My Baba

With a tiny baby, battling post-natal depression and severely underweight, I came to my parental home to find my sister back home, very agitated and troubling my parents as she had always done. She had always been a thorn in the side. It was just overwhelming and I cried silently in the bathroom and lay awake in the night worrying about what my parents were going through. My mother would point out that my personality had changed, that I was withdrawn and looked exhausted. But it never translated into an analysis of the reasons. I was facing intense abuse from a mother-in-law that I can only describe as possessing all the seven traits of the ungodly in full measure. Anger, hate, jealousy, lying, greed, lust and deception. Never in my life had I been made to feel so helpless, so worthless and miserable. The manipulativeness, the sway she had over her family who suffered from complete spiritual paralysis was incredible. I had never faced bullying on this scale before, where everyone was an implicit abettor. She got away with absolutely vile behaviour, quite simply because her husband and sons chose to deny it. If someone came from outside, her tone changed in an instant and she would even praise me, emphatically and falsely. It was chilling and creepy but the mixed messages left me drained and confused.

If I tried to put my point across, I was accused of answering back. She tore into me with horribly loud, violent words which were very very crude and hurtful. I simply could not understand it. The others in the family were in the business of pretending as though nothing was wrong. There was this fawning and cringing of the males in the family like dogs who face the whip of their master. In this case, I was the one who got the lashings, but the dogs simply wagged their tails at her anyway. It was the respect of the Nazi party for Hitler, inspired quite simply, by fear and brainwashing.

From rosy dreams of marriage and a career as an engineer, it had been a terribly bewildering time in an alien culture where they did not care a hoot about qualifications. All that mattered was money. Gossipy, crass neighbours, relatives whose saccharine sweetness meant nothing, the psychological isolation in by far the worst city in India and above all the dread that the husband I thought was a good man had a lot of his mother in him. He had an absolute mental blindness to any communication about her. And he shared plenty of her traits, the abusiveness, the control, attributing the worst intentions to others, the relentless suspicions, isolating me from everything that gave me joy. It was calculated to cut me off from any source of strength but I was so bewildered and sad that I could not make sense of my life at all. I had neither the vocabulary nor the analysis to process the situation back then. And then there was this little baby, so helpless and unaware. I could not bring myself to tell my parents any of the reality I was living through.


My father was worried about my sister and hiding behind his books, as always. My mother, had she figured out that my marriage was a hellhole, would have suffered beyond words. I did not say anything, I just lived in a numb emotional void, trying not to feel anything. Looking back at how badly I was suffering I am amazed at the emotional resilience I had. In some part it was pure stupidity, pretending not to see what was staring me in the face and insisting to myself that these horrible people were my family. It was the fact that my self-esteem had been ground into the dirt, that the control and lies that coated the poison with sugar, were too difficult to deal with. I was a coward who did not want to face the truth. Who would believe me, with the kind of masks they have on? I did not know then that the only person who needed to believe me was God and I would be alright. So I told myself I was okay. I was like the frog in the experiment, with the water that heats slowly until the frog is boiled to death, but it never jumps out of the pot. It can, but it does not realize. Ever.

In an effort to cheer me up, my mother began talking about the book she was reading then, which was the biography of the saint of Shirdi, Sai Baba, who lived not more than a hundred years ago. He was a unique holy man, whose parentage was unknown. At sixteen, he appeared under a tree in the sleepy little village of Shirdi, already with the signs of a Self-Realized saint. He began to live in an abandoned Masjid, wore the robes of a fakir, a wandering Muslim mystic. Yet he followed Hindu rituals, such as keeping a fire burning all his life, just as a Hindu agnihotra would do. He had absolute command of all holy texts in Hinduism as well. Nobody could  figure out whether he was Hindu or Muslim; at a time when the colonial power was trying to drive a wedge between the two communities, he was a symbol of unity and the common spiritual aspirations of all mankind. Rich, poor, Hindus, Muslims, Parsis, Sindhis, men and women, the diseased and dying all flocked to him and His divine grace was given to all without exception; his compassion was all-encompassing. I found him extremely intriguing and listened to my mother’s recounting of his miraculous cures and the use of divine powers for the good of suffering humanity.

