Daughter of Fire Page 2

  The bliss of a cold shower, a short rest, then a lovely Indian meal with the whole of the family seated around a large round table in the dining room. The Alsatian dog was also present under the table at Babuji’s (Grandfather’s) feet, licking himself and smelling to high heaven; but again, it was only a detail, and it too fitted somehow into the frame of the whole experience and was accepted as such by me.

  3rd October

  HOW WELL I SLEPT under the humming fan, but could not go to him at seven in the morning as he told me.

  Breakfast was at 9 a.m. All the family kept piling questions on me, about England, my travels, about myself—everybody had something of special interest to ask—and it was only after ten when, at last, I was free to go. Pushpa sent her boy-servant to show me the way.

  Already, when passing through the garden gate, I could see him seated in his room in a very large chair opposite the open door, from which he could see part of the garden and the entrance gate. He looked steadily at me coming towards him. With a brief nod he acknowledged my greeting.

  “I expected you at seven,” he said, fingering his mala (a kind of rosary much used in the East). “It is not exactly seven now.”

  I explained that the breakfast was late, and that I could not get away earlier.

  He nodded. “Yes, it would have been discourteous,” he remarked, and told me to sit down.

  The room was silent. He seemed to pray, bead after bead of the mala sliding through his fingers. I looked around. It was a corner room, not large, rather narrow. Another door to the right flanked by two windows was also leading into the garden. Two large wooden couches (tachats) were standing along the left wall which had two recesses built into it, filled with books. A row of chairs and a small divan for the visitors stood facing the tachats with the backs to the windows and the side door, leaving only a narrow passage to the third door at the opposite end of the room. It was covered by a green curtain and led to the next room from which one could reach the inner courtyard. All was clean and orderly—it could easily be a student’s room. The sheets, cushions and covers on the tachats were spotlessly clean. He was dressed all in white-wide pajama trousers as they used to wear them here in the north of India—but his kurta was unusually long, rather like a robe, as I noticed it yesterday.

  His name, executed by naive infantile hands, hung in three frames on the wall over the tachats. One was in cut-out felt, clumsily and unevenly cut, the other embroidered in cross-stitch, the third in printed letters in Indian ink—things children as a rule give to their parents or relations on birthdays or similar occasions.

  While looking at the frames, I mused over this name and was glad that I saw it written before me and did not need to ask him or anybody else. I remembered vividly how I told L. in a sudden panic that I did not want to know his name when she was giving me his address, in my tent, in Pahalgam, in Kashmir. It was baffling, and I had no explanation why I felt that he had to remain without a name, without even a face for me.

  L. told me that the fact of not wanting to know his name had a deep meaning, but refused to clarify the point.

  “You will know one day,” she said rather mysteriously. And here it was: right in front of me, written three times, hanging on the wall.

  But I still did not know why she refused to explain and why I had such a fear.

  “Why did you come to me?”* he asked, quietly breaking the silence.

  *The traditional question of every Oriental Teacher to an aspirant or a would-be disciple. According to Spiritual Law the human being must clearly state his case himself. The Teacher will do nothing against the free will of the individual.

  I looked at him. The beads in his right hand were resting on the arm support of the chair, and all at once, as if waiting for this very question, I felt a sudden irresistible desire to speak, an urgency to tell everything, absolutely, about myself, my longing, my aspirations, all my life….

  It was like a compulsion. I began to speak and talked for a long time. I told him that I wanted God, was searching after Truth. From what I had learned from L., I knew that he could help me and told him what I understood about him and his work from L’s descriptions.

  I went on and on and on. He kept nodding slowly, as if the torrent of my words was a confirmation of his own thoughts, looking at me, no, rather through me, with those strange eyes of his, as if to search out the very intimate, the very hidden corners of my mind.

  “I want God,” I heard myself saying, “but not the Christian idea of an anthropomorphic deity sitting somewhere, possibly on a cloud surrounded by angels with harps; I want the Rootless Root, the Causeless Cause of the Upanishads.”

