Devotion becomes a magnet

When friends become enemies, this is what happens. Both of them were very well educated. I was at that time eighteen or nineteen years old, and they were on the wrong side of fifty.

My music teacher would not give me his harmonium to play if he felt that I had not conveyed his message to his enemy properly. For a week he would not allow me to use his harmonium. He would say, “No, you did not convey my message properly!”

When I became famous in America, this music teacher said, “I taught you how to play harmonium. I taught you songs. You have to give me absolutely the best harmonium from Calcutta!” I gave him the money to buy absolutely the best harmonium.

The English teacher was very kind and devoted to me. My brother went to see him when he was quite old. He asked, “How is Madal doing?”

“Oh, he is fine. Would you like to have some grapes?”

“All right, let me try.” One grape Chitta put into his mouth, and then the English teacher said, “Madal.” Then Chitta gave him a second grape and a third grape. Each time my brother Chitta put a grape into his mouth, he would utter my name. After he got the fifth grape, he passed away.

This is life.

They felt something in me

Mr. Mehrotra himself would give talks on Buddhism. Yvonne, his secretary from Jamaica, West Indies, gave me his talks to read. He said that I had to see them to make some suggestions. If I only flattered him and said they were very nice, he would not be satisfied. Such kindness Mr. Mehrotra had!

Mr. Mehrotra gave me the job. And when I applied for a green card, how he wrote about me. In absolutely flowing English he said how much I would be able to contribute to America and India.

That was one aspect of the treatment I received at the Consulate: kindness and compassion. Another aspect was that they felt something in me; they knew what I had in my eyes.

My friends at the Consulate used to cut jokes, but they also said such nice things about me. One lady, Mrs. Coutinhoe, was very short. Her husband was a friend of someone who has become my disciple. She used to stand up to fight for me when others were cutting jokes! They all had tremendous, tremendous love for me, including Mr. Ramamoorthy, Shivaram and others.

My sectional boss was named Krishan. Years later I gave a concert in Toronto. I came off the stage, and somebody followed me. It was this gentleman. He is much taller than me. He stood right in front of me and fell down at my feet. I recognised him and said, “What are you doing? What are you doing? You were my boss!”

He said, “Yes, Ghose, we knew you, we knew who you were, but at that time we were not in a position to fall at your feet.” Then his wife also fell at my feet. He knew who I was when I was at the Consulate, but at that time I was a worker and he was the sectional boss.

Another boss was a Bengali named A.K. Mukherjee. Such affection he lavished on me! Once he said in front of everybody, “Ghose does not know how far he will go. God knows, only God knows how far he will go. Ghose does not know anything about it.” At his farewell party, there were about fifteen or sixteen people. He and his wife had invited their very close friends. I had never seen his wife before. We all went there, all the workers. To others his wife did not fold her hands, but with folded hands she started talking to me. Then she gave me something to eat first, before the others. She had heard from her husband who I was. For the sectional boss’s wife to approach me with folded hands!

Mr. Mehrotra was kinder than the kindest. His wife was reserved. Their daughter Aparna used to come to the Consulate only to cry. She was three or four years old. At Mr. Mehrotra’s farewell time, we went to a party at their place. A maid served everybody. A few years later Mr. Mehrotra became the Consul General in California, and they invited me to their place. At that time we went to Dipti Nivas, our disciples’ restaurant. Both of them were facing me, and I did a very beautiful painting which I gave to them. When we met with them in Sri Lanka a few years after that, Mr. Mehrotra’s wife was acting like my sister. They definitely saw something in my eyes, in my face, in my movements, both of them.

Only one book at a time you could take from the Consulate library. They had many, many books. But the librarian used to give me three or four books, or even more, every week. He said, “Every rule has an exception.” He was a Gujarati. He wanted me to become his assistant, but it did not work out.

I had no complaints against my colleagues at the Consulate! All of them were very kind and very affectionate. The two bodyguards were so affectionate, and they were such jokers!

Mr. Ramamoorthy had a friend who passed away recently. That friend brought me to Hicksville High School to give a talk on Hinduism. I could not believe how nicely those high school students behaved! In India, high school students can be notorious. Perhaps here also it is true.

I had very good friends, very good. At that time I was living in Brooklyn, on New Utrecht Avenue. It used to take me an hour to go to the Consulate — three trains I had to take.

Four of us friends went there by car. Two of us were from Brooklyn and two from Manhattan. At that time I was living in Brooklyn, on New Utrecht Avenue. It used to take me an hour to go to the Consulate — three trains I had to take. The horse race was in Queens. All night they were trying to make money in horse races. I spent only three dollars. My friends were going on and going on. I was only waiting for them. There was no joy for me.

On the way back, it was early in the morning. The owner of the car decided he would go to Manhattan first. One hundred or two hundred metres before the Midtown Tunnel, believe it or not, one, two, three, four — all the tires burst at the same time! It was difficult to control the car. I said to myself, “O God! It is karma, karma, karma. Why did I join them?” It was the worst possible experience!

