By
Yvonne LeBeau
Chidananda is a Jeevanmukta, a great saint,
an ideal Yogi, a Para Bhakta and a great sage.
Swami Chidananda is all this and much more....
He was born to fulfil a great mission.
He is the torch-bearer of my mission.
-SWAMI SIVANANDA
A DIVINE LIFE SOCIETY PUBLICATION
Second Edition: 1989
(2,000 Copies)
World Wide Web (WWW) Edition : 1999
WWW site: http://www.SivanandaDlshq.org
This WWW reprint is for free distribution
© The Divine Life Trust Society
Published By
THE DIVINE LIFE SOCIETY
P.O. Shivanandanagar—249 192
Distt. Tehri-Garhwal, Uttaranchal,
Himalayas, India.
DEDICATED
TO
MY GURU
His Holiness Pujya Sri Swami Chidanandaji Maharaj
and through him
to all the Gurus
who in an unbroken line
for the past many millennia
have transmitted to mankind
the spiritual heritage
of the holy land of India.
CONTENTS
This book by Yvonne LeBeau, a spiritual seeker from
France, is in the nature of a tribute to her Guru or spiritual mentor,
Sri Swami Chidanandaji Maharaj. An interesting aspect of the book is
the light it throws on the encounter between the occidental mind and
oriental philosophy. Another aspect of the book-and an equally significant
one-is the insight it gives into the various struggles which every spiritual
seeker has to undergo in traversing the path of Yoga or conscious spiritual
evolution. It speaks volumes for the magnanimity of the author that
she has been motivated by an earnest desire that the message of this
book, viz., the message of Yoga-Vedanta, should be broadcast far and
wide, especially in the Western world. May God bless her with health,
long life and many more years of spiritual service and illumination
too!
The present edition is enriched with fresh matter that
the writer felt would add to the value of the book. We are grateful
to Dr. Anil Suchak who sponsored the publication of this book in memory
of his brother, Dr. Ashok Suchak, who was called back to his Heavenly
Abode in March last year.
The Publishers
Shivanandanagar,
March 3rd 1989
It is the good fortune of my family and myself that
Gurudev Swami Chidanandji Maharaj's blessings have been with us for
the last several years. On a number of occasions we have had the proud
privilege of serving Swamiji and coming close to him, and also having
his discourses and attending his Satsangs. On yet other occasions Swamiji
pulled us out of the mire of despair in our personal problems, and showed
us light where we could only see darkness.
But sometime back, quite by chance, I happened to lay
my hands on a book called THIS MONK FROM INDIA, written about
Swamiji by a foreign devotee, Mrs. Yvonne LeBeau. After reading the
book, I was amazed that everything I had experienced earlier and known
about Gurudev was, as it were, re-lived by me in the course of going
through the writing of the author. It was indeed a revelation to have
an intimate glimpse into Swamiji's life, and it was almost as if Gurudev
himself had been talking to me.
Ever since, I have recommended this book to many friends,
who have read it and have been similarly drawn to Gurudev afterwards.
Subsequently, I tried to obtain copies of the book from the Ashram as
well as from devotees etc., but was unable to do so. This gave birth
to the thought of publishing another edition of the book and thereby
spread the message of Gurudev. Here then is a new edition of the book,
which will not only delight those of us who know Gurudev, but will also
prove a source of inspiration to countless others who have not had the
good fortune of knowing Gurudev and deriving invaluable guidance from
his life and thoughts.
Ever longing for the blessings of my GURU.
8th March 1989
Dr. Anil N. Suchak
Suchak Prakashan
Divine Life Society (Malad Branch)
186, Manchhubhai Road,
Malad (E), Bombay-400 097.
Tel.: 6914 84 ! 688 52 29
After coming to Sivananda Ashram and into contact with
Pujya Sri Swami Chidanandaji Maharaj, I have received many letters from
devotees and friends asking me to put down in writing, for the benefit
of all, some of the stories I had told them on different occasions.
Some said, "If you can't write, tape record them and we will write them.
We have been so inspired by them and everywhere we relate them, people
have the same reaction. Those stories must not get lost and forgotten,
for they depict Swamiji's saintliness better than words of devotion
could ever do. And for Westerners, for people who are new to Yoga, those
stories show what a Guru like Chidananda really is. They show how he
can protect, teach and guide the disciple who has faith in him, and
how faith can work wonders."
"Relate your own experiences too," they said, "for
though we can read such things in books, it is so inspiring to see it
happening to one of us, someone we know, one who led a very happy life
and who was very much attached to everything, to everyone around her,
her husband, her children, even to her country, and her security, and
possessed no special qualities whatsoever."
But as I found myself unable to speak in front of a
tape recorder, I started to write in long-hand. At first I was a little
apprehensive as I tried to describe the wonders of Swamiji's saintliness,
his awe-inspiring greatness; for, how could something which surpasses
human understanding be put into words? Also, how could I speak of a
philosophy I knew so little about? Was not my way of Yoga more a way
of acceptance and experience first, with knowledge coming slowly afterwards?
But, as I went on with my work, a great joy came over
me; for writing about Swamiji meant I was in his invisible presence
all day; his grace guiding me, help coming from all sides.
When the book was practically finished, some Indian
ladies, great and sincere devotees of Swamiji, told me, "You should
not have been so short in the description of how you met Swamiji and
of your own experiences. For us Indians, it is the most inspiring part,
especially as you are a Westerner."
So I added a few pages, where I tried to describe the
role of Chidananda in my life and the wonders of his guidance, which
I was then made to realise anew; and a song of gratitude, a song of
joy welled up in my heart. If I had been reluctant to write about my
sufferings and trials, I was now made to be happy because I realised
that it would bring a message of hope to all the suffering ones. They
would know forever, as Charles de Foueault expresses so beautifully,
that "the darker the night of suffering, the more radiant the 'life'
of pure love and joy that emerges from it".
Now I must say a special thanks to Sri Ananthanarayanan
who took the. responsibility of editing, planning and supervising the
production of the book in all its stages.
I shall never forget the day of the celebrations of
Swami Chidananda's jubilee when he arrived from Delhi only just in time
to give me the book so as to present it to Swamiji. He was exhausted
after the many troubles he had to get the book printed because of the
many strikes in Delhi. And the way he rushed up the hundred steps of
the mountain to bow and offer his work at the feet of Sivananda, his
beloved guru, moved me deeply. I will never forget the way he had the
patience to decipher the pages about my son's death. I had written them
for myself. The mechanics of writing and the profuse tears that I had
shed while doing it had seemed to relieve me and keep me alive. But
the tears had wet the paper and made it practically impossible to read
what I had written.
Ananthanarayanan often had to put the sheets of paper
against a light so as to be able to read my words.
The feelings he felt for the book, the intuition he
had that I could write and transmit them, and the perseverance with
which he infused courage into me to publish the book afterwards is also
something rare. So if the book has helped many a seeking soul, it is
in great part to him that their hearts should turn to in gratitude.
I would also like to say a very special word of thanks
to the Brahmachari who took the trouble to type the few additions people
had asked me to write for this new edition. And this in the midst of
all occupations, and in spite of the difficulties my very bad handwriting
was to be for him. When I proposed to ask someone to help him, but he
refused and I was made to understand that he wanted to do it as a labour
of love for his Guru.
As I write this last sentence, a thought comes to
me that from the start this little book has been coming into life, into
the hands of love. First of all, from the people of the different countries
in the West who persevered in asking for it, even sending letters to
ask Swamiji to make me write it. From Indian people themselves, and
somehow always from the most truly and sincerely spiritual ones. I shall
never forget the way one day Brigadier Sabherwal stopped a convoy he
was leading and came down from his turret to ask me about the book.
When I told him I had not started it and did not feel capable of doing
it, just the way he climbed up again into his turret without a word
broke my heart. Back in my kutir, I started to write and never stopped
until it was completed in time for the celebration of Swami Chidananda's
Jubilee.
I shall never forget how the Commander-in-Chief, General
Raina came with his wife and some of his staff "to meet the French Lady
who had written THIS MONK FROM INDIA". When Swami Chidananda
told me about his visit, I proposed to go and meet him in Delhi so as
to save him the trouble of coming to the Ashram with the display of
security that it meant. He refused and said "he wanted to honour the
woman who had written THIS MONK FROM INDIA". I shall never forget
my apprehension at the idea this big event that his visit was to be
for all the ashrams around here, and how this apprehension vanished
when I saw his simplicity, his sincerity, his directness and his humility.
I shall never forget his wife either. They were both so alike, and it
was such an unforgettable joy for me to meet them both. I was so sorrowful
to see them go, and even as I write this my heart goes out to them both,
and to God who allowed me to meet such people, people who give one such
faith in one's fellowmen, and even expands one's heart into God.
I shall never forget the Indian ladies who came to
me in my kutir. They themselves had lost their sons; and they had only
recovered their faith in God, their faith in an after-life, after reading
the story of my son's death, that they came to tell me their joy. The
way they had had to travel, sometimes three days in the most uncomfortable
conditions, just to come and thank me is something that ever moves me
anew.
Sivananda Ashram,
July, 1988.
