Painting as Sadhana

Personal Tributes 

My Mota-Kaka 

Krishnalal-ji, or just Krishnalal as I refer to him now when I speak of him as one of the artists of the Ashram, is "Mota-kaka" to me. In Gujarati, "Mota" means elder and not "fat" as it does in Bengali. He was my father's eldest brother and normally, in Gujarati families, the eldest uncle is known as "Mota-kaka" or "Bapu-kaka".

Mota-kaka was instrumental in bringing me, along with my parents, to The Mother and Sri Aurobindo. He himself had come here in 1933 and settled at Their Feet from his very first visit. My father, Vasudev, adored and worshipped his eldest brother, "Bhai", from childhood. And, when Krishnalal left the family, even though he missed him a lot, he could not do anything to remedy the situation then, as he was too young to go against his family's refusal to accept Krishnalal's decision, and later, by 1942, was totally immersed in Gandhi-ji's Quit India movement.

It was only in 1948, after Independence, that Vasudev could think of visiting his "Bhai" whom he had not seen since 1940. So, in February 1948, he and his family were given permission through Krishnalal to come to the Ashram for a Darshan visit. I was only 11 months old at that time. Naturally, I do not remember anything of that first visit — except what has been recounted to me by my parents and other elders of the Ashram.

This first visit was the turning point in my father's life. He came here primarily to visit a loved brother and also to see a new place. Though he had read some works of Sri Aurobindo as a student, it had not touched any deeper chord in his being. As he went up the stairs for Darshan on the 21st February 1948, he was gawking (as we see tourists doing even today) and observing the faces of the people in the queue coming back from the Darshan. "There was such an ineffable peace and an indescribable expression stamped on each returning face," he recounted to me, "that I was mystified. I wondered what was the source and cause of it. As I entered the upstairs Meditation Hall, I stood on tiptoe and tried to look around the people in front of me to find this cause."

When Vasudev reached the Source, he was bowled over and "that ineffable expression was stamped forever on my face, too!" And thus, after annual visits in 1949 and 1950, we came to settle here permanently in November 1950.

And now began my acquaintance with Mota-kaka. My name till then was Mamata, but there was already another Mamata residing in the Ashram (for the old-timers' information — Dhrubajyoti's daughter). In those days, people in the Ashram knew each other by their first names, surnames were not used. To avoid confusion, there was an unwritten convention that no name should be duplicated. It was Mota-kaka who decided that my name should be changed. "Call her Samata (equanimity) now, as you have come to do sadhana and let go of attachment (mamata)," he told my parents. Thus it was Samata who remained, though Mamata had come here.

This change of name must have taken place some time in early 1951, because in the Register at the School, next to the date of my school admission — 20.12.1950 — under "Name" Mother has written "Krishnalal's niece".

All through the childhood years, the impression of Mota-kaka on my young mind was always of a Great Personage, inspiring awe, to whom one looked up for advice and guidance and never dared to disregard that advice. This could have been because of my mother who always gave him that kind of traditional respect where the younger sister-in-law could never sit down when the "Jyestha" was present in the room.

I remember one of my birthday parties. I may have been around eight or nine years of age, very innocent and callow. Among the invitees were my age-group friends as well as my elders — my father, Mota-kaka, Ambu-bhai Purani, Vishnu-bhai, Pujalal, Ambelal Mehta. As was the custom then, in the Ashram, the children came first bringing small presents thoughtfully chosen by their mothers. There was a piece of silk cloth to be stitched into a dress, a box of biscuits, a packet of brightly coloured ribbons — cute and small objects which a little girl would love to use. My friends had "group" so they ate first and went away, then the elders were served. They too enjoyed all the goodies my mother had prepared.

Then started the fireworks and, I think, it was Mota-kaka who set them off. Very casually, he picked up the dress-piece and told the others, "Look how nice this colour looks on me. I think I will take it to the tailor and get a shirt made from it." I went red in the face from anger, how dare anybody touch my gifts! But this was Mota-kaka and how could one say or even think anything against him! The others picked up the cue and soon all of them (including Purani-ji and Pujalal-ji!) were picking up one item and then another saying this suited him or that this box of biscuits tempted him too much to leave behind. I was too young to understand this mild ragging and thought that they really would walk away with my gifts. I put up with the teasing for a while, entreating my mother to stop them. She tried to tell me that it was only a huge joke played by all of them and that they would not take anything away. But it would not have been me, if I could understand or accept that. Finally, I got so upset that I literally, physically, pushed each one out of the house and bolted the door from inside to make sure that they did not return.