So Sai Baba made his way into my heart and stayed there. I spoke to him when I was distressed and his kind eyes somehow soothed me. Even through the depths of depression I would think of a movie song from the 70’s which was about his help to anyone in need. That was all I knew and I sang it to him as an offering. A couple of years later, I was back in Delhi with the in-laws, in the eye of the storm. Out of the blue, a young woman  about my age who lived next door rang the doorbell. She had a book in her hand, which she handed me, saying, ‘Take it. For some reason I feel like giving it to you, though others have asked for it, I did not give it to anyone until now. Baba is there.’ I had hardly talked to her and she knew nothing about my life. I glanced down at the book. It was the life of Baba in English. I read it from cover to cover through the night. In the daytime I would think of him, my kindly God who knew what I was going through and who soothed me when I was exhausted and felt unloved. I never felt alone since then and there have been many instances when I escaped from what could have been terrible situations. I could sense his reassurance, his presence. I would think of him and instantly, on some little shop, or at the back of a vehicle, he would be there in the form of his photograph. It happened so many times that I would smile back at him.   

He sustained me through all the years of an abusive marriage; the fact that I did not lose my marbles or become a mere shell, locked in a mental prison-cell, outwardly trying to keep up appearances, is testimony to the fact that through all the torment, I could turn to him in my heart, my God, the Silent Witness, the keeper of my soul. And in those eyes I found a peace that the world had denied me.

Matters came to a head after twenty years; having tried to find meaning and purpose in life simply in the children, in the company of books, in some good friends whose concern for my safety helped me through the grim phases, things got absolutely terrible. I could have died due to the violence or worse, become a vegetable. But Baba was right there and the right people showed up at the right time; medical help, spiritual and support from friends, the healing smiles of children, nature, strangers who talked to me out of the blue; Baba was there for me. When I sat down in front of his photograph in the darkness of the night, praying for help, sleepless and in anguish, tears falling on the prayer book, He calmed me down. There was a time I could not sleep the entire night and was paralyzed by fear. In the next room was the human equivalent of a raging bull with the cunning of a snake. And he was very drunk. My heart was pounding and I could not breathe. All I could do was repeat over and over, ‘Baba, Baba....’

Out of the web of lost memories, the strains of a Hindi poem came to me. We had it in seventh grade and at the time were more concerned with having to memorize five stanzas to recite in oral exams. It was a tribute to Rani Lakshmibai, the heroic queen of Jhansi who was at the forefront of the Mutiny of 1857. With her toddler son strapped to her back, the queen fought off five British soldiers; she was mortally wounded when another soldier attacked her from the back and cut off her ear with his sword. It was against the rules of engagement in every way and even the English reluctantly acknowledged their own cowardliness much later. She bled to death but her dying words to her men was to fight to the death to defend the motherland. Her statues still stand in many cities across India. The poem went, ‘Khub ladi mardani, woh to Jhansi wali Rani thi...!’ She fought valiantly, better than any man, our great queen of Jhansi. The mental image of this young queen, clad in heavy armour, sword upraised, on horseback with her little son clinging to her came into my mind. Her eyes, across the shrouded mists of time and space, bid me push away my fear. I fought five swordsmen and died bravely, she seemed to say.  And you can’t fight one? I found new courage. If I had to die, so be it, but I would die fighting. I did not know when I fell asleep.

Baba used every tack he could to give me strength, from the images he had access to from the forgotten recesses of my mind to English songs. It was when I was at the lowest ebb, after a time of violence and abuse. Sometimes it was the strains of ‘Bridge over troubled water,’ by Simon and Garfunkel. Out of the blue, Morgan Freeman’s voice in my head, reciting from Invictus, ‘I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my ship.’ The final speech in Amistad, when former President John Quincy Adams describes Cinque's desperate attempt to free himself from slavery. What a man will do for freedom, he says. He will give up his very life. It made me think that I would always align myself to the divine who I knew as my compassionate Baba. He was the only one who could free me from this mental prison of sadness and suffering. The rest of the world was a slave to the drives of their minds. I had only to hold on to the thought of Baba. My life was in His hands and nobody could harm me when He had my back.

