With my Sweet Mother

Reminiscences 

Early Ashram Days

One of the things I said to the Mother soon after my arrival at the Ashram on the 16th December 1927 with Amal Kiran (at that time my husband and known as Kekoo D. Sethna) was this: “Mother, I don’t think that I will be able to do this Yoga: I am not an intellectual person. Kekoo, who is highly developed intellectually, will surely be able to do it.”

The Mother looked at me with astonishment and after a short silence said: “Who has told you that only intellectual people can do Sri Aurobindo’s Yoga?” “Nobody, Mother,” I replied, “but as Sri Aurobindo Himself is very intellectual, His Yoga must be of the same kind.”

“Nonsense!” said the Mother. “Sri Aurobindo’s Yoga is an integral Yoga, which includes Devotion, Knowledge, Works and many other things. And as for your being able to do it or not—we shall see.” She was silent for a while and then said: “Do not worry.”

I was very much consoled by these words, accompanied (as always) by Her wonderful smile. After this, whenever I told Her that I did not know the ABC of sadhana and so was not aware if I was making any progress or not, She always told me: “Do not worry. I am doing the sadhana and not you. You just do the work I have given you and stop troubling yourself.” So I had nothing more to say in the matter.

*

I had been married only a few months before coming to Pondicherry. So I had a fresh trousseau with me. This trousseau and whatever jewelry went with it, I sent to the Mother through Ambalal Purani, our most intimate friend at that time, as an offering. I am mentioning this because of what happened in connection with my first “darshan” of Sri Aurobindo on the 21st February 1928.

On the 20th the Mother called me to what was then the Meditation Hall on the first floor. I was happy not only because it would give me a chance of meeting Her, but also because I believed I would receive a new cotton sari (like the other sadhikas) to wear on the “darshan” day. I was always wearing the silk and georgette saris which I had brought with me, and feeling a bit odd among the Ashramites.

The Mother was smiling when I reached upstairs and went and stood at the place where that beautiful chair is now placed. There was somebody with Her, I do not remember who, unless it was Datta (Miss Dorothy Hodgson).

…opened the bundle this person was holding and, taking out a string of pearls, she slipped it over my head, and pulled the adjustment at the back till the necklace was of the right length. Then, taking some clothes from Her attendant’s hands, She gave them to me with Her charming smile, saying softly: “You must wear these when you come for ‘darshan’ tomorrow.” I was very much astonished (and also a bit disappointed) because I had not been given an Ashram sari to wear. I asked: “But why these, Mother?” The Mother looked into my eyes for a few seconds and said with Her sweet smile, “Because it is my wish.” What could I say after that? If She wanted me to be dressed differently I must accept Her wish with gratitude.I fell at Her feet and kissed them with love.

The silk sari along with the other articles had been part of what I had offered to the Mother with great joy. If it was Her wish that I should wear at least one full set from the articles that had made up my offering, nothing was left for me to say.

On the “darshan” day I went upstairs with Kekoo, who seemed quite calm and confident, whereas I was a bit shaky inside. At that time there were not many photographs of Sri Aurobindo, and the one or two I had seen were not very impressive. I thought of Sri Aurobindo to be somewhat superior to the sadhaks, but nothing more. Imagine my surprise when I saw Him sitting to the Mother’s left, on the long sofa (in the same hall), on which is now placed His single photo.

“Surprise” is hardly an appropriate word. I should say I was wonderstruck. For that was exactly what I felt. “If God can take a human form, it is surely this,” I said to myself. I felt so lowly and unworthy before Him that I did not even touch His feet. I made my “pranam” at a little distance. “Surely he is the supreme Divine, a true Avatar,” I said again to myself. He looked so majestic and marvellous, yet so compassionate, I simply stared in bewilderment. The Mother understood my embarrassed state and kept smiling sweetly. I felt like weeping but I controlled myself.

I went home, but a part of me remained with Them. I did not feel like doing anything except lying down quietly and living the experience once again from within. But I had to attend to my usual work at home.

A day or two later Mother sent for me. I was very happy. She opened the staircase door of the Meditation Hall Herself, and led me to the small room at the other end, which became the “darshan” room later. She seated Herself on the same sofa as the one which now holds Their large joint photo. At that time, this sofa was placed against the wall between the window and the door leading to Nirod’s present office-room upstairs. I made my “pranam” to Her and offered the bundle I had brought with me. The Mother opened it and said “Oh! You don’t want to keep these clothes?” “No, Mother,” I said. “They were already offered to you, but as it was Your wish that I should wear them on the ‘darshan’ day, I did so.”