As I grew up, I did not have much daily contact with Mota-kaka. Only "events" connected with the Great Personage remain in my memory.

Every Prosperity Day, he would offer to the Mother a flower painting which would first be exhibited in Purani-ji's room from 2 to 3.30 in the afternoon. Along with others, I too would go to see the painting and admire the vivid rendering of the flower depicted, though I was too shy and considered too young to express my admiration.

Sometimes, there would be a letter from our family in Ahmedabad. As a very responsible head of the family, he would come to our house and read it out to us and then leave after partaking of some snacks with us.

After The Studio was officially started at Delafon in 1963 all this letter-reading was shifted there. As also birthday meetings — his and mine.

I remember how he would be sitting in his usual chair near the entrance dressed in a white dhoti and shirt. He would look up as I entered and call out sweetly, "Bonne Fête! Bonne Fête!" After the greetings were over there would be the presentation ceremony — a little sketch or a small miniature-sized painting. Then, there would be sweets to share, sweets made at home with a lot of care and love by my mother. I would offer whatever I had brought in a tiffin box. My father would eat his share very dutifully, without any comments or words of appreciation. Not so Mota-kaka. The artist in him would come in front here also. He would first observe it from all sides, take delight in its shape and colour and appreciate all the good points. Then he would take a small bite and enjoy its taste and flavour — that was the sweet-maker's son in him — and finally give his verdict about the success of the sweet. I would feel so happy that he had appreciated the sweet and given it Pass Marks!

In January 1965, by chance it happened that my parents had to go to Ahmedabad — my mother to attend her brother's wedding and my father to organise an exhibition of Mota-kaka's paintings. Up to then, whenever my mother went out of station, I would stay with my father. This time both of them had to go, so what was to be done for me? I was eighteen years old and I felt confident that I could stay alone, but my parents were not so sure about this arrangement. So, the next and only relative, Mota-kaka, was asked to help out. Would he be agreeable to be in loco parentis to an eighteen-year-old girl? Poor dear, he was in a fix! A person who had been habituated for the last 32 years to live alone without any familial entanglements and responsibilities, would he be up to it? Finally, it was decided that for the daytime I could be on my own in my house, and only at night I would go to sleep at his place. The Mother was informed accordingly and She gave Her approval.

Everything was working out well, as per plan, with me staying at home, taking my meals in the Dining Hall, and even trying out my hand at some sort of elementary cooking, and at night, after "group", meditation and dinner, to Mota-kaka for the night. But the ghastly night of the 11th February 1965 intervened.

It was a Meditation day — a Sunday, I think. Before the meditation, I used to stroll on the street in front of the Playground with some of my friends, as did many others. As we crossed and re-crossed the Nehru Street at the eastern end, we saw the market corner on Mission Street aflame with the anti-Hindi riots. We looked and wondered what it was all about; but I was also afraid, though I did not dare express my fear.

At 7.45 p.m., after concentration, everybody went into the Playground for meditation. And it was at this time that the riots spread to the Ashram side, the burning of the Ashram post office first and then the attack on the Ashram Main Building. But by then our young boys had been called to the Guest House and issued lathis to go out and fight the rioters. There was Bor-da (Tejen-da), standing at the wicket door between the Playground and Guest House, calling to the boys, "Esho, esho, mayer jonye rokto debe, bolidan korbe" (Come on, come on, you have to give your blood for The Mother; you have to sacrifice yourself for Her)."

I was scared, really scared. My parents were not here, I could not run for reassurance to them. Mota-kaka was present in the Playground, but in the dark where to find him? I did not know where he usually sat. And, even if I could locate him, he would surely scold me for being frightened. That's what I thought! But what a surprise awaited me.

Late in the night, as soon as we were allowed to move around in the Playground, I suddenly saw in the dark, the very familiar figure of Mota-kaka weaving through the people in my direction. I also started moving towards him and when we met, what gentle warmth enveloped me! Very softly, he said "Are you all right, Samata? Don't be frightened. We are all together here and The Mother is there to look after all of us." I heaved a great sigh of relief, but still I could not overcome my inhibitions and cling to him as I would have done to my mother.

The next day, late in the morning, when permission was given to go out in the streets, he took me home to check that our house was safe because he knew I was worried about it. Then, from the 12th to the 19th February, everybody was accommodated for the night in the Ashram Main Building or the Playground. Since my mother had returned by then, Mota-kaka, I think, must have been most relieved to be rid of his parenting responsibility!