One time after a fight I suddenly remembered the time my tenth grade autograph book. They were all the rage at school at the time and I had bought myself one. The first autograph I took was my father's and the page popped up in my mind’s eye, in his tiny, beautifully fluid handwriting, ‘To thine own Self, be true.’ The Bard of Avon had always his favorite and the words echoed within, a message exhorting me to find the real me that had been so cruelly driven into the dirt. Sometimes it would be an unexpected word of encouragement from a complete stranger, an old Chinese man on a bus in Singapore who said I had kind eyes and that I should never let anyone make me feel small. He said, ‘You are my daughter,’ and then got off. It was a most unusual thing to say and I knew it was Baba who appeared in this form for his child because she needed Him. Baba used everything in my world to reassure me of His presence.

All my life I had felt a misfit. In my family, with a sister who was much older and a nightmare to live with, I was lonely. My parents did not fit into the middle-class mould of Maharashtrians because of their westernized outlook and their intellectual circle of friends. Nor did we fit in with the so-called intellectuals of the university in Gujarat whose snobbery and artifice was abhorrent to my father. The more materialistic Gujarati community was not even a consideration. Then I was put into a Convent. That education almost destroyed me. The gods of Hinduism confused me as my father was a desultory devotee and simply went through the motions of lighting incense in the morning. I hadn't the vocabulary to frame articulate questions or understand the answers if there had been any. My parents never did subscribe to the usual religious festivals of Maharashtra so I was cut off from all understanding of my roots.

By far my worst confusion though, was due to the imposed Catholicism at school. Every prayer we had was Christian. I found the image of the crucified Christ in the school chapel morbid and tragic. I hated the people who had done this to this gentle and divine man and I did not see any sense in God allowing this to happen to His son. I realized the nuns practised none of the mercy and compassion of Christ. Most of them were hard-bitten, frustrated spinsters who did not have the least sense of real Christianity. Their prayers were simply lip-service. I have just to take my mind back to how much we feared going into the principal’s office to know how loving and forgiving they were to children; how their sense of justice allowed teachers to stand us holding our ears for an hour in the sun as punishment; how much they soaked in the fawning and cringing of well-heeled parents because they got donations; the favoritism which would have disgusted Christ; and above all, their sorry guilt-ridden hymns. The emphasis on sin did not sit well with me at all. It was due to them that I grew up with a fierce defiance of organized religion and was always very leery of authority figures who wielded religion and uniform for power.

I was a misfit with my classmates because I could not bear flattery and disliked those who resorted to these in order to be chosen in everything. Being a girls school there was enough politics to run a small nation. Those who sweet-talked the teachers did well. Quite simply because the parents of my classmates were the well-heeled, lived in upmarket neighbourhoods, had cars and drivers they had the respect of the authorities and the ear of teachers. I felt inferior and it was silly, but I felt embarrassed about my simple home when my fancy friends showed up in their cars. I was out of my depth and though I was popular I sensed it had only to do with my intelligence. These so-called shallow friends would drop me like a hot potato if it suited them and they did. It was very late in life that I learned to judge people's worth only by their character and nothing else. It came after finding out the hard way that the people with the most poverty-stricken minds often live in the most palatial homes. I never forgot the lesson.

And then there was the family and culture I married into. The less said the better. No wonder that I was a misfit. Moronically I tried to appease them and spent most of my life desperately trying to gain validation from these worthless people and threw away the best years of my life trying to pretend that it was not a mistake. I thought I had no choice, now that the commitment was made. In hindsight, I should have run like an Olympic champion in the opposite direction. But then, why women endure abusive marriages is a whole different topic. It taught me that trust and love has to be earned, that respect has to be deserved and that anyone who belittles you does not deserve you. The best thing you can do for yourself is to belong only to God from the very beginning. You cannot go wrong and if you do, He turns you right side up again instead of you ending up flailing around helplessly on your own, like a beetle on its back.