She closed the bundle and put it aside; then taking my hand in Hers She said in a soft voice, “Sri Aurobindo was pleased with you. He told me all sorts of things I could teach you and make of you.”

At the mention of Sri Aurobindo’s name I started to feel what I had felt when I had stood in front of Him. Tears threatened to come out of my eyes. I bowed at the Mother’s sacred feet, saying: “A worthless creature like me!”

She blessed me for a long time and when I rose She took me to the door to see me off. I could not speak a word. I was so overwhelmed by Her love and kindness.

*

One of the many jobs which the Mother first gave me to do was covering Her bags with new cloth. While doing it for one of them the silver-and-gold ornamental top came off. I was trying to push the new piece of cloth under it. I did not know what to do and felt very sad at having broken Her bag in this way. I went to Purani and confessed everything. He took the bag to the Mother and, after showing Her what had happened, he had it repaired by a silversmith in the town. He gave it back to me, and after fixing the new cloth on it I went timidly to the Mother and offered it to Her.

I was expecting a scolding, because I was new, and I did not know Her so well. But, instead, She was all smiles and praised my work. “The screws on the sides must have become loose,” she said. “So the top piece came off. The bag looks very pretty, I will start using it at once.” I felt amply rewarded.

*

As the Mother was wearing a band round Her head, covered with jewels (whenever She went out in Her sari) I got the idea of embroidering a crown for Her with silver lotuses. I spoke to Her about it and, with Her approval, told Kekoo to make a design for it. Kekoo was a good artist and the Mother liked his paintings and drawings very much. He made a fine design according to the measurements given by me, and I sent for the necessary silver threads, etc., from Bombay and set to work. As the embroidery progressed She had a look at it, and was very pleased with it. Finally the crown was ready and it looked beautiful when She wore it. Each lotus was embroidered in a specially prepared “Kasab” cut to size and, before stitching the two ends of the crown together, I had cut the top part according to the size and shape of each flower, which was unique in each case. The crown was much liked by the Mother.

Music

I had been very fond of Western music since my early childhood. In the Town Hall of Bombay where we were living because my father was its Custodian, there was a very big organ, about two storeys high, with four hand-manipulated bellows at the back.

Every Sunday a fine robust gentleman came, with four coolies to work the bellows, and played upon the organ for two hours. It was so wonderful. I refused to move from there.

The violin was my favourite instrument and I wanted to learn how to play it, but at that time there were no lady-teachers, and my father being orthodox would not allow me to study with a man, so I took up the piano.

My Parsi piano-teacher was an elderly lady on one of whose birthdays I had been born. She was glad to have me because she thought I had been sent by God to continue her work when she would pass away. Hence she wanted to give me a wide knowledge of Western music, but unfortunately my mother (whom I loved very much) was ambitious, and wanted me to pass examinations with flying colours, so that she could be proud of me when my name appeared in all the papers. Thus my study was confined to the syllabus of the Trinity College of Music, London.

My poor teacher often pleaded with my mother to give me a chance to study other pieces of music, but my mother would not agree, because she wanted me to concentrate on the exams.

Since I was going to school, I did not have more than a few hours to spare for music. Besides, what I really wanted to learn was composition, but I could not do so because my teacher asked for double the fees, which my father could ill afford. Still I used to improvise a lot (which, too, both my mother and my teacher did not approve of). My desire remained an unfulfilled longing in me.

When I came to the Ashram there was no piano here, so I was out of practice for many years. Finally my father sent me my Steinway and the Mother had it placed in the front part of our dining room for me and others to practise on. She also organised a concert there for a high French Official, but he did not care for our playing of Western music. The Mother told me later that these pieces of music were being played so well in France and elsewhere that our rendering seemed quite childish. She Herself was not much pleased with them either.

Later, when I shifted to “Fenêtres” (“Windows”) I had my piano in my room and could practise for a longer time. Both the Mother and Sri Aurobindo could hear me playing on it.

My first big experience of hearing music of some other worlds took place when I was staying in the same house as Vaun and Jeanette Macpheeter, the first two American Ashramites, at a little distance from the Ashram. I was meditating one morning on the terrace, when suddenly something at the top of my head seemed to open, and I heard a wonderful piece of music. It seemed as if an orchestra of five hundred or more musicians had been playing. I told the Mother about it and She was very pleased. Later on She told me to remember it and play it on Her organ. But oh how flat it sounded on an earthly instrument! How could one transcribe on an organ or piano the quarter and other tones which I had heard? These instruments had only half tones. Perhaps on a string instrument the piece could have been rendered, but even then it would have lost its many-sided harmonies.

