My First Darsana of Anandamayi Ma
by Anil
Ganguli
It was one of the coldest nights in Northern India on January,
31st 1947. The Delhi-Calcutta Express was about to leave Delhi Junction. As I
had no reservation, I was
frantically
rushing from one end of the platform to the other in search of accommodation.
The porter led me to a vacant compartment and there was nothing to indicate
that it had been reserved. So, I took the earliest opportunity of occupying one
of its berths and lay on it, dead tired. It happened to be an upper berth-a
fact which eventually proved to be of great significance.
Then
some respectable ladies and gentlemen appeared on the scene. One of them told
me that the compartment had been reserved for Ma Anandamayi and convinced me that
the porter had misled me. I realized that I had landed myself in trouble. I had
no doubt that law, equity, convention - everything was against me. I deserved
to be turned out of the compartment as a trespasser. But I was not. I overheard
the sweet voice of a Bengali lady: "Leave Baba (the poor
child)
alone; he is so tired. I could not see
the lady, but was agreeably surprised and deeply touched by the sympathetic
tone of her voice. The sense of the words uttered by her was comforting, the
sound simply captivating. My first
impulse was to be chivalrous and to leave the compartment.
But
expediency prompted me to pretend that I was sleeping, and I did fall asleep
within a few minutes. I did not bother myself about my fellow passengers; nor
did they bother about me.
My sleep was, from time to time, disturbed -
not by any human agency, but by dreams.
Again and again I saw visions of Puri. Incidentally, Puri is closely
associated with my spiritual life. In 1928, a Mahatma gave me diksha
(initiation) in the temple of Lord Jagannatha at Puri. I was not a willing
party to the ritual and it made no impression on my mind. At that time I
belonged to that group of serious students of Presidency College who believed
in living an ethically clean life of austerity, service and sacrifice, but were
sincerely of the opinion that too much of religion had resulted in India’s
downfall. It was out of this conviction that I had, on principle, ignored my
initiation into religious life, but faithfully stuck to my idealism.
Early
next morning I awoke, refreshed. The glow in the eastern sky indicated that sunrise was near at hand. I was lying
on my upper berth and the lower berth on the opposite side was occupied by a
lady. We were lying diagonally opposite each other. This was a strange
coincidence.
And
what- did I see at this first sight? An exquisitely beautiful and radiant face
of a motherly lady with a pair of sparkling eyes; a cluster of black, silken hair. overflowing her pillow and
swinging in rhythm with the movement of the train; her body wrapped up to the
neck in a spotlessly clean, white sheet. I felt that a pencil 0f rays linked,
as it were, the eyes of that motherly lady with mine. Her gracious gaze was
focused on me. That gaze seemed to penetrate into every fibre of my being. It
was so loving, so soothing, so purifying! Later I was told that she was Ma
Anandamayi and that by such a gaze she often makes, as it were, an X-ray
examination of a person’s personality. Be that as it may, I seemed to read a
mystic message in that gaze - a message of warm welcome from a mother, ready
and willing to take charge of a forgetful child. I have no language to describe
the ethereal charm of the motherly lady’s face and its serenity. Within a few
seconds I was almost unconsciously transported
into a
mood of adoration and worship. My eyes were automatically closed in silent
salutation.
After
some time I recovered from this almost bewildering effect of the first contact.
I then opened my eyes, but found the Mother’s face covered up. I was
disappointed. I came down from my upper berth and wanted a seat on the
lower
berth just below mine. Part of it had been occupied by an old sannyasini. She
looked the very picture of peacefulness. As I came to know later, she was
Didima, the mother of Ma Anandamayi. Evidently, Didima was then immersed in
japa. She did not speak to me but made a kindly gesture, offering me a seat on
her berth and sprinkling holy Ganga water on my head. I appreciated Didima’s
courtesy, but frankly speaking, I did not like the freezing temperature of the
drops of water that moistened my forehead on that cold winter morning.