It must have been in the late 60's. Mota-kaka was taking homeopathic treatment from Sudhir-da (Mona-da's father). I do not recollect exactly what his health problem was — it may have been the eczema around his right ankle that he had suffered from for years or it may have been something else. The first time I came to know anything about it was when I saw him go around the whole day with a handkerchief wrapped around his right middle finger. I asked him what the matter was. He answered casually that he had hurt his finger slightly. A few days later, the handkerchief was still in place, so I asked my father about it this time. He explained to me how the homeopathic medicine works by getting rid of the body's poisons and that for Mota-kaka the poison was draining out through a septic point on the finger. By then the whole finger (and he had the long fingers of an artist) from the tip to the base was as if covered by a glove of pus and swollen to double its normal size and constantly throbbing with pain. Sudhir-da would look at the finger everyday and say, "Oh good, good, the poisons are coming out. Let them come out." So Mota-kaka quietly, uncomplainingly, put up with the pain, because his doctor said it was good for him. And it took a full six months for the finger to heal completely.

Just imagining what pain he must have suffered, makes me shudder even now. The smallest boil near the nails is so painful, and a "gloveful" of pain! ... Since then I had always been scared of homeopathy, though now I have overcome that apprehension.

But could an artist sit without doing any painting or drawing for that long a period? Of course not. The right hand was in complete disuse. So what did he do? He simply started using his left hand, and eventually managed to write and even draw almost as well as with the right hand!

Again, it must have been in the late 60's that he underwent a cataract operation of both eyes. At that time, the Ashram did not have the facilities it now has for eye-treatment. But Krishnalal had the good fortune of being operated on by Dr. Jayavir Agarwal of Madras, who was a good friend and admirer of his. On both occasions Dr. Agarwal personally came to Pondicherry and took him to his clinic in Madras for the operation, took care of him in his own home and brought him back after ten days or so.

Naturally, during the recovery period, Mota-kaka had to stop his painting activities, but afterwards he could no more do the fine work he did earlier. Interestingly, though, his largest work of art — the mural painting at Golconde — was done between 1978 and 1984.

During the 70's, his health started deteriorating. He contracted T.B. and was admitted to JIPMER Hospital. Of course, T.B. treatment is now far more advanced than in the 1940's, when his wife, my Kanta-kaki, contracted it and died of it, and so, unlike her, he recovered completely though it did leave him physically weak.

In the following years, most probably after the completion of the Golconde mural, he started having some cardiac problems, suffered a minor heart attack and was hospitalised several times. During this period, I remember telling my friends that Mota-kaka has been continuously in and out of the Nursing Home. We could see that he was physically weakening but the indomitable spirit that he was, refused any sort of help or support, even from his dearest brother. Whoever asked him how he was, would get the same answer, "Oh, I am fine! Do you see anything wrong with me?" My father was rather concerned about this and complained to me that Bhai would not even allow him to hold his hand when he was feeling weak or even when he stumbled while walking.

Christmas Day, 1989. There were the usual celebrations at the Theatre. Krishnalal also went there and joined the queue for the gifts. Around 7 p.m., we came back from the Theatre in the Ashram bus. I was in the bus with my mother and Mota-kaka was on his own among the other Ashram members. The bus stopped at the corner of the Embroidery Department and we all got down. My mother asked me, "Don't you think something is wrong with Mota-kaka? He looks rather lost and doesn't seem to get his bearings." We went up to him and asked him, rather hesitatingly, if we could help him get home. To our utter surprise he accepted the offer as, he said, he could not figure out in which direction his house was. So we went together, on the pavement. When we reached the godown gate of Counouma's house he stopped there, leaning on the gate, saying that we had reached his house. Evidently, he was completely disoriented. We explained that we still had to go a little further, and led him up to the gate of his building. By then he seemed to be more focused, for, with a little embarrassed smile, he told us that now he would find his way upstairs to his room. I was doubtful and wanted to accompany him right up to the door of his room. But he was adamant and we had to leave him at the main gate. Little did we realise then that this was the beginning of the end.

The next morning I went to The Studio to ask about his health. Oh! He was fine. Nothing wrong with him. My father, who was sitting next to Mota-kaka, looked at me rather curiously because he did not know anything at all about the previous evening as Mota-kaka had not mentioned anything to him. I told my father about it later when Mota-kaka was not present. He was also worried, but there was nothing we could do about it.

Ten days later, on Friday, the 5th of January 1990, Mota-kaka suffered a massive heart attack around 10.30 in the morning.

