The Story of a Soul

Undated?

By this time the summer had set in. I felt exhausted, enervated by the increasing heat. I often had to rinse my face, which was damp and sticky with perspiration. Humidity made the heat harder to bear. The nights were uncomfortable, and I slept badly. There were no fans in Golconde at that time. I felt constantly uneasy and restless.

In the beginning I had no assigned work. It was suggested to me that I should pluck the dry turf from the lawn in the Golconde garden. I had to do this in the blistering heat.

I wrote to the Mother, asking her to give me some specific work. She replied,

Go to Nolini, be will give you work and answer your questions.

With my blessings.

I went to Nolini, who was one of the Mother's secretaries, and showed him her note. He asked me whether I knew how to type. "A little" I replied. So I started working with him. He gave me the Mother's messages for typing, as well as articles written by himself and other people. I remember typing some manuscripts of Kishor Gandhi: his handwriting was often undecipherable, and I would have to run to Nolini for help. I used to sit in a room which is now part of the Publications Department; so to consult Nolini I had to walk from one end of the Ashram to the other.

Despite all the inconveniences I wanted to do the Mother's work well. But this work did not satisfy me—it was too mechanical. I wanted to do something else in addition. So I was given work in the Mother's private stores, downstairs in the Ashram building. Dyuman was in charge. Nobody was allowed in except Rishabchand Samsukha, who used to clean everything there. Now I took up the job.

Never before in my life had I swept and scrubbed floors—I had been brought up like a princess. I found it pretty hard. My hands and knees ached, yet I carried on, knowing that this too was one of the Mother's ways of training me.

When I was working in the stores, I had to keep the front door always shut, so that nobody should enter. Huge cupboards had been installed there which covered almost all the windows. The place was really stuffy and dark. The electric light was kept on all the time. Occasionally Chandrakant M. Patel would fumigate it with Gammaxene—then the smoke spread through all the rooms.

However the work was enjoyable, because it was interesting to see and clean the countless different kinds of fabulous things offered to the Mother by people from all over the world: silver vases, boxes of various shapes and designs, silver plates, glasses with embossed patterns on them, and ivory curios; fragrant sandalwood items, all kinds of brassware, colourful carpets, carved furniture, tall porcelain jars from Japan and China, vases and other rare pieces; also exquisite objects in cut crystal-glass, and other artistic and beautiful things. There were also the Mother's own dresses which she had worn before she came to India, clothes of her grandparents, and other antiques. I felt as if I were lost in a huge treasury of art and handicrafts—each object had its own story. I found them all full of consciousness, and never felt lonely in the stores. Each day I explored something new, and was thrilled to see those rare and ancient things.

After my work was finished, I would often sit in front of the big armchair which Sri Aurobindo had used for several years. I prayed to him as though he were sitting there in it. I also cleaned and arranged the wardrobe where Sri Aurobindo's clothes, pillow-covers, sheets, bedspreads and other things were kept. I liked to touch them and feel him.

In the Ashram I saw that many people knew French. I too wanted to learn the Mother's language. I expressed my wish to her. She responded:

Huta,

Do you know Shanti? He will teach you French, he knows it well. If you like I can tell him to teach you.

With my blessings.

Yet another letter came from her, saying:

Are you doing the marching? If not, you can learn in the Playground. It is better if he doesn't go to Golconde.

With my love and blessings.

So I took my French lessons from Shanti Doshi in the Playground on the days when I was not marching. The lesson time was short and I found the grammar difficult. I grew bored, but still I continued.

One morning as I was eating my breakfast in the Dining Room, a woman sitting nearby asked me how I was getting along with my French. I replied, "Not very well, because the teacher talks about himself too much. Perhaps I shall stop."

"Why," she exclaimed, "he is my brother!"

"My God, how could I know?" I cursed myself. I felt so awkward that I could utter no soothing word. So I just left the Dining Room quietly, vowing never to say anything in future to people I did not know. Even to this day I hardly know anything of relationships within the Ashram—who is whose brother or sister, mother or father, and so forth.