My Savitri work with the Mother

01 May 1960

Now came 1St May 1960. It was a Sunday. Sudha and I headed for Hyde Park. A profusion of flowers greeted us: tulips, ablaze with colours ranging from deepest scarlet to pure white. There were Rhododendrons, Azaleas, Lupins, Snow¬drops, Daffodils, Crocuses white and mauve. They stirred in the gentle breeze. Primroses spilled their luscious beauty. Butterflies of every hue and shape clung to the blooms sucking their nectar. The larks sang joyously. Nature awoke to a new life. I lost my heart to this enchantment. Everything seemed hopeful. Now, recalling that lovely scene, these verses from Savitri Book Four cross my mind:

Then Spring, an ardent lover, leaped through leaves
And caught the earth-bride in his eager clasp;
His advent was a fire of irised hues,
His arms were a circle of the arrival of joy. ||93.23||

Sudha and I sat on a bench near a pond, and tossed pieces of biscuits we had brought with us into the water, watching the charming swans and other water-birds snap at them. Then suddenly we remembered our teachers who had taught us flower-making. They had asked us to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum to see the Seventeenth-Century silk flowers and an Eighteenth-Century French posy; also a Victorian flower necklet, from 1870. We went there. It took some time to locate them. Meanwhile we saw many interesting things.

The Seventeenth-Century spray of silk violets and snow-drops was a piece of art. We wondered who had worn it! Then there was the Eighteenth-Century French posy which was made in a complicated and intricate way. It was meant to be worn on a wedding-dress. Finally we saw the charming necklet. The white satin ribbon forming the necklet was a perfect background for the cloth flowers in their exquisite colours of fuchsias, sunflowers, daisies and pansies.

We emerged from the museum and looked up. Dusk had just fallen—everything was misty blue, mysterious, yet glowing. The twilight was entrancing when the sky was still undarkened and the street lights were lit. We wished each other good night and parted.

The following morning once again I picked up the threads of my life's pattern—colleges, lessons, errands and my bed-sitter. I took the Central Line from Holland Park to reach my college. There was no need to change the tube train. Moreover I had bought the pass, so it was easy to travel to and from the colleges. After our classes Ursula, my German friend, and I peeped into shop-windows as we walked. We admired the gay spring and summer garments —displayed tastefully, artistically. Ursula said that she was going to get us two tickets for the play My Fair Lady the following Saturday. I thanked her. We took our tube trains to reach home.

Days ran out like sand. Now it was Saturday. Along with Ursula I entered a big theatre to see the play. From nowhere a dais rose slowly and was level with the huge stage. On it there were musicians with various instruments playing the tunes of the songs: "I could have danced all night...", "Lots of chocolate for me to eat..." and so on. The music was intoxicating. Then the lights went dim, the dais disappeared as the play began. We were terribly disappointed, because Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews were not taking part: others were playing their roles. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to hear the King's English with a perfect accent. This expressive language was and is my favourite. I was extremely eager to learn it more and more so that I might easily read and understand Sri Aurobindo's books—especially Savitri.

The sun had already disappeared, and the sky assumed a soft purple sheen and steadily grew darker. Before going to bed I turned the pages of the Bulletin of April 1960 which the Mother had sent me. I came across this very interesting comment the Mother had given on one of the Thoughts and Aphorisms written by Sri Aurobindo.

Hallucination is the term of Science for those irregular glimpses we still have of truths shut out from us by our preoccupation with matter; coincidence for the curious touches of the artist, in the work of that supreme and universal Intelligence which in its conscious being, as on a canvas, has planned and executed the world.

Sweet Mother, what does "artist" represent here?

Sri Aurobindo here compares the work of the Supreme Lord, creator of the universe, to the work of an artist who would paint, with great strokes of brush, the picture of the world in his conscious being as on a canvas. And when by the fact of a 'curious technique' he superimposes two strokes of brush, that makes a 'coincidence. '

Generally the word 'coincidence 'suggests the idea of an unconscious meaningless chance. Sri Aurobindo wants to make us understand that chance and unconsciousness have nothing to do with this phenomenon; on the contrary, it is the result of a refined taste and consciousness such as artists possess and it can reveal a deep intention.

I rose from my chair, opened the window and looked at the garden strangely lit by the crescent moon. The sky was cloudless and star-spangled. There was a warm breath of spring air. Indeed the Supreme Lord was the perfect Artist who had created the whole Universe. I fell into a dreamy contemplative mood when I pulled the covers of my bed over me and switched off the table-lamp. A few minutes later I slid into a welcome oblivion.

