Among the Not So Great

Bihari-Da

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Emily Dickinson

Long I nurtured the thought of writing on Bihari-da. I had in mind just his silent and simple way of life, and a chance hearing of a comment made by the Mother and lastly a second-hand appreciation of his Bengali poems (some of them rendered into songs). I say ‘second-hand’ for I cannot read Bengali, so cannot comment on anyone’s writing in that language. But some Bengali friends assured me that they (poems) were of a very high order. What really nagged me was the Mother’s comment. She said: “He (Bihari) is one who has never troubled me!” It would seem, at first hearing, an innocent and a common enough remark. But its echo, and a wee bit deeper thinking should stun us by the mountain of meaning it carries. How many of us can claim this remark from Her? Moreover he never claimed it. She showered it on him. So, I thought that there must be some beauty of a butterfly wrapped in that cocoon of simplicity and silence. It was at first difficult to unwrap this cocoon. Not many knew much more about Bihari-da than I did, i.e. the outer wrapping. Even his close associates said: “Bihari-da to nijer shambandhe kichcchu boleyi ni.” (Bihari-da never talked about himself.) Only when I met Vishwajit, his friend, neighbour and “tormentor”, did I glean a little something. Then I came across a diary of his (Bihari-da’s). That was a great windfall — or so I thought.

I will try to do justice to this old friend — as far as I can — and leave the rest for each reader to find out for her/himself as to who Bihari-da was. How far had he gone? where is he now? With these questions in mind I will quote later some pages from his diary (without corrections even in the spellings or constructions).

Now to get on with the story of Bihari-da. I begin at the beginning. Beharilal Barua was born into, it would seem, a poorish family in Chittagong (Chottogram — now in Bangladesh) in a town called Mukutnait on 29th of March 1909. (It is interesting that on the same date a few years later the Mother met Sri Aurobindo for the first time.)

Bihari-da in his early youth was not very spiritually inclined nor did he know about Sri Aurobindo. He was somewhat mixed up with a revolutionary group of young people. He did not take a very active part. The group was led by Manmohan Dutta. They were some of those involved in the famous “Chittagong Armoury Raid”. (Biharida had already reached Pondy when the raid took place.) Manmohan Dutta’s brother was Bihari-da’s teacher. It was he who introduced Bihari-da to Sri Aurobindo. He would take Bihari-da home and show him some books, talk about Sri Aurobindo. The seeds were sown. To get to the study circle that had some books by Sri Aurobindo, Bihari-da had sometimes to foot it over two hills (wooded) to reach it and then walk back after dark.

Bihari-da was in touch with the Ashram from the age of 16. He wrote to Sri Aurobindo and received the replies through Barin-da (Sri Aurobindo’s brother). But soon enough he felt the urge to leave everything (friends, family, etc.) and come to Pondy. This was around the year 1929. The Mother had by now taken charge of the Ashram, Sri Aurobindo had retired (1926), and Nolini-da was the secretary. Bihari-da wrote to the Mother about his intention of leaving home and family and seeking permission to join the Ashram. He was told through Nolini-da that he should take the consent of his guardian and then only come here. Bihari-da on the pretext of going to Calcutta for a few days to seek a job (that’s what he told his parents) boarded a train straight for Pondicherry as destination and destiny. He did not even wait for the permission.

Bihari-da arrived on 31st of July 1929, early morning, at the Pondicherry Railway station — 15 days ahead of the August Darshan. There was none to receive him. He looked around and saw a strange-looking contraption on 4 wheels. He discovered it was a “pousse-pousse” (French for “push-push”), a local version of a rickshaw. It was shaped more or less like a rickshaw — a bit more commodious. The two front wheels were smaller than the two behind. The axle of the front two swivelled by means of a long curved handle held by the passenger. The motive force was a man behind the body of the vehicle, who just leaned his weight against a thick bar (often a beautiful brass one). The man could take it easy, close his eyes and leave to the passenger the bother of manoeuvring and safely reaching the address. These, alas, are things of the past. (There were hardly any faster vehicles to be met with — even bicycles were a rarity. Only bullock carts were a threat, I suppose). In the late 40s there were still 4 or 5 pousse-pousses around, mostly owned by the well-to-do. Then came the “front-wheel-drive” version (man as motive force) which pushed out of existence the “push-push”, that was itself pushed out by the cycle-rickshaw now in turn threatened by the “auto-rickshaw”. The craze for speed, a fast life-style, advancing technology seem to be the causes of all these extinctions. Now to come back to Bihari-da. He talked to the pousse-pousse-walla — who talked to Bihari-da who understood nothing, but sat in the vehicle and took the “Danda” (as he recounted) into his hand. The vehicle moved forward and Bihari-da was on his way. I don’t know who directed the carriage to its destination — Ashram — but Bihari-da did arrive.