Soon I
discovered to my dismay that my fellow passengers were all ladies and I was the
only male in the compartment, I felt extremely embarrassed. Barring the sound
of the rolling stock, pin-drop silence prevailed in the compartment. Didima
suddenly gave me a mild note of warning that her belongings were not to be
touched. I was not quite conversant with the sanctions and inhibitions
governing the orthodox Hindu way of life.
I felt uneasy in the company of my fellow passengers, evidently
conservative in their outlook. I concluded that discretion would be the better
part of valour. So, I packed up my bedding and prepared myself for a change of
compartment.
The Mother had in the meanwhile uncovered
her face and was sitting on her berth, tenderly looking at me. The train
stopped at a wayside station and I tried to leave the compartment. But the
Mother would not let me go. She gently asked me, "where are you going?”
Instead of replying to her question, I simply apologized to her for my
"trespassing” into a ladies’ compartment. She uttered two words in an East
Bengal dialect "Ashaw, bawshaw (come, sit)", and offered
me a
seat just beside her. We sat fairly close to each other and my right arm
accidentally came into direct contact with her left arm. My whole system
thrilled with a peculiar sensation of joy and peace. I forgot, for the moment,
that I was a grown-up male and a complete stranger. I was being transported, as
it were, to a new sphere.
The
Delhi Express moved on slowly. Sitting so close to the Mother, I had the
delightful feeling that I was being caressed by my own mother. Her very
presence inhibited speech. It was a unique experience indeed. For some time
there was no exchange of words between us until she broke the silence. She
asked me several questions of a personal nature in the manner, of an
inquisitive stranger — my name, occupation and residence; also details about my
family, the purpose of my visit to Delhi and so forth. I answered fully each
and every question, naively assuming that I had thereby given her much
information about myself. I could then hardly imagine that she knew more of me
than I did myself. In fact, my knowledge was limited to my conscious mind
whereas she could, as I have since convinced myself, read the sub-conscious
too, and even more.
We
talked on all kinds of subjects. Religion or spirituality did not figure
prominently in the conversation. Occasionally, our talk was being enlivened by
the intermittent intervention of a middle-aged lady with an impressive
appearance and of an imposing personality. She was Sri Gurupriya Devi
(popularly
known as Didi, that is to say, elder sister ), the great author of the
invaluable literature published under the caption of “Sri Sri Anandamayi
Ma". I was not interested in her books. What really pleased me was her
kindly offer of prasada (sacramental food ) as I was very hungry. But there was
a snag in the offer : Didi added that she was waiting for me to change my
clothes before I took prasada. I told her that I was not in the habit of
changing in the morning. I added that I should be much obliged if I got some
food from her, otherwise I would order breakfast elsewhere. My apathy to
prasada was bad enough. My attitude was worse still. Didi looked sullen. The
Mother, however, seemed to be indulgent. She observed that the rules regarding
changing of clothes were
not for
me. This one gesture from her was enough to make Didi all smiles and she gave
me prasada. I appreciated the Mothers "liberal” outlook and enjoyed the
delicacies received from Didi.
Our
conversation,temporarily interrupted by the prasada episode, was resumed by the
Mother. Without any preamble she asked me to sing a song. Unhesitatingly I at
once sang a song by Tagore. And then I had an unprecedented experience - she
seemed to be pleased with my performance and asked me to sing more songs. For a
normal listener one musical recital by me would be boring enough.
By that
time I had become very free with the Mother and felt like addressing her as
"Ma”. Incidentally, I told her that there was a pathetic story which
spoilt my prospect of becoming a great musician. The Mother expressed her
curiosity to hear the story, but Didi suddenly rushed in for a private
interview with her. During the confidential conversation Didi’s
"whispering" was loud enough to outvoice the noise of the running
train and her points ranged from the
sublime
to the ridiculous. The Mother's replies were terse and cryptic. But the
dialogue, thanks to Didi, seemed to be never-ending. As the Mother's
destination was not far ahead, I was impatiently longing for an opportunity to
talk to her.