Baba told people just to say the name of God with love; not go looking high and low for Gurus in a hurry. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Just say the name of God with love and He will be with you, in your world, with your suffering, no matter where you are. Nobody in this world is denied if he calls out to God from the bottom of his heart. All He asked for was faith and patience. In my darkest hours, His name has been my solace and my strength. Not for a second did I ever doubt his assurance, 'I am always with you. Listen to your inner voice. It is the voice of God.'

And He did finally set me free. Thank You Baba. Misfit no more.

  

 

The Human Experience

 Hinduism has no prophet, no one scripture. It is an imposing body of the most profound thought ever to be documented in human history, by generations of sages, rishis and self-realized souls. It explores man's existence at physical, emotional, mental, intellectual and spiritual levels which makes up the complete experience of being human. Eighteen Upanishads, six Shastras, four Vedas and the distillate of them all, the Gita. Not to mention the countless commentaries,  devotional poems and works of saints over the ages.  The aim of all this is to understand ourselves, find our true purpose and get a clear idea of how to attain that purpose.  

We exist on many levels. 'Level' would be a rather linear concept, which does not describe our existence correctly. Imagine instead, the layers of an onion, which would enable a better understanding.  The Sanskrit word is 'kosha' or sheath. We are made up of five sheaths, the core being the Atman or the Self, the very nature of Godhood...absolute and pure Bliss.   

The subjective experience of every human being, in terms of the physical or gross body, to the most subtle experience of the Self is in the five sheaths that we are composed of. All layers are permeable in terms of subjective experience except the Self, which remains pure, irrespective of earthly experience. Together they function as a holistic system which makes up our experience of being alive.  

Annamaya kosh: the physical body composed of and dependent on food. 

This is the gross body,the sheath of the physical self, named from the fact that it is nourished by food. Living through this layer man identifies himself with his body. So many of us are purely body-conscious, our thinking our happiness to be dependent on food, appearance, taking care of this body made of flesh, bones, fat and filth covered with the skin, while our souls starve.  Our ancient wisdom in the Vedanta cautions us, know that your  happiness is in knowing the Self; discriminate between that which is the non-self and the Self, distinct from the body.

  Pranamaya kosh:  the subtle body comprises this sheath along with the other four. This sheath  consists of air, or vital force on which survival of the body depends.

Pranamaya means composed of prana, the flow of life-force through the organism, which holds together the body and the mind. Its only physical manifestation is the breath. As long as this prana exists in the body, life goes on. Coupled with the five organs of action, the karmendriyas namely the hands, feet, speech, reproductory organs and excretory organs which are fuelled by prana to perform action, it forms the pranamaya kosh.

 Manomaya kosh: Manomaya means composed of the mind.

The mind (manas) along with the five organs of perception-the eyes, ears, nose, tongue and skin-the jnanedriyas- is the manomaya kosa. The 'mind-sheath' is fed by the senses, and it generates thoughts, which are translated at a physical level sometimes as well. It accounts for individuality more powerfully than even the annamaya kosa and pranamaya kosha. It is the mind which makes us all extremely individual and is the generator of ego-  I and mine.  Tthe mind is the cause of man’s bondage to the illusion of this world and the instrument  through which he can attain self-realization as well!

 Vijnanamaya kosh:  the intellect-sheath,  the decision-maker, the database fed by the senses of knowledge or perception, the jnanendriyas, namely seeing, hearing,smelling, tasting and touching.

Vijnanamaya means composed of intellect, the faculty which discriminates, determines and wills . This sheath is the combination of intellect and the five organs of perception. The buddhi, ie the intellect along with the organs of knowledge, records the impressions or sanskaras over that lifetime. It causes our reincarnation into another body, wherein the sanskaras made by the manomaya kosh and the vijnanamaya kosh in one lifetime are transferred into another body in the next life. This wisdom or intellect-sheath also reflects the power of the chitta, which is the memory bank, which stores impressions and experiences. It is endowed with the function of knowledge and identifies itself with the physical body as well. It is, however not the Self, for it is subject to change, is insentient, limited and not constantly aware or present

     Anandamaya kosha : pure Bliss, made up of the Self in all of us. 

