Mother's Chronicles (Book 2)

7

Mother's Remedies

Sri Aurobindo observed: "Medical Science is well-meaning and its practitioners often benevolent and not seldom self-sacrificing; but when did the well-meaning of the ignorant save them from harm-doing?"

Mother did not have any ignorance to contend with. She who had cured herself of every conceivable illness ranging from a severe sun-stroke to typhoid and even cholera —"the cholera had just been caught; it had entered but was not yet established, and it was completely cured"—she who always went to the root of everything, knew. She KNEW. Didn't she say, "Perhaps I know the why"?

To the utter consternation of some medical practitioners, Mother used not a few strange methods to cure herself. One day, when talking with Satprem

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about pranayama,¹ she described the way she had practised it; and as a passing reflection said what a practical cure it was for hiccups! But she admitted: "It's difficult to breathe in slowly and hold all that air. . . . And exhale slowly —that's very difficult —taking care to empty out all the top parts of the lungs, because these parts don't empty easily and stagnated air remains. This seems to be one of the most frequent causes of coughs and colds. I learned this when I had bronchitis; I learned to empty out the air completely. Moreover I knew singing so I was accustomed to the working —you hold the air, then slowly, slowly you let it out in order to keep on singing nonstop."

Doctors were not infrequently confounded by Mother's 'strange' prescriptions. Needless to say, her remedies depended not only on the nature of the ailment but, more importantly, on the individual.

One fine day, I badly sprained my ankle, just when our very first annual athletic competitions had started. In those early days Mother took keen interest in all our doings, and watched each of us during the

1. Pranayama: See Mother's Agenda, 24

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competitions. Quite naturally I didn't want to miss out on it. But on the other hand, with that take-off ankle in such a bad shape, what kind of performance could I put up? When I met Mother in the morning I said ruefully, "Petite Mere [Little Mother], today our item is long jump." Showing her my swollen ankle, I asked, "What should I do?" She glanced at my ankle, then smiling at me she said, "It doesn't matter. Go ahead. Compete." Therefore, in the evening I did my long jump. Jumping consistently I was leading, when at the very last jump another girl beat me to the first place.

The next day I merely said to her, "Today we have high jump." "Good," replied Mother. Now, I had learned the basics of these jumps in my late twenties. Long jump was a kind of running and taking-off skill, hop-step-and-jump was fun, and throwing javelin had a meaning. But high jump did not figure among my favourite items, seeing that I was no good at it with my heavy body. So in the evening, not caring what happened, I did my jumps. I thought I'd be out of the competition at the very first try. But to my intense surprise, there seemed to be a spring in my foot, and

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I went on clearing the bar until not another competitor was left! I was the most astonished person there. Later, the X-rays revealed a crack of the ankle bone.

Sometimes, it sufficed to just inform Mother about what was bothering our bodies and, hey presto, it would disappear.

We were still living in Calcutta and occasionally going to Pondicherry. In 1936, my brother Abhay, then twelve or so, often made the long train journey all alone. But alone or with others, before leaving he always seemed to catch a cold, accompanied by high fever and a nasty cough. Nothing deterred, he went to Pondicherry all the same. No sooner had he reached his destination than he became quite cured and normal! "When the same thing repeated itself thrice before I set off for Pondicherry," wrote Abhay, "I decided to inform the Mother about it. Hearing this, the Mother said, 'Now that you have informed me about your sickness, so, in future, your health will remain normal during your journey here.' Following this I had no sickness before my departure from Calcutta for Pondicherry."

Abhay had several experiences of the different

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methods used by Mother to cure people. In the fifties hard-working Abhay was unwell. "I had fever and no appetite. I continued to work and play vigorously." He was then one of the best tennis players in the Ashram and practised hard in the hot afternoon sun of Pondicherry; he was also a first division player in the Ashram's ball games, such as football, basketball, etc. He was, at the same time, in complete charge of running the Workshop, which was a big affair with car services and all. So he used to see Mother several times a day, to consult or inform her of something or other that always cropped up. She, too, often called him to give him some instructions. Let Abhay speak now: "In the evenings, when Mother returned from the Playground, I used to see her in the corridor upstairs. One evening, I told her that I had fever and no appetite. As soon as she heard about my fever she turned away her face and went away without a word. The same thing happened for three days running. So I decided that I had nothing and started my routine work and went to play tennis at 3 pm. After the game, I felt very weak and went to my sisters' for a cup of milk." We all lived in different houses and

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had our different activities. "Suddenly I felt giddy and immediately sat down on the floor. Then with great difficulty, and after taking a rest on the footpath six or seven times, I reached my room and went straight to bed. . . . And to sleep." He slept. "During the night I saw yellow smoke coming out of my body. In the morning I felt much better. I went to Dr Sanyal and he told me that I had jaundice." There are doctors and doctors. Dr Sanyal simply diagnosed Abhay's trouble, cautioned him about food, but didn't prescribe any medicine. "But what was strange was that I felt quite normal, and all weakness and giddiness disappeared completely. When I met the Mother I told her all that had happened in the night. She listened to me with love and explained that the poison of the jaundice had evaporated from the body, and that was why I was cured. She said that it was a very interesting case and she was satisfied with my experience.