Bihari-da met Jotin-da — another native of Chittagong — who took him in, gave him a meal and took him to Barin-da. Jotin-da was then (and till his last days) incharge of the Garden Service. Barin-da arranged for Bihari-da to meet the Mother.

What did Bihari-da feel or experience when he saw the Mother for the first time? When asked, he was silent for a while, seemed to hesitate. Then he said that his mind was transported very high, very deep. His eyes were flooded by Her beauty — a Beauty he never imagined existed in this world. He had a similar experience when he met Sri Aurobindo (15th August 1929). I say “met” for, those fortunate 50-60 sadhaks were allowed, in those early days, to approach Him, to touch His feet. He would bless them too, placing His hand on the head. They could drown themselves in the flood of love and grace for an eternity of 3-4 minutes! Bhagirath must have done so in the days of yore when Ganga flowed down the matted locks of Shiva.

Bihari-da was given work in the garden under Jotin-da. He was later transferred to the kitchen under Dyuman-bhai. The kitchen was situated where the “Cold Room” is now (near Prosperity). The food was cooked by a maid. Bihari-da put the food into dishes and brought them to the “Dining Room” which was a tiled-roof shanty. It stood where the Samadhi is now. The sadhaks then ate here. The Mother moved about, unaccompanied, seeing to this or that other work or to see one of the sadhaks. She walked amongst them even when the Dining Room was shifted to its present premises.

I first saw Bihari-da, as did most others, in the Dining Room, getting ready to wash bananas on the verandah (eastern side of the front garden). Bihari-da looked very much like a character out of an old Bengali film, a common working villager. He was of an average height, well built, somewhat of a dark complexion. The features were neatly fashioned — rather a handsome man I would opine. He sported a well-trimmed thick moustache and never a bristly chin. The hair was worn in a neat-cut-bob, always well-oiled and combed down — remarkable was its glossy blackness. The grey hairs, — a few grew so much later — I saw only in a photograph. More remarkable were the eyes — soft and kind, they lent a glow to his face. They seemed to gaze far away, or was it at a deep calm within him! — it is hard to say. Maybe it is all the same — looking far away or deep within. The man never seemed to change! — his body, face, his moods, his age, and, come to think of it, even his dress. The route to and from his work and the work itself were as unchanging as he. He could be seen with unfailing regularity walking down to the Dining Room every morning at 3.45 a.m. He was the first to arrive, come rain come storm. He was for a time Ravindraji’s boss — if Bihari-da could ever be called a “boss” — and reproached him (Ravindraji) for coming only 15 minutes before the appointed time! His work was ‘for ever’ washing bananas and for a while serving at the counter. His dress was for ever a white dhoti worn high (like Bula-da — a working type) topped by an Albert-da haute-couture sleeved banian. The only change was for working purposes — i.e. a pair of oversized dark blue drawers pulled over the dhoti during banana cleaning, a blue beret-like cap and apron while serving. These were necessary — especially the cap — which I believe was a compulsory item for all cooks, bakers and servers — more compulsory for those with long hair. I believe too that this simple rule was enforced by the Mother for purely hygienic reasons. It would seem no such enforcement or Force exists nowadays — or has taken a back seat (I hope fickle fashion has not taken the front seat). Washing bananas was no mean or easy job. He did it for 50 or more years. Nothing deterred him — cold, rain, even illness (we may note that nothing deterred the consumers). The work was demanding. In the mid 70s Mahesh Sharma joined him as a helper. He considered it a great privilege and honour. Also it was for him an invaluable introduction to and a salubrious lesson for life here. The work meant simply keeping ready on any given day, 15,000 bananas for a rotation of 3 days, i.e. for a consumption of 5,000/day! The bananas had to be cut from the bunches, cleaned, counted and arranged in trays. The trays had to be lifted on to shelves. They would then be “fired” — a smoky fire was lit in the closed room, and the warm smoke helped the fruit to ripen. Bihari-da was the boss — with a difference. He believed that the Mother did appoint an “in-charge” but not a “superior”. He (in-charge) had his work chalked out — to organise, arrange the day’s work and report to Her the progress, and any matter pertaining to the work. He also said that the Mother had given a great “freedom” to the workers and She never wanted them to feel they were walking a tight-rope. Bihari-da never asked his helpers about their absence (or sense or even nonsense). If none turned up he carried on alone. Mahesh, all admiration for him, avows, “We of half his years, were no match for him in endurance or output and performance. His body was like a spring. He was so palpably dedicated, conscious and so calm — he commanded our respect.” He added with a rueful smile that lifted his moustache an inch or so: “Gone Bihari-da, so gone are good bananas!” As he warmed up to the subject he said with feeling and conviction: “You name a good quality and Bihari-da had it!”

