Memorable Contacts with The Mother

XII: I960 ONWARDS

I have said that from the year 1953 onward the Mother spent the night in her room on the second floor. She used to come down in the morning and go back, finishing all her work, at night. Then a change took place: coming down in the morning she would finish her work starting with the Balcony darshan and ending with seeing a particular group of people. It would last till noon, even a little later. Then she went up for lunch. After a couple of hours she came down, had her bath and began another round of seeing the departmental heads and other people. Near about 6 or 6.30 p.m. she would go up and retire for the night. She had stopped going to the Tennis-ground and the Playground since 1958. This was her daily programme till 1962 when she fell seriously ill and her coming down ceased altogether. An admirable account of her morning programme will be found in Champaklal Speaks in the section dealing with the year 1960.

Some of us used to see her regularly in the morning and have talks with her on various issues. Otherwise it was just a simple pranam and receiving her blessings. Sometimes she would be quite late and we had to wait and wait. Since at that time I was working as a teacher in the School, I could not always wait long and had to miss my "chance". One day — a Sunday - there was a meeting in the School which ended at about 11 a.m. I feared that the Mother might have gone up, but fortunately, she had just finished her interview. As I approached her, she gave me a steady

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look as if she would say something. Quite unprepared for it, I contracted my eye-brows. "Oh, he is afraid," she said smiling. "He is afraid!" "No, Mother, I am not afraid, but somewhat surprised," I replied.

"Are you usually aware of my meeting and talking with you at night?"

"Sometimes, Mother. Either I just see you or hear some words but can’t make out the sense."

"For instance, two days ago I met you and what I consider something important for you happened. Are you aware of it?"

"No, Mother!"

"You didn’t even feel anything?"

"I don’t remember."

Then smiling she said, "Prendra du temps". (It will take some time.)

One day it was raining heavily and it was school-time. As I approached the Mother for my flower, I said, "How to go to School in this rain, Mother?" "Why? what has rain got to do with the School?" she replied. Another day, she came late and we had all been waiting. My school-time was almost striking. When I approached her, she said, "Don’t be impatient. When you are patient, time goes slow." She must have felt my unquiet vibrations. Talking about vibrations I may cite an instance. The Mother was having a long interview with somebody and a whole crowd of us were getting fidgety. When at last she came, she at once felt our restive mood and said, "I am very sensitive to vibrations."

Once as a teacher of French I had set a question paper. I showed it to the Mother. She said, "It is very stiff." "No,

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Mother," I replied, "the students are supposed to know this much." "Then it is all right," she said.

At another time a teacher of French had blundered with regard to an idiom and the students would have had a wrong idea about it. When I pointed it out to the Mother and asked what was to be done, she said, "Leave it to me. I shall speak to him." How considerate and tactful she was even in these small matters!

When I was teaching French in our School, the Mother told me more than once that there was a French lady who always spoke highly of me to her. "Do you know who she is?" she asked me. "I can guess, Mother," I said. "Is it Bharatidi?" "Yes," she smiled, "whenever she comes to me, she puts in a good word for you." But unfortunately, one day I fell from her favour, as happens with some people. Bharatidi was a cultured French lady, a well- known Indologist, more especially the Mother’s close associate in early days. Her sister was an intimate friend of Tagore’s. Our rupture took place over a minor difference of opinion. I realised later on that I had made a faux pas. I should have submitted to her, since she was superior to me in many respects and particularly because she was high in the Mother’s esteem. Once the Mother seems to have said that she could spend hours chatting with her, because of her wonderful beauty of expression, but unfortunately she could not spare much time. I suspected that the Mother was also not very pleased over the incident, not so much because of the rupture as because in her scheme of things Bharatidi had an important role to play and she did not want that it should be disturbed.

Now an amusing story, a tiny comedy of errors. At our

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teachers’ meeting, a student was declared to have failed. She sent an appeal to the Mother. The Mother took her side and said that she could not fail since she knew her as a good student. The teachers always went by outer results. They should have had more insight, etc. Later on she met the girl in a special function and told her, "Do you know I have passed you cancelling the judgment of the teachers?" The student was bewildered, for she had already heard from her teachers that she had passed quite creditably. When she reported to them about the matter there was an excitement and a surprise. On inquiry, it was found that the Mother had mistaken this girl for another bearing a similar name, since the name had not been pronounced to her in the right way. The Mother admitted her mistake to the teachers concerned and said that she had withdrawn all that she had said about them. The teachers were much moved by her humility.

In truth she could never be hard on the students. If there was even a slight redeeming feature in a student, she would give him a chance, particularly if he appealed to her compassion. Rough and hard was not the way she adopted when dealing with anyone, especially children.

Lastly a battle royal raged among the teachers with regard to the study of English literature in the Higher Course. Some wanted it to be made compulsory for the Art students, others for making it optional. The decision was finally left to the Mother, Hearing both sides, she wrote:

"To the teachers,

It is not so much the details of organisation but the

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attitude that must change.

It seems that unless the teachers themselves get above the usual intellectual level, it will be difficult for them to fulfil their duty and accomplish their task."

The Mother’s views about literature did not seem to be as catholic as Sri Aurobindo’s; on the contrary, they were very classical. A profusion of words, colour, imagery, etc., was not at all to her taste. One remark she made about literature in general brings out her views in a succinct manner. Hearing the controversy I have mentioned above, she said to me, "I have read at least a thousand books. In very few of them have I found true insight." As regards poetry, she appreciated Sri Aurobindo’s Savitri and a few other poems the most. They reveal the sheer truth, she said. On poetry in general she said that French poetry was hardly poetry because it was written not with the imaginative mind so much as with the intellect.

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