SWAMI CHIDANANDA (b. 1916) is the President of the
Divine Life Society founded by that illustrious sage of modern times,
H.H. Sri Swami Sivananda. Swami Chidananda had his education in the
Loyola College, Madras, and this training in a Catholic institution
left an indelible impression in his mind of the Christian ideals of
compassion and service. Service of the sick is a passion with Swami
Chidananda, and his pioneering work in the field of leprosy relief in
the Garhwal region has earned for him the praise of both the Government
and the general public. Acclaimed by many as a great Saint and Yogi
in his own right, Swami Chidananda has been travelling extensively all
over the world disseminating the healing message of his Master, Swami
Sivananda. A linguist and orator, he is also the author of a number
of books on the life spiritual.
1
All my life, suffering seemed to be my way. I seemed
to accept it. What else could I do?
But when my nearest and dearest ones were in agony,
I lifted my fist to God and shouted in revolt. This revolt, however,
did not last. My arm fell down, and, moved by a mysterious impulse,
I fell on my knees and with bowed head said, "Thy will be done, Oh Lord...I
want nothing." Then everything started. My breathing, for instance.
The movements of my body were not my own any more. Mudras, Asanas and
Pranayama came to me spontaneously, automatically. I watched it all
in perfect composure. I seemed to forget food and sleep, but my half-paralysed
body slowly began to recover movement and strength. My mind did not
ask any question, but a holy man spoke to me and said, "Mystical fervour
can burn you up. Now you are in touch with God. Ask for health and strength."
He was a knowing man, so I obeyed. I knelt down. But even before I could
start praying in the manner advised by the holy man, a mysterious soul
whisper came to me, "Don't you think I know best? Didn't you say 'Thy
will be done"? I did not talk anymore to anyone. I knew that I knew
best and I was at peace. My body had hardly begun to recover movements
and strength when Chidananda came. I left everything without a glance
backward. I knew nothing about Yoga and he was the first Swami I had
ever seen. But I knew that I knew him from beginningless time. After
the Satsang, I was the only one who did not ask questions. Swamiji noticed
it.
"You have no questions?"
I bowed my head in response. My heart was full. And to the Presence
within me I said,
"Crucifixion seems to be my way,
but if this be the quickest way
to Thee, my Lord,
I thank Thee for Thy mercy.
Didn't Jesus show us the way?"
In Lyons, I was staying in the home of M., a great devotee of Swami
Sivananda, when one day a Swami, who was also a devotee of Swami Sivananda,
asked me, "You are so blissful, so radiant, though you are new to Yoga.
How did it all start with you?" I answered, "Oh, I don't know, it just
happened." But everyone insisted, "You must try and remember. Tonight
at dinner, you must tell us. It would be so inspiring. It would renew
our faith."
That afternoon I did a lot of soul-searching, when
suddenly I realised that a new kind of joy had come into my life.
When had this begun? Then I remembered, and that night at dinner I
told my friends, "I know when everything really began. It was the day
when I first revolted against God and lifted my fist and shouted at
Him. Then I fell on my knees and I was made to say, 'THY WILL BE DONE,
I WANT NOTHING.'" I had hardly finished saying this when the door bell
rang insistently. It was dark then and the gate was a long way off in
the garden. M. went to see who was there, and we all looked up as she
came back. She was very pale and grave. She held out the "Divine Life
Magazine" she had in her hands. Showing me the cover, she said, "Read
this."
But I answered, "I have not got my glasses. You read it, please".
M. read aloud:
"Thy will be done,
I want nothing-
The key to Yoga:
So says Sivananda."
I said, "Oh, what a coincidence! This is just what I was saying."
"There are no coincidences with Sivananda," said M., "You are new to
everything, you don't know."
And M. continued, "Then the strange postman, too....When
I called him, he ran away. And the postman never rings the bell. He
never comes at this hour. Besides, I am just back from India and I have
not had the "Divine Life Magazine" for ages."
It was in the London Centre where I was waiting with
some others for Swamiji. The doorbell rang. An Indian lady came into
the hall. We all heard her say to our hostess, "Excuse me, I don't know
why I have come. I should have phoned, it was some sudden impulse. I
was in the middle of a Hatha Yoga class and I suddenly felt impelled
to leave and I found myself coming here."
She was brought into our room. Just as she was passing
in front of me, she stopped. "Oh! I know now why I had to come. It was
for you. You want to go to Rishikesh. You will. Do not worry. Sivananda
sent me. He acts often in this way. He appears to people in visions
or dreams and these people get a strong desire for the life spiritual.
The desire grows and gets fulfilled. Sivananda sees to it."
In the Divine Life Centre in New York, it was going
to be meditation time. Swami V. was singing when suddenly my voice spoke
out clear and loud, "Are dead people still active?"
A long silence.
Everyone was startled at this interruption at such
a holy moment. But Swami V. was clear in his answer. "More than ever,"
he said, and resumed his singing.
Again my voice came out, "Can they initiate people?"
Swami V.'s voice was very stern this time. "Yes, through
their students."
"But can they directly?"
"Oh, you have doubts. So you are not...."
"No, I have no doubts, but how could this happen to
me?"
"Oh, you are humble! Then you deserve to be initiated."
"My mind keeps interfering, asking questions."
"It is the nature the mind."
I knew Sivananda was my master, this dialogue confirmed
it. Why then did I follow Chidananda with such love and devotion? As
an answer to my question, this vision came to me.
I had been walking for a while. It was very hot. In
the distance I could see mountains and water gleaming. The ground was
flat; it was a big plain. There was no road or path. I seemed to be
walking across bare fields. As I was walking, I saw two profiles silhouetted
against the sky-a tall big man with a shiny bare head and a very thin
man. They stood close to each other, as if waiting. As I came up to
them, I could distinguish their features. It was Sivananda and Chidananda.
I bowed to their feet. They looked down upon me for a while, then turned
back and started to walk slowly away, towards the mountains and the
water. I followed; then I tried to walk exactly in the footprints they
left on the ground. But which footprints should I put my feet into?
There were two tracks, and I decided to walk in the middle. But I was
not satisfied. I wanted to fit my footsteps exactly into theirs. Just
then I looked up and saw the big man slide sideways and disappear into
the thin man. Only one man, Chidananda, was left for me to follow-one
man's footprints into which I started to fit mine, very exactly, as
I walked on and on behind him.
A realised saint, a friend of Swamiji, had said to
me in Amsterdam, "Forget your reincarnations, do not go to India, it
will develop the emotional side in you too much. You need the cross
of the bishops". And although I tried to cling to the memory of the
Indian lady who had told me in London, "Sivananda appeared to me, he
told me you will go to Rishikesh", some fear was there at the back of
my mind. One evening a Swamiji showed us a film of Rishikesh. I could
not see because of the tears in my eyes.
Just as Swamiji was going up the stairs, I suddenly
ran to him, and without any explanation I blurted out, "I will go to
Rishikesh, everybody can go! Why shouldn't I go?"
Swamiji answered coldly, "Of course, anybody can go
to India, but you will go only when you are ready." And, after a little
pause, he asked, "You know Swami Satchidananda? It took him two years
of reflection to make sure he could leave Ceylon and go to America,
and he is a little bit more evolved than you, don't you not think?"
The people who were there laughed. "He sure does not
look for disciples," they said.
I realised what a long and terrible struggle lay ahead
of me. But Swamiji's promise was enough for me. With that promise I
could overcome all obstacles.
When we were in London, Swamiji one day told me, "I
think you should go back home for a few days. Someone in your family
may have a desire to see you before you leave for America. Up to now
we have been travelling in Europe, and a few hours by plane could have
brought you back to them. But America is a long way off."
I tried to argue. I said, "But Swamiji, I know they
are happy to be without me. They must be feeling free. I was a nuisance
to them with my never-ending illness. When they went out golfing or
boating, they had remorse because they left me alone. I spoilt their
pleasure. If they stayed with me, they were frustrated. And so at times
I used to go and live alone in a mountain hotel. I pretended to be happier
that way. So they are used to being alone, and they are well looked
after. I prepared everything with my maid before I left. She writes
to me, she is so good."
Swamiji appeared unconvinced, but I insisted. "Besides,
they know Yoga is improving my health. I was condemned by the doctors
and they never expected such a miracle to happen!"
Swamiji smiled.
"Yes, all that is true. But when you bake a cake, you
put a cherry on top of it, the finishing touch to a perfect cake. In
Yoga, you must not hurt anyone. If even one member of your family has
a desire to see you, you must put his or her mind at rest. They may
have heard strange things about Yoga. I am told some Swamis use all
sorts of methods to draw devotees, even hypnotism. I do not know, it
may be so. The papers speak about it sometimes. Think how worried they
might be if they read such things. If they see you for a few days, they
will have no doubts about your equilibrium and the general improvement
in your health. But do not stay more than three days."
Swamiji was leaving London that very day. We all went
to the airport to see him off. In the airport a customs officer came
to me, "Are you Mrs. LeBeau?"
I was so surprised. In all that crowd, how could he
know me?
"Come with me. A suitcase has been here for sometime.
