Daughter of Fire Read online

  To vanish dancing in the Light… a heavenly thought …. To die in the explosion of Thy firework of glory, to burn oneself out in the blaze of Thy Light. Gentle drizzle on my skin. As on the crest of a wave, the whole of my being was carried away in a powerful longing.

  It was something new—a new chord, echoing, reverberating in the depth of my being. A yearning to vanish in Thee…. I stopped dead, then slowly went home.

  18th October

  WENT IN THE EVENING. Did not speak. Neither did he. He was writing letter after letter, and his wife kept coming and talking and interrupting him. There is no privacy in India. How difficult it must be for him; never alone, interrupted, disturbed at all times during the day, even when in deep meditation. I wondered how he could bear it; but perhaps he was used to it, being Indian himself, and did not mind it at all?

  I saw that at Pushpa’s place it was the same story: one could not have any conversation without being constantly interrupted by servants walking into the room wanting this or that, or asking questions on household matters. Children wanted attention; one never had any peace at all; there was always incessant coming and going and noise and movement.

  19th October

  CAME IN THE EVENING. Still cannot speak. At Pushpa’s place am also very silent. Read most of the time. Do not feel like speaking at all.

  Soon after me a man came in and began to talk to him in Hindi.

  After a while Bhai Sahib turned to me, introduced the man as a professor of history, and told me that he would like to talk to me.

  Did not feel like talking at all, but could not refuse, and he seemed a nice person. After a few preliminary exchanges of polite sentences he told me that he knew exactly my state of mind. I retorted slightly ironically that if he did, why did he not explain what was that state?

  He said that I am thinking that what I see here is mesmerism, or sleep, and keep doubting if it is a good thing, or just nonsense, and if I should remain here or go away. Told him that this was in fact my actual state of mind at present. An interesting conversation followed, of which I hardly remember anything, which is a pity. At the end I asked as a conclusion what would be the right attitude according to him.

  “First, faith; absolute faith in the Guru. One must have faith that he knows the right road which will lead to the Truth. Without absolute faith in the Guru, it is impossible to achieve anything.” He was speaking seriously with utmost conviction. “When one should feel sleepy, one should relax, close the eyes and wait for something.

  Mind you, for a long time you may wait, and nothing will happen. It is here, where faith will help you. Feel deeply that you are in the Presence of God, and wait, full of alertness and surrender for His Grace. Then you will not fall asleep, not really, and one day the Grace will strike you.”

  I asked him how long it takes, as a rule, for such a thing to happen.

  “I think not more than two years,” he answered. “This is the average.”

  “Do you mean to say that I have to stay here all the time? Endure the heat of the plains? I surely will die!”

  He sat up straight. “By no means. I feel you should not stay at Bhai Sahib’s place too long at a time. A little in the morning and a little in the evening. Then go away and come back after one week or two, go away for a few months in summer when the heat becomes un, bearable, and so on.”

  I could not agree with him. If I decide to stay here for the training, to go away from time to time would be a waste of time! Surely if I want spiritual life, the only important thing would be to take the greatest advantage of the opportunity, in spite of the difficult circumstances.

  20th October

  WENT IN THE EVENING. His wife was talking non,stop all the time.

  There was nobody except myself. It is all so empty and banal. Who is he? How would I know? Perhaps a sign will be given to me? I knew that it happens sometimes that a sign is given….

  Feel restless and afraid. He could put me in a state where I could give all my money away, or do something mad, like caressing those dirty children, masses of whom one can see in the streets—as it happened to L. when she felt such love, as she told me one day in Kashmir.

  How can I trust him? Have faith? How is it possible? What shall I do? This man has power. There is no doubt about that. And those strange heart conditions, and new surge of feelings: what does it all mean?

  4 More Doubts

  DID NOT GO. Better wait for L. ‘s arrival. She wrote a short note that she will be arriving on the 29th. The Conference was delayed, and then she has to go to Delhi before coming here. I had better not go at all until she is here. What’s the use?

