Mother’s Agenda 1965

June 30, 1965

(About a cyst)

What should be done for Sujata?

What did the doctor say?

They are going to operate on her tomorrow.

Did he say it should be cut out?

Yes, but since she mentioned it to you, it has become much smaller!

(Mother laughs and examines Sujata's cyst:) Does it still hurt?... It's better to remove it because if a small bit is left, it will start again.

But it's true, it's smaller.

(Sujata:) And it keeps getting smaller.

Tell the doctor it's getting smaller, he will see—maybe he will say we should wait a few more days?...

It's true (laughing), it's much smaller.¹

(silence)

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I saw the "eye doctor" the other day, because it was his birthday. He came (I didn't know he was a doctor: I was asked to see him for his birthday, I said yes), he came and someone must have told him I had eye troubles (!) or whatever, I don't know; so he had prepared eye drops! He came, sat down, and then I looked at him (as I look at everyone, to see). Then... he looked very surprised (Mother smiles), I don't know why, and he said very timidly, "I brought drops for you, but I don't think you need them." (Mother laughs) He looked quite surprised!

(silence)

Oh, something curious happened two nights ago. I was with Sri Aurobindo, it was in a room... oh, what a room.... Well, it was magnificent, very high-ceilinged, very large, and without anything at all in it; but it was a very large room, and there were kinds of French windows opening out on a balcony or a terrace (it overlooked a town), and those windows, from top to bottom, were a single pane of glass: it gave a magnificent light. He was there. Then for some reason or other I felt he wanted a cup of tea. So I set out in search of his cup of tea, and went through rooms, halls, even construction sites (!), looking for a cup of tea for him; and they were all large rooms—all the rooms were large—but contrary to the one in which he was, which was so clear, the others were dark. And there was a large hall which was like a dining hall, with a table and everything needed to serve meals, but dark—and also there wasn't anything left. There were people (people I know) who said, "Ah, (in a sorry tone) it's all finished"—they had finished everything, they had eaten up everything! (Mother laughs) They had swallowed up everything, there was nothing left. Finally, I found someone in a sort of kitchen down below (someone whom I won't name, I know her), who told me, "Yes, yes, I'll bring you that right now, right now!" And she brought me a pot, saying, "Here." I went off with my pot, then I felt somewhat suspicious, and once outside, I lifted the lid... and the first thing I see is earth! Red earth. I scratched off the red earth with my fingers, and underneath (laughing), there was a slice of bread!

Anyway, there was a lot like that, I had all sorts of adventures. Then I looked to see if Sri Aurobindo really needed his cup of tea... because it seemed so difficult! I saw him, there was that wonderful French window, so clear, and then as if recessed into the wall (I don't know) a sort of platform couch, a place to sit, but it was very pretty, and he was seated or half-reclining on it, and

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very comfortable. And there was a boy (or a boy had come to ask him something), and there were kinds of stairs leading up to the couch; the boy was reclining on the stairs, asking questions, and Sri Aurobindo was explaining something. I recognized the boy.... I thought, "Ah, (laughing) he's no longer thinking of his cup of tea, fortunately!" Then I woke up. But I thought, "If this is how he sees us..." having gobbled up everything, you understand.

But a few years ago you told me an almost identical vision in which you were also in search of food for Sri Aurobindo, and you couldn't find anything: the people who were supposed to prepare it hadn't prepared it or didn't know how to....²

That's it, it was the same thing.

But it was very concrete, very material, and there was a feeling that there HAD BEEN a plenitude—everything was sumptuous—but nothing was left. Everything had been eaten up. I met someone (I am not naming them, but I know them) who told me, "Oh, yes, it was a fine feast, but we have eaten everything up; there's nothing left, we have eaten everything up."

What does it mean?

I woke up—not "woke up," anyway when I came out of the vision and pondered over it in the morning, I said to myself, "Oh, if he really sees us like that, having eaten everything up!..." And I brought him a little earth in a pot!

It left me pensive for several hours.

(silence)

But he seemed to be enveloped in a very supple fabric (you know, those things peculiar to the vital, it's a special fabric that isn't woven), and it was a beautiful violet—the violet of a great power.

But the room in which he was... I still remember that sense of light, such a clear, clear light, so PURE, through the window—you could see nothing but light.

(silence)

So we've gobbled up everything.

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I didn't even know there had been feasts; I knew it only when I came into the halls. Besides I wasn't hungry and didn't want anything; I didn't feel I was lacking anything: I didn't need anything, I was happy as I was.

And it wasn't bad will at all, oh, there was a great desire to serve... (Mother laughs) but, "There's nothing left."

What's swallowing everything up like that?

I don't know....

I spoke [in the vision] to two people (who are in the Ashram) and to a few people from outside (one or two), and they really had a complete goodwill, they wanted to serve, you see, but there was nothing left. And the one who gave me the pot didn't hesitate, she said, "Yes, yes! I'll give it to you," and she came back with that! Probably unconscious herself that what she was giving me as tea was only earth—bread and red earth.

My tea, as I pictured it, was very golden—clear and golden; and I wanted to give him something with it, I don't remember what.

All this is symbolic, probably.

But...³

Before Satprem and Sujata leave, Mother again examines Sujata's cyst, concentrating:

You know, the trick (there is a trick) is to tell the cells that that's not at all what is expected of them; that, as I told you the other day, what is expected of them isn't at all to gather there into a bundle like that; that it isn't their duty to do that—you must convince them.

It's rather peculiar. It is the origin of habits, of course; they are under the impression that "This is what we have to do, this is what we have to do, this is..." (Mother turns a finger in a circle).

It's the same thing with me, but I told them. Only, one should be

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conscious of the movement, and then, very quietly but very, very confidently, very confidently, you tell them as you would children, "No, it's not your duty to do this; this isn't your duty."

All chronic illnesses come from that. There may be an accident (something happens, an accident) and then there is a sort of submissive and unconscious goodwill that causes the effect of the accident to be repeated: "We must repeat, we must repeat, we must repeat that..." (gesture in a circle). And it stops only if a consciousness is in contact with the cells and can make them understand that "No, in this case, you mustn't go on repeating!" (Mother laughs)

There are cases in which this power of repetition is extremely useful. I even think that this is what gives stability to the form, otherwise we would change form or appearance, or we would liquefy.

That's what works for durability.

There is this habit of repetition, and then the sense of a fatality. For instance, if you receive a blow or something goes wrong, immediately there is that sense of fatality: "Ah, now it's like that, now it's like that..." (same circular gesture). So here also (all this is going on in the consciousness of the cells), here also you must tell them: "No! It's not irremediable: if you do like this (for instance, something that has been accidentally twisted), if you have the movement in the opposite direction, it will be remediable."

It's not brilliant displays of will or powers at all, it's not that: it's a very, very quiet persuasive power—exerted very gently but very confidently and very persistently.

None of the vital things work—they have a momentary effect, then it's over.

Oh, it's very interesting.

But one has to be very modest to do this work, with no liking for brilliant displays—very modest. And very quiet.

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