Our Shivaram had tremendous interest in horse races. He was a mathematician. He would buy a special newspaper that would say which horses had possibility. He checked this newspaper with his great mathematician-brain. How many times he wagered, God alone knows. And how many times he won, that is a top secret! Again, shamelessly, with no wisdom, three or four friends of mine, when they got their salary on the first of every month, used to go to wager. They wanted to become very, very rich. Most of the time they lost. But when they won, they bragged and bragged and bragged!

Every month when we used to get our salary, five of us from our department would go to eat at an Indian restaurant. We felt that we were very rich on that day.

After six months or eight months of working at the Consulate, I developed a peculiar idea. I think I was getting the lowest salary. We were seven or eight in the same section, the Passport-Visa section. I used to buy ice cream or something else for everyone to eat. Mr. Ramamoorthy can confirm that it is true! I used to give it to them personally. I did it during the first year, or the second year. I used to give them personally something to eat, once a week. That was my self-imposed job. Every Friday I did it. I remember.

And where did I eat? Lunch was across the street, where an old man sold ice cream. I liked the kind that was coconut-flavoured. Sometimes when I felt that I was rich, I had popcorn. Then I would go downstairs to chat a little bit with Ananda Mohan and his boss, Nirmal Singh. That boss was so kind. He had something to say about my Hinduism and I had something to say about his Sikhism. He was so fond of me. When I went there, he would stop working only to have an affectionate chat with me. Then I used to joke with him. Ananda Mohan saw this. His boss was so serious with others! But when I was there, his seriousness used to disappear and he chatted with me, all about Hinduism and Sikhism. This is how we talked.

I have so many juicy stories! From time to time if I remember my Indian Consulate stories, I shall tell you.

One sectional boss was named Menon. He was a South Indian. He was very, very kind to me. He was the first one to whom I gave my refreshments once a week. I used to go to the post office at Bloomingdale’s. At 4:00 I would stand in front of him and say, “Sir, I am leaving for the post office.” He would give me a smile. He was so kind, so affectionate. Now he lives in New York. He says he has such tremendous love and admiration for me, but spirituality is not meant for him. If he does not come to see me, I can go one day to his place with Mr. Ramamoorthy. How kind, how affectionate he was!

Indira Gandhi came twice to the Indian Consulate. Once I was there, and the second time I was not. When I was in India, my dearest brother-friend’s father died. His wife was so fond of me. She gave me a brand-new “Nehru jacket.” When I came to America I used that Nehru jacket. Menon once saw me wearing it. He said to me, “Ghose, Ghose, tomorrow bring that jacket. I will need it! I will go to see Indira Gandhi. She will be so pleased with me if you give me your Nehru jacket to wear.”² Luckily we were of the same size, so I gave him the jacket.

I did not have even one enemy at the Indian Consulate! They liked me; they loved me. Of course they thought I was unusual. That thought came to their mind first! But they had such love for me.

Introduced by an Indian to U Thant

I wanted to meet with Secretary-General U Thant. The Secretary-General appointed Mr. Narasimhan to interview me first. He interviewed me for ten minutes or so. He very highly appreciated me. Secretary-General U Thant again made enquiries about me, and I got high appreciation. Usually one Indian is not so inclined to speak highly of another Indian; that is our tradition. But Narasimhan said such nice things about me to the Secretary-General.

Agni, our Puerto Rican disciple, accompanied me when I met with the Secretary-General. There was no photographer, so Agni took one picture. That was our first interview. Gradually we became very close friends.

I cannot imagine that Narasimhan was able to be lifted by me! When I started lifting people, we did not have the kind of staircase that we have now. It was very old-fashioned in those days. Narasimhan was an old man, and he had so much pain in his legs. But his love for me was such that he climbed up this very old-fashioned ladder. I could not believe it! He had very sincere love and admiration for me.

Narasimhan served two Secretaries-General: U Thant and Kurt Waldheim. He wrote his memoirs. How highly and deeply he appreciated U Thant! How good U Thant was in every way! He used to invite Narasimhan quite often just to chat, and have a good supper. So many times U Thant showed such love and concern for Narasimhan.

Farewell poems at the Consulate

Farewell parties always took place on the second floor at the Indian Consulate. I had got some information about R.K. Nehru when he was the Indian Ambassador to the USA. Although he had “blessed” us with his criticism, I wrote a farewell poem about him. I went to Mr. Mehrotra and said, “I would like to show you this poem.” Mr. Mehrotra liked it so much! As usual, according to him whatever I did was very nice. Mr. Mehrotra was the master of ceremonies at the party. He gave a wonderful speech about this Ambassador. He knew so much about him.

There was a special kind of microphone. You stood in front of it and you talked. All the listeners in the whole hall would be able to hear everything. You did not need a traditional microphone. I stood there and read out the poem. The Ambassador was so moved. He was taller than the tallest and his wife was shorter than the shortest. I was quite tall in comparison to her. In front of so many people, this Hungarian lady lifted up her hand and put it on my shoulder. She said to me, “Ghose, Ghose, is this your first poem?”

I said, “No, no, Sister. I have written hundreds of poems.”

“In English?”