The address is rubbed off."
We never understood how that customs officer came to
me. My friends waved off the problem saying, "It is Swamiji's doing"!
In the suitcase was a letter from my daughter. She
was begging me to return "just for two or three days, please, so that
I can see that you are all right. We hear such strange things about
these Swamis and Yoga, and America is so far".
I went to see my people for three days, then I went
to America, Canada, wherever Swamiji sent me. My health was all the
time improving. I was able to travel alone, book my reservations. I
was sustained by a mysterious strength. And all the people back at home
who had predicted my quick death when I left started to wonder. Many
said I must never have been really ill, that the doctors must have made
some error in their diagnosis, although I had consulted the greatest
professors of medicine in all the years my illness lasted.
While I was waiting in the airports, in all the noise
and bustle around me, as soon as I sat down my eyes would close by themselves
and Pranayama would come to me automatically; a relaxation, a great
peace and a certain cessation of the activity of my mind would follow.
In the beginning I tried to fight against it because of the fear that
I might miss my plane. But soon I surrendered, and confidence came to
me for I was always brought out of that peaceful state just at the very
moment preceding the loudspeaker announcement of the arrival of my plane.
This Pranayama came to me every night, no matter where I might be. I
slept very little, sometimes not at all. Very often I did not eat. I
was very thin no doubt, but I was getting stronger every day, and when
all the young, healthy people who had followed Swamiji for only two
or three days were exhausted, I was often the one to help them. My Mantra
repetition was always going on, mentally, as a background. I did not
know how my Mantra had come to me, but I never questioned. The Mantra
was for me a living presence which gave me joy, peace and strength.
But nearly two years later, when I was living in the Ashram, I learnt
about "Diksha" (Mantra-initiation) and I suddenly wondered if this Mantra
was really mine. I went to Swamiji and told him about my doubts. Swamiji
said, "Your Mantra came to you because of your Samskaras, your previous
births."
And a few hours later in the morning Darshan in the
Bhajan Hall, he sang my Mantra again and again until every cell of my
being seemed to be vibrating with joy. It was as if His voice was calling
me, calling us all to the realm of bliss eternal in which He lives,
and my heart was full of wonder and gratitude.
Every day my health improved and I was able to walk
a little more. I was able even to carry my suitcases. In fact, sometimes
I even forgot to put them down while waiting.
Swamiji, always watchful, told me once, "Why waste
energy? Put your luggage down."
But in my foolishness, wanting to show Swamiji how
strong I was, with the fear that he might not allow me to follow him
any more if he thought I was tired, I answered, "Oh, I am not tired."
But Swamiji's stern and quick admonition, "Obedience
is better than devotion," made me obey quickly.
I remember the following incident, among many others.
Swamiji had told me to be in New York for Easter. During the eight-hour-flight
to America on Easter morning, there were very few seats occupied, so
all the passengers were able to put the back of their seats down and
rest. As I was lying under my blanket, automatic Pranayama came to me
and helped me to overcome a serious trouble and a severe pain, and I
arrived in New York cured and full of energy. I seemed never to do anything
with my own strength even if I was travelling alone.
Once in the plane going to Germany, I chose the middle
seat in a row of three empty seats, leaving one vacant seat on either
side of me. Beautiful music was being played. My eyes closed and I saw
Chidananda and Sivananda sitting on either side of me. The hostess came,
touched me on the shoulder and asked, "Are these two seats occupied?"
pointing to the empty seats near me. I looked at her with surprise and
said, "Yes, of course. Can't you see!"
She looked at me for a while and went slowly away,
puzzled. When we arrived at Koln, I had an unmistakable feeling that
I was under special observation.
As I stepped out in the snow and frost of the severe
German winter, I wondered where I should go. I remembered how in Paris
they told me that Swamiji was not in Koln; they had phoned to confirm
it. They said he might be back in India already. Everyone had tried
to dissuade me from going, for they knew I was so ill and so terribly
weak. But imagine my joy when I saw Swamiji's secretary waiting for
me with a friend! I was so surprised.
He told me, "Swamiji arrived just a few minutes ago."
He gave me Swamiji's phone number.
The next morning I went to telephone. I lifted the
receiver, but before I could dial Swamiji's number I heard a voice saying,
"Hello, Chidananda speaking, come and have breakfast."
No more words were spoken. But after a few weeks, when
Swamiji asked me, "You have nothing to tell me?" I just answered, "I
feel you know everything."
Everything seemed so predestined. My faith in Chidananda
was total, absolute. Yet, after a few months I started to examine him,
day after day, every instant, searching, ceaselessly searching for a
flaw. Then one day I started to blame myself for what seemed to me an
excess of criticism. All my life I had been like this, searching for
perfection, never fully satisfied. I could not reconcile my total surrender
with this attitude of mine. One day, just as I was thinking about all
this, Swamiji called for me. I went. Just then, Mike, a young Australian
boy, came to see Swamiji. It was his first interview. He was twenty
and had the face of a child and a very tall and big body. He walked
up to Swamiji, planted himself in front of him and said, "I want you
to be my Guru."
Swamiji smiled, put up his hand. "Wait, wait. No. When
you want to marry a girl, you don't just throw her over your shoulder
and walk away. You court her, you get to know her, she gets to know
you, then you make a decision. She also has to make the decision whether
to accept you or to refuse you. It is the same with the Guru. You have
seen me for the past month or so, you feel attracted to me, you feel
elevated, happy, that is good. But you must wait, and after a good,
thorough study of me, then you will decide."
And I was made to wonder. I remembered someone telling
me, "He is the only one I know who does not 1ook for disciples." Others
said, "Swamiji says he is not a Guru. And when he gives an initiation,
he says, 'I do it in the name of my Master. Now Sivananda is your Master'".
That very evening Swamiji gave a most beautiful lecture
on Faith: "Faith should be unconditional, but it should not be blind.
The ideal faith must have discrimination at the back of it. Only such
a faith can stand all tests".
Ma Ananda Mayee Ma has been heard to say: "The One,
assuming himself the shape of the Guru of his own accord brings about
his manifestation or becomes manifested..."
I remembered this one day when I related something
which had happened to me to Swami Abhishiktananda (Dom le Saux). I told
him how one night I woke up to see a horrible monster with evil eyes,
long teeth and hands like claws stretching their long pointed nails
to at my chest. But before I had time to be frightened Chidananda had
appeared and the monster vanished.
Swami Abhishiktananda said, "It is God himself who
came to save you, and if you ask Swami Chidananda about it, you will
see that he is not even aware of what has happened to you. God often
acts in this way to those who love and who have surrender to Him. God,
being invisible, takes the shape of the Guru to come and help them but
also to test them."
As I write this I remember a test God sent me, a test
I shall never forget. (The editors wish to note the purely spiritual
nature of this vision.)
I was lying on my bed, my eyes closed, when I heard
a knock at the door. Without opening my eyes I said "come in." Though
the door was locked and barred, Chidananda came in. I "saw" him walk
softly and silently toward my bed. I did not turn my head, I did not
open my eyes. I just lay there, feeling the peace of his wondrous presence.
Everything seemed to be silence, time seemed to stand still. An indescribable
joy filled my heart. I had found the love I had always dreamt of, the
most unearthly love, the love beyond the realm of this earth-plane,
the peace beyond words. But suddenly, though I did not move, I "saw"
myself getting up and softly turning towards him, and made him understand
that he must leave. He walked toward the door and I followed him step
by step. I opened the door and he went out. I closed the door quickly,
putting my back to it as I stood there shaking. I wanted to call him
back...I was giving up the love I had searched for all my life. My heart
was breaking.
I heard his footsteps getting fainter and fainter,
each one pressing on my heart. He went into the street. There was still
time to run to the window and call him back, but I stood there in my
terrible loneliness. I do not know how long my agony lasted when suddenly
a great joy burst upon me. Although all this was mental, my joy was
as real as my sorrow had been.
I washed quickly and hired a taxi. The sun was just
rising, red over the white snow. The salutations to the sun that came
automatically to me every morning came to me, but mentally, in the taxi.
The taxi driver had told me that no flower shops were open at that hour,
but I saw a man carrying two large buckets filled with spring flowers.
I bought them all. The water and the earth were dirtying my clothes,
but I did not care. I was celebrating! I knew something most wonderful
had happened to me, but I did not know what it could be until Swamiji
spoke to me a few minutes later.
When I told him, he said, "Indeed this is most wonderful."
And showing the sleeve of his orange robe, he added, "This is Maya,
illusion. This body is Maya, but people do not seem to know it. This
is the greatest trouble we have, we Swamis. People get attached to us
and they start to think of reincarnations...So many imaginations come
into their minds...It is the greatest hindrance on the spiritual path.
You are indeed fortunate."
And that day at Satsang, as I was sitting in the front
row, I was suddenly blinded by a wondrous light. Swamiji was not there
any more; he was that blinding light, made of intensely brilliant little
moving particles of light. I closed my eyes tightly. I put my hands
over them. I thought I had gone blind, that my eyes had been burnt.
Swamiji's secretary who was near me asked, "What is the matter, Mother?"