I tried repeatedly to reproduce the strange music on my piano also but it sounded absolutely flat, so finally I gave up. I only practised and played to the Mother on Her organ some music by Bach, Beethoven, and other composers. She was so gentle and tolerant all the time, and showed me my defects and the way to correct them. She had Herself played this music in France and elsewhere. She was as great a musician as She was a painter.

She told me that Her maternal uncle had once produced an opera in Paris and, knowing well Her beautiful voice, he had given Her a part to sing, which was greatly appreciated by the audience. She was very young at that time.

The Mother often played Her own music to me on the organ, and I sat listening to Her quietly. What wonderful music it was! As Sri Aurobindo has said somewhere, even the Gods came to listen to it.

As time went on, by the Mother’s Grace I was able to hear music behind any and every sound. If a tap was running, or the wind was blowing, there was always music behind it. I informed the Mother about this and She said that it was the harmony behind everything which translated itself into music.

When, after a long stay in Bombay, I returned to the Ashram, I commenced to hear from the very first night the music of the sea. I mentioned this to the people of the Guest House where I was staying. They thought I was slightly demented. I had said to them: “In Pondicherry the sea is constantly singing.” It is still singing, and I hear its song every day.

Before my piano had arrived and I had shifted to “Fenêtres”, I was staying with Sahana on the first floor of what is now called “Huta House”. Here I started learning Indian music (specially Mirabai’s songs) with Dilip Kumar Roy. I had been given a pedal harmonium and later a Tanpura to play. Dilip and Sahana were excellent musicians, and it was a pleasure to hear them.

Dilip was equally good at singing Western music. Once in 1933, when an Austrian lady—Mrs. Fulop-Miller—was giving a concert in the Meditation Hall on the first floor of the Mother’s house, Dilip sang a few songs in German by Schubert, accompanied on the organ by that lady. The Mother was extremely pleased with his singing. She told me later that he had the voice of an operatic singer. I was there to turn the pages of the music-book, so I had a good chance of hearing everything at close quarters.

Later, when I was staying at “Fenêtres” and I had my piano, the Mother gave me two pupils to teach. One was a young boy who (if I remember correctly) was the son of the architect of Golconde, and the other our poet Arjava­nanda, or Arjava in short (originally John Chadwick). The young boy was fond of music, but he went away after some time. He told me many interesting things about his life in Japan, from where he had come. On departing, his mother gave me a very pretty brush-holder of purple and gold brocade and some water-colours, all of which I offered to the Mother. She told me that the Japanese were a very aesthetic people and when they got an inspiration they would at once put it down in poetry or in painting, wherever they might be at the time.

Arjava was a perfect gentleman, and treated me with great respect. He learnt to play the piano but he always asked me why Western music could not be composed mathematically. Being a mathematician of a high order who had invented a special method called the Chadwick Method, which was being used at Cambridge at the time, he wanted to know why this music could not be written in that way. “It would be very uninteresting,” I said, “if instead of following one’s inspiration one made a mathematical problem out of it.” This made him smile.

I had put some of his beautiful poems to music and these I used to sing in a soft voice to the Mother to find out how She liked them. Some She approved of, and others She rejected, and asked me to do them again under Her guidance.

A day, however, arrived when both Arjava and myself were attacked by a strange disease, which gave small boils in the armpits. After a lot of trouble I recovered with the help of the hospital doctor. He prepared a serum by taking some blood from the boils, and it was an extremely painful affair. I remember how I wept when I went to the Mother and told Her about it. Poor Arjava could not recover, and had to be sent to a hospital at Bangalore. This he never reached, for he died on the way. I learned he had many physical ailments, including a diseased heart.

It seems that the Mother sent a telegram to his parents in England, asking them if they wanted the body to be sent to them by air. But as the parents did not want it, I believe it was buried in a European cemetery in Bangalore.

I knew nothing of this at the time, but some time later I commenced to hear at night some mysterious sounds in my piano. It was as if someone were passing his hand along the strings inside. I told the Mother about it, and She said to me that it was Arjava, and that he had passed away.

“Poor Arjava!” I said. “I can scarcely believe it!” Then the Mother gave me some incense-sticks which She told me to light before going to bed and then, taking both the Mother’s and Sri Aurobindo’s names, go round all the rooms and finally leave the incense-sticks on the piano. “How kind of Arjava to remember me!”

I said to myself. I prayed that he might rest in deep peace at the Mother’s and Sri Aurobindo’s feet.