“Yes. My mother tongue is Bengali, but I have written also in English.”

“Oh! Such a beautiful poem! Such a beautiful poem!” In front of hundreds of people she was blessing my shoulder and saying such nice things. This was my first experience in reading out one of my poems at the Consulate.

Then came B.N. Chakravarty. He was a Bengali, very tall. He was Ambassador to the UN. The Consulate and UN Mission building was very near Central Park. One afternoon this Ambassador was in Central Park reading a newspaper. I think it was Shivaram who said to me, “He is Bengali and you are Bengali. He will be very nice to you. Go and say hello to him.”

I was quite shy and reluctant. I was a junior clerk, and he was such a great man. I went up to him. When I said, “Sir,” he put his newspaper down. “What do you want?” he said in English.

“Where do you come from? Where were you born?”

I said, “Chittagong.”

He became so upset! “Chittagong? My mother died in Chittagong at an uncivilised place! My father was stationed in Chittagong, so I was there. My mother died in Chittagong Hospital, with no proper treatment.”

Here our conversation ended. His mother died of the same disease as my mother: goitre. In America, every day people are cured of goitre. It is such a simple disease, caused by a lack of iodine. His mother died of that disease in Chittagong.

A few months later his farewell party was going to take place, in the same room on the second floor. Although he had become upset when I mentioned Chittagong, I got his resume and I wrote a poem about him. There would be one main speaker at the farewell party, and then a few others would say nice things about him.

I read out my poem. When I finished reading out my poem, tears were rolling down his cheeks. In front of everyone, he put both his hands on my shoulders. He had only tears, no words. That was B.N. Chakravarty, a pure Bengali.

Then came our Consul General S.K. Roy. He was so kind, smart and elegant. One incident I have told so many times. He was coming out of the elevator, and I was about to enter. When I saw him I ran away. In those days I could run; I did not walk! He came out of the elevator and said, “Ghose, Ghose! Am I a tiger? Am I a snake? Get in!” He commanded me to go into the elevator. He was going to one floor and I was going to another.

He had married a Muslim lady. She was well educated, very well dressed, cultured and very, very nice. Both the families were dead against the marriage, but they did not listen to their parents. After ten or twelve years his Hindu family accepted the Muslim girl, but her family could not come to that point, even though S.K. Roy had become an Ambassador and he had been Governor of Assam.

Before S.K. Roy’s farewell, his mother died. I went one Saturday to the Consulate, and one of the guards said to me, “Ghose, this morning the Consul General’s mother passed away.” I knew nothing about her, but I sat down and wrote a poem about the mother and the son. I was waiting for the Consul General to come down. In an hour or so he came down. He was, as usual, in a hurry. He did not know how to walk — he only marched or ran, with thunderous feet. Practically dancing he used to come down from the second floor. He came down and he was going away, very quickly. I said, “Sir, Sir!”

Then he turned. I said, “Sir, I just heard about your mother.” I showed him the poem, on a small piece of paper. Tears, tears, tears ran down from his eyes. He read the poem, and then he took it with him. He gave me a very sweet smile.

When his farewell time came, I wrote a very, very nice poem about him. Mr. Mehrotra was very moved. About two hundred people had gathered together. I read out my poem, and everybody heard it. Tears, tears! Indians know how to shed tears.

S.K. Roy had a desire to buy a little boat to take to India, something very cute. He had three secretaries. One of them came to all the sections to inform the workers that he wanted to have a boat, so we could collect money. Everybody gave according to his capacity or willingness. I still remember that I gave seventy dollars! In those days, for me to give so much money! I was a junior clerk; Mr. Ramamoorthy was senior to me. I gave seventy dollars. S.K. Roy was such an important person.

Then came the last poem, for my dearest one, Lakhan Mehrotra. I think that poem was preserved. Others we could not preserve. That poem I read out very beautifully — I can use the word “sonorously” — with so much strength. He deserved every word.

These were all the farewell parties in which I participated at the Indian Consulate. In those days, like now, it was not a difficult task to write poems. I was born as a poet, and I did write poems.

These are my Indian Consulate chronicles! God knows how many more there are.

If you can show a miracle

Arthur had a South Indian Guru. Before he was a police inspector, and then he became a Guru. Arthur used to tell us stories about his Guru. Some I liked very much.

Once I showed Arthur a “five-cent” miracle. One day Arthur invited my sponsor, Sammy, and me to meditate at his place. It was only two or three doors away from Sammy’s place, on the same block. I went there in the evening. At Sammy’s place, always we used to meditate with the light on. That was Sri Aurobindo’s way. Sri Aurobindo used to keep the light on. I also developed that idea. Arthur’s way was to keep the light off. When he told me stories about his Guru, I used to appreciate and appreciate his Guru. That is still my habit: to appreciate all the Gurus sincerely, while invoking God’s Blessings. I never wanted anybody to lose faith in their Master, ever. So, I spoke very highly to Arthur about his Guru.

This was the miracle, believe it or not. We were meditating with the light off. When the meditation was over, I said to Arthur, “A very, very thin lady was standing behind you and blessing you. I asked her who she was. She said she is your spiritual mother. Then I asked her more. I said, ‘What is your name, please?’ She said to me, ‘Anupama.’ The thin lady said she is your divine mother, and her name is Anupama.”

