The Story of a Soul

Undated?

In the early part of my life I used to move back and forth often between East Africa and India. Although my family lived in Africa, I felt a strong pull towards India. In my early teens I took a vow not to eat sweets until India became Independent.

I was in Rajkot in India on January 30th 1948, when Mahatma Gandhi was shot dead at Birla House in Delhi. His untimely demise shook the whole nation.

Gandhi's relics were taken all over India. Some were brought to Rajkot also and placed at Rashtriashala, which was very close to my mother's home, Zaver-Nivas. People paid their last homage, and then the relics were carried to be submerged in the river Aji. School children, college students and numberless people participated in the huge procession, walking barefoot to the river, which was quite a distance away, clapping their hands and singing:

Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram,
Patita Pavana Sita Ram.

I went along with my fellow-students. We had to pass through a long bazaar street to reach the river. We were very thirsty, and our bare feet were scorched in the heat. Every shopkeeper kept earthen pots of water out on the pavement to give to the passers-by.

I was regretting being so reckless and not heeding my mother, who had insisted I should wear sandals—never in my life had I gone out without anything on my feet, and now they were blistered and aching terribly.

From the riverbank we watched the ceremony being performed. Multicoloured flowers were strewn on the water and formed attractive patterns. Then we were allowed to go home—not in procession, but as we liked. I was exhausted. So my friend and I stopped on the way, at the home of some relatives of hers. We were given comfortable seats and cold water to drink. My glance fell on a photograph depicting a half-burnt candle on a stand, wax dripping down its sides. Beneath the picture was written in Gujarati:

Like a candle life is running short. Make it sublime by doing good deeds.

These words touched my heart to the very core, and my inner self whispered,

Just as a candle burns up and gutters out, so also your life dwindles until nothing is left. And all too soon this diminution takes place. You must do something worthwhile before the end overtakes you. May you wake up in time and remember what your life is for—the ascent towards the high ideal, the Divine.

I found that tears were rushing to my eyes. My friend and the others asked me the reason. I said,

Look at this picture of the candle—life is too short to waste, we must make our lives valuable.

They all agreed with me.

This was the first awakening of my soul—my first initiation. The truth I glimpsed at that moment was etched deeply into my consciousness.

The second initiation I received was from a Brahmin priest—Maikalapi of Maimandir, which stood a short distance from our house. He was a devotee of Mother Durga, and closely connected with the Ambaji temple at Abu.

At a later time Maikalapi confided in his son Maimayur that I was quite different from most people and would not lead an ordinary life.

On one of the Puja days Maikalapi was in profound meditation. Everyone there bowed down to him. When I approached, with half-closed eyes he stretched out his right hand, took red powder from a nearby silver stand, and with his third finger applied it to my forehead.

This seemed to signify that I was destined to lead the spiritual life. And indeed this was what I wanted. But how? I could see no way, and had almost lost all hope. My heart cried desperately, "Does the Divine exist in this world of falsehood? Is there any truth here? If not, then what am I living for? If my aspiration is true and sincere, then reveal that Truth to me, O Lord."

After I had passed my matriculation examinations I returned to East Africa. I wanted to study philosophy and art, and filled in the application form for St. Xavier's College, Bombay.

But this plan was turned down—my people wished me to get married. I was adamant that I did not want that kind of life, which I believed was hopeless and in vain. But they insisted, against my ideals.

A mysterious indication came to me from within, so I declared that my destiny was to be in India—I refused to get married in Africa, although there were many good proposals.

In the meantime I visited England and Europe in 1952 with my fourth brother Maganbhai and his wife Mina.

From Nairobi we went first to Cairo. A faint sense of familiarity lingered in my consciousness when I glimpsed the Pyramids.

Then we flew to Paris, and stayed there for three or four pleasurable days before crossing the Channel. We reached London on the "Golden Arrow" train. We were there for a fortnight, during which my brother bought a Morris Minor; then we again boarded a ferryboat and headed for the Continent.

We visited a number of famous and interesting places. In Rome, some sense of its ancient past hovered in the back of my mind, a glimmer of remembrance, especially when I saw the Colosseum and the Catacombs, those underground tunnels used in early Christian times for burials and religious services, which had to be kept secret because of persecution. St. Peter's, with its magnificent frescoes by Michelangelo, deeply impressed me.

Indeed it was very intriguing to experience the reminders of so much past history.

In Verona we were shown the tombs of Romeo and Juliet, in the old church of a former Franciscan convent—the place was candlelit and eerie and one could imagine two spirits hovering restlessly in the gloom. I recall Juliet's last words:

Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief O happy dagger!
That is thy sheath; there rest and let me die.

This was a tale of human life fed on blind, wild desires and impulses. I felt again I would rather give my life to the Supreme Lord than to any human being.

It was a joy travelling extensively in Europe for more than a month. Then we returned to London, and stayed there almost three months.

I did not meet the Mother of Sri Aurobindo Ashram until the end of 1954. Yet even before that, something within and above was guiding me towards my destination:

The unfelt Self within who is the guide,
The unknown Self above who is the goal. ||47.8||

I used to write prayers in my diary in Gujarati, addressing them to the Mother. Much later I translated these into English. They have been published in book-form under the title Salutations. That little book is the background to this Story of a Soul. Here is an example of how I expressed my feelings in those prayers.