Among our musicians in the Ashram was a cellist called Nandini (name given by Sri Aurobindo), an Englishwoman who had come from South Africa where she had been a member of the famous Durban Orchestra. I played accompaniments to her.

With the Mother’s approval the wording of “Ave Maria” had been changed, and we played and sang to Her according to the new wordings, beginning with the phrase: “Mira, divinité.”

Next came Elizabeth Caspari from Kodaikanal, who also helped us with music for a few months. She wanted me to go with her on a long journey to that famous Himalayan lake (Manassarovar) where sadhus, sanyasis and yogis went every year. The Mother was very displeased when I told Her about it, and it could be because of this that Madame Caspari was made to leave in a hurry. But we kept up our correspondence and I found her very kind towards me. She visited the Ashram again later.

After she had left, another musician came, a French lady whom the Mother called Suryakumari. She was not only a fine musician but also a sincere sadhika. She taught me singing as well as increased my knowledge of playing the piano. She wanted me to take up singing seriously, because she liked my voice and said that I had a good ear for music.

You will see from the above that whenever the Mother wanted a music-teacher, She had only to send a call from within, and the person always turned up.

When I returned to Bombay after a long stay in the Ashram, the first thing I did was to look out for a teacher of Western Music composition. I found an Australian composer who was engaged by the All India Radio (Bombay), but as he was a Government employee he could only teach me on the sly, which did not last long.

Then I went to another teacher who was a great pianist, but she could not teach me much of composition. And the same happened with a beautiful foreign organ-player. Finally I had to give up and just write down what came spontaneously from within.

I had kept up a constant correspondence with the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, and also sent fair copies to the Mother as an offering of some of my compositions, and received Her blessings.

Manicuring

Shortly after my coming to the Ashram the Mother suddenly asked me, “Do you know manicuring?”

“Yes, Mother dear,” I said.

“Then you will come on Friday and do my nails,” She said.

So every Friday I went at the appointed time, when the Mother Herself opened the door and took me in. Strange to say, She always treated me as a friend and companion and not as Her child, which greatly surprised me. But later, an old sadhak explained it must be due to the fact of my having been the Mother’s companion in one of my past lives. “Don’t you know,” he asked me, “that you were Lalita when She was Radha? Otherwise why should Sri Aurobindo mention it when He changed your name?”

I pondered over this, and the more I thought of it the more I saw Radha in the Mother. Besides, the Mother frequently gave me flowers which had a significance connected with Radha such as “Radha’s Love”, “Opening of the Vital to Radha’s Influence”, etc.

Every Friday now became a wonderful day for me and I lived in its thought each time for the whole week. At that time there were not many people in the Ashram; so the Mother could give each one of us much more of Her time.

When She called me She would Herself open the door of the Meditation Hall and lead me across that room to the couch (the same one holding the Mother and Sri Aurobindo’s joint photo) which was at that time placed against the wall, in the corner between the window and the door to Nirod’s present office room.

After sitting comfortably on the couch with Her legs stretched in front of Her, and after I had sat on that carpet near Her, She would give me all the manicuring materials and Her hands. This was a good opportunity for me to tell Her anything I wanted to say, or ask Her things I wanted to know. But I rarely said or asked anything, and the Mother soon passed into a deep trance. When I had finished one hand, I kept holding it quietly till She came out of Her trance and gave me the other hand. Sometimes She would smile at me and tell me the thing She had seen, if it concerned me. The final polishing of Her nails was done by Herself.

She never applied liquid polish but some pink powder which was spread on Her polishing pad. She also gave me a full set of articles used by Her, which I have preserved carefully and still have.

I remember telling Her once that I had a dream-vision in which I had seen Her as an Egyptian Queen, seated on a throne with an eagle-crown on Her head. I was seated with others on Her right playing a strange musical instrument. It gave me the impression that I was one of this Queen’s court musicians.

“It is true,” She said. “You were with me when I was a Queen of Egypt.”
I believe it was Cleopatra, but I am not quite sure.

But how different was this Cleopatra from what Rider Haggard and others have made of her, I thought. I still remember the dress I was wearing and the small string-instrument I was playing.

In those golden days in the Ashram, time was of no consequence. As She has said somewhere in Her Prayers and Meditations: “And the hours pass away like dreams unlived.”

After I had finished the manicuring I would make my “pranam” to Her, and She would bless me for a long time. Then She would lead me to the door, holding me close, with Her hand round my waist, and mine round Hers, like two intimate friends.

Before opening the door She would say “Au revoir” with Her sweet smile or give me a kiss on the forehead.