Arthur said, “How could you know that!”

I said, “I did not know it. I was not thinking of your divine mother. Believe me, I was not even thinking of your Guru, although it is your Guru’s birthday. I was thinking of my Master, Sri Aurobindo.”

It was his Guru’s birthday, and who appeared? The Guru’s wife! She was a very, very thin, dark-skinned South Indian lady.

That experience changed Arthur’s mind. Then he got me two excellent jackets, the perfect size for me. They were neither very thick nor very light. If you can show a five-cent miracle, you get this kind of treatment!

That was Arthur Gregor. He has passed away.

How many stories I can tell.

Saved by the Indian Ambassador

When I arrived in France, one man said, “You need a visa! You will not be able to enter the country.”

I said, “I have been working at the Indian Consulate. I made enquiries, and they said I did not need a visa.”

He said, “No, they gave you wrong information.”

I said to myself, “Now what am I going to do?” I was alone, and all alone I was struggling. To the official I said, “What can I do?”

He said, “You need permission. If you get permission from the Ambassador of India to the United States, then we will let you in.”

At that time I did not even know who the Ambassador was. It was not R.K. Nehru. The man who was harassing me dialed the number for me, and the Ambassador’s secretary answered the phone. I spoke to her in English. Then she said, “What is your name?”

I said, “Chinmoy Kumar Ghose.”

“Oh! You are Bengali, Bengali, Bengali! The Ambassador is Bengali! You will be able to speak to him in Bengali?”

I said, “Of course! I am Bengali.”

The Ambassador came to the phone, and I spoke to him in perfect Bengali. I told him, “This is what happened. In New York they said I did not need a visa, and now they will not allow me to enter the country.”

The Ambassador immediately spoke to the man who was harassing me. Then what happened? That fellow who had not allowed me to enter the country said, “Oh, you do not know how to wear a tie! Let me fix your tie for you!” He started fixing my tie with such love. Very kindly and affectionately he fixed my tie, because I had not done a good job.

These so-called cock-and-bull stories are absolutely one hundred per cent true.

Shopping on Madison Avenue

I said, “The price has to go down!”

The man in the store said, “No, no, no, no! We forgot to change it.” They found in me someone to fool, so the price went up instead of going down.

Another time I went to a store to buy a tape recorder. The shopkeeper was selling it for a particular price, but then he took away one part and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you — this is a separate thing. There is an extra charge.” First he was prepared to sell it at one price, and then he said he forgot to charge me for something. He took out some part — a battery or something. Twice he did it! Then I said, “I do not want to buy this!” At that time he came down to the original price, with everything included.

How helpless I looked. He took something out and said he had not charged me for that, so I had to pay for it. Then, when I said, “I am not going to buy it,” he put the part back in and said, “Take it, take it!”

Winter was unbearable

An Ashramite who was lame came to America. He came here for an operation, and luckily the operation was most successful. He stayed in New Jersey, and I went to see him there. I was so nice to him, and he was so nice to me! He liked me when I was in Pondicherry, but when he went home from America I heard that he found fault with me.

On the day that I visited him in New Jersey, I did not have a proper coat. I was standing at a bus stand at around eleven o’clock at night to go home. The cold was so severe. I could never imagine such cold in Pondicherry, which is such a warm place! My feet were suffering so much! Even when I came back home, I was shivering and shivering.

When I was waiting and waiting for the bus, the snow was so severe! I will never forget that experience. In front of a tree, all my problems started. I fell down so badly in the snow. Something went wrong. At that time I had no disciple-doctors — they had not yet been born in my life. I suffered so much, so much. I did not have the money to go to a doctor; I did not have anything. For about two years I suffered.

I had to go to Canada. On the plane I could not sit properly, because of my pain, so my body was slanting. In Canada, Gariyasi was talking to me and I was also talking. I stood against the wall. I did not have the heart to tell her that I was suffering so much. We were talking face-to-face, but I was leaning against the wall, standing there. My body was not functioning properly. I could not sit properly. Such pain! Sometimes while breathing in I got pain, and while breathing out I got pain. What was I going to do? I suffered so much when I fell down right at the foot of the tree.

Winter was unbearable, unbearable!

After five years I went to India. Can you imagine, that man invited me to come and see him! I remained above everything. I did not have the heart to mention that he had found fault with me. He sent his servant to bring me to his place, and I went to see him very nicely. Then he said to me, “When I came back to the Ashram after my visit to America, I said such nice things about you!”

On my birthday, the Mother used to send me a beautiful, beautiful card. I think it was the following year after I fell down, perhaps, that she sent me a card with her writing: “À Chinmoy, avec mes bénédictions,”² in French. She wrote it beautifully. She also wrote, “Chinmoy, my love and I shall be with you wherever you are” — not “my heart,” but “my love and I shall be with you wherever you are.”

Greenwich Village

I said, “No, I am not in trouble.”

“No, I can see you are in trouble. Who has come to meet you?”

