The Story of a Soul

21 February 1955

The Mother's birthday arrived. Everyone was eager to greet her. I wore a white sari with a red border that had been given to me by the Mother the Sunday before—she used to distribute saris to sadhikas and napkins to sadhaks before every Darshan to mark the occasion. This was the first time I had worn such a coarse cotton sari—I was used to wearing silk and chiffon ones. I found it rather rough and uncomfortable. But I forgot all about it when in the line I started going up a staircase covered with a thick soft green fabric secured by shining brass rods. Then, passing through a small corridor, I entered first a passage room and then Sri Aurobindo's chamber. Numerous incense sticks sent up a delicate cloud. A profusion of tastefully-arranged flowers mingled their perfumes with it. The atmosphere was celestial.

There was his large bed, and behind it a bronze bust of him, made—I learned later—by an Austrian sculptress. My whole being became unusually calm and quiet. I re-entered the passage-room and came into the Meditation Hall. I moved slowly, and paused in front of the small room where there was a huge photograph of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, placed on a big divan. Then crossing the long Hall, I came to the carved high-backed chair where the Mother was sitting, impeccably dressed. She was handing a message to each of the Ashramites, devotees and visitors. She looked at me and a glad smile broke over her face as she handed me this message:

Out of the paths of the morning star they came,||90.28||
Forerunners of a divine multitude,
Faces that wore the immortal's glory still,
Voices that communed with the thoughts of God,
Bodies made beautiful by the Spirit's light:
The sun-eyed children of a marvellous Dawn,
The great creators with wide brows of calm,
The massive barrier-breakers of the world
And wrestlers with destiny in her lists of will,
The labourers in the quarries of the Gods,
The messengers of the Incommunicable,
The architects of immortality. ||90.29||
Into the fallen human sphere they came
Carrying the magic word, the mystic Fire,
Carrying the cup of Dionysian Joy,
Approaching eyes of a diviner Man,
Lips chanting an unknown anthem of the soul,
Feet echoing in the corridors of Time. ||90.30||
Even as man once came behind the beast,
After us there shall come a greater race,
High priests of wisdom, sweetness, might and bliss,
And runners upon beauty's sunlit ways,
And swimmers of Love's laughing fiery floods
And dancers within rapture's golden doors,
Whose tread one day shall change the suffering earth
And justify the light on Nature's face. ||90.31||

Sri Aurobindo, Savitri
Book III, Canto 4. An early version

Afterwards I went to the General Dining Room and had my lunch there as usual. On such auspicious occasions, sweets were served.

In the evening the Mother took the salute, standing against the map of spiritual undivided India, while we paraded with the band. All together we loudly called the invocation:

Victory to the Sweet Mother! Victory to the Sweet Mother! Victory to the Sweet Mother! Vande Mātaram, Vande Mātaram, Vande Mātaram!

Then the band played Vande Mataram. This was followed by a concentration.

Afterwards the Mother distributed the Bulletin of the Sri Aurobindo International Centre of Education to the heads of the Ashram Departments, teachers, Group captains and certain other people.

There was also a short programme of performances. Some small children did a mouse dance, which was most entertaining.

When the day came to an end I was tired—there had been no repose. Before going to sleep I opened Prayers and Meditations. The prayer I read had been written by the Mother on March 13th, 1913:

Let the pure perfume of sanctification burn always, rising higher and higher, and straighter and straighter, like the ceaseless prayer of the integral being, desiring to unite with Thee so as to manifest Thee.

Each prayer of the Mother is surcharged with her Force. Sri Aurobindo has written:

I have said that the Divine does the Sadhana first for the world and then gives what is brought down to others. There can be no Sadhana without realisations and experiences. The Prayers are a record of Mother's experiences.