  “Nothing less than that?” He lifted an eyebrow. I detected a slight note of irony in his voice. He was silent again, fingering his mala.

  I too was silent now. “He thinks I am full of pride,” flashed through my mind. Indistinct feelings of resentment surged from the depth of my being and went. He seemed so strange, so incomprehensible.

  As he looked out of the window, his face was expressionless. I noticed that his eyes were not very dark, rather hazelbrown with small golden sparks in them as I had noticed yesterday.

  I began again telling him that I was a Theosophist, a vegetarian, and… “Theosophist?” he interrupted inquiringly. I explained. “Oh yes, now I remember, long ago I met some Theosophists.” Again the silence fell. He closed his eyes. His lips were moving in silent prayer.

  But I still went on explaining that we don’t believe that a Guru is necessary; we must try and reach our Higher Self by our own efforts.

  “Not even in a hundred years!” He laughed outright: “It cannot be done without a Teacher!”

  I told him that I did not know what Sufism was.

  “Sufism is a way of life. It is neither a religion nor a philosophy.

  There are Hindu Sufis, Muslim Sufis, Christian Sufis—My Revered Guru Maharaj was a Muslim.” He said it very softly with a tender expression, his eyes dreamy and veiled.

  And then I noticed something which in my excitement and eagerness I did not notice before: there was a feeling of great peace in the room. He himself was full of peace. He radiated it; it was all around us, and it seemed eternal—as if this special peace always was and always would be, forever….

  I looked at his face. He could be said to be good-looking in a masculine sort of way. There was nothing feminine in his features the rather strong nose, the very high forehead. The grey beard and mustache gave him a dignified and distinctly Oriental appearance.

  His hair was short-cut, Western style.

  “How shall I address you? What is the custom?” I asked.

  “You can call me as you like, I don’t mind. People here call me ‘Bhai Sahib,’ which in Hindi means ‘Elder Brother’.”

  So, “Bhai Sahib” is going to be for me too, I thought. That’s what he really is: an Elder Brother to us all.

  “When I arrived, I had a feeling of coming home; and now I cannot get rid of the impression that I knew you before. That I knew you always. Bhai Sahib, where did we meet last time?”

  “Why ask?” He smiled, “Some day you will know yourself. Why ask? But we met before, not once, but many a time, and we will meet many times again; that much I can tell you.”

  At 11:30, he sent me away.

  “For the first few days (he put a special emphasis on the word ONLY), you will not stay here for long periods at a time. Be back after 6 p.m.”

  I left and took with me the haunting memory of his face, full of infinite sweetness and dignity, and this impression remained with me for quite a while. Who is he? I felt greatly perturbed.

  2 Perplexities and Premonitions

  WE HAD LUNCH. Much talk at the table, all the family present.

  Grandfather is lovely, quite a character. So fair-skinned, he looks European, always dresses in white, a silent man of very few words.

  After lunch I went to have a rest in my room. Everybody else did the same, as is the custom in every
hot country. The room was cool and tranquil, full of green light like a secluded greenhouse. Only the soft swish of the ceiling fan, an occasional car passing by, and the usual noises and voices of an Indian street. I stretched out luxuriously, the pleasant sensation of cool air on my skin, thinking over lazily this morning’s conversation.

  It was then I suddenly realized that I did not remember his face… I could not recollect what he looked like! It gave me such a shock that I literally gasped. His garment, his mala, his hands, the room and the furniture, I remembered well—and a good part, though not the whole, of our conversation; his slender feet in brown strap-sandals; wait a moment—the feet, those sandals—where have I seen them before? Oh yes, in a dream long ago; I was looking at them, trying to follow their rhythm, when a tall Indian, whose face I did not remember, was leading me in a dance on a stony desert road. They were the same feet, the same sandals. But his face, seen only a few hours ago, I could not recollect….

