had asked that the
disclosure be made to me in one year, my brother delayed. He was soon to leave Bareilly
for Calcutta, to marry the girl Mother had chosen for him. One evening he
summoned me to his side. "Mukunda, I have been reluctant to give you strange tidings." Ananta's tone held a note of resignation. "My fear was to inflame your desire to leave home. But in any case you are bristling with divine ardor. When I captured you recently on your way to the Himalayas, I came to a definite resolve. I must not further postpone the fulfillment of my solemn promise." My brother handed me a small box, and delivered Mother's message. "Let these words be my final blessing, my beloved son
Mukunda!" Mother had said. "The hour is here when I must relate a number of
phenomenal events following your birth. I first knew your destined path when you were but
a babe in my arms. I carried you then to the home of my guru in Benares. Almost hidden
behind a throng of disciples, I could barely see Lahiri Mahasaya as he sat in deep
meditation. "While I patted you, I was praying that the great guru take notice and bestow a blessing. As my silent devotional demand grew in intensity, he opened his eyes and beckoned me to approach. The others made a way for me; I bowed at the sacred feet. My master seated you on his lap, placing his hand on your forehead by way of spiritually baptizing you. "'Little mother, thy son will be a yogi. As a spiritual
engine, he will carry many souls to God's kingdom.' "My heart leaped with joy to find my secret prayer granted by
the omniscient guru. Shortly before your birth, he had told me you would follow his path. "Later, my son, your vision of the Great Light was known to
me and your sister Roma, as from the next room we observed you motionless on the bed. Your
little face was illuminated; your voice rang with iron resolve as you spoke of going to
the Himalayas in quest of the Divine. "In these ways, dear son, I came to know that your road lies far from worldly ambitions. The most singular event in my life brought further confirmation—an event which now impels my deathbed message. "It was an interview with a sage in the Punjab. While our
family was living in Lahore, one morning the servant came precipitantly into my room. "'Mistress,
a strange sadhu is here. He
insists that he "see the mother of Mukunda."' "These simple words struck a profound chord within me; I went
at once to greet the visitor. Bowing at his feet, I sensed that before me was a true man
of God. "'Mother,' he said, 'the great masters wish you to know that your stay on earth will not be long. Your next illness shall prove to be your last.' There was a silence, during which I felt no alarm but only a vibration of great peace. Finally he addressed me again: "'You are to be the custodian of a certain silver amulet. I
will not give it to you today; to demonstrate the truth in my words, the talisman shall
materialize in your hands tomorrow as you meditate. On your deathbed, you must instruct
your eldest son Ananta to keep the amulet for one year and then to hand it over to your
second son. Mukunda will understand the meaning of the talisman from the great ones. He
should receive it about the time he is ready to renounce all worldly hopes and start his
vital search for God. When he has retained the amulet for some years, and when it has
served its purpose, it shall vanish. Even if kept in the most secret spot, it shall return
whence it came.' "I
proffered alms to the saint,
and bowed before him in great reverence. Not taking the offering, he departed with a
blessing. The next evening, as I sat with folded hands in meditation, a silver amulet
materialized between my palms, even as the sadhu
had promised. It made itself known by a cold, smooth touch. I have jealously guarded it
for more than two years, and now leave it in Ananta's keeping. Do not grieve for me, as I
shall have been ushered by my great guru into the arms of the Infinite. Farewell, my
child; the Cosmic Mother will protect you." A blaze of illumination came over me with possession of the
amulet; many dormant memories awakened. The talisman, round and anciently quaint, was
covered with Sanskrit characters. I understood that it came from teachers of past lives,
who were invisibly guiding my steps. A further significance there was, indeed; but one
does not reveal fully the heart of an amulet. How the talisman finally vanished amidst deeply unhappy
circumstances of my life; and how its loss was a herald of my gain of a guru, cannot be
told in this chapter. But the small boy, thwarted in his attempts to reach the
Himalayas, daily traveled far on the wings of his amulet.
|
|