"I am blind!" I said. But at the same time, I opened
my eyes unwillingly, and once again I saw Swamiji in his orange robe.
Swamiji's secretary smiled and said, "Swamiji has great powers, Mother."
It was all so astounding, but I did not ask questions.
There was never time for questions. Things were happening so quickly.
But when I opened at random the book Swamiji had given me that day,
I read, "I withhold my light from thee, lest I should burn thee"!
In the many countries we visited, I attended the night
lectures, the meditations and the Satsangs. My heart was full. But after
six months, my husband wrote. When I showed his letter to Swamiji, Swamiji
said, "You must go home. You can serve God in your family also. You
must tell your husband, your son, your daughter, 'I have come back to
serve you if you want me to'. Even if one of them says 'Yes', you must
stay."
I was peaceful. I was so sure God would help me. But,
in Val Morin airport, when Swamiji was leaving, he called for me and
said, "I have been thinking that you must stay with your family for
good." I advanced towards him with clenched fists. He took one step
back, but I walked on, and looking fiercely into his eyes I said, "Nothing
will stop me from going into Yoga. Not even you. I will go without you
if it has to be."
I was so close to Swamiji. He looked like an innocent,
surprised child. I walked away, when, suddenly turning back and rudely
pointing to him over my shoulder, I said to all who were there, silent
and shocked, "Then he is not God. I thought he was, but if he was, he
would know that God has told me, 'you must be ready to leave your father
and mother, your husband, your children, your brothers, your sisters;
you must not think even of your own life. The one who cannot carry his
cross and who does not walk by My side, cannot be My disciple. The one
who cannot leave all he possesses cannot be My disciple.'"
I went down the stairs, and as I thought then, out
of Swamiji's life. But in the airport itself, a shop was opening. All
things Swamiji could eat were there on a tray in the shop window. I
thought, "What will he eat on his journey? Has he had time even to have
his breakfast this morning?" I bought the whole tray of goods and went
up the stairs, all smiles. It was only when I saw the people of Swamiji's
party that I remembered my behaviour.
I gave my armful of goods to a newcomer who agreed
to hand them over to Swamiji. "Don't say it comes from me," I said.
I watched him as he gave the tray to Swamiji. I stayed. I was happy
and peaceful. Swamiji's plane was very late. We had a long Satsang.
Then as I passed in front of Swamiji, someone told me, "It was a test,
Mother! You will come to India. You showed strong determination. Swamiji
is happy." Swamiji himself gave me a Mars chocolate bar and said,
"With strong determination, even going to Mars might be possible."
With all that, I went back home, possibly pushed by
Swamiji's sankalpa. But when I reached there, I felt terrified. It took
me a few days to say, "I have come back to serve you if you want me
to." But with one voice they said, "No, we don't want you. You are so
changed. Only your body is here, your mind is in Yoga. We are nothing
to you, you have become so impersonal, you seem so detached."
My son said, "For years, every night before I went
to sleep I was frightened, because I thought you would leave us and
go into a convent one day. That was why I used to get up and come to
you in the night. You used to laugh at me. You said it was the last
thing you would do, but I knew. Now I am used to this idea. It is your
way. We cannot do anything about it, and if you are happy, I am happy".
I stayed for one year three months. Their desire to
see me go increased every day. They said they preferred a clear-cut
situation and an end to their suffering. If I relate all this, it is
to show the wisdom of Swamiji. It brought me such peace to know I had
done all in my power to serve my people and they had begged me to go.
I was so reluctant to obey Swamiji, but he made me do it. I bowed to
him in gratitude and wonder. So, that is how I left my family for good
and joined Swamiji and his Ashram.
Soon after, one day, as we were all waiting outside
the Bhajan Hall of Sivananda Ashram for Swamiji's morning Darshan, someone
asked me, "How did it all start with you? You look so blissful!"
I answered, "Oh, I don't know, it just happened."
"Please tell us how."
"I don't know. Perhaps my suffering-it is said suffering
is a blessing."
"Oh, that is not so easy. I have suffered too, and
yet..."
I reflected for a while, then I exploded joyfully,
"Oh, I know. Surrender is the thing, just surrender. It is so simple,
and yet it is like a secret. It is very easy really."
Swamiji was seen in the distance. We all went into
the Bhajan Hall. After the usual prayer, Swamiji opened his eyes and
said, "Surrender, surrender, surrender...".
Everyone turned and looked at me.
"Very easy" went on Swamiji. "Once it is done. Yes.
But it is the culminating point. What hasn't one to go through before
one comes to it!"
Once more I wondered. The Guru knows all about his
disciple. But a thought came into my mind. If surrender is the culminating
point, where does self-effort stand then?
Swamiji said, "Self-effort is made in order to know
that no self-effort is necessary." Again, "Self-effort is made in order
to know by our own effort we cannot attain God. We come to know that
God's grace alone can save us. We become like the kitten chasing its
own tail and cry to God in all meekness."
"The Guru comes when the pupil is ready." That is how
Swami Chidananda answered the questions of a visitor about me. Pointing
his finger to a sculpture of his Master Sivananda, and then to the sky,
Chidananda exclaimed, "He and He sent me to fetch her, because she was
ready."
To a further question, he answered, "She is staying
here because she wants to, and because it is the Will of God."
"She is mad?"
"Yes, she is mad. Some are mad for women, some for
money, some for alcohol. She is mad for God. There was a great saint
called Ramakrishna. People said about him also that he was mad. He was
also mad for God."
When I look back on the events of these past few years,
I am filled with awe and wonder. I see the love of God in His works,
the perfection of His plan-and the Law of Karma becomes so real for
me. My faith grows every day, my faith in my Guru who came as the messenger
of God in my life; everything pointing to the perfection of his realisation,
his eternal wisdom.
For him there is no past or future, it is all present.
He has the same power as that of God. Only such a one could have come
at the right moment and known how to protect me, strengthen me, so as
to meet the terrible events that were to come, giving me back my physical
strength, and what is much more, helping me to get detached to be better
able to help and to serve my own people. But how could they really understand
this at the time of their suffering? I did not understand it myself,
but I let my Guru guide me and that was all that was needed.
2
One evening, in Sivananda's kutir, as I was leaving,
I suddenly turned back and said, looking at Sivananda's photo, "Oh Lord,
why do you wait so long? I have given up everything, I want nothing
but You. Kill me, crush me. Take everything from me, but let me see
You. Even my children are nothing to me now. Even that wonderful son
that you gave me."
My son died at that very moment, back in France. (In
reality my son has passed away it the very time I had said to God, "Take
everything away from me, even that wonderful son that you gave me......
When I received the news of his death. With the fear
that my intense prayer had been answered, I sent a telegram to his father.
"Please tell me the exact time of Christian's death".
The answer had devastated me when I remembered the
difference in time between the East and the West, and I was crest fallen.
Christian had passed away at the very time I had said my prayer.)
I was sitting in the Satsang in the open air, when,
suddenly I found myself back in France, in my daughter's flat. The street
lights were lighting up her bedroom, and I could see her lying on her
bed, her little boy in his cot nearby. As I looked at her, a prayer
came to me with a terrible intensity, "O God! She will soon wake up...,
she will hear the terrible news of her brother's death....give me her
suffering...she won't stand it...she is all alone, I left her..."
But suddenly everything seemed to be silent within
me, the silence of terrible solitude. What's that secret presence within
me? Was the life of my life leaving me? I fell on my knees, "O God!
forgive me. Who can know better than I that suffering is your blessing?
Don't let me steal it away from her."
A little while later my daughter wrote to me: "I woke
up at two...I felt your presence...How strange that, now that you are
away, you seemed to be closer to me."
And further on she wrote: "After Christian's death
somehow I could not suffer. I was like a witness to everything...people
were shocked...they thought I was heartless...suffering came to me later
on in small doses...just what I could stand perhaps."
When I tried to tell Swamiji that my son was dead,
my voice failed me, tears rolled down my face. Swamiji took the telegram
which was still in my hands, unfolded it. Suddenly, as he read the word
'accident', I felt a sharp pain go through him. His body quivered. My
tears stopped. I suddenly wanted to cry out, "Let me suffer it all...Oh!
I should not have come...Do not be so hurt ...Forgive me." But I only
said, "I am not a worthy disciple...I still have attachment...After
all your teachings, after all the pains you took with me...I am crying."
But Swamiji remarked, "We are human. Even Rama cried
when Sita died."
I started to speak. I described the accident in detail.
Swamiji said, "How do you know all this? The telegram
says merely, 'accident.'"
I did not answer, but I knew...had I not seen...?
Again I could only wonder how God in His infinite mercy
granted me my wish both ways?
Had not my daughter had the blessing that suffering
can be, but no more than she could stand?
The next day I went to T.M., who was our teacher in
the early seventies. I told him what had happened to me. I was worrying
because God had told me never to use the Siddhis. He smiled, but I insisted.
Then he said, "What does Chidananda himself say when people seem to
reproach him for his lack of Siddhis? Doesn't he say 'May God work miracles
according to his choosing through this body we call Chidananda'"?
Swami T.M., always smiling, said, "Well, it is the
very way it has happened to you, spontaneously, according to His Will.