Anandamaya means composed of ananda, or bliss. It is known also as the causal body. In deep sleep, when the mind and senses cease functioning, it still stands between the finite world and the self. Anandamaya, or that which is composed of Supreme bliss, is regarded as the innermost of all, a reflection of the Atman which is bliss absolute in all of us. So when we say happiness is within us, it is perfectly true! 

The symbolism of the Ganga

She is born as a little stream... tumbling downhill from the icy slopes, changing course as boulders and rocks block her journey, with a lot of splashing and bubbling initially, like the innocent laughter of a young girl. She has all the enthusiasm born of inexperience until she grows out of her childhood into teenage and adulthood. On the lower slopes, she grows into deeper experience, wide, the swift current belied by the calm surface . She is young, strong, nurturing and given to flooding her banks when her destructive side manifests. She has been joined by many other streams, encountered innumerable obstacles, been thwarted, dammed, exploited, revered, loved, worshipped.....

Finally, the majestic, slow, deep Ganga, so wide that she looks like the sea. Thousands of pilgrims, day after day, come to her as she murmurs and laps along her tranquil banks, to wash off their sins in her purity. Since time immemorial, all rivers in India have been revered, but the Ganga holds a special place in the hearts of every Hindu; the holiest of holy rivers, she is loved deeply as a mother. She was the Goddess who consented to descend from heaven to quench the thirst of mankind for sustenance, both material and spiritual, but her power would have shattered the earth. Lord Shiva then asked her to flow down from His locks so as to slow her down and break the fall.    

As Brahma, the Creator, washed the feet of Vishnu, the Preserver of the universe, the water of the Ganga fell on the mighty locks of Shiva, the lord of destruction. Thus the beautiful Ganga came to earth. She had compassionately consented to purify the sins of mankind. But what of her, she wondered? How would she deal with all the sins that she accumulated thus? So Shiva, the generous God, promised her that every twelve years, at the confluence of the Ganga, Yamuna and the mythical Saraswati, at Prayag, among the hundreds of devotees gathered to bathe at the Kumbh, He would come to bathe, in the form of an ash-smeared ascetic in order to wash her sins away. So the tradition continues, every twelve years that on this one day,  thousands of devotees bathe in the hope that they are touched by the same water as  the Lord Himself. And each ascetic is revered as the form of the Lord.  

Thousands of miles later, this enormous expanse of water merges into the sea; thousands of years ago, since she first found the sea and gave up her identity as the Ganga, every second since, she has been doing the same thing; The Ganga merged into the sea then, is merging still, will merge for all time to come.  

So also is our journey in this human life. The only purpose of our lives is to become one with God. No other purpose associated with this transient world can bring any fulfillment, just as the water of a mirage cannot quench a traveller's thirst.  As rivers merge into the sea, so do all souls ultimately merge into God. The journey of a river is downhill, on to the plains, then seaward. Our spiritual journey is inward, to introspect, rein in the senses from pursuing their outward objects, into the stillness beyond thought, until in that absolute tranquility we find the Truth. 

The deepest truth is found in the silence beyond words. Those who realized the Self could not express that rapture, say the Vedas. Like a dumb man, who can taste the sweetness of sugar,  and can only smile but cannot speak, so also, the Realized Ones live in the Self while still in this body, yet no words can suffice for the experience of becoming God; like the Ganga, softly merging into the sea, our souls can connect with  this enormous body of spiritual treasure of the Bhagwat Dharma which nourishes and quenches the thirst of the thousands who seek sustenance and finally become one with God.

Like the Ganga, we have to overcome all manner of worldly obstacles; find the course which does not lead into the barren desert of worldly craving and greed to dry up therein; not be thwarted by the deep roots and thorny bushes of our passions; we have to join with other streams to find inspiration and strength in the devotion of saints; sustain, nurture and enable the good in us to manifest so completely as to wipe out all the evil in our own nature, of our accumulated karma over so many lives; finally purified thus, we will reach that infinite ocean of Joy.  

   

                       

Quest for Immortality

This is for my children.