I said, “My sponsors are waiting.”

This Indian saw that I was only looking around to see which way to come out. He was kind enough to bring me right to my sponsors. That was my first experience in America!

My sponsors were very, very happy. They lived in Greenwich Village, and they gave me their living room to stay in. Early in the morning, very early, I used to look at their statue of the Lord Buddha. It was so huge! I used to meditate, seated on a sofa, every morning.

I had so many conversations with that Lord Buddha statue. We developed such friendship and oneness. Now they have taken that Lord Buddha to Matagiri in Woodstock. Matagiri is their shrine. Very nicely they have kept it. Every time I went to visit Sammy and Eric in Woodstock, what did I do? At the end of our marathon conversation, I would go and bow to the Lord Buddha. And every time I used to give the Lord Buddha an envelope with one thousand dollars. I also gave them at least three hundred dollars’ worth of groceries. Vinaya would bring bag after bag of food and put it on the kitchen table.

One day I created a problem for my sponsor. They say that Greenwich Village is all day. There is no night there; it is all day. At three o’clock in the morning, all the shops are open! At that hour I went out. When I came back, I made a loud noise with the door. My sponsor said, “What are you doing?”

I said, “It was so illumined that I went out. The stores are all open.”

“Oh, do not do that, do not do that! There are so many bad people in the street in Greenwich Village.”

I went out and enjoyed seeing everything, because it was all light and the stores were all open. That was my Greenwich Village experience!

I had another funny experience. People were selling their artwork in the street. I was browsing and browsing, and I was appreciating the art. One man was so pleased with me! He asked me, “Where do you live?”

I said, “I live here, nearby.”

“What is your telephone number?”

I was so unwise! I gave him Sammy’s telephone number. I was so happy and so proud that I remembered the telephone number! When I went home, I said to Sammy, “I gave an artist your telephone number.”

“Oh no! Never give out my telephone number!” That was another early experience of mine. I have so many funny, funny stories.

One day I went to Washington Square Park. I saw somebody blowing a whistle. I was under the impression that something had gone wrong. I was looking and looking. I said to myself, “Now the police will come.” I was looking and looking so eagerly to see what was happening. Why was that man in front of a hotel blowing a whistle? Something had gone wrong. Then a taxi came. What was this? I thought that man was looking for a policeman. Instead, a taxi came. Someone entered into the taxi and drove away.

These things definitely took place in my life!

Now I have to go up to the highest

Once I went to Woodstock with this disciple and his sister. Sammy and Eric were with us. We were in a small restaurant. Beside the door was a small pool. We sat down, and somehow they came to learn that the sister’s Guru was there. They all stood up and said, “Come, come.” Sammy said to me, “We shall introduce you to him.”

I said, “No, no, no. I am not a Guru.” At that time I did not know that this man was the Guru of my disciple’s sister.

Sammy introduced me, and we shook hands. Alas, alas, alas! So many forces attacked me very nicely! Sammy, Eric and somebody else shook hands with him, and nothing happened to them, nothing! I was so uselessly receptive. I said to myself, “How could this happen?”

We did not have any paper with us at all. I took the napkin and we borrowed a lead pencil — I was famous for working with lead pencils at the Ashram! There I wrote two most sublime poems. They are both called “The Supreme.”¹ I say something, my Supreme says, “No,” and then finally He agrees. That Guru brought me down, so I said to myself, “Now I have to go up to the Highest.” I went to the Highest, and in these poems I am speaking to the Supreme. We are having face-to-face talks. Those are not my imagination-poems. They are my direct, face-to-face conversations with my Lord Supreme.

27.

The Supreme

Father, I have Seen.

Father, I have Known.

Father, I have Felt.

Father, I have Become.

Father, I AM.

```

The Supreme

Father, You are the Grace.

Father, You are the Law.

Father, You are the Birth

Death of Creation.

Father, You are the Child

Your DREAM.

```

These are my highest experiences.

These poems, plus my “Revelation,” “Immortality” and a few others, please learn.

Then you will get tremendous joy, tremendous joy.

I used to learn quite a few of Sri Aurobindo’s poems.

Once you lavish affection

My mother had two sisters. They were her younger sisters. The youngest one left behind two sons when she passed away. Her husband had passed earlier. When she left the body, those sons were teenagers. Everybody in our family loved those two brothers. They were very, very close to our family.

The older one, the hero of this story, was in between my brothers Hriday and Chitta in age. His nickname was Khudha. Khudha means “hunger.” He entered into politics and became a revolutionary. Naturally he was arrested, and he was in prison for a year. I was, I believe, two years old then. On the day he was released, he thought of me. I was the youngest in the family. He put on his suit and tie. Then he hid a tiny, cute animal for me. He put it on his head and put a hat over it. He took it from the right place — from jail! Then, so happily he came to our place.

Khudha’s younger brother, whose name was Bhuta, was innocence incarnate. He was so nice! He could jump from a very high roof, and nothing happened to him, absolutely nothing.

Khudha was extremely fond of each and every member of our family, and our family was also extremely fond of him. My parents loved him deeply.