Can't you see it?"
People were waiting. Several times a Brahmachari came
in with Swamiji's food. Swamiji waved him away each time. I kept on
talking about my son. He was only nineteen. He was so spiritual. He
had written, "I am coming. I understand now. I have no more anger against
you because you broke up our home. My love for you was selfish, I am
detached at last, I will be your spiritual son."
"O Swamiji," I cried, "he was so sweet. I would not
even raise my voice at him. His name was Christian, but when he was
small, people called him 'Little Jesus' spontaneously, everywhere."
I went on endlessly. "He was handsome. He was brilliant in all the sports,
in his studies, without any effort. His brilliance, his fearlessness
and his car driving won him the admiration of all his friends. Yet he
was so humble. At home the servants loved him. He always helped them.
He went and washed the dishes, made the beds, cleaned the house and
prepared food for a woman whose husband had been amputated. She was
in a very depressed condition, and this for months. I did not even know
it at that time. Christian was always ready to serve others. He had
such understanding. He was my Guru.
"At the age of six he saw the agony of calves being
driven to the slaughterhouse. They were mooing pitifully. He asked me,
'Where are they being driven? Why do they cry?' 'To the slaughter-house
to be killed,' I answered calmly. "His voice shook. 'Oh, but why?' 'To
become meat for us to eat.'
"Christian was horrified. His face became pale. 'Oh,
mother .... that meat you give me to eat comes from animals? Oh...mother,
mother, how could you?'
"He put his head out of the window of the car and vomited.
That was how he became a vegetarian in his young days.
"He would not let me kill even a fly. He would say,
'She is my little cousin'. He loved animals and the animals loved him.
They gathered around him, so many different animals in perfect friendship."
When at last I managed to leave Swamiji, he went to
the Ganges bank and prayed. He was leaving the station that night, but
with all that, he called me again at seven o'clock. He found time. I
had already changed a little. My gratitude, my love for Swamiji was
so great. His compassion, his sympathy were my support, and of course,
his wonders were there. Otherwise, how could I have borne my terrible
suffering? I would not have been able to live on if this had happened
to me in my home, for no mother and son were ever so close. There was
telepathy between us.
Sometime after my son's death a memory came to haunt
me. It was becoming an obsession. I could think of nothing else and
again I went to Swamiji to call for help. I told him my story.
My son was about three or four years old at the time
and he was to be operated for tonsillitis.
I had gone to my doctor friends enquiring about the
best, the kindest surgeon, for the operation was to be without anaesthesia.
I was told how they occupied the child's mind; how they blew balloons,
played with the toys, etc. I explained the whole thing to my son and
he seemed peaceful. In the car going to the clinic he even played with
the new little cars I had brought him. I felt secure. I had done my
best.
But everything was to be very different from what I
had told my son. The surgeon seemed to be nervous, in a hurry. He took
us to a back room, not the lovely children's operation theatre I had
seen. He tied Christian brutally to the table without a word, his eyes
and face very hard. The speculum was hardly put into Christian's mouth
before the operation started. I don't know how Christian managed to
lift his head and look at me for his shoulders were tied to the table.
He looked at me. Then my voice broke.
"Oh Swamiji! His look was telling me 'Thou hast forsaken
me' as Christ had said to his Father as he was on the cross. You see
I was everything for him, Swamiji. Now I see that look everywhere. When
I came into Christian's room to give him the usual ice cubes to deaden
the pain in his throat, he turned his face to the wall and would not
look at me."
But I had hardly finished speaking when Swamiji's voice
broke out, terribly hard, stern, cold, angry. "But how could you do
such a thing? How could you!"
Even now, as I write this, I cannot remember the other
words he uttered, but his meaning was clear. He was horrified, he did
not even want to look at me. He was throwing me out! I had stopped crying.
I was like a dead person. My mind seemed to have stopped.
I stood up and slowly went down the steps. Like an
automaton I walked back to my kutir. As I closed the door I saw the
small altar I had made. Swamiji's photo was there, and as I looked at
it, I came to life and in a fit of revolt I took the photo in my hands
and turned it's face to the wall.
With a terrible violence I said, "I never want to see
your face again, Never, you understand!"
I dropped down on the floor; I sat down. A few minutes
passed. Then I suddenly said hesitatingly, "Perhaps it is because I
don't understand...all right...but until I understand I won't want to
look at your face!"
I was still sitting on the floor and peace was slowly
coming. I did Japa day and night and peace came to me, though slowly.
Then one day I received a letter, a most crucifying letter: "Your son
was our idol...we can never be the same for having known him". Another
letter said, "He was light that will never go out." It described how
a crowd of young people, of all classes of society, went to cut and
take the pieces out of his car as souvenirs. Some wrote on them, some
made crosses out of them. Then came a most moving telegram from his
father: "My only friend, our son, Christian whom you adored is no more.
Please pray for him. I feel your prayers will be listened to...no mother
and son were ever so close."
My voice shook when I read the telegram to Swamiji.
Yet I found myself saying, "I am very happy." I listened to my own words
with surprise, but I realised I was smiling and that it was true. I
was happy. "Thy will be done" had never ceased to be my prayer, but
now I was nearer to an understanding of the real meaning of it. Every
adversity, every pain, moulds you little by little into the image of
God. If we hold all things as happening for our good, we are happy.
If we think that certain things are not for our good, we suffer. So
it is merely an attitude of the mind. Mind makes a hell of heaven and
a heaven of hell.
But how would I feel about all this if it was not for
my Guru's grace? In what way can I express my gratitude to him? His
power, his mercy, his forgiveness and his unbounded love for all. If
I think of his qualities, I go into ecstasy.
The first night after my son's death, as I lay sleepless
in the dark, I said: "Oh Lord, when in Sivananda's kutir I told You,
'Why do You wait so long, O God? Kill me, crush me, but let me see You.
I have given up everything, even my children are nothing to me, not
even that wonderful son that You gave me.' When I said that, I was very
presumptuous. But, O Lord, now that I really know what suffering is
like in its most terrible acuity, I would still say it a hundred times.
I would say it even if I had a hundred sons like Christian. No price
is too big to pay to know you."
Before this I had often spoken to God, offering sacrifice;
but there was always another part of me clinging with fear and trying
to argue, 'stop, you will suffer, you fool'. But this time, no fear
was in me. I was one. The other part of me was silent.
A little while later, I thought of all the mothers
who had suffered the loss of children. I remembered my mother-in-law
first. A prayer came to me, "O Lord, let me live her suffering. I had
no real compassion. O forgive me, now I know I was hard-hearted."
I remembered my son saying to me once, "Mother, you
are not normal." I begged him to explain. He could not find words. I
insisted. "Well, you have too much of everything, too much of love,
too much of compassion, for instance."
How mistaken he was! Now I know how small my heart
really was.
I said, "Oh Lord, let me live the suffering of all
the mothers for whom I had no real compassion, so that the tears of
my suffering may wash away the hardness of my heart."
I remembered my mother-in-law. I became her. Her son
(my husband's brother) was sitting at the table with her and his father.
He said to her suddenly, "Mother, if you do not let me marry Miriam,
I will kill myself." His mother looked up, and firmly said, "No, never."
Henry got up, went around the table and threw himself
out of the window. She never recovered. Only death liberated her. I
went through all the sufferings that she underwent until death came
to her rescue. I went through every detail of it. I do not know how
long my agony lasted.
When I came out of it all, another memory came back
to me. Andree, a friend of mine, had a little three-month old girl.
One day, when she put the child to bed, she heard her crying loudly.
But the child was capricious and spoilt, and Andree had been told to
be firm with the child and not to give in to its whims and fancies.
Nevertheless, my friend went in to see if every thing was all right.
She came back satisfied. The child again screamed. The cries then became
fainter. Andree thought the child had gone to sleep at last. But when
she went to wake her up for the next meal, the baby was dead. I heard
afterwards that she had slowly been burnt by the electric blanket, but
I never really knew and I did not dare to ask. Andree became mad. She
went into the street hugging the dead baby in her arms, singing a lullaby.
Other memories crowded in. I loved them all relentlessly.
Then, hours after, I said, "Lord, I have not suffered all. All these
sufferings were not real sufferings because I lived them with my faith
in you. My faith is deep-rooted that I forget its presence, for it has
become as material as my breathing. I want to live again the suffering
of my mother-in-law; she had no faith to sustain her."
God granted my wish again. But this time it was so
dark and everything in me went blank, life seemed to stop. I do not
know what would have happened if Chidananda had not come and taken me
by the hand. Now, even as I write this, a memory comes to me.
It was during the war. The battle was over, and as
I was leaving the tent where the wounded lay, I heard a woman's cry;
her son was dead. My heart cried out and I went and sat with her. The
moonlight was bright and I could see the cornflowers, the daisies and
the poppies in the cornfield. But their sight brought me no relief.