  I realized that I remembered a body, and no face! Got such a fright that I sat up on the edge of my bed—am I dreaming? Am I mad? What is it? Who is this man? Did he mesmerize me, or am I going round the bend? Was very disturbed. Lay down again, forcing my mind to remember, but to no avail. The more I tried, the more I became confused.

  Just to do something, to pass the time, I got up and wrote a short letter to L., just a few lines, that I met him, and hoped that she would be here soon.

  I could hardly wait till 6 p.m. When I arrived, he was sitting crosslegged in his chair in the garden talking to some men seated around on chairs. I felt very relieved. Of course, how stupid of me! Here he is in the flesh, looking very real and solid like everybody else. And sure enough he had a face, and he was laughing at this very moment, for he was telling a funny story in Hindi. Everybody laughed, and I was looking fixedly at him. I could not understand how I could be so foolish, to forget something so obvious. I did not want to have the same experience again; it was far too disturbing. I wondered, how far can I trust my mind, my memory. So I looked at his features, to impress them well in my mind. (Little did I know then, that never again would I be able to forget his face.) After a while he turned to me and said in English: “I would like you to keep a diary, day-by-day entries of all your experiences. And also to keep a record of your dreams. Your dreams you must tell me, and I will interpret them for you. Dreams are important; they are a guidance.”

  4th October

  WENT TO BHAI SAHIB in the morning after breakfast, and in the evening after six. My judgment? I still do not know. I cannot even think properly. As on the first day, when I was annoyed with myself, my brain kept getting empty and I could hardly think coherently. Now too, especially when I am at his place, the thinking process seems to slow down considerably. Thoughts come and go, lazily, slowly, just a few, and far in between. I see people come in, touch his feet, sit down quietly, and fall into a deep state, completely oblivious to their surroundings. I was told that this is the state of Dhyana, but what this Dhyana is supposed to be he did not tell me. He only smiled and said that I will know it myself one day… I have heard this one before, so it seems.

  Perhaps after all, it is of no importance if he is a great Guru or not.

  Perhaps it does not even matter to be able to understand who he is. If he can teach me how to abstract the senses (indrias, in Sanskrit) because this is what the Dhyana seems to be—to be able to meditate like this, oblivious to everything, I wouldn’t ask for more. After all, it is supposed to be a desirable state to which all Yogis aspire; and it is the most difficult state to achieve, especially for us in the West. For us who are used to living and functioning on the mental level, to be beyond it seems a utopia, a sheer impossibility. But here I see it done, so seemingly easily, so effortlessly—and what’s more, he told me that I will be able to do it too, one day. Can hardly believe it. I will never be able to do it, so it seems to me.

  Bhai Sahib was telling us about his father who died years ago in January, the celebration which is going to be on that day, the anniversary of his death.

  “But until then we will go….”

  A kind of panic seized me: my mind began to reel and then went blank…. I could not understand one word of what he was saying, heard the sound of his voice, but the words had no meaning—it was just a sound, nothing more. Something in me knew the meaning of what he was saying, but it was not the brain, and I was very frightened.

  “Did you get my idea?” he concluded.

  “I did.” I lied. “But Bhai Sahib, it is a frightening thought, for it seems to be a journey of no return. And a journey which has no return is always terrifying. The personality is afraid, because it knows that the ‘I’ will go, that it has to go. There comes a time in our life when we have to burn all the bridges behind us, or they are burned for us, which is the same thing. Because the little self will be afraid, it will put up a terrific fight for its life.”

  All the while I was speaking, I was amazed at my answer, because I really did not hear one word of what he had told me. Still, my answer must have been the right one, for he smiled gently without comment, nodded, and began to speak to others in Hindi.

  5th October

  ON THE FIRST MORNING, three days ago he had said, “If you say to a human being: sit in this Asana (posture), or that one, meditate in this way or that, you are putting the human being in prison. Leave the man alone, and he will find God in his own way.”

  But is he not trying to put me in prison? This fact of my mind not working? What is the meaning of it??