  And still… still, somehow I feel that he can take me “there,” where love is, and stillness, and the mind is not….

  25th October, 1961

  LOOKING AFTER PUSHPA’S GARDEN. Rearranging flowers. Planting.

  Watering. Being frantically active. Better not to think. Work and work, just that. Such a disappointment, the whole affair….

  We went with Pushpa to the nursery twice and got lovely crotons, orange trees and cactuses. Planting, planting and planting. The flat roof will be a desert garden; all the cactuses and shrubs, which do not need much water and can stand a great amount of heat, were carried upstairs. The servants don’t like me—I make them work. The rubbish has been cleared away by the gardener with the cooperation of the coolie. Suggested to Pushpa to have parties on the roof. She seemed to like the idea. Frantic with activity. Not to think. Not to think. At any cost… so much had I hoped. How hot and deep is the disappointment. Oh please, my mind: stop thinking!!

  On my last day before I had left Amritsar, I remember the tourist guide took me in the morning to see an historical Gurdwara (temple of the Sikh religion) dedicated to the twelve Sikh Martyrs slaughtered by the Muslims. We came in when the prayers were already in progress, seated ourselves on the dharri (thick cotton carpet) amongst the worshippers, and waited till the Order of the Day was written out on the blackboard. The guide translated it from the Punjabi:

  “Is there somebody who can take me to the Lord?

  I will go to him, touch his feet and kiss his hands, And serve him faithfully, him, who can take me to the Lord.”

  There are moments in life when we become aware, as if in a flash, that the finger of Destiny is catching up with us. This was such a moment. I remember clearly I suddenly felt cold, became afraid, and did not know why. It was just that I know now—the finger of Destiny touched my heart. I KNEW this message was for me. “I will not go to him,” a sudden panic flashed through my mind. I will go to Ceylon as originally intended, and then return to England to my work at the T.S. Library. But I chased this thought away. My heart was full of hope. I thought it must be a good omen; those words of the Order of the Day were meant for me, for I was going to someone who, I felt sure, could help me on the Road to the Truth.

  Of course, we all know that we have to do our work ourselves. He will be able only to point out the way, create the right spiritual conditions, to make the work easier for us. But to walk, to get there, we must do it ourselves. The toil we have to do alone.

  There is a kind of power at his place—it is a fact, I am quite sure, not just imagination. Very disturbing. I keep away, waiting for L. She must help me to clear some points. And if she cannot… then I will go to Madras, have a look at South India and Ceylon, and then forget the whole affair. IF I CAN. But it will not be so easy, if at all possible.

  Only at the idea of going away, something in me keeps crying. It is so deep that I hardly am conscious of it; it is just on the threshold of comprehension. It is like a homesickness. A great yearning.

  Homesickness for our Real Home? For the Home of all of us, human beings, and the Home of everything else, as well, in this Universe….

  Oh, You who know all hearts, help me to sort it out! Help me to see the Right Road! I am like one who is wounded, so sore, and a small voice within keeps crying all the time. Such a restless state. So I work, work and w
ork, and wait for L.

  Transplanted forty-six pots yesterday, and they were large. Hard work. Must get some sticks, preferably bamboo sticks, and some netting for the creepers.

  There IS, there MUST BE, the Road to the Real Home. And because I cannot trust him, the only person who could help me, I CANNOT TAKE IT. For a little light I pray, a little spark of light, just to see the right direction, the next step!

  The heart keeps beating very fast as if in fever, very often missing out beats, and when this happens a kind of suffocation is felt in the throat. I stopped drinking tea since Pahalgam, when this condition began. It coincided with L. ‘s arrival at my tent. It makes me wonder now…. But now it is gradually getting much worse… palpitations and pain in the heart, and a kind of pressure as if of a stone.

  26th October

  WAITING FOR L.

  27th October

  WAITING FOR L. and working in the garden as hard as ever. How lovely are the sunrises seen from the roof—the pink, ethereal sunrises of the Indian plains, and full of peace, the sunsets in the haze of the heat. How lovely you are, India, even here, where the skyline on the far horizon looks like the skyline of London’s East End: smoking, tall, factory chimneys, just peeping out behind the trees of the park.