I was made to wonder about the Will of God, about this cruel war, about
all the women who were crying over the death of their sons, about all
the widows who were now alone, about all the children who were made
orphans. And I said to myself, "That cry is only one of all the cries
on this earth. The whole earth is but one cry." My heart was heavy within
my breast and late into the night I cried. But now I know that that
mother's cry was a great illusion, for in the light of the new knowledge
I have gained from Swami Chidananda, I know that death does not end
life. It is only a prelude to another birth, like darkness preceding
dawn. And, the darker is the night of suffering, the brighter is the
light of dawn.
I picked up Sivananda's "Bliss Divine". I opened the
chapter on 'Death' and started reading: "Death does not end your personality.
It merely opens the door to higher form of life. Death is only the gateway
to a fuller life".
But I could not be consoled. I had a terrible feeling
that my son was calling me, that he was in agony, and I went round,
enquiring about what happened to a person after death. A Swami told
me, "When transition is sudden, the astral body has no time to detach
itself properly from the flesh body, so the person does not know he
is dead and he still has the wants of the body. He tries to communicate
with his dear ones, but no one sees or hears him."
I read in Swami Sivananda's "What Becomes of the Soul
After Death" -When the departed souls are sinking peacefully and when
they are ready to have a glorious awakening in heaven, they are aroused
into a vivid remembrance of the mundane life by the weeping and wailing
of their friends and relatives. The thoughts of mourning people produce
similar vibrations in their minds and bring about acute pain and discomfort.
And the uncontrolled grief of their relatives drags them down from their
astral planes. This may seriously retard them on their way to the heaven-world.
This produces serious injury in them."
So I did Japa day and night and it worked wonders.
I had even acquired some control over my thoughts. And then one day,
my son had been dead for quite some time and as I was resting on my
bed during the hot hours of the day, suddenly I felt something uncanny,
but no fear was in me. I saw someone, his hand shading his eyes, trying
to look through the screen-door behind me. My bed was in the corner
of the small room; my eyes were closed, my back was turned to the screen-door
which was shut, and yet I saw. It was my son. When he saw me, he leaned
back against the wall as though with a sigh of relief. His body crumpled
down against it as if he was exhausted. There was such heartbreaking
despair in that movement that my heart cried out. I should have got
up and asked him to come in in the strange way I was communicating with
him, spontaneously, without words. But, full of the idea that I must
not keep him near this earth-plane, I said, "Oh! Christian, you do not
belong here any more. You must go where you belong now. Forget this
world where you suffered so much. Go to your real abode where you will
be happy. Forget me."
I saw his body sink lower. I felt his terrible suffering.
I felt it in my flesh, and I was there shaking in my anguish when suddenly
I thought of the Ganges, the Ganges which had once given me such a wonderful
experience of the oneness of life, the Ganges which always brings me
such peace. And I said, "Christian, go to Mother Ganges, she may help
you. She may tell you what you should do."
As I watched him go slowly away, his whole body expressing
a terrible despair, I sobbed, putting my fists in my mouth. I wanted
to call him back. I wanted to take him in my arms, to give him some
solace. But would he have the strength to go, to leave me?
When I went down to the Ganges Ghat at six o'clock
to do Japa at that auspicious and most powerful hour for the peace of
my son's departed soul, as I had been doing every day, he was there
looking so forlorn, sitting on the step I always sat on, and people
seemed to be walking through him! I sat near him and prayed until dusk
came. But a little while after, when I was back in my room, I saw he
had come back and was again leaning against the wall of the verandah.
I thought "O God, perhaps in my subconscious there is still some selfish
attachment which I cannot see and which is keeping him here." So I did
not dare to ask him to come in and I lay there suffering his suffering.
I was his last hope. He had searched and searched for me to get some
relief, some solace, some help. We were both in agony. Then one day
I told him to come in. I still did not dare to ask him to sit down.
There I was lying on my bed, and he standing, leaning against my cupboard,
always looking so tired. But as the days passed, I relaxed my vigilance;
and one night I said, "Why don't you sit down, Christian?" He sat on
the floor facing me, and we 'talked' endlessly every night. I was relaxing,
so was he, and peace was coming slowly to us. Then one night, I made
room for him in my bed and I asked him to lie down near me. I felt I
was nursing him again and there was such an unearthly love between us,
such an unearthly peace. I was giving life to him again, and this filled
me with a peace that I felt I was expanding endlessly. Then he faded
away. I did not even notice when he left me and even now, if I try,
I cannot remember.
Christian's last wish had been to come to India, and
to know about Yoga, about God. He had written to me: "I must come and
see you. I am detached at last. I will be your spiritual son. I feel
the futility of all things on earth, even my studies become insipid
to me, medicine is so limited. I am more and more attracted by all eastern
philosophies, the real meaning of life is there...Life is short. I know
I am only nineteen, but I feel that I should not waste a minute. Sitting
on my chair, studying for hours as I do, I may develop my memory, I
may become a great professor of medicine, I know I can. I know the medical
profession is still one of the best, and to use it enables one to serve
and help others. If I still have some heart in it, it is only because
Chidananda's parting words to me were 'Be a good doctor, Christian'
when he gave me the Prayer of Francis of Assisi.
"Also, did you not tell me once when you were at home
that even to become a great professor of medicine was not sufficient,
that the real values of life were not there? And, mother, the feeling
that I must not waste time increases every day. Somehow I know....But
perhaps it is only a feeling ...."
But I had written in reply, "Do not come now. Finish
your studies first."
Time had passed since Christian had left me, and I
was doing my Japa regularly with joy, the joy of still helping him,
when one day I received a letter. A small photo of my son was in it.
I screamed, my mind went blank. All my peace, my control, was thrown
to the winds. The photo was alive. My son was there, his mouth so soft,
the mouth of a child, so sorrowful too. His eyes were calling me and
that call had such an intensity! I stood up and walked around my room,
the photo hidden on my breast. All sorts of thoughts came into my mind:
"You left him, he was so young, he needed you, he was in despair. After
you left, he went into seclusion for two months, he prayed, he had remorse,
he did not eat. Then he revolted, but he could find no pleasure in the
things of the world." I remembered the morning I left my home to join
Chidananda. I was packing, as if in a trance, when my son came into
my room. He asked, "Why are you packing? Are you going away?" I came
out of my trance and I was surprised also. Why was I doing that? I had
no definite purpose in my mind. So I truly answered, "No, I am not leaving."
But he came back and gave me a very tiny parcel. I knew straightaway
what it was and my heart cried out: "Oh no, Christian, keep it. The
saint who gave it to you told you never to part with it. It is your
talisman." I do not know why, but I opened the paper which contained
the four-leaf clover. It was so old, so brittle, yet I lifted it, and
it broke. I never forgot the pain that went through me then. Was it
a premonition?
These recollections made my suffering almost unbearable.
I felt I could not control myself. I felt that I would bring my son
back to me, back to this earth-plane where he would suffer again, for
the intensity of my pain was such. So I suddenly stopped my work and
said, terribly hard and threatening, "Now, my mind, you will obey me.
I never want to see that face, that photo, again. Never, you
understand! You are not going to trick me into this." My mind obeyed,
and even after Satsangs, when I was blissful and not hardened into watchfulness,
if the vision of that photo ever tried to come, I still managed to keep
it away.
I kept that little broken clover-leaf clover always
with me until the day I had the courage to part with all my son's letters,
his last words, his watch, and the little heart made of gold with a
pearl in the centre where were still the marks of his baby-teeth. I
gave it all to Swamiji. One year thereafter, on Mother's Day, imagine
my surprise when he gave it all back to me, tied up in an orange handkerchief
I had embroidered for him years before! I was so moved and I wondered
how he could keep so carefully such things as that poor handkerchief,
so badly embroidered.
Swamiji took me down to the Ganges. There, standing
on a rock, he prayed for my son and gently put the parcel in the water
with a stone to weigh it down. He scattered some orange-coloured flowers
on the water, and as I watched the flowers drifting away, I felt the
last link broken. Christian was free at last.
After a few days, I remembered the time my son came
to me after his death. At that time I had gone to Swami K. He had looked
distressed and said, "It is your attachment which is keeping him here.
You must do more Japa and control yourself."
But I had asked, "At least, will he be benefited by
being in the Ashram, learning about Yoga, coming to the lectures?"
Swami M. who was there said, "Yes, he will be. In the
scriptures there is the example of a man who died and who in his astral
body heard a lecture on the Gita and realised on the spot."
This had brought me some relief and some joy. If my
son could not leave this plane, yet was it not better for him to be
in such a holy place than back at home? But Swami Chidananda gave me
the final answer when he told me, "Yes, you should not have been so
hard with him in the beginning, that was your ignorance. It is past,
never dwell on the past. But he came to you not because of your attachment
but because you were the only one who could help him. He had not the
necessary strength to depart and he needed the addition of your spiritual
strength. He could not come to me."
I have always wondered why Swamiji said those last
words. But I understood finally that God's ways were perfect, if we
but knew. My son was to die at the very second he died. It was his Karma,
and God, in His mercy, had brought me to the Ashram and through Chidananda
had helped me to evolve enough so as to be able to help my son after
his death. If I still cry when I speak of my son, if I still cry even
as I am writing this, it is because of his spiritual beauty which moves
me and inspires me even now, and in my heart I always wonder, how could
God have given me such a son? When I mentioned this to Swamiji, he said,
"Now God is only taking away what He Himself had given" and I felt gratitude
for the wonderful days I had lived with Christian. But if I was made
to feel this gratitude for God, was it not because Swamiji transmitted
this feeling to me?