I went home feeling extremely happy and lived in the memory of all that had passed and all that She had told me till the next Friday came. I was very aloof throughout the week. I never went anywhere, and hardly spoke to anybody except Amal, Sahana and Dilip.

Cooking

Both Sahana and myself used to do a little cooking for the Mother, as taught by her. Sahana used to prepare and take daily to the Mother a plate of cheese sandwiches, whereas I used to prepare Ragi biscuits. Sri Aurobindo liked what both of us made.

We had also our special days of cooking. I prepared mushrooms (les Champignons de Paris), baked macaroni and vermicelli as taught by the Mother, as well as took some stuffed olives and asparagus for Sri Aurobindo. Sahana was a very good cook, but I do not remember now all the details of her preparations. And there was Mridu, living downstairs in the same house, who used to prepare some Bengali dishes for Sri Aurobindo. Her loochis were much liked by Him, I believe.

Vaun Macpheeter grew some asparagus-shoots for the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. When they were ready, Jeannette prepared and took them to the Mother who offered them to Sri Aurobindo. Sri Aurobindo smiled and said, “I will have to take a magnifying glass to see what they are like” and the Mother laughed. They were very tiny.

In connection with Jeannette I once asked the Mother why she was not given some proper work to do, and the Mother said, “You see, Lalita, to those who have worked very hard before coming here I allow an easier life, but to those who have been lazy or who haven’t worked much, I give as much work as they can do without tiring.”

When I was staying in Huta House, after finishing everything I used to light my kerosene lamp and embroider the Mother’s crowns. In those days the electricity was switched off all over the town by 9 o’clock at night, so we had to use our lanterns after that.

One day the Mother saw a light in my room very late, so She asked me, “What were you doing at so late an hour?”

“I was embroidering Your crown, Mother,” I said.

“Doing embroidery so late at night?” She asked. “Child, you will spoil your eyes. Don’t you feel sleepy?”

“No, Mother dear,” I replied, “not at all. I can work the whole night long and feel neither tired nor sleepy.”

The Mother was surprised and said with a smile, “Even if you don’t feel sleepy, you must lie down with your eyes closed for five or six hours to give both your eyes and your body complete rest.”

This reminds me of the time when we used to go to the Meditation Hall at midnight to meditate with the Mother. She looked so radiant and glorious in Her different aspects. The few sadhaks who were there had their own characteristic ways of sitting and meditating. Amal drew some amusing pictures of all of us.

We were wide-awake at midnight and hardly slept for a few hours after that. Our sadhana was on the higher planes in those golden days, so we had very little of “tamas.”

Illness

The Mother never approved of our taking medicines and running to the doctor each time we had an illness.

Once I had a severe cold which I could not cure, so I went to the Mother and told Her about it. “You are in good company,” She said. “Sri Aurobindo also has a cold.”

“But what is the remedy?” I asked.

“Oh, the remedy,” She said, and looked far away for a few seconds and then said, “Every morning you sit outside on the terrace with your back to the sun, so that the sun’s rays may fall upon the region of the lungs. Keep quiet for some time and then you say, ‘Fill my being with Thy Light.’ Take in a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds and let it out slowly. Then again you say, ‘Fill my being with Thy Love,’ and do the same kind of breathing. Finally you say, ‘Fill my being with Thy Life’ and repeat the breathing exercise. Go on for some time, keeping very quiet and concentrated, and offering your whole being to the Divine, and all this trouble will disappear.”

She blessed me and let me go after I had made my “pranam” to Her, and received Her sweet smile.

I followed Her advice to the letter, and not only did the cold disappear, but I forgot what it was like to have fever. When I told the Mother about it She said, “It is very good. Forget about it.” Much later I told the Mother: “Both You and the Lord have so much power. Why don’t you work on us with it preventing all illness etc.” She said, “It is true that we have a great power. If I wanted I could give you blue eyes and fair hair. But the Divine does not work by miracles.” What a shame! I thought. How nice it would have been to have blue eyes and fair hair!

The Mother’s Care

The Mother was very careful as to what we were taking if we were not well, and She knew the medicine so well that She would never allow us to take anything which might have a bad effect later.

Once my papa had sent me a patent medicine for my diarrhoea which I had been taking in Bombay. I showed it to the Mother who studied the formula and then said, “It is better you don’t take this—it contains opium.” So I did not take it.

The glass of lime juice or coconut water which She Herself gave me daily from Her fridge was the best medicine for me and kept me strong and free from all illness.

