The Story of a Soul

09 December 1955

December 9th—on this day in 1950 the rosewood casket bearing Sri Aurobindo's body had been laid to rest in the Samadhi-vault.

The Mother in her white dress sat on a chair in the verandah downstairs, facing the Samadhi. Along with other people I sat on a mat in the space between the Mother and the Samadhi.

The scene was entrancingly peaceful. Fragrant flowers and incense scented the air. The warbling birds and cool caressing breeze were soothing. I drank in the tranquil beauty.

Then I turned back to get a glimpse of the Mother. I saw her eyes fixed on the Samadhi, contemplating it deeply and ardently.

I tried to go within myself for a while. Then my eyes suddenly opened on a most amusing and thrilling sight: two squirrels rapidly descended from the Service Tree and boldly ate some flowers they fancied upon the Samadhi—they were in a playful mood and daintily munched the flower-cores.

That night once more memories of my family awoke, and again I sank into the depths of distress. Emotion overwhelmed me, frightening me with its intensity. Attachment brought unwilling tears to my eyes.

Again my brain seethed with a jumble of thoughts. I did not feel happy about staying in Golconde for free. I had given away all my possessions; now I had no right to ask anything from my family—yet I wished to offer something to the Mother occasionally. Many a time I wondered what the future might hold for me. I felt very lonely. And I was stupid enough not to have full faith in the Mother's assurances. My mind could hardly think reasonably.

The dark forces assailed me in both repulsive and attractive forms. It was not easy for me to call for the Mother's help and to receive her response inwardly, because I became absolutely blind and deaf under the spell of those misleading influences. Nevertheless my true self aspired for the perfection of the whole being.

These sophist forces put strong suggestions into my mind that this Integral Yoga was exceedingly difficult, that I had no aptitude for it and would be hopelessly defeated, so I should give up all idea of realising the Divine. They invariably, unfailingly, showed up all my defects, using any circumstance that suited them. I believed them because I found myself in unsympathetic surroundings, and suffered from an acute sense of my deficiencies. I felt desperate and wanted to go far away. The Mother answered my letter:

I cannot keep you against your will. I only ask you not to do anything rash and to take a decision only when you are quiet.

Meanwhile you can write to your mother and tell her what you want to do.

My love and help are always with you, but as you say you cannot feel them, obviously they cannot be of much use.

No, my soul was reluctant to accept this and to leave the Ashram. I could faintly feel its vibrations. But I was rent by the fierce conflict between my two beings—inner and outer.

I felt that I could not make myself clear to the Mother—my feelings remained unexplained. This psychological struggle was like a hell-fire burning me ruthlessly.

On December 11 the Mother consoled me:

I am so sorry that again and again you have to suffer so much. I want you to be happy and in good health and my love never leaves you.

Yet again my family wrote, asking whether I wished to have anything. I informed the Mother. She suggested:

You did quite well to write to me what these people told you. In answer you can write to them that personally you need nothing, but the work being done in the Ashram is a very big work and a lot of money is required for it. So if they feel like sending you something you will be glad to offer it to me on their behalf.

With my love and blessings.

So with her approval I wrote to my people.