Bihari-da had a very puzzling bit of routine that he enacted every evening. He never joined our Physical Education, but at about 7.15 p.m. he would come to the Playground and hunker down, leaning his back against a pillar of the old verandah (it does not exist any more. It was demolished to make place for our New Gym.). He talked to no one — just kept looking in front. When the Group H dispersed after the concentration, he would get up and walk away. He didn’t seem to be interested in the “Old Men’s Marching”. So, what brought him there? I can only guess, at this distant date (for I never asked him then), that he saw something that I and most others around didn’t or couldn’t. Or, at least he was filled with a “feeling”. I would take a short diversion in this connection. Sisir-da, our late Headmaster, did the same. He too came and spent the H-Group “Marching time” in the Playground. Like Bihari-da he too was not very interested in physical activities. Unlike Bihari-da he had old comrades with whom he could, and did, indulge in some conversation. I asked why he came. He replied “Nolinibabu bolechhen ashte.” (Nolini-babu has told me to come.) That was reason enough for him, and now, for me too. This may help explain Bihari-da’s puzzling behaviour.

Let us now approach Vishwajit for what he has to say about Bihari-da. They were great friends though of different eras — but sages don’t worry about ages. Vishwajit’s opening remark was “Oh! Bihari-da ek bodo jogi chhilo, ar pondito chhilo.” (Bihari-da was a great yogi and also a pundit). Many knew that Bihari-da was a poet. He had written hundreds of poems in Bengali. But I was surprised to learn that he had translated Sri Aurobindo’s poem ‘Jivanmukta’ into Bengali way back in 1934! (see pp. 137-39) Sri Aurobindo’s poem was published in 1934 in a book titled Six Poems of Sri Aurobindo. He also knew Sanskrit and picked up some Urdu from his friend Prashanto.

Vishwajit tried his level best to ruffle Bihari-da’s calm or rouse his ire — all to no avail — except once when he fed him a well cooked dish of pork, camouflaged with plenty of masala. Both Bihari-da and his ever-close friend Prashanto (a Muslim by birth — decreed never to touch pork) ate it. The feast over, when the real nature of the dish was revealed, Bihari-da was a bit upset, but not so Prashanto, who took it in his stride or more appropriately into his stomach. He even teased Bihari-da, pouring salt into the fresh wound.

Bihari-da hardly ever fell ill, had no use for medicines. If he did feel out of sorts, he would fast himself back to health and/or consciously work on the illness to get rid of it. (Only once did I know him to submit himself to a doctor’s attention — he was operated on for a cataract at JIPMER.) Maybe his regular habits, simple living, and more importantly, a clean, sound mind uncluttered by negative thoughts, all helped keep him in good health. He does mention in his diary about a chest pain. He did not attribute it to a heart condition, but to some subtler or higher reasons.

Bihari-da’s life, it would seem to all appearances, was most ordinary and simple — no ups and downs, no bright and colourful happy times alternating with sad dreary days. One might even conclude that it was quite uninteresting or, at best, the most interesting facet to be the very simplicity and drabness and commonness. But, behind this façade or under this surface ran a much more meaningful adventurous, even extraordinary current of life. His mind and spirit seemed to be ever trying, experimenting and moving on untrodden ways to discover greater possibilities in this life of yoga. It is difficult for me without much such experience, to analyse, comment or criticise and judge what Bihari-da achieved or attained. Normally we believe only what we want to. Each one judges according to one’s own capacity (of mind). I dare suggest that each one’s judgement of others could be his/her yardstick to measure oneself. So — I choose rather to quote from Bihari-da’s diary and let each reader’s mind take over. He himself never spoke to others about these, his inner deeper thoughts. He probably kept these notes and records for his own benefit or use.