Why had Mother turned away her face, in the first place, and walked away? Could it be because she wanted Abhay to have this interesting experience and get cured? Who knows! Inscrutable were Mother's ways.

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Whatever the case, and in every case, it is her motherly love for us that is sure. One time, my sister began losing her hair. She was alarmed and reported it to Mother, who said at once, "Sumitra, when you take your bath, pour a lot of water on your head, then dry your hair in the sun. Part your hair and see that the roots are properly dried." Sumitra faithfully followed Mother's instructions and in no time at all her hair regained its original lustre and luxuriance.

During the Second World War, at one period I became a cougher. I would cough and cough and cough. This went on for months, till others had had enough of hearing it constantly. Someone told Mother about it. That very day she gave me a jar of honey. "My child," she said, "just before going to bed, drink a glass of hot milk adding a spoonful of this honey to it." I did as she told me, and by the time the jar was empty my long time bosom friend had left me. But what wonderful honey that was, my friends! Lotus honey. No less. Its taste still lingers in my mouth and mind and heart.

Talking of honey, to this day Satprem cherishes the taste of the honey Mother gave him: "A thing of

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wonder!" It was royal honey, offered to the Mother by the Maharaja of Nepal, late King Mahendra, when towards the end of 1965 he had come with his queen and the prince, to pay their respects to Mother. She had kept aside that jar of golden honey for Satprem. Was this Mother's way of telling us to "turn all things to honey; this is the law of divine living"?

Please don't think that Mother took care only of a few special ones. No. She took care of everyone equally.

Once a teen-age boy was writhing in pain. Alarmed, his friends called the Ashram's general practitioner. He gave the boy a morphia injection. Then the doctor sent his report to Mother. His diagnosis was: gallstones; and according to him the teenager needed urgently to be operated on. Hearing this, Mother gazed into space, then looking at the secretary who had brought the report, she said she could not give her assent to an operation without the consent of the boy's parents. The secretary was in a dilemma: the boy's parents lived far away but the patient needed urgent treatment. So what was to be done? Mother smiled sweetly and said, "Give the boy

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boiled okra. Let him eat the vegetable with a little salt." Mother's prescription worked wonders. The pasty pulp wrapped the stones and evacuated them without causing any internal injury. That boy is now in his mid-fifties and, so far as we know, has not needed any operation for this ailment.

Do you remember how Mother loved to play tennis? It was her 'passion.' Well, many of us liked to be present at the tennis court by the seashore, and watch her play. Two young men were stationed at either end of the court to retrieve balls. I had given myself the job of catching the dead ball thrown by one and throw it to the other one. A nice pretext for me to stand near the net, beside the umpire's chair, and get a good view of the games.

Occasionally Mother called me to play a set with her. What a joyous occasion for me! She always had the same partner. Her opponents were generally a pair of young men, or, less frequently, a mixed pair. She herself chose the couple she wanted to play with. The young men with whom she played regularly, more or less daily, were our best tennis players with a good control over the ball. These lads would come

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and eagerly await their chance. We also noticed that at certain periods she would call the same person every day, while some others were not called for a long period.

Brother Abhay, being among the top players, got his chance fairly often. Then .... Let's hear Abhay himself. "Once, during 1957 or '58, for months the Mother had not called me to play with her. So I decided not to be present in the tennis court when she came. I went for a game of football or for a swim in the sea." Thus he absented himself for about a week. Then one evening, when Mother returned from the Playground and went upstairs, "Suddenly she firmly caught hold of my hands and asked me the reason for my absence from the tennis court," recalls Abhay with a catch in his voice. "I told her that as for months she had not been calling me to play with her I thought she was no longer interested in playing with me. That's why I was absent. Then the Mother looked deep and long into my eyes, and said: 'You see, my child, I don't play tennis merely for the sake of exercise. I play because with each stroke, each return, I can send some good atmosphere and bring down light and

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peace to remove the depression or the psychological problems of the players in the opposite court. And to those who are physically unwell, I send strength and energy with each ball, so that they may recover their health.' Then Mother added, 'Also, with each stroke, I remove their mental and vital difficulties of ego and desire. Thus, you see, even in tennis I am helping each one to solve his difficulties and to grow towards progress and perfection.'

That's how Mother took care of her children, young and old.

How unstintedly she poured her love on all of us!

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