The previous evening around six, he had gone to the Ashram as usual. After pranam at the Samadhi, he was on his way to Ambu's place at Nanteuil where he would take a glass of Bournvita before going on to Corner House for dinner. But he could not make it on his own till there. Suddenly he felt very weak and stood clinging to the wall of the Playground. Somebody was passing by and Mota-kaka asked him to help him reach Nanteuil. The gentleman obliged and helped him up to there. Ambu took one look at him and made him lie down immediately and called for the doctor.

Dr. Dutta reached around 7.30 p.m. After a brief examination he advised him to get admitted to the Nursing Home. He was taken there by car, given medication and put to bed.

The next morning he woke up around eight and as he was feeling better he was allowed to have a bath. After that he was feeling hungry, so asked if he could have an omelet with toast. He ate this breakfast happily and then lay down to rest.

The heart attack struck him just a little later. It was a massive one and he had to be sedated immediately as he was in extreme pain. My father was sent for. He went to the Nursing Home immediately and met the doctor. Dr. Dutta told him that medically they were doing everything, but Mota-kaka's condition was such that our prayers would help him the most at that juncture.

So my father came away. After his lunch, around noon, he came to inform me about all this. It was such a rude shock when very baldly, without any preamble, my father told me, "Samata, Mota-kaka has suffered a massive heart attack and the doctor says that now only prayers will help."

"But, but…, shouldn't you or someone from the family be near him?" I stammered.

"No, he is unconscious now and we cannot do anything for him except pray, so why stay there?"

I kept quiet and he went away. I told my mother about Mota-kaka. She was also upset and agreed with me that someone should be near him in case he would want to say something when he came out his unconsciousness. I quickly finished lunch and rushed to the Nursing Home. I reached there around 12.50 p.m. I approached his bed in the emergency room and found him as if asleep quietly, hooked up to all sorts of gadgets and machines — oxygen mask around his nose, saline drip in the arm and other monitors showing his heart rate and blood pressure minute by minute. Dr. Salila was there checking all the medical parameters. She explained to me all that they had done up to then and showing me the blood pressure indicator, told me to keep an eye on the figures there because the blood pressure seemed to be dropping. I felt uneasy about that and I asked her if I should send for my father immediately. She said it was still not too bad although he was in a very critical condition.

Then she went away and I sat down near his head thinking it would be a long vigil. But it was not so. I found that the blood pressure was dropping rather alarmingly. The lower (diastolic) figure was dipping even more, it had touched 70 and was soon nearing 65. I thought surely this was not a good sign at all. I called Dr. Salila to the bedside and asked her opinion as to what I should do — should I call my father. She left the decision to me. Finally, at 1.50 p.m., when the B.P. had touched 60, I told them to fetch my father.

But my father could not reach in time. At 2.10 p.m. exactly, Mota-kaka breathed his last very quietly. There was a long exhalation and all the monitors showed straight lines. After a few seconds, he drew a small breath, like a soft sigh and then everything sank into the eternal silence. He had never opened his eyes since 10.30 a.m.

Five minutes later, my father entered. All I could do was to point towards the bed. I could not speak at all. The stillness of death was palpable in the room and he guessed at once what had happened. Yet the heart could not accept the finality.

"Bhai? Is he gone?" He asked me hoping that I would contradict him.

"Yes, just five minutes ago," I whispered.

My father was upset. I could not help telling him then that he ought to have stayed near his brother, for then, perhaps, he could have held him back from slipping away so fast. "But I thought he still had a lot of work to do, so he wouldn't go now," he said regretfully.

As Mota-kaka lay in his room on that evening of 5th January, 1990, he looked so gloriously handsome — not an old fragile man of over eighty-four, but young and beautiful like a sun-god. Even today, seventeen years later, I can clearly see that beautiful face and feel again that sense of romance that it aroused in me at that time.

Samata

A personal tribute

All that denies must be torn out and slain
And crushed the many longings for Whose sake
We lose the One for whom our lives were made.
- Savitri, Sri Aurobindo

This he copied out in bold, unornamented letters, almost one inch high, on an 8 × 12 inch white piece of art-board. Under this firm resolve, the Mother wrote "Blessings" and put Her signature.

He kept the card beside Her photograph and Sri Aurobindo's in the book-shelf on his table.

And there stands against it, even today [6 January 1990], a peacock feather symbolising Victory. It was the shape of this feather that inspired the signature he used to put on his paintings: Victory to the Divine Mother!