My mother’s other sister was older than the mother of this hero. She was also very fond of Khudha. This aunt of mine, who lived for 104 years, had only one question each time I went to see her. First she would grab my hands and put them on her head, and then she would say, “Father, when am I going to die? When am I going to die?”

I said, “How can I tell when you are going to die?”

Luckily enough, during one of my visits to Pondicherry, I went to see her at around 7:30 in the evening, and as usual I blessed her. She recited three of her poems. Nobody could understand a word. She used to brag that she had written eight or ten poems in her entire life. Then, at around two o’clock in the morning, she passed away. I think she waited for my blessings.

This aunt was very, very fond of our family. Her husband was quite rich. Then he passed away. It was one of her daughters, Pushpita, to whom I showed my occult power for the first time. In an affectionate way, she wanted to kick me! I have told the whole story. She lifted up one leg and she was holding on to a pipe. Then she could not bring her leg down. Although she was very, very fond of me, she could not recognise me when I spent half an hour with her the last time I saw her. Three weeks later she wanted to know why I was not sending her a photograph from my visit with her! She had been silent, in a coma, and then she remembered me. She was very, very kind and very, very affectionate. She died at the age of ninety-four.

To come back to the story, Khudha was a vagabond. He could not keep a job for more than three months. Wherever he went, he would be fired, fired, fired! He was a character. That aunt of mine who died at the age of 104 was very affectionate and compassionate to him.

It is not that Khudha was crazy. He was quite normal. He went to college, but he was a revolutionary! If somebody enjoys what we call mischievous pranks, what are you going to do? Sometimes mischief entered into his brain, so he did all kinds of things.

In our family, Hriday declared, “No marriage,” Chitta declared, “No marriage,” and Arpita declared, “No marriage.” The others were young at that time. But Khudha agreed to get married. The whole family was in the seventh Heaven of delight because he agreed to get married.

Finally the time came for Khudha to get married. The husband and wife were very happy. His wife, whose name was Jyoti, was absolutely affection incarnate in the family. She used to cook for everybody. Although we had a cook, she herself used to cook.

Once Khudha asked that aunt of ours for a large amount of money. She said, “I cannot give you that amount, but I will give you some.” Khudha wanted more money, so he decided to punish her! It was the time of the Durga Puja festival. Everybody would come to the village from the town. Usually every weekend my father used to come to the village. During the rest of the week he lived in the town. Since it was the time of the Durga Puja festival, the guards and other workers at our bank all went home. My cousin Khudha wanted to guard the bank. He was so nice, so kind, so affectionate. My father agreed that he could stay and guard the bank.

Alas, at night Khudha brought in a locksmith! Very nicely the locksmith opened up the safe. Khudha knew the things that did not belong to our family, so most of those he did not touch. Very little he took from our family, but from that old lady, our aunt, he took all her jewellery and everything else that she kept in the safe. He took those things away to punish her. How compassionate she was to him! But this was how he punished her: he took away everything of hers. He took only a little bit from our family.

My great-uncle wanted to sue Khudha, but my father said, “Oh no, I cannot, I cannot! I cannot take him to court — he is like my son. If Hriday had done this kind of thing, I could not have taken him to court. There will be no punishment for Khudha.”

Khudha’s wife, Jyoti, was so ashamed. She cried and cried. She went back to her parents’ place. My father was so kind and affectionate to her, but she said that she could not show her face to our family. She went back to her own parents.

Then Khudha decided to punish my aunt even more. He lived in a village about three miles away from our place. I went there so many times. From there he came to my aunt’s place, crying, with the message that my father had got an electric shock and died. Khudha said my father’s dead body had been taken to our village. Khudha was crying and crying!

When my aunt heard this, she believed Khudha. She came all the way, crying and weeping, to our place. When she was about eight hundred metres away, she saw our family doctor. She knew our family doctor well. The family doctor asked, “Why are you crying?”

She said, “You do not know what has happened?” Then she gave him the news about my father.

The doctor said, “No, no! Just now I saw his wife near their house, reading.” Still my aunt would not believe the doctor. She came crying, crying, crying to our house. My mother was basking in the sun and reading either the Mahabharata or the Ramayana. She used to do that when I was a little boy. When my mother wanted me to sleep, she would read out loud. When she felt that I was fast asleep, she would stop reading. But I was so naughty. I only pretended that I was fast asleep. Then, when she herself fell asleep, I ran into our garden. We had a very big garden, and from there I snatched mangoes and all kinds of fruits. After an hour or so my mother would wake up, and I was nowhere to be found. Our famous servant, whose name was Kailash, was all mischief. He was my accomplice.

To come back to the story, when my aunt reached our house, she was hysterical. She was screaming at my mother. How was it that my mother was not crying? My mother could not believe what she was saying.

At that time Khudha was fifty metres away. He came up to my mother and my aunt and showed off. He said he wanted to punish my aunt because she was not giving him enough money. What a character!

When Khudha came out of jail after his revolutionary activities, he tried to work here and there, but he was not successful. Then my father gave him money. He wanted to buy all kinds of fruits and sell them, but in that field also he was not successful. He was not successful in anything. It was beneath his dignity to work anywhere.