I remember Swamiji's quick answer the first day I told
him, "My son is dead". Swamiji had then said, "There is no death." I
had always believed it so, but now I knew. And my determination was
not to lose a minute of my life in wasteful pursuit grew stronger. Had
not my son said in his last letter, "Life is short"? (I was very reluctant
to publish this section about my son after his death, but some very
sincere, very spiritual friends wrote to me and insisted. They said,
"Why be so narrow? We ourselves hold spiritism as something not at all
advisable and even dangerous, but even spiritism can be good inasmuch
as it helps people to know that there is something beyond. And, then,
this is far from spiritism. It is a rare experience. You must share
it. Think how it might change the outlook on life of the people who
may read it! How it might bring solace to them!")
On that fateful evening, in the spontaneous, irresistible
prayer I had said to God, "Even the wonderful son that You gave me is
nothing to me now." I had also said, "Take everything away from me."
And God never forgets.
Six months after my son's death, my mother passed away.
She had said she did not want to live any longer, her heart was broken.
On the night of her death, in the Bhajan Hall of the Ashram during Satsang,
I smelt a perfume that evoked memories in me. I searched in my mind,
it was something so sweet, but I could not remember until I heard, "Do
you remember the honeysuckle?" and I felt my mother's presence. Then
I remembered. Such a long, long ago memory. I was a very small child,
we were walking on a country road. My mother was holding me by the hand
when suddenly she stopped, and plucking some honeysuckle, she smelt
it and gave it to me to smell. Then she said, "It is my favourite perfume.
Men are so foolish to try to imitate the perfumes of Nature. Only God
can create such perfection, and every time I smell honeysuckle I feel
Him near"-and for the first time I was struck by her great beauty and
the beauty of her smile.
That was how I knew she had passed away, even before
I got the letter and the telegram telling me about it. She was peaceful,
happy. She understood my new way of life at last and she was even thanking
me for it, for she seemed to realise that my presence here in the Ashram
was helping her. When I did the temple ceremony for her, she was there
and so happy that a great peace came over me.
Swamiji told me, "She had a very big heart."
It was so true. In spite of her extreme sufferings,
she never complained, and she was so selfless that I feel ashamed when
I think of my behaviour with her. I wonder at her love; I wonder at
God's mercy on me.
But God did not stop there. I had said, "everything....".
My daughter put me out of her life totally, and all
my other relatives and friends turned their backs on me. They could
not understand me; they blamed me for the death of my son also. I understood
them so well, but what could I say? Then a newspaperman wrote such strange
made-up things about me and he ended his article by saying, "Evidently
the poor woman is mad".
But Swamiji said, "Some people are sometimes so narrow-minded.
They do not like to see Yoga spreading so much. But we must remember
that the general tendency is not like that, a unity is coming." And
I prayed that people might soon learn to know that Yoga was not a religion,
that it was a science of all religions. And as Swamiji says, "All religions
are, as it were, the flowers that make the beautiful bouquet we offer
to the Lord...God delights in revealing Himself as Christ, as Buddha,
as. Krishna..."
They specially blamed me for having left my children.
They could not understand. Neither could I really until one day I read
the story of St. Jeanne. She was married to the prince of a small kingdom.
The young couple was radiantly happy and everyone rejoiced. After a
while it seemed to be proved that the young couple could not have children.
The parents of the prince did everything in their power to separate
their son from his wife and marry him to another woman who could give
a heir to the throne. They threatened the young prince that they would
take the kingdom away from him, but he preferred even that to being
separated from the woman he loved. The princess, his wife risked her
life many a time to have a child. This lasted for years, when one day
she at last gave birth to a son. The little boy had all qualities, health,
beauty, intelligence, and he was so extraordinarily good and loving
to all. The whole kingdom rejoiced. One day, when her beloved child
was only six, the princess left everything and retired into a convent.
Everyone thought she had gone mad. When asked how she could have done
such a thing, she answered, "When God calls, that call is so strong.
I would even have walked on my little boy's body if he had put himself
on my way."
Some years after I was again made to remember my son's
death when I had a strange experience. Mastram Baba was a realised sage
who lived in a cave on the Ganges bank. I often went to see him, but
at that time I had not been able to go to him for quite a while. As
I came and sat under his tent, I saw a dead woman lying on a stretcher
near him. She seemed very old, no hair at all, her face so terribly
wrinkled, and she was so terribly thin, a real skeleton. She was dressed
in a very dirty long white dress. Her pale eyes were open. I thought
they must be going to lower her body in the Ganges. After a while the
thought came that they might be waiting for me to go so as to do the
last funeral rite, so I left.
I came back the next day. The dead woman was still
there on the stretcher. No one was paying attention to her and little
by little I enhardened myself to look at her. I saw that her eyes were
always fixed on Baba, never seeming to waver. But at one moment I thought
I saw her eyes shift slightly when Baba moved. Was she alive? Just then
Baba spoke to a lady who translated this to me.
"Baba says you can go near N.," showing me the woman
on the stretcher. I was astounded! That old woman my friend N., how
could it be?
N. came from Wales in England. She had been a great
disciple of Baba for many year, and she had reached very great spiritual
heights. N.! I went near her. I was very moved. I had to wait a while
to steady my voice. I spoke to her. Something below her face seemed
to come to life. But her eyes never moved from her Guru's face. I went
every day. Baba said I was doing N. good. But one day I received an
invitation to go to Almora where Ananda Mayee Ma was to spend two months
alone with her attendants. Such an incredible grace! But how could I
leave N.? Nothing was sure yet. Baba had said to N., "Death is near
but be at peace, I will help you to pass on."
But N. clung to life, to her Guru... how could I leave
her? Hadn't Baba said I was doing her good! every day more! Then, one
day Baba told us a story:-Two friends were going up a mountain. They
wanted to go right up to the peak, to the very summit. But one of them
fell in a deep precipice. The other one looked down and saw that his
friend was alive, that there was even a chance of his getting him out.
But there were also quite a few chances that he could not save him,
that he himself might even lose his own life in the attempt. So this
man left his closest and dearest friend and climbed alone, right to
the very summit. I understood what Baba was telling me. If one reaches
the summit one can help people, help them in the only real way. I left
for Almora. Baba had left me free to choose as he had left N. free to
choose. Just as God does with all men.
Remembering this sometime later I wondered: In coming
to India had I not chosen the ultimate good of my own people? I remember
Chidananda saying about my son after his death, "He came to you because
you were the only one who could help him. He had not enough spiritual
strength to go where he belonged. He needed the addition of your own
spiritual strength." And remembering my mother's death, I thought of
Chidananda who had once said in a lecture, "If we realise God, we help
seven generations before us and seven generations after." I was happy
if, at last, I could repay the sacrifice that her life had been and
that I had so often failed to see.
3
One day in France, Swamiji showed me a book. Ma Ananda
Mayee's photo was on the cover. He said, "She is a wonderful woman,
you know." That very night, and ever since, Ma came to me in my meditation,
and when I came to India, I went to see her. One day, as I was alone
with her and her attendants in her bedroom, Ma said, speaking about
me, "Who is her Ishta Devata? Christ?" I blurted out "Oh! no." And then,
more slowly, "As a matter of fact, I am all mixed up. The first time
I heard the name of Krishna, in France, I cried all night, my pillow
was wet, yet I had never heard of Krishna before. And later on, at the
mere mention of His Name, Mudras would come to me. Still later I thought
it was Rama, yet I had started with visions of Christ." I felt Ma's
attendants were smiling. I did not understand. But that night in my
meditation Christ came to me to stay.
The next morning, a monk coming from France brought
me a parcel. He unpacked it and slowly turned towards me the portrait
it contained. A spontaneous Pranayama moved deep in my body as I looked
at the picture of Christ, the controversial photo made of the Shroud
of Turin (the cloth that wrapped Christ's dead body and on which the
impression of his face was revealed by some scientific means). And I
knew. But Krishna and Rama never left me and my devotion to them grew
all the more. Swamiji had brought Ma to me and together they had made
me find my way. They had taught me that God is one but delights in revealing
Himself in different forms.
Swamiji once said, "God sends us dreams not only to
test us, but also to guide us." But I was blind. Sometimes the experiences
of the previous births which are lodged in the causal body float out
during the dream state. It was long before Swamiji came to my house.
I was very ill, and it did not seem that I would last much longer when
one night I had a dream. I was so struck by it that I got up and wrote
it down, although even the effort to do so was exhausting for me. The
next morning I read it to my husband, my son and my daughter. I asked
them to interpret it as I was trying to do myself but with no success.