My wish
was fulfilled quite unexpectedly. The Mother abruptly and unceremoniously cut
short Didi's private and turned to me for my "pathetic story". I told
her that a connoisseur of music who regularly used to listen to my
voice-training practice, once wondered whether I thought that my song was in
tune with my stringed instrument. Hearing my confident answer in the
affirmative he remarked in despair, ”Well, if that is your assessment, I am
afraid music is not your line'. Thereupon I bade good-bye to music.
I had
previously narrated this sad experience of mine to several persons. Every
listener enjoyed the fun, laughed at my cost for a few seconds and there the
matter ended. But the Mother's reaction was simply amazing and almost
terrifying. An insignificant event, or rather an adverse opinion, had spoilt the
doubtful prospect of my becoming a great musician. This fact proved hilarious
enough for the Mother to create a scene.
She suddenly burst into loud laughter
which
continued until she was half exhausted. After a short pause, she started
laughing again and would not stop until she was almost out of breath. This fit
of laughter went on relapsing at short intervals. The Mothers face turned red,
tears
rolled down her cheeks and at times she seemed to be almost reaching the point
of suffocation. All this was terrifying beyond measure. Didi sternly stared at me with a look of concerned
consternation and I was made to feel that I was responsible for the mischief. I
failed to realize how I was at all to blame. I never had the faintest idea that
the simple narration of my discomfiture
could possibly lead to such a serious climax. I had a mixed feeling of
embarrassment and apprehension of an unforeseen calamity. I was disgusted with
myself for my decision to continue traveling in the ladies' compartment.
I
learnt from practical experience that the Mother was absolutely unpredictable.
This
time Didi came to my rescue. She gently suggested to me that the mischief could
be remedied only by offering prayer to the Mother. I considered it worthwhile
to experiment. With all the sincerity I could command I prayed to God (and not
to the Mother as advised), that nothing untoward might happen to the strange
lady. Instantaneously the Mother's alarming symptoms disappeared. She again
became as charming as before—a gentle smile replaced her roaring erratic
laughter, a possible calamity was averted. Was it due to my prayer? I preferred
to explain it as a coincidence.
The
tram stopped at an important station, Fatehpur, if I remember rightly. Several devotees forced their way into our
compartment and prostrated themselves before the Mother. I then thought it was
also my duty to do so. As the train left the station I bowed to the Mother in
reverence, and was about to touch her feet when Didi stopped me in a peremptory
manner. Her firmness suggested that my conduct, had been objectionable. I could
not understand why. Incidentally, it is the time-honoured custom of Hindus to
touch the feet of a superior person as a mark of respect for him or her. I did
not know if there was any particular reason for not touching the Mother feet. I
imploringly looked at the Mother, expecting support from her. Had she not
already saved me out of several awkward situations? But even the Mother let me
down this time. In fact, she seemed to approve of Didi’s objection she would not permit
me to touch her feet. I felt hurt. Have I not begun inwardly to regard her as
my mother? What does she mean by depriving a child of its natural right and
privilege to touch its mother's feet. Anyway, I quickly finished a formal
salutation from a distance and immediately thereafter I left the Mother's berth
and shifted to the berth on the opposite side.
Lest
the unpleasant episode should leave any trace of bitterness in my mind, I turned
to nature's beauty for solace. I looked at the extensive fields and the
limitless sky for the “healing touch of nature". Nature, however, failed
to assuage my aggrieved heart. The more I tried mentally to move away from the
Mother, the closer I felt drawn towards her; and this was so in spite of her
apparent apathy. It was a mystery to me. I felt distressed by these conflicting
emotions. But the cloud of my mind vanished and my heart leapt with joy when
suddenly the voice of the Mother reached my ears — "Why not come to this
bench?" I looked at her and noticed an apparently mischievous smile on her
face. I came back to the Mother and the resumed talking to me, as if nothing
had happened in the meantime. This was enough for me to forget my childish
pique.