In spite of Khudha’s behaviour, our whole family liked him. One day he was inspired to dance. He entered into my sister’s room and took a petticoat. He started dancing and making everybody laugh and laugh! Everybody liked him.

My mother’s eldest brother was so fond of my father. When he came to learn that our bank had been robbed, he said, “O my God, how will you meet with the expenses? How will you bring up the family? How will you do it?”

My father said, “We have property, so much property! We have money. He has stolen next to nothing from us.” But my mother’s eldest brother would not believe my father. He thought that we had become very poor overnight. Alas, alas, alas! It was too much for him — he committed suicide. A train was fast approaching. People threw hotter than the hottest water to stop him, but he did not care. He jumped onto the track in front of the train and died. This was his fate.

This uncle of mine had three daughters. One daughter’s name was Shephali. She was at that time at our place. She knew what had happened. My mother was crying, weeping and practically turning somersaults with grief. It was too much for her. But who was consoling her? My cousin, Shephali. Her own father had died, and now she was consoling her father’s sister, since at that time my sisters Lily and Arpita were in Pondicherry. This was how this uncle’s life ended.

That maternal uncle was so fond of my father. He used to bring me, and my father also, three gifts of the same type. In my case, the first one I used to hold, and then perhaps I did not like it, so I threw it away. The second one I broke, because I wanted to see how it was made — I ruined it! The third one I kept.

I had a cousin who was the youngest daughter of this maternal uncle. Her name was Dipali. She was two years younger than I. One day she was crying and crying for a gold chain. Her family was not giving her a real gold chain. At that time I was nine years old and she was seven, perhaps. I said, “I will give you a gold chain.” I did not say, “When I become rich” — I said, “When I become great, I will give you one.” Everybody laughed! The story was buried in oblivion. Many years later I was in America. She had married somebody very rich and she had three or four children. At that time she reminded my sister Lily, “Madal promised me a gold chain! He has to keep his promise!” She did not need my gift, but affection is like that. I gave money to my sister, and she got a very, very nice necklace for Dipali.

Here is another incident. My father used to smoke cigarettes, but on rare occasions he smoked an Indian hookah. For two days a week, when my father was home, my poor mother could not smoke. From Friday evening until Sunday morning, she did not dare to smoke. She had such respect for my father! But she used to take lots of betel nut, and her lips became all red.

That uncle of mine never smoked. He begged and begged and begged my father to stop smoking. My father never listened to him. But then, the day my uncle committed suicide, my father said, “That is it!” My father lived for another two years or so. From that day on, he did not smoke at all. He gave up smoking. My father said, “I have to fulfil his request.”

I was very fond of going to the court. It was at the top of a hill. It was called Kachari. I went there only to see the thieves, who were chained. I had such curiosity to see the thieves and how they behaved. What a habit, or hobby!

Once, after my father passed away, I went to the court, and whom did I see? Khudha! He grabbed me with such affection and said, “Tell your mother I have no money. I am living only on potatoes. Please tell your mother to send me some money. I am living on potatoes!”

He was so much stronger than I was. What could I do? I went home and told my mother. My mother was furious! But her anger lasted only for three or four minutes. Then she started crying because he had no money. She asked me, “Did he not tell you where he lives?”

I said, “He did not tell me. He asked me only to tell you to send him some money.” My mother cried and cried. We had another servant whose name was Phani. He lived in the same village as Khudha. My mother gave Phani some money to give to Khudha.

Family, family, family! We Bengalis are made of affection.

My aunt had a daughter whose name was Vijali. She lived in Patiya, which was five miles away from our place. Her husband was so sweet, so affectionate. He was a lawyer. He used to practise in the court. One afternoon he came back from the court, climbed up a tree and remained there until the evening. He would not come down. From there he did all kinds of things. He would not come down. He was absolutely all right, but all of a sudden something happened inside his brain. Finally, at night he came down and entered into a pond. There he died. This is also our family story. He was so kind, so affectionate.

In this way our family life went on. I had no connection with Khudha after we came to Pondicherry; it was all finished.

Many, many years later, a young medical doctor was transferred from Calcutta to the Pondicherry General Hospital. At that time I was living in America. Somehow he knew that our whole family was living in the Ashram. One evening he came to our place, where my sister lived. He started shouting, “Grandmother, Grandmother, Grandmother!” Who was his grandmother? My aunt was there. He came up to her and embraced her as his grandmother. My aunt started screaming, insulting and scolding him. She said, “What are you saying? I am not your grandmother!”

He said, “Oh yes, you are my grandmother!” He proved it. He told her who he was. Then my aunt embraced him like a grandmother and completely forgave his father, Khudha. Before, she had taken an oath that she would never forgive Khudha, because of how he tortured our family, specially when he lied and said that my father had died.

How bad Khudha was! But our Bengali life is such that, no matter what someone does, once you lavish affection on him, even though he may be a scoundrel, it is very difficult to withdraw that affection. My aunt started to become very attached to this young fellow. Once a week he would come to eat at our place. Then his mother came, without even informing anyone, although one needed permission to come to the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry. She came, and her son told her where our house was. My sister Lily was so overjoyed to see her! This was our family reunion. She stayed at our place for about two months.