Spring merged into summer, but still there was crispness in the air. The days were slowly growing longer, warmer and brighter. I was longing to get back to India. My studies folded up sooner than expected. The courses of flower-making, bead-work, drawing and painting were about to close. The examinations in LTC were near. I was busy with my work. Days flew quickly. I started preparing to leave England.

One day an Indian gentleman from Nairobi whom I had met at East Africa House ran into me. He greeted me and insisted that I should take coffee with him. We entered one of the coffee bars and sat in a far corner. He ordered Espressos. We sipped the beverage. Meanwhile he asked me: "Where did you disappear? Of late I haven't seen you around Marble Arch with your friends." I said: "I changed far too many places—that is why." Then he asked me about my studies and about my leaving England. I satisfied his queries, and inquired about his studies. He laughed and said: "Oh, in Lincoln's Inn we eat and talk!" He sent me into a soft ripple of laughter. "What is your future plan?" he asked. I said: "As a matter of fact, I don't have any. But first I will go to East Africa to visit my parents and then to the Sri Aurobindo Ashram where I belong." He leaned forward and questioned me: "Wouldn't you like to get married and settle nicely? Will you be my companion if I propose to you? I am prepared to do my practice anywhere you prefer—here, America, East Africa, except India." His astounding proposition robbed me of speech. I was terribly embarrassed. Still I was silent. A wave of desire to say "Yes" to the gentleman was rising higher and still higher and just about to sink me. In the meantime I felt in the depths of my heart the flame of aspiration steady and sweetly warm which gave me comfort and courage, reminding me of my supreme goal: the Divine.

"Have you nothing to say?" he asked, his voice deep, vibrant and caressing. His dark brown eyes held mine steadily, searchingly. Eventually I answered: "No, I am honoured by your offer. Thank you so much. But I cannot accept it, because I have given my heart and soul to the Supreme Lord who is my Companion and will be so life after life." His eyebrows rose as he remarked: "Don't be crazy. You are young—full of vitality, hopes and enthusiasm. Why do you want to waste your precious time in this fantasy and unrealisable reverie?" A sad smile hovered on my lips. I said: "You don't know my life. Now that I have made my choice I'll stick to it. Life is too complicated when one is young. But, thank God, I don't own my life." He said: "You amaze me. I like your innocence and ignorance." I said: "Thank you."

He smiled charmingly and said: "Please tell me all about the Ashram." I told him in a nutshell. He seemed impressed. I said: "When I was in my early teens I knew that I was not seeking transient sensations—momentary desires—I believed in an ideal, true and pure love that was service, devotion, unselfishness. But, alas, my mad dream never came true. I could not find my match, because my life was meant to receive the divine love which is incomparable, priceless." He said: "You give me quite a turn—you do fascinate me. You see, I wish to marry a girl for her inner quality and refined culture. I don't go in for flamboyance. You have made a deep impression on me."

I rose from the chair expressing my thanks for the coffee. He fell into step beside me after paying the bill. He said when he saw me off to the nearby tube station: "Here is my visiting card. In case you change your mind, please let me know." I took it and said: "Thank you once again. Please do come to the Ashram and meet our Divine Mother, will you?" He nodded. We parted, perhaps never to meet again.

On my way home countless thoughts whirled dizzily through my mind. Then from nowhere a small silly voice whispered: "You fool, how awful to let the first bright flame of romance flicker down to cold grey ashes!" Indeed, physical attractions were a snare. But they had no real base. Human love could never be sincere, one-pointed, true and pure.

That very night I wrote a letter to the Mother regarding the proposal and my refusal. I also wrote a letter to my friend Mrs. Saralaben Shah of Bombay:

“Never do I want to get married, never do I want to fall into that delusion. The Divine Mother wrote to me in 1956: "You are born for the Divine and you will find the Divine." This was true and will always remain true. Let the Mother's Will be done. I will make the most of my life. I know my loyalty was put to the test. But Huta will always remain Huta—the offered one.”

During my stay in the Ashram for almost four years I met with hideous difficulties both outward and inward. I was aware of hardships in the Ashram. Besides, my parents were anxious about my life as I was young. They had permitted me to get married to a person of my own choice. If any girl would have been in my place she might have succumbed to this irresistible offer from such a wonderful person, full of vivacity, versatility, virile, devastatingly attractive, rich, intelligent and so forth. He deserves these adjectives and many more. Indeed, some men are most attractive. They are well dressed, well mannered and there is something dashing and jaunty about them. I might have easily accepted the gentleman's proposal, got married and settled in London. But my soul stood its ground.