Now I
found the Mother in a serious mood. She started with a question; "Do your
people expect you to be back home tomorrow?" I replied, "No, Ma, they
do not". "That's all right", observed the Mother. I failed to
understand the implication of such a remark. Her second question was; "Is
anybody expected to receive you at the Railway Station?" I said,
"No". The Mother repeated her first remark: "That's all
right". I was unpleasantly surprised because a repetition of the same
remark seemed to confirm her apparently unsympathetic attitude. A mother who attracts and repels,
alternatively, seemed an enigma to me. Indeed, her “That's all right"
remained a mystery to me for the time being. Within a few minutes, however, I
discovered that it had a deep significance for my future life.
The
train stopped at Allahabad, the Mother's destination. I was about to bid her
good-bye, when she said in East Bengal accent "Lamo” (get down). I was puzzled. I did not follow as to who
was being addressed. The Mother smilingly
looked
at me and said, with a strong accent in East Bengal style, "Laimya paro
(do get down" ). Didi explained to me that a lower berth from Allahabad to
Calcutta had already been reserved for me by the next convenient train and that
I was to break my journey at Allahabad for a few hours. All this had been
inspired by the Mother and arranged by Didi without my knowledge. I helplessly
saw my luggage being carried to the platform by two bright-looking boys who had
come to receive the Mother at the Railway Station. I got down, as desired. I
had no option in the matter. The Mother asked me to get into her car. I did so
and sat by her side. Our destination was the confluence of the Ganga and the
Jamuna.
Ardha
Kumbha Mela, a periodical congregation of saints and sages, was going on there.
The "Ma Anandamayi Camp" consisting of a large number of tents, had
been set up for the occasion under the supervision of Dr. Pannalal, I. C. S.,
since
deceased.
The assembly of holy men in the sacred place on that auspicious occasion was a
sight for the gods to see. I stayed at Allahabad as the Mother's guest for
about eight hours. She introduced me to Dr. Pannalal, who treated me with
paternal care and accommodated me in his own tent. Then he told me in detail
his rich experience of spiritual pursuits and read out portions of his book 'Ma
Anandamayi". Suddenly Dr. Pannalal stopped and took me to the dining place
where we had prasada. The food served there was more delicious than any I had
ever tasted. What added to its charm was the fact that the Mother herself
served one of the items and smilingly told me that I should not feel shy nor
hesitate to ask for more if I wished. Her hospitality was unexcelled. It deeply
touched my heart.
After prasad Dr. Pannalal again took me to
his tent and enlightened me on certain points raised by me. He genuinely tried
to be helpful to me, From his experience he warned me against a strictly
rationalistic approach and advised me that in the spiritual field there was no
alternative to faith. Though not fully convinced by his argument, I was touched
by the ring of sincerity in his words which seemed to carry conviction. His
views were supported by some elderly devotees, benefited by their long
association with the Mother. I was much impressed by the narration of the
experience of these venerable persons as recipients of the Mother's grace. It
set me thinking from a new point of view.
Commencing
from my entry into a ladies' compartment, followed by my vision of Puri in
dreams, a series of "coincidences" occurred, each preparing my mind
for the climax yet to follow. The time
for my departure was drawing nigh. The sun was sinking down to rest on
Ganga-Jamuna's breast. Its mellowed
rays were reflected on the Mother as
She was proceeding from her tent to ours.
Her face, as I had seen it at dawn, had been charming; what I saw at
dusk was majestic.
The
Mother came right up to me and blessed me by touching me. Then She uttered
certain words which touched my soul. These words are too sacred to be repeated
and too personal to be disclosed. They shook the foundation of my so-called
rationalism. They showed me light and kindled in me a new type of spiritual
aspiration. My initiation, treated
under the cold shade of neglect since 1928, was revitalised. I became inspired
to be true to the Mahatma who had given me initiation. I realized, for the first time, that I
should have at least made an honest experiment on the path shown by him instead
of rejecting it straight away. The Mother's glance at me filled my heart with
regret for opportunities lost in the past and with hope for a bright prospect
in the future. Better late than never -
this was the soul-stirring message I received from the Mother. And this was the beginning of a new chapter
in my life.*
* This
article is based on the writer's diary published in Bengali in Volume I' of
Ananda Varta about twenty-five years ago.