Everyone had a different interpretation, but I seemed to know that that
dream had a message in it. My husband was driving. It was a road on
a cliff overlooking the sea. The road was very narrow, very stony, very
dangerous. Suddenly the road seemed to give way and we fell into the
sea. My husband swam out to the shore. I was alone, sinking deeper and
deeper into the sea. Fear was paralysing me. I was choking and dying
when suddenly some thought came back to me and I realised that the thin,
black-veil scarf that I had round my neck had spread out in the water
and was covering my face. I tried to lift it off, but it had got into
a knot. The knot was very difficult to untie for it was wet and the
veil was thin. But I seemed to think that if I untied the knot I would
see more clearly where I was, where to swim, where to go. So I struggled
and struggled. I was choking and bursting, the pain was unbearable.
But still I struggled. Finally, the black veil drifted off my face.
I could see. I put my arms up and went to the surface. The sun was shining
on the small silvery ripples of the sea. I floated there in peace, and
the sea seemed to become calmer and calmer, the ripples seemed to disappear.
The sea surface was like a mirror reflecting the sun; I could hear a
far, far-away sound, some strange music. It seemed a long, long way
off. Gathering all my strength I swam towards it. It was a tremendous
undertaking, I was so weak, the music was so far away. Then I saw a
peninsula sticking out into the sea. The music came from there, that
wonderful music, that wonderful singing. The cliff was stiff and abrupt.
It seemed an impossible undertaking again, but the voices and the music
were drawing me towards them. That music had a strange quality in it,
and I started the long ascent. Stones rolled down; the earth gave way
under my feet. My nails were torn, my feet and hands were bleeding,
but the voices and the music were calling me. I could think only of
that. When at last I reached the peak, I lay down on the green grass
under the sun, which was shining on all the bright flowers. But I soon
got up. I felt I must not stay there in all that incredible beauty,
where even the colours were of a beauty I had never seen before, had
never dreamt of before. So, on I went, towards the far-away place where
the voices and the music came from. And as I approached, I could hear
it clearer and clearer.
When I first came to the Ashram, it was on Christmas
night, just in time for the evening Satsang. When I heard the singing,
I seemed to remember the tonality of the voices and the sounds of the
words in a language then unknown to me; and when I heard the Veena,
I was filled with wonder and an indescribable joy surged into my heart.
Before I went into bliss, I heard a Swami say, "It comes from her previous
Samskaras."
In the Ashram, a priest came to me one day. He was
very grave.
"Can I come in? I would like to say a prayer for you."
"Oh! Thank you. Come in, I am very honored, very happy,
indeed."
In no time we were on our knees. For a moment I watched
his beautiful ascetic face as he knelt with closed eyes. Then, as he
began, I too closed my eyes.
"Oh Lord! Hear this prayer from Thy devoted servant.
This child of Thine, Yvonne, who is praying with me today, has great
devotion. Her intentions are pure. Her courage is great. Her story could
inspire countless others. But she has gone astray! It is so difficult
to find the real path to Thee, my Lord! Forgive her. Give her a sign
that she may find her way back to Thee, our Lord, the only true Lord."
My eyes opened in surprise. My fan was not working
and it was so hot. My host was wiping his face with a big handkerchief.
He had taken the trouble to walk up the ninety-five steps leading to
my kutir to bring me a message. His beautiful face was stern and sad.
I felt suddenly how we were all caught up in the mire of Maya (illusion),
how there was no sin but only error on the way. I remembered others
who had come and spoken of the hell that was awaiting me. The Indians
converted to Christianity were the worst in their fanaticism. I remembered
Tolstoy and so many others-Tolstoy who was excommunicated for teaching
that God was no cruel punishing tyrant, that God was good, for God was
love, that He did not send to hell the unbaptised, that humanity's true
advance was on the path of love. And my heart sang with joy when I thought
of the beauty of Yoga which teaches us that all paths lead to the same
goal and is very disappointed if we try to leave our own religion, because
our birth, our background have conditioned us into it. It is therefore
easier for us to follow the religion into which we are born.
A wave of gratitude came over me for Chidananda, for
Yoga, also for Hinduism, which, being the grandmother of all religions,
is all-patience, all-tolerance, as grandmothers are wont to be with
the children who, proud of their new learning, come to teach them. I
remembered a story, the story of a Hindu, who, after having been taught
for some years all about Catholicism by missionaries, had a very revealing
reaction when he went to be baptised. The water of the river was very
cold, the man shivered and he said "Ram, Ram, Ram!" The old faith, the
old ways were very much alive in his subconscious.
I thought of Chidananda, who invokes God sometimes
as Christ or Krishna, at other times as Moses, Mohammed or Buddha, for
he knows that God has delighted and will ever delight in revealing Himself
in different forms. He says: "By religion is not meant the institutional
religion where the real ideal of religion is lost and only a poor external
structure remains, from which the great ideals exemplified in the lives
of the prophets are lost."
He further writes: "All religions have the same process
in their essence, whatever be the differences in the ritual or ceremonial
details."
If we go to the Source and look at the great and inspired
lives of Jesus, Mohammed, Zoroaster, Buddha etc., and examine the great
fountainheads of the various faiths in the world, we will find that
by their practical example, through their exemplary lives, the prophets
have shown us what is the very soul of the religions which they have
given to mankind. They demonstrated the practical living of the religions
which they later on gave to their followers, and in these personal living
demonstrations they were all one.
It was a Sunday, and in the hall of the New Delhi hotel,
a Protestant prayer meeting was taking place. All the devotees seemed
to be Indian. I sat in a corner and listened to the hymns and psalms
that the minister and the different devotees sang in turn. The minister
was American. He gave a sermon, and when he finished he looked around
and came over to me, all smiles.
"You seem to be the only Westerner at my prayer meeting.
You belong to our Church?"
When I told him I lived in an Ashram, it all started.
I should not have answered, but I saw it too late when he stood up and
severely said in a loud, clear voice that many could hear, "May God,
in His mercy forgive you for forsaking Him and going to those idol worshippers"!
I reflected for a while. I wanted to explain to him
his misunderstanding about 'idol worship'. But how? I thought of Swami
Chidananda; I wished he were there. I had a book on my lap which had
been given to me a few hours before at a Satsang. It was Swami Sivananda's
Practice of Bhakti Yoga. I opened it at random and was struck
as I read the title of the Sections. "Philosophy of Pratima". What a
miraculous coincidence! I read it quickly. This is what I read:
"A reputed baron of New York came to me one evening
for an interview. During the course of conversation the baron said,
'Swamiji, I have no faith in image-worship. It is all foolishness. The
private secretary of the baron who was also with him had a photo of
the baron in his pocket-diary. I took the photo and asked the private
secretary to spit on it. The secretary was struck aghast. He hesitated
and looked at the baron. I again commanded him, 'Go on, spit at the
picture. Quick'. The secretary said, 'Swamiji, the baron is my master.
I serve him. How can I spit at the picture? This is his image. I cannot
do this ignoble act. I respect him in this picture'. I said to him,
'This is only a paper. This is not the real baron. It cannot talk, move
or eat'. Then the secretary said, 'Anyhow I see my baron in this picture.
This mean act would affect my feelings as well as wound the feelings
of my master. I cannot spit'. I said to the baron, 'Look here, my friend!
Your secretary loves and respects your photo. He associates your presence
with the picture although it is just a bit of paper. Is this not image-worship?
Even so the devotee associates the attributes of God with the image
and feels His presence or immanence there. He finds it easy to concentrate
his mind on the image. The mind wants a concrete prop to lean upon in
the beginning stage of practice. Do you see the point now, my dear baron?
The baron replied, 'Revered Swamiji! You are quite right. My eyes are
opened now. I am quite convinced. Pray, pardon me'".
As I closed the book, I was wonderstruck and sat silent
for a moment. Then, on a sudden impulse, I opened the book again. This
time it seemed to me that Swami Chidananda was speaking as I read the
following writings of his peerless Master:
"Worship differs according to the growth and evolution
of the individual. There is nature worship. Parsis worship the element
fire. Hindus worship the Ganges, the cows, the Aswattha tree, etc. In
the Vedas there are hymns to Indra, Varuna, Agni and Vayu. This is nature
worship. There is hero-worship. Great heroes like Sivaji, Napoleon are
worshipped even now. In hero-worship, the individual imbibes the virtues
of the person whom he worships. Birthday celebrations of great persons
and anniversary celebrations are forms of worship. Then there is relic-worship.
Hairs and bones of departed souls are also worshipped. Then there is
the Pitru-worship or worship of forefathers.
"There is worship of Gurus, of Rishis, of Devatas.
As man evolves, he passes from one stage of worship to another. The
lower stages drop down by themselves. A man of a higher stage should
not condemn his brother who is in a lower stage. One should not forget
the underlying, indwelling, interpenetrating, one essence or Intelligence
when he does worship of any kind. The fundamental object in worship
of any kind. The fundamental object which permeates all these names
and forms, by developing intense love.
"All are worshipping the one basic Reality, Iswara
or God. The differences are only differences in names and forms on account
of differences in the worshippers. Worship of Lord Jesus or Lord Mohammed
or Sri Guru Nanak or Lord Buddha or Lord Mahavira is really worship
of Iswara only. These are all His forms."
When I had finished reading, I looked up in wonder,
and just then the man who was sitting in the corner laughed aloud. "You
sure are a cool one. This man was so angry and you sit ther