I had a big pimple on my face once and I showed it to the Mother and asked for some ointment or cream for it. “It is not these things that will cure you,” said the Mother, “but the renunciation of a desire of yours.” I was surprised, and prayed for Her help to do it, and She said, “My help is always there, but you must be sincere and open to it.”

Every month I had much pain during the first day or two of my menstruation period. I continued the Mother’s work as usual, and when I was at home I used to lie down with a hot water bag on the lower abdomen. One day the Mother said to me, “I have spoken to Sri Aurobindo about this trouble, so it will surely be cured.”

“To Sri Aurobindo?” I asked in a shocked manner.

“Why not?” She asked. “Do you think that Sri Aurobindo looks at things from the low human way? To Him a pain in the head or chest or any other part of the body is just the same, so you need not feel so shocked about it.”

This was a good lesson to me and later, when the Mother was ill and Sri Aurobindo was attending to all our correspondence, I had no hesitation in letting Him know anything. I told my divine Parents everything, even when I was in Bombay and writing to Them. It often happened that even before my letter reached Them my difficulty was solved.

You Cannot Deceive the Divine

The Mother asked me once to go to X’s house and find out if he had been drinking. “I have a strong impression that he is doing it on the sly,” She said, “so I want you to find out and tell me.”

X had been my friend, so there was no difficulty in going to the place where he lived. As soon as I entered his rooms I felt a very bad atmosphere. Everything was disarranged and in a mess. He looked dark and untidy and was very much surprised to see me. He was simply reeking with liquor.

After asking about his health and of his companion I said that I had a lot of work to do and left the place.

I went to the Mother and told Her everything and She said, “I knew about it, but I wanted an outer confirmation. It is impossible to deceive me.”

X left the Ashram soon after this.

Being Ourselves

The Mother never liked us imitating anybody. In this connection one incident comes to my mind which may be useful to all.

One day I told the Mother that many people were doing a certain thing (I have forgotten what) but I was not able to do it, so I needed Her help.

“What?” said the Mother in a surprised tone. “You want to do it because others are doing it! What does it matter to you if the whole world is walking on its head with its feet up in the air? Tell yourself that you will be Lalita, and nothing else, and do what Lalita has to do, and nothing else.”

This was a good lesson to me. Thanking Her for it, I made my “pranam” to Her and came away.

Old at Twenty-five

When I was twenty-five or so, once I told the Mother that I was quite old and that I had seen and experienced everything that life had to offer.

“Really?” said the Mother. “Old at twenty-five! If I were as young as you and had my whole life before me, I would make the best possible use of it by dedicating it to the Divine.”

I was carrying the burden of my past on my shoulders which was hindering my progress, so the Mother told me, “Every morning when you take your bath, imagine that you are washing away all your past, and that you are a new person.”

This I did day after day and a time came when I could not recollect the past even if I tried to do it. I felt much happier and lighter.

“Forgive and Forget”

A certain person had written some false and nasty things about me to the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. The Mother always told me of such things and even showed the letters to keep me on my guard, because in those days I never cared to look or to speak to anybody except those with whom I worked.

Some time later, the same person was in some serious trouble and came to me. He requested me to tell the Mother about it.

“What?” said the Mother when I spoke to Her. “He said those nasty things about you and now you come and ask me to help him?”

“Oh!” I said, “I had forgotten all about it.”

The Mother was very pleased and smiling sweetly She told me that that was the right thing to do. “You must never keep a grudge or ill-feeling against anybody.” I was very happy to hear this.

Upset About Small Things

When I was upset about a small thing the Mother told me, in effect:

“Go to the sea beach, lie on the sand, look at the vast expanse of water in front of you and let your consciousness become as wide as the ocean.

“Go to your terrace at night and gaze at the stars. Think of the infinity of space in which the stars are moving, each star a world by itself, and there are millions and millions of them, only a few of which we have seen with our telescopes. Imagine the marvels that are in time and space, which is only a tiny part of the manifestation of the Divine. He is so much more than all this, He whom we are here to realise, and with whom we have to unite in consciousness. You must have noticed the Milky Way in the sky. How many stars are there that we have seen? And how many years it has taken for their light to reach us? How many millions of them are there which most probably we shall never see, even with our latest inventions? Just think of all this and you will soon feel the absurdity of your small troubles.”

I felt so consoled and uplifted by these words of the Mother that I forgot my troubles, and even laughed at them thereafter.

From that very evening I did exactly as I was told and as I gazed at the stars, I knew they were moving at a fast speed and yet they did so harmoniously and quietly as if they had all eternity in front of them. This helped in widening my consciousness and raising it above petty obstacles.