  28th October

  WOKE UP in the middle of the night. Have restless nights lately.

  Crammed with confused dreams. Woke up with the sentence resounding in my ears, and seemed still to hear it while waking up, “There is no other Way at all to go.” The Upanishad flashed through my mind while waking up completely. Which Upanishad?—could not remember. It seemed unimportant. No other way. Only this was important. It was as if somebody else was thinking it, not me. Felt tired, so tired… no other Way… no other Way for me….

  And the idea of leaving, of having to go from here all of a sudden, like a shock, filled me with unspeakable terror. A victim must feel like this before being killed, the finality of it. Then I knew to my profound dismay THAT I COULD NOT GO. Will NEVER be able to go.

  And it had absolute finality, like the very act of dying.

  30th October

  L. CAME ON SATURDAY in the morning. I was on the roof in my gardening pajamas working with liquid cowdung. Had a long talk with her after her bath and several more discussions since then. She did not prove to be of much help. She could not understand why I was so afraid to lose all my money. Apparently he refuses money, L. saw him doing so. He accepts money, but to give it away—this is also true, “But why on earth do you assume that he will force you?”

  “Because I feel that he has some kind of terrible power; it disturbs me. It does not seem human. I feel that he can do anything with me, anything at all, that I am completely helpless in his hand, and more so because I have discovered that the very thought of going away fills me with a kind of desperation for which I have no rational explanation.”

  She gave me a strange look and suggested that it might be a test, for it seemed to her that money represents such an important factor in my life. But I dismissed this explanation as not at all convincing, or not one that I could easily accept. Told her how disappointed I was. I even cried. Did hope that she would ask him for an explanation as to what happens to my mind—and what about the heart condition?

  Actually I asked her to do so, but not in front of everybody; perhaps when she is alone with him, and there are no interruptions.

  But apparently she asked him as soon as somebody had left, in the brief interval before somebody else arrived, so they were interrupted. All that he had said, so she told me, was that I am suffering from a too restless mind, and fearful imagination. But, she added, she quite understood my state of mind, the state of doubt and disturbance. Perhaps in my place she would feel the same. I could see that she was distressed and felt sorry for me. She was a friend, but could I trust her? I have a sneaking suspicion that she had a talk with him, but got instructions not to tell me the result. One of her remarks made me think so: when I told her that it seems impossible to have trust and confidence in him, she answered in her simple, serious way, that at the beginning it is not so necessary to have implicit faith and confidence; it is necessary later. But in the meantime there will be proofs of many happenings; I will discover many things, and then may have the confidence.

  “Stay for a while,” she said, “and see what happens.”

  At the beginning it is not necessary…. Will that mean, could that mean, there would be, or could be, a continuation? Even an end, someday? I gave up. Could not think. Seemed too great an effort.

  Pushpa’s husband has flu, so we did not go to the Gita class. L. took some poems in Urdu to Bhai Sahib from the little Parvine, the charming and delicate girl I had met at Kamla’s house in Shrinagar.

  These devotional poems were supposed to be lovely, so I hoped to hear the translation, at least of some of them. I was telling myself that this was the only reason why I wanted to go. But of course, the real reason was that I wanted to be in his atmosphere again. I missed it so much. Ten days had elapsed; it was such a long time….

  The stupid Shastri was already sitting there. I had time to warn L. what a fool he was and a vain one into the bargain. And true enough, Bhai Sahib soon asked him to show off his knowledge and chant some verses from the Vedas.

  He chanted little and explained much in Sanskrit and bad English, clearly for our benefit, and L. said afterwards that it had no sense whatsoever, neither his Sanskrit nor his English comment. I got so impatient with this fool—his screechy voice, like a parrot’s, jarred on my nerves—that I went out into the garden for a while to take some fresh air. It was cool, the sky was cloudy, the wind blew in my face. Was walking up and down under the trees, breathing deeply.