It is amazing how the need to leave a mark, to be remembered, to be immortal in some way is so deeply etched in the human psyche. Since the first caveman made marks with a sharpened rock in some cave, as if to say to all those who laid eyes on the rocky walls months, years and ages later, 'I was here.'  The 'I' in us is the first thought to separate the newborn from those around it. The next is 'my'. 'My mother', 'my father'. All our lives, we live based on these two things. I-me-my-mine  is the chant of the ego that our world revolves around. 

Until, one day, we discover that life never does go according to our script. Sorrow, age, change, applies to us too. And in our quest for happiness, in chasing it, we have defeated the purpose. We chase it. There is the problem-- for it will elude us, for the simple reason that it was always with us. It may seem a huge cliche but happiness is within. It always was, except that its voice was drowned out by the shrill chant of the ego that went 'I-me-my-mine'... since we came into this world.

I cannot remember when I became aware of the big questions of life....they were inarticulate, if at all. My conscious memory is of looking at a sepia photograph of a man in an immaculate suit, his eyes slightly reflective yet hopeful. My grandfather.  He died when I was barely three, so I did not know him. There is another photograph...at eighty-one His eyes are tranquil but with a strangely faraway expression. His life was a struggle; as an orphan brought up by an uncle, the fact that he completed schooling and taught himself to speak excellent English speaks of his grit and intelligence. He got a job as a clerk in the private office of the mother of the ruler of the erstwhile Baroda State, Maharaja Sayajirao Gaekwad.  Rani Jamnabai was a good judge of character and something about the honest young man appealed to her. Later he was entrusted with the inventory and handling of her personal jewellery, state gifts and all her personal accounts, which he kept meticulously. 

There were those who feathered their nests but he continued to live in the tiny little house and take on the financial responsibility of not only his own family but that of his wife's sister and cousins as well.  The less said about my grandmother the better.  She was the embodiment of spiritual poverty, unable to trust, a joyless and superstitious woman. She played victim with ease, manipulating others to believe she was the victim of fate; as false as he was genuine, as deceitful as he was honest. 

These vignettes about both of them came from my mother, who was intelligent and forthright in her opinions. She told me about what my grandfather was like as a young man-an atheist, quick to anger, self-willed and egoistic. What interested me most was the turning point in his life and the subsequent change in him. It was the meeting with a holy man who had given him anugraha, the spiritual transference of the holy name of God from Guru to disciple. He was instructed to wake early, bathe and say the name of the Lord  with love and devotion for an hour every day. Mental and spiritual hygiene was implicit along with this practise in all dealings, whether with his inner self or with others. 

How my atheist grandfather became a believer is a story in itself and I wish I could have heard it from his own lips. He kept meticulous diaries; I am sure he would have recorded that day. The Maharani who was deeply religious, had donated money towards the building of stone steps called ghats, on the Narmada river at an obscure village called Garudeshwar. A holy man had made the riverbank his home, living in a thatched hut.  An ancient temple of Lord Shiva stood there and people had started coming from all over to meet the saint. The Maharani had stone ghats constructed so that access to the river was made easier for the saint to bathe in the river. Grandpa had to look over the accounts and so it happened that he had to go to Garudeshwar. It is customary that one does not go empty-handed when visiting a saint or to the temple. Grandpa refused to take anything, saying he would not touch any man’s feet or offer money as dakshina, offerings. His mind was restless and in those days he had a temper that was feared by everyone. In combination with his westernized outlook, he was a misfit in every way- both among his fellow-Hindus and most definitely among the British whose clubs had the trenchant sign, ‘Dogs and Indians not allowed.’