  Asked him this morning if it was true, as I read in one of Mr.

  Leadbeater’s books, that the Atma, when in incarnation, assumes the features of the physical body and can be seen, more or less one foot above the head of the person; and the eyes are the same as the physical eyes?

  “The eyes and the forehead are the same; and yes, it is true, it can be seen above the head of the person.”

  Then I asked, why on the second day of our meeting he wanted to know if I was free, completely free, had no dependents, neither relations to look after, nor any obligations to bind me.

  “You know that I am free; so why did you ask?”

  “Yes, I know of course that you are free. But I wanted a confirmation from yourself. Sometimes in this physical world we have to behave and speak as if we knew nothing.”

  It seemed a strange answer. But I did not ask further.

  Looking at me thoughtfully, he said slowly: “It takes time to make a soul pregnant with God. But it can be done; IT WILL BE DONE… “

  This too seemed a strange statement. I kept very still, looking at him, and wondering.

  Later a young man came whom I have already seen here, a handsome, tall Indian with a severe face; he could be about thirty, so I thought. This time he brought his little girl with him; she was three-and-a-half, as he later told me. A pretty child with enormous eyes, like deep pools of innocence. It is strange and wonderful that all the children of all the nations are beautiful. Why do people change so much when they grow up?

  The young man touched Guruji’s feet bowing down very low, sat down and fell immediately in deep Dhyana, as usual, sitting there perfectly motionless, unconscious of everything, his child standing between his knees, playing quietly with a flower.

  “He is a very evolved human being,” said Bhai Sahib, as soon as the man had left.

  “He works on the railway and comes here when he can.”

  The old man, whom I thought looked like a prophet in a nativity play (by the way, his name is Munshiji), came in with a list in his hand, asking questions. The servant was called in. Bhai Sahib’s wife* came with a dish of rice and a long discussion began in Hindi. His wife does not speak English at all.

  *Sufis lead the normal life of a householder, and marriage for them does not represent a barrier to reaching the higher states of consciousness.

  3 Doubts

  6th October, 1961

  DOUBTS KEPT COMING into my mind. Many doubts. Such ord
inary surroundings. Such ordinary people around him. Is he a Great Man?

  There seems to be no glamor of a Great Guru, a Great Teacher, about him, as we used to read in books…. He was so simple, living a simple, ordinary life. Clearly, he took his household duties seriously. I could see that he was the head of a large family, six children, and his brother and his family living also in the same house, all sharing the same courtyard. And I saw also other people there, a few other families—the place was full of comings and goings, full of all kinds of activities, not to count his disciples of whom there seemed to be many.

  Decided to speak to L. about it. She will soon be back. She had to remain in Kashmir because of a religious congress in which she took part.

  In the meantime I resolved to stay away as much as possible.

  Went there after 6 p.m. He was writing letters seated crosslegged on his tachat. I tried to read a book I brought with me. Soon he looked up and asked me if I felt uneasy, if I felt any pain. Told him that if my foot is not better, I will not come tomorrow. My foot was hurting, could hardly walk because of the infection I brought with me from Amritsar. There was a painful sore in between the toes, an inflammation giving me much trouble. I suspected the pools of water one had to cross before entering each temple were the culprits, but I did not tell him so. Besides it was only a suspicion; it could be anything. He made some sympathetic noises. While speaking, I secretly hoped that he would cure it instantly. Did not mention it, but had this idea at the back of my mind. He looked at my foot. “It will come right by itself,” he said, as if aware of my thoughts. “Rest is useful,” he added and continued to write. Did not stay long and went home.

  9th October

  PUSHPA’S HOUSE is roomy and comfortable. Ceiling fans are in every room. With the excuse of the small infection on my foot, did not go to the Guru.

  But I went this morning. He was talking nearly all the time about his Guru and how much money he spent on him. I wonder if the old man knows my thoughts about him and talks like that because of it. I have now every possible suspicion about him. Stayed for a very short while.