  The garden was still; nobody was about. When Shastri had left, there was much amusement about his self-importance, and L. was commenting on the Nest of the Bull, the passage she asked Acharya to explain, but he could not. I became aware of a great disturbance in the heart. It positively kept stopping, and each time I had a feeling of suffocation. It was very tiresome.

  In Pahalgam, after meeting L., it began. It came back with renewed force, but this time it was different. It most certainly had to do with Bhai Sahib’s presence, or perhaps only with his place? At this moment he was talking to his wife who came in and stood at the door. I took the opportunity to ask L. if I could ask him what to do about the heart activity. Of course, she said, I should ask him. I did as soon as his wife had left. He said that there is a physical heart and a non-physical one, and when the latter is activated, the former is bound to feel it.

  “Nothing will happen to you,” he smiled. “Don’t fear, no harm at all. I am here to see to that.”

  The conversation was still turning around Shastri Acharya and his chanting. After a while Bhai Sahib turned to me and asked: “Now you have no disturbance at all, is it so?”

  I realized to my astonishment that my heart was quite all right. “It is because I have it now,” he smiled kindly.

  “Oh no!” I exclaimed, “give it back to me again, please! I don’t want you to have it, it would be unfair to you!”

  “Am I a juggler,” he smiled his still quiet smile, “to let it go backward and forward?”

  He really was laughing now, obviously amused. But I asked him seriously to give it back to me again.

  “I challenge you to do it; I want to see if you can do it; I want to believe that you have the power to do so!”

  “Give it back to her doubly!” L. exclaimed. “It will serve her right!”

  The conversation was resumed, once more, about the Vedas and the Nest of the Bull, the passage L. was so baffled about. Then silence fell. When I happened to look at the Guru, he was far away.

  “Look, oh, look at him!” I whispered to L. “Do look at this expression on his face; like carved stone, antique and cruel; it looks as old as humanity!”

  All of a sudden, I got the heart trouble again, and not only that, but giddiness and headache as well. But I
told L. that I still did not believe that it was he who could do it; perhaps it was just a coincidence that it ceased and came back once more. She looked disgusted, and said that I was much worse than the doubting Thomas, and being unnecessarily difficult, and so on. Sitting in his customary crosslegged position, Bhai Sahib was rocking himself gently… he was in Samadhi. Watching him I was telling L. in French, that his face was so Oriental, Chinese or Tibetan. A face one seemed to have known always….

  “Do you know how you look when in Samadhi?” I asked when he looked up after a while, opening his eyes. “Tibetan, yes, Tibetan, and as old as the hills!”

  “Tibetan?” He repeated it slowly; his voice was strange, monotonous; and looking straight at me: “Tibetan; if you know it, why do you still doubt?”

  It took my breath away. I knew what he meant and silently I bowed to him with joined palms.

  After that L. and I left for lunch.

  5 A Sign

  31st October 1961

  LAST EVENING we went for a walk, the three of us, he, L., and myself. I hoped to see the Ganga (Ganges), but it was getting dark already and I feared that we would not see much. He was walking very fast, and we could hardly keep pace with him. In the meantime he was telling L. how he intends to teach her what to do when a pregnant woman comes and wants a male child. “Is it a Mantra?” I ventured to ask.

  “No, not at all, just a hint, a hint only, and the child will be a male without any doubt.”

  L. has been with him for the last thirteen years, on and off, when she comes to India. I was intrigued that such things could be done and hoped to learn more about it, but they were discussing now how most people come to the Saint to ask mostly only for worldly things.

  We arrived at the Ghat (elevated bank of the river where ritual bathing takes place and also cremation) and saw in the darkness that there was hardly a river at all at that point. At this time of the year the Ganga apparently flows at a distance of about two miles from here.

  Like nearly all Indian rivers she changes her course from time to time. In the light of the rapidly fading dusk one could just detect puddles of stagnant water amongst banks of sand stretching far into the distance. We turned back. He was talking to L., I was listening distractedly. Suddenly I was struck by one of his sentences: ”… We, who are pledged to the service of humanity.”