Love in the Mother

I ASKED the Mother once how I could write to others, specially when ending my letters, with love etc., when all my love was given only to the Divine. If I did not end my letters in this way, my friends and relatives felt offended and, if I did write it, then my heart was offended. So what should I do?

The Mother said, “You know how the Christians have a way of saying ‘With love in Christ’, so you can also say ‘With love in the Mother’.”

Thereafter there was no problem—and I commenced to feel something of the Divine’s love, which is for everybody.

Good Friend

When I told the Mother that a certain person was a good friend of mine, always helping me and teaching me all sorts of things, She was not at all pleased with me. She said in a firm way, “Don’t be under the illusion that any human being can be a true friend to you. The Divine is your only real friend. He alone can truly help, guide and protect you.” At that time I could not understand this deeply, but later, throughout my life, I found that on whomsoever I relied, he or she always failed me. Only the Divine remained my true friend throughout.

My Birthdays

We all know that our birthday is a very happy day for us. Our sweet Mother showers Her special grace on us on that day.

On each of my birthdays I took to Her as an offering one hundred and one roses, specially ordered by me from a garden in Bangalore. They had been so well packed that they were quite fresh when I took them to the Mother, who was very pleased with them. Later, Chinmayi and I arranged them in different vases in the Mother’s room.

Besides the roses, I offered with great joy a dozen saris, which were not expensive in those days. Knowing the Mother’s tastes, I took care to choose the colours She liked best, and the texture also. They had come either from Japan or from France. I also offered one silk dhoti for Sri Aurobindo, but it was not always of the right sort, for in Bombay it was difficult to get such dhoties and I did not find them there either.

Elizabeth Arden’s toilet preparations had been introduced by me to the Mother some time earlier, so I also offered those among them which the Mother liked and used. At first they had to be ordered from England, but later I got them from Spencer & Co., Madras.

After seeing all my offerings one by one, the Mother would hold me close and we would meditate for a long while, as I am sure most of us have done with Her.

“I want to be completely Yours. Your child alone. Make me worthy of being Your true child in all the parts of my being,” I said to Her.

“A child does not know that it is a child,” the Mother answered.

After the meditation was over She would give me flowers and a little gift—something that She had used (even a pin-cushion). It made me very happy. Once She gave me a plastic toy in the shape of a peacock. All of Her gifts I have still got, carefully preserved.

My flowers were usually “Generosity” and “Tendresse” and on my birthdays a few others which I do not remember.

After accepting my “pranam” to Her and giving me Her blessings She would leave me, and Chinmayi would come to help me put away all the things. This was done in the Mother’s dressing-room.

In connection with Elizabeth Arden I must mention a certain thing. One day I received a letter from Spencer & Co., informing me that a lady who had been trained by Mrs. Arden in her beauty parlour in England was coming on a tour to India and so would visit me, as I had been their client for a long time. Because I had been ordering a lot of beauty preparations, they thought I was using them myself. I was very glad to get their offer and told the Mother about it with enthusiasm.

“Do you think that I am going to allow this woman to touch my face?” the Mother asked me in a stern way. I kept quiet for a while till I realised that the Mother was the Divine, and not just an ordinary client. “No, Mother,” I said softly, “I am sorry.”

After this, whenever I helped Her adjust Her sari or other things, even my hands became conscious that they were touching a divine body. It was a good lesson to me, and I wrote to Spencer & Co. that they did not need to send the lady here.

The Mother, by coming so close to us, often made us forget that She was the Divine, and such blows as I received at times were a Grace for me.

Fairies

There was a lot of talk about fairies at one time, specially because Miss Olive Maitland, an English lady visiting the Ashram, was said to be in communion with a fairy. I could not understand how fairies could actually live with certain people, so on one of my birthdays when the Mother spoke about it to me I told Her that since my early childhood I had felt the presence of fairies in the garden of the Town Hall of Bombay, where we had been living because my father had been its custodian. As I grew up I rejected the idea as childish imagination, but whenever I was alone among trees and flowers, on hillsides or in woods, something in me became conscious of their presence, jumped out of me and danced with them. Yes, that is what I actually felt. If nobody was looking, I spent a long time in these surroundings, dancing and singing and playing with the flowers. But none of my friends or relatives understood me, least of all my parents who thought I was crazy, so I could not enjoy myself in this way when anybody was around.

When I joined the Ashram many years later, and was staying in the Macpheeters’ house, one night I was suddenly awakened from my sleep by a soft knocking on my door. “Rat-a-tat-tat,” it went.

