Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol. 5

Occult Experiences

 

IT seems my predecessors were telling you stories ― stories of their own lives; their experiences, so I thought I should follow in their footsteps. But I am not going to tell you about my own experiences, I am going to tell a story, rather a history, that happened in the life of another person. It will be interesting and also instructive. So I will begin the story, I am the narrator:

I was a traveller, going about from place to place, seeing all things of interest ― especially those of pilgrimage ― and I happened to be in Madras. I was waiting there to take a bus to the railway-station which was a few miles off. I saw that there were also many other travellers waiting to board a bus. A busman was inviting people, so I approached his bus. Suddenly a lady came out of the crowd and said, "Please don't go there!" She was an elderly Tamil lady. I was surprised and asked, "Why, why?" She said, "Well, wait; you'll see," and I stopped. Then there were three buses that started ― I was in one, the lady was in another and the third was the one I had wanted to board.

The lady's bus came last and the other two were running very fast ― competing as to which should go first. Well, what happened is quite natural; the bus in which I was to go dashed against a wayside tree and was damaged, and the passengers were mostly killed or seriously injured. We reached our destination and naturally I was very eager to see the lady who had stopped me from boarding the bus. I asked her, "How did you know it? How did you guess?" "I'll tell you later on." So we started again, and went to a holy place on a hillside. It was a sort of jungle and woodland, full of bushes. The lady and I were walking quietly together. Then I stepped aside. I wanted to see what was to my left. Suddenly the lady said, "Please,

 

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please don't go to that side!" Naturally I was surprised and asked her the reason. Then I saw that behind the bushes was a 200 ft. deep precipice. If 1 had taken one step more I would have gone down! Then I pleaded with the lady: "Please tell me what it is; how did you see it?" She said, "All right, I'll tell you the story, let us sit down." Then she narrated the story. She said, "When I was young I lived with my grand father, and we loved each other exceedingly, we were very much attached to each other. He used to tell me stories and pleased me in all ways, so I was with him almost all the time. Then one day he fell rather seriously ill. Doctors were called and they couldn't do anything. Then my grandfather called me and said, 'My child, go and pray to Shiva'-Shiva was the household deity. So I went and knelt down before the image of Shiva and prayed, '0 Shiva, my grandfather is ill, please cure him.' One or two days I did that. But he continued to be ill, he became rather worse! Then one day the doctors gave up all hope. I was weeping standing a little away from him. Suddenly I saw a girl by the side of my grandfather, and I was astonished, she looked exactly like myself. Then I asked someone near me if he could see anyone by my grandfather ― 'No, I don't see anybody'. Then I went to the bedside, and the image and I stood together. Gradually my grandfather was cured. From that time on, wherever there is any danger, any difficulty, this image of myself comes, and helps me. So when you wanted to go in that bus I saw the same figure coming to me and telling me, 'Beware'. I don't know who she is."

So this is the story. I have brought these books because some of the poets have had such an experience.

Alfred de Musset says that from his childhood he had a comrade who was always with him ― he was like a brother to him; he accompanied him in life's joys and sorrows, in dangers and happiness-he was always with him. I shall read out some stanzas:

 

Nuit de Dlcembre¹

 

Du temps que j'étais éIcolier,

Je restais un soir à veiller

 ¹Alfred de Musset: Poésies Choisies, p. 38.

 

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Dans notre salle solitaire.

Devant ma table vine s' assenir

Un pauvre enfant vêtu de noir,

 Qui me ressemblait comme un frère.

 

 

Son visage était triste et beau:

A la lueur de mon flambeau,

Dans mon livre ouvert il vine lire.

II pencha son front sur ma main,

Et resta jusqu' au lendemain,

Pensif, avec un doux sourire.

 

 

Comme j' allais avoir quinze ans,

Je marchais un jour, à pas lents,

Dans un bois, sur une bruyère.

Au pied d'un arbre vine s'asseoir

Un jeune homme vetu de noir,

Qui me ressemblait comme un frère.

 

 

 

Je lui demandai mon chemin;

II tenait un luth d' une main,

De I' autre un bouquet d' églantine.

II me fit un salut d' ami,

Et, se détournant à demi,

Me montra du doigt la colline.

 

 

Je m' en suis si bien souvenu,

Que je I' ai toujours reconnu

A tous les instants de ma vie.

C' est une étrange vision,

Et cependant, ange ou demon,

J' ai vu partout cette ombre amie.

 

 

Partout où, Ie long des chemins,

J' ai posé mon front dans mes mains

Et sangloé comme une femme;

Partout où, j' ai, comme un mouton

Qui laisse sa laine au buisson,

Senti se dénuer mon âme;

 

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---

Partout où, j' ai voulu dormir,

Partout où, j' ai voulu mourir,

Partout où, j' ai touché la terre,

Sur ma route est venu s' asseoir  

Un malheureux vêtu de noir,

Qui me ressemblait comme un frère.

 

"Qui donc es-tu, spectre de ma jeunesse,

Pélerin que rien n' a lassé?

Dis-moi pourquoi je te trouve sans cesse

Assis dans I' ombre où, j' ai passé.

Qui donc es-tu, visiteur solitaire,

Hôte assidu de mes douleurs?"

 

Now this form, that the poet saw, replies:

 

"―Ami, noire Père est Ie lien.

Je ne suis ni I' ange gardien,

Ni Ie mauvais destin des hommes . . .

 

Lee ciel m' a confié ton cmur.

Quand tu seras dans la douleur,

Viens à moi sans inquiétude.