In August 1933, he once and for all left the family he was born in, to join for ever the Mother's eternal, all-inclusive Family.

On 5th January this year [1990], he suffered a massive heart-attack. For an eighty-four year old body, weakened by numerous illnesses, it cannot have been a light affair, but his face betrayed no struggle, only showed his usual serene detachment. Then, as was his wont, he did not allow the presence of others to distract him from the ONE for whom our lives are made. Quietly he slipped away.

As he lay on the cot in his room on Epiphany Day, one could see that his body had grown young, as do the bodies of all children of the Mother at that stage of transition. But, in addition, he seemed to be soaring upward, his limbs redolent of the young upward-rising figure of Joy he had once painted. Out of a great uplifting Fire, the figure ascends the skies of God. The painting carries the inscription, penned in November 1956, in the Mother's hand:

Without care for time, without fear for space, surging out purified from the flames of the ordeal, we shall fly without stop towards the realisation of our goal, the supramental victory.

Sunjoy

Sunjoy: Krishnalal-kaka and Pujalal-kaka agreed to be our guardians when my brother and I were admitted to the School here in November 1952. My father, Vamanrao, and his brothers 'grew' up in the same akhada in Sarangpur, Ahmedabad, as Krishnalal-kaka and his brothers. Pujalal-kaka, appointed by Ambu-bhai (Dada-ji to me and hundreds of others), was the first instructor of this akhada.

Krishnalal – the artist who became the art

By Aditi Kaul

During the early revolutionary struggles in India, some gymnasiums (akhadas) were set up with an intention to prepare the youth for fighting for the freedom for their motherland. In one such gymnasium set up by A.B. Purani, one of the foremost disciples of Sri Aurobindo, there was a young man named Krishnalal Bhatt. Born on 1 July 1905 in Gujarat, Krishnalal was a young enthusiastic boy who joined the gymnasium (akhada) with all the vigour to do something for his country. However, during his training in the gym, he discovered various facets of his personality; art was one of them. He later went on to study and teach art formally; his education included studying art at Shantiniketan under the renowned artist, Nandalal Bose. After a few years of learning and teaching art, he once again crossed paths with A.B. Purani, who was by that time (1933) living in the Sri Aurobindo Ashram at Pondicherry. Purani invited Krishnalal to visit him. Little did he know that one casual visit to the Ashram would change the course of his life. During his visit to the Ashram, Krishnalal had the darshan of The Mother, an experience which he described as the vision of a goddess, and that when The Mother smiled and threw a flower to him, he knew that a contact had been established between them. The freedom in the atmosphere of the ashram was something the artist in him found extremely fulfilling and the fact that a lot of importance was given to beauty and art in the ashram made him connect instantly and decide to stay longer. During his early years at the ashram, he often found himself in conflict with the worldly duties he had left behind, but he received constant reassurance from The Mother, who told him that the Ashram was the place for him. The Mother’s reassurance helped him overcome the initial inhibitions, and he completely immersed himself in his work at the Ashram. The Mother always gave him specific tasks that kept him occupied and trained his mind to be concentrated on one thing at a time, specially the piece of art he would be working on.

Krishnalal was the chosen instrument to bring in beauty into the spiritual community of the ashram. He went on to paint almost everywhere in the ashram: the reception room, the panel that separated Sri Aurobindo’s and The Mother’s rooms, the panels in The Mother’s room, and many other places. Once The Mother asked him to paint a desk calendar for Sri Aurobindo, for which Krishnalal chose the theme of cats. He painted them in different positions and with different expressions, in groups or alone. He also had some correspondence with Sri Aurobindo, and Sri Aurobindo appreciated his work. He also taught art to the senior students at the Ashram school. He would deeply engage himself in painting curtains with different landscapes for the ashram theatre performances. Krishnalal was of the opinion that one must train the eyes to observe, before one can train the hand to hold the brush, and his paintings were nothing short of being a proof of his opinion. From painting landscapes on small cards to painting on bedsheets and handmade paper, his work reflected his spiritual journey.

His last major work which took him more than 3 years to complete was the Golconde mural. He painted a scene so alive and reflective, in which the whole world was coming to the Mother and asking to be blessed. When in 1960, the ashram gallery was established, he was made its in-charge, where he served until he left his body on 5 January 1990. His life is a true example of someone whose outer expression was the manifestation of his inner experience; he lived a life totally dedicated to the service of The Master and The Mother. He brought beauty to the ashram community, which continues to inspire everyone.

Reference: Sunayana Panda > Seven Dedicated Lives > pp. 37-46