Now the story ends. When I was ten or eleven years old I saw Khudha for the last time. His wife, Jyoti, said that her husband was so fond of me. He used to say, “I knew all along that our Madal would be another great spiritual figure. His Guru was Aurobindo Ghosh.” Khudha never said “Sri Aurobindo.” Those revolutionaries never called him Sri Aurobindo; it was always Aurobindo Ghosh. Khudha used to talk about Aurobindo Ghosh and Madal, and he started saying that he saw how great I was when I was an infant, and so many other things. By that time I had quite a few disciples, so he knew about my life. He said, “Aurobindo Ghosh and Madal Ghose come from the same place.”

From where to where this story goes! The son of the scoundrel was able to reconcile our whole family. Khudha was absolutely notorious, but nobody lost an iota of affection for him. This was our family.

Pleasing the cosmic gods and goddesses

My dearest Ashram “mother” Mridu felt that I needed more devotion. She was shorter than the shortest, and extremely stout. I had to bend down so much for her to put a tulsi leaf in my mouth every day at twelve o’clock. Then only she felt that I would have devotion. If on rare occasions I missed her or she missed me, she would go to my sister’s place to affectionately scold our family and say how bad I was. That kind of love and concern I got from her!

Lord Shiva is very easy to please. But once he is angry with you, you are finished! He will open up his third eye, and then God knows what he will do. His third eye is so powerful. He can destroy the whole world. Again, his destruction is for our transformation. That we have to know.

Mother Kali can give in one day or in one hour the results which would otherwise take two hundred or three hundred years. But then again, to please her is extremely, extremely, extremely difficult — extremely! Once she is pleased, you can say that in the twinkling of an eye she will give you everything. But to please her is a most arduous task.

With Lord Vishnu it takes time. It is a slow process, a slow process. The Avatar of Lord Vishnu is Sri Krishna. He is always smiling, singing and dancing, but to please him is not an easy task.

Mother Lakshmi is another Goddess whom it takes time to please. It is a very slow process to please her.

Mother Saraswati is also not so easy to please. Again, it takes time.

Lord Ganesha will give you realisation, but you have to know that this does not mean the highest God-realisation. It can mean that if you have an earthly desire or a little bit of aspiration, he will fulfil it. But you have to pray to him first. Then only, if he is satisfied, they say you will be able to please others. It is a very slow process.

Mother Durga is another Goddess who is very, very difficult to please. She is very strict! Mother Kali is one of the aspects of Mother Durga. In our Chandi,² when she had to fight with all the asuras, Mother Kali came into being. She is very difficult to please; but once she is pleased, then she gives everything. In the highest world she is golden, and so beautiful. Here when she fights for us in the vital world she is dark, black.

Be happy, at least in your own way³⁰

Now I am saying, at least be happy and remain happy in your own way. At least in that way you can make a wee progress. If you are not happy at all, what can I do for you? Some disciples are with their Master, but even then they are unhappy. What can I expect from them, and what can they expect from me?

Please sing this song seriously, and please take it very, very seriously. This is my serious statement and my absolutely sincere feeling.

Your Way is the only Way; your Will is the only Will

My Lord,

I shall never be able to fool You.

Please, please do not allow my mind

My Lord,

I really want my heart

My Lord,

Your Will is the only Will.

To please You all the time

Please do not allow me,

To break my promise!

[He then made the following comments:]

When you are over fifty, you will value this prayer. Today you may not value it, if you are young. But when you are over fifty, your heart will be flooded with tears if you have not pleased God, your real Master, in His own Way. If you are pleasing, continue pleasing. If you are not pleasing, start pleasing!

Some people are fooling themselves. They feel that they are making tremendous progress in their spiritual life with their prayers, meditations, love, devotion and surrender. It may not be at all true! Again, some people think that they are hopeless and useless; their prayers are inferior, their meditations are inferior, their love, devotion and surrender have descended. It is not their modesty; it is their genuine feeling. But they may be the very ones who are making progress! Who is the culprit? In both cases it is the mind.

To one group the mind is saying, “You are excellent; you are doing extremely well.” To the other group the mind is saying, “You are doing very poorly.” The mind is either fooling you or making your life miserable. But if you use the heart, the heart will always give the true message. If you are doing well, the heart will say, “Yes, you are doing well.” If you are not doing well, the heart will tell you.

Never keep the mind as your boss, I am telling you all! This moment you may be doing absolutely the right thing, but the mind says, “You are not doing the right thing.” And when you are doing absolutely the wrong thing, the mind may say that you are doing the right thing. The doubting mind always tries to make us miserable by fooling us. We can forget about the doubting mind! But the loving heart is always kind to us, compassionate to us and one with us.

Always, for everything in life, let us ask our heart: “Am I saying the right thing? Am I doing the right thing? Are you pleased with me? Please guide me.” The heart will never fail us — never — because the heart is always in tune with God.