So it was that he arrived at Garudeshwar after a long and bumpy journey, with an attitude of superiority, quite determined not to buy into anyone’s fervid devotion to another human being. From a height the rocky banks were festooned with clumps of weeds that scrambled untidily towards the stone steps. The Narmada river, wide and fast, glided on in a swathe of silvery grey; perched higher up on the hill was the swami’s tiny hut, a single mud-thatched, doorless room.  Grandpa asked one of the locals, ‘Where is the swami?’  He pointed towards the far distance and sure enough, in the middle of the river, with just his head above the water, was the holy man. It was odd, Grandpa thought, that the saint was in exactly the same place in such a current, that too in the middle of the river. The Narmada besides being extremely rapid was dangerous; whirlpools abounded and boats were known to have vanished without a trace in her murky depths.  What was even odder was maybe ten or twelve huge logs in a  concentric circle a hundred feet across from the head at the centre of the river. They were unmoving too. As Grandpa watched, the saint slowly began to move towards the bank and as he did, the logs made way for him to pass. It dawned on him then that they were not logs at all! They were enormous crocodiles, who could not cross the force-field of the saint’s yogic power. The swami emerged, a dark, slightly built figure with closely cropped grey hair, clad just in a waistcloth and a thin cloth around his bony shoulders.

Forgetting everything, Grandpa ran and fell at his feet and the words that came out of his mouth next were astonishing, more so to himself than to anyone else. ‘O Maharaj, give me moksha, freedom from this unending cycle of birth and death!’ Swami Maharaj looked at him with his deep-set, intense eyes and said gently, ‘Think what you are asking for; you will have to bear all the sufferings of your karma in this life, though. There is no escaping that.’ Grandpa agreed instantly and the next morning he was given anugraha, the holy name of God, by Swami Maharaj through yogic power which is given from Guru to disciple in India’s spiritual tradition. The swami was none other than the legendary incarnation of Lord Dattatreya, Shree Swami Vasudevananda Saraswati. Grandpa could never explain how he was thus transformed in an instant. He would say that it was a tremendous power that propelled him and it seemed to emanate from the divine presence of the Master; his father, mother, mentor, teacher and companion, his God who walked the earth.

Then the British began to pare down the retinue and private staff of the rulers and at forty, he found himself without a job. He had suffered all his life from ulcers. His oldest son was a nightmare, a schizophrenic who had the most inexplicable hatred for him; he was indulged and spoilt by the mother and feared by the rest of the family. Yet grandpa found a job at a grocery store and never complained about the comedown. He radiated a deep inner joy, a tranquility that was untouched by the  vissicitudes of his life and on his last day, passed from this world with the name of God on his lips without the least suffering or fear of death. 


It was this last bit that always interested me. I want to go like him, I would think to myself.  I did not think about it long enough or hard enough but my mother often mentioned him. Possibly because she often voiced the wish that she hoped her exit from the world would be like his, the same thought recurred to me sometimes in adulthood. Especially after her death, I wondered how similar to his in every way her life had  been.  Through the emotional strife and her own struggle with depression, and a daughter who was her worst enemy, she had one day chanced on the Dnyaneshwari; the Marathi commentary on the Gita, by a 16-year old saint who embodied the Self, written in the 13th century.  It belonged to my grandfather; my uncle sent all his old books to our house after a cleaning spree. The huge,dusty yellow volumes were just stacked under  the table until she pulled it out one day. 

Diffidently, she started reading, because the dialect was unfamiliar, the subject profoundly spiritual and it was in verse as well.  Later I would find her poring over it, wiping her eyes with the end of her sari. When I asked why she was crying, she would say they were tears of joy. Sometimes she would read me a verse or two and explain it. I was a self-centred teenager then, with the world at my feet; for the most part, I listened to humour her.  

It was uncanny that nearly twenty years later, when I was wallowing in self-pity, this one line, heard just once, should come back to me with such persistent lure, as if calling me from another universe; so elusive, yet so clear in my head, again and again, until I went to Youtube and keyed in the part of the verse I remembered. There it was, extraordinarily enough... 

'A crow is cawing on the mango tree in my yard
I will give you rice and curds O crow
And dip your feet in gold
Tell me my friend, the auspicious news
That the Lord is coming to my home at last!'   

The longing for God which is in these lines suddenly brought home to me the real meaning of immortality. It is not in the fickle fame of the individual ego; due to wealth,  politics, or by becoming a leader of men. It is the true immortality of the soul. It is the immortality that can touch the soul of a person enough to bring tears to the eyes of someone eight hundred years after a sixteen year old saint put pen to paper and wrote these words. It speaks to another soul across time and space, because, quite simply it is the voice of God. 