Je te suivrai sur Ie chemin;

Mais je ne puis toucher ta main,

Ami, je ne suis que la Solitude."

 

Here is the English translation

 

A  DECEMBER  NIGHT

 

In the days when I was a schoolboy

One evening I kept awake

In my lonely room.

In front of my table there came and sat

A poor child robed in black

Who looked like me even as a brother.

 

He came to read in my open book.

He bent his head upon my hand

And waited till the morn

Musing with a sweet smile.

 

When I was about to be fifteen years old

I was walking one day leisurely

In a woodland upon the heath,

At the foot of a tree there came and sat

A young man robed in black

Who looked like me even as a brother.

 

I asked him my way;

He held a lute in one hand,

And in the other a bouquet of eglantine.

He gave a friendly salute to me

And, half turning,

With his finger pointed to the hillock.

 

I remember him so well,

I have recognised him always

At every moment of my life.

It was a strange vision,

And yet, angel or demon,

I saw everywhere this friendly shadow.

 

Wherever all along my way

I held my forehead in my hands

And sobbed like a woman;

Wherever, like a lamb

That leaves his wool in the bush,

I felt my soul being shed;

 

Wherever I sought to sleep,

Wherever I sought to die,

Wherever I touched the earth

On my road came and sat

A miserable one robed in black,

Who looked like my own brother.

 

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"Who art thou, phantom of my youth,

Pale pilgrim whom nothing fatigues?

Tell me, why do I find thee constantly,

Seated in the shadow I have passed through?

Who art thou, lonely visitor,

Tireless guest of my pain?"

 

"Friend, our father is also thine,

 I am neither the guardian angel

Nor the evil destiny of men. . . .

 

Heaven has entrusted thy heart to me.

When thou art in pain

Come to me carefree,

I shall follow thee on thy way;

But I cannot touch thy hand,

Friend, I am Solitude."

 

 

The poet thinks that it is the personification of solitude, but it is something more than that. As I said, it is your other self, your subtle self. The body, the personality that you see externally is only a reflection of the inner being that you are. I don't mean your spiritual personality, but your subtle material self ― which is physically your true personality. And that is inspired by something greater which you all know ― your true individuality ― your psychic being. But that being can only be perceived, seen and experienced and heard in solitude, in loneliness ― what you call calmness and quietness and detachment. This vision here, this being of Alfred de Musset says: "I can approach you but I cannot touch you; there is a separation between the two. We can touch only when there are some conditions fulfilled in the physical body."

Another French poet speaks of a similar experience. He speaks of it in a jocular way, in a funny way. He says that this inner self sees things in a quite different way than the external being does. Sometimes it does quite the opposite. While the physical eye says 'It is this', the other says 'No, it is that'. Different values and perceptions ― what we see externally is only Maya. There is only a rope, but you see a snake there ― that is Maya.

 

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He is a modern French poet, Supervielle. The poem is amusing:

                                  

                                   ALTER EGO¹

 

In my outward experience I see a mouse running away.

"Une souris s' échappe"

(A mouse runs out)

But the other person says:

"ce n' en était pas une"

(It was not there)

The outward person says:

" Une femme s' éveille"

(A woman wakes)

The other says:

"Comment le savez-vous?"

 (How do you know?)

And then my outward sense says:

"Et La porte qui grince"

(And the squeaking door)

On l' huila ce matin"      

(It was oiled this morning)

But if it was oiled this morning, how can it make noise?

"Près du mur de cloture"

(Near the cloister wall)

"Le mur n'existe plus"

(There is now no wall)

 

"Ah! je ne puis rim dire"

(Oh! I can't say a thing)

Because you always say the contrary.

The inner being says:

Eh bien, vous vous taisez!

(Well, now you'll be quiet!)

 

¹ Translated by James Kirkup (New Direction).

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The outward person says: I can't walk

"Je ne puis pas bouger",

(I cannot move)

"Vous marchez sur La route"

(You're walking along the road)

The outer questioning mind says:

"Où allons-nous aussi?

(Does all this get us anywhere?)

"C'est moi qui le demande"

(I am asking you)

material form does not change much. It changes, yes, according to your age, slowly but for sometime you are the same. These inner forms are changeful; they are not restricted to one rigid figure. Still they are recognisable. There is a plasticity which is very natural; according to the situation, according to your mood, according to your feeling, they change. But the most important, the most original form is your psychic being ― your true being ― that which we must strive to realise and attain. As the Mother says: It is the Divine personality in each one of us. Your outer personality is sometimes only a caricature, but still it tries to reflect, though with difficulty, something of the needs and urges of this inmost reality of yours. Someone has asked me: "How to find, how to know this inner being, the true being in me?" For, as the poet here says, he can't touch you and you can't touch him, but what you want is to touch that person. The fact is that it is not so altogether out of contact, not altogether ― unless a man is a total villain, which is very rare. You can't obliterate that true existence of you, it is there. It expresses itself in all the movements that are good and noble and selfless. Whenever you see something beautiful or do something nice, be sure that it is your psychic being that sees or does it. The psychic being in you is the Mother ― for it is an emanation of Herself that She has put in you, in order to protect you. When you see the sunset and feel happy, it is the psychic being in you that sees it. It is a small beginning but it is a beginning. Let your psychic being guide your acts. The only thing necessary is to be sincere. You have to be sincere. First day you will find it very difficult, second day you will find it easier, third day it will become still easier and then on the fourth day it will become your nature. It is not easy, but if you try you will be able to do it.

 

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