That was the day my regrets about my unrealized dreams of career and worldly achievements vanished like a cloud on a summer day. Years of therapy could not have assuaged the pangs of regret I always held in my heart all my adult life. Blame, bitterness, anguish...all gone. The worldly knowledge, the degrees, the names and labels, the symbols of status and honour that the world so prides itself on...it does not matter. You can still be discontented, jealous, negative, greedy, hateful inspite of the fact that you have all the wealth and power possible and though you be a millionnaire, you will be a beggar at the time of your death. You have nothing. You leave the world nothing-- for in a blink, there will be a new name that the world runs after. You take all your burdens with you.  Kings, actors , billionnaires, celebrities...all of them have gone the same path.  None of them have lit the heart of someone hundreds of years later with divine peace as saints have done.

This blog is about what I am learning on this journey we have on this planet. The tears and travails of each of us is unique, yet there is a commonality. Nobody's life goes according to the script they write for themselves; What happens beyond our control is that we have made with the karmic results of our own previous journeys, the seeds we have sown in previous lifetimes.The decisions and behaviour of this life is where we have free will. We blame and complain while muddling through life without seeing the big picture. It need not be so. It took me half a lifetime of the school of hard knocks to begin to learn. My hope is that I can share some of the insights I am beginning to have so that you do not muddle through your own  journey but pursue your real purpose with the belief born of truth. I have lived this, just as my grandfather did. Had my youthful eyes read his old diaries, life might have been different. 


We think,'When I am old, I will check out spirituality, when I have the time. That too, if it does not mean I have to make major internal changes. Right now, I am too busy.' Introspection is anathema to us as humans because it needs courage to look into our own psyche. Then there is the intellectual pose that we use, when confronted by a spiritual question. We say, 'Oh, I am an agnostic.' That is pure laziness wearing the mask of intellectualism. If you profess to possess even a basic intellect, the excuse of 'not knowing' does not work. Have you tried? Have you read, not stupid self-help books but the real work of the saints who were self-realized? Glib gurus can talk on Youtube and get a following. Have you tried to understand the message of the Gita? There are people who even say they 'know' the Gita. They have read it. The height of stupidity is to profess to know the Gita or the Bible or the Kuran. It has to be lived.  In this world, surrounded by the same false, ugly, cowardly, ignorant people who were around Krishna and Christ, we have to live by their divine words. 

What does moksha really mean then? It means to be free, independent of your circumstances, of your interactions with people and the world. You live, play the cards  you are dealt with grace and live among the people who are for karmic reasons, family, friends and enemies. You accept that whatever you have is given by Divine will and make decisions guided by what is the highest ideal in life. It may be difficult, but if that decision is aligned with the divine, you are sure to be at peace. Your happiness is independent of  whether you have something or not. That was what my grandfather had. Moksha. On this earth, in that body, he lived with a tranquil mind and walked with the immortals. He achieved it, I think. Kabir, Meera, Tulsi, Surdas....India is home to the immortals who have trodden her soil. She has a spiritual heritage that is deeper than the deepest ocean, rich with pearls if one cares to dive. 


I hope you will live a life of self-awareness, of introspection and enough personal honesty to think for yourself; to  know that the highest purpose of the intellect is to understand that spiritual knowledge is beyond the intellect.  To walk the path towards God requires His grace. Faith is a gift which you either have or do not. If you do, you are blessed. If not, ask God for it. Who else has the power? 

The western world and its scientific thinking, logical reasoning and argumentative philosophies is crippled. Their suffering, in spite of reasonable material comforts is a testimony to the fact that their souls are starved and empty of joy. You have an Indian heritage, the grace of Self-Realized souls through which these words come to you.  They might be my experiences and understanding, but know I cannot profess to be the one giving anybody anything that they do not already have within.  That small, still voice inside you is the voice of God. If you choose to hear it, understand it and live by it, you willeventually be free. That alone is the purpose of human existence.