I got up, opened the door and found that there was nobody. I went to sleep again and the noise returned. This time I saw in the subtle world some sweet-looking creatures like tiny children, knocking on the door. There were boys and girls, and the latter were very pretty, and the former a little mischievous. “Could these have been fairies, Mother dear?” I asked the Mother the next day.

“Yes,” She said. “But they are of two kinds: playful and helpful. The latter can even arrange a drawer for you if you ask them. But it is not possible to have them with you unless your being is harmonious and your thoughts and feelings are beautiful. All kinds of vulgarity, ugliness, and discord will drive them away.”

“Is everybody aware of their presence?” I asked.

“No, certainly not,” the Mother replied. “You had an affinity with them from the very beginning. You see, these fairies do not have a psychic being, and so when they wish to approach the Divine, they keep close to human beings who are suitable to them, and will help them come to the Divine.”

I was very excited to learn this, so the Mother had to warn me not to tell everybody about it. Later on, when I had shifted to “Fenêtres” (“Windows”) and was doing some stitching or embroidery, they would tease me by hiding my thread or needle or scissors. “They only put a veil of unconsciousness between us and the objects,” the Mother said when I spoke to Her about these happenings. She continued, “The next time they do it you just say loudly, ‘I shall tell the Mother about this,’ and see what happens.” I did as I was told, and immediately they stopped teasing me.

When I look back, it seems strange to me that the flowers which she usually gave me—the one to which She had given the significance—“Generosity”—and the small pink and white rose called “Tendresse” by Her—were the very flowers which had grown in abundance in our garden in Bombay, where from early childhood I used to feel the presence of fairies among them.

Champaklal

I have always admired our generous-hearted Champaklal. I do not know how many people he must have helped to see the Mother and to receive Her blessings. Even when the Mother (for some reason of Her own) was not willing or not keen to see certain people, he would plead with Her, “Grace, Mother, Your Grace”—till She relented.

When I returned to settle in the Ashram after a long stay in Bombay, I was a nervous wreck, and the only thing that calmed my nerves was sitting in the Mother’s long passage-room and meditating. When I spoke to Champaklal about it, he readily gave me the permission to sit there regularly.

I used to go very early those days when practically nobody was there (except Champaklal and Nirod) near Sri Aurobindo’s room.

Once when I was sitting and meditating I distinctly heard a “swish, swish” sound as if somebody were walking in the passage. I opened my eyes and looked everywhere, but there was no one. I started meditating again, and once more I heard the same noise. I got up and looked everywhere, but there was nobody around. Then something told me from within, “Why, it is the Mother! She wants you to be aware that She is always present.” I was very grateful for this experience, and to Champaklal for giving me the chance of meditating there, for it also cured me of my nervous trouble.

When there was no flushing system in the Mother’s and Sri Aurobindo’s toilet, I used to daily see Champaklal taking the pots downstairs for cleaning, and later come up with two large buckets of hot water (four or five times) till the Mother’s bath-tub was full. He had no fixed hours for sleep or for food, but slept and ate whenever it was possible for him to do so. Always present, at the service of the Lord and the Mother, he never cared or asked for anything for himself. Indeed a wonderful and true sadhak, even to this day.

Chinmayi, My Dear Friend

Chinmayi (originally Medhi Begum with “Bibbu” as petname) came from an aristocratic family related to the Nizam of Hyderabad. Her Ashram-name given by Sri Aurobindo means: “one who is full of, or made up of, the pure Spirit-consciousness.” She came with her three brothers, Ibrahim, Ishak and Yakoob (renamed respectively Dara, Prashanta and René) along with her sister who was renamed Sudhira and her stepmother Tajdar who was only a few years older than Chinmayi.

The ladies and Prashanta were given the corner-house which now belongs to the Mother’s grand-daughter Poornaprem (originally Françoise), whereas Dara lived in the building on the Ashram street, opposite this house—in the room under Abhaysingh’s present flat, the room which later became the Mother’s Store-Room and is still the same. Subsequently the ladies were shifted to the house at the corner next to Huta House.

At that time Chinmayi was given a thatched room on the first floor there. She never wanted personal comfort and was always absorbed in the Mother’s work and her sadhana. She was a great Tapaswini and straight and sincere. I admired her always and wanted to be close to her, but it was not possible at first.

The only occasion I had of meeting her, and being in her company for a short while, was when the Mother took us for an outing in a car accompanying Her own to the Lake, or when we were both in the Mother’s garage waiting for Her to go on her daily drive.

One day as we were walking towards the Lake, with the Mother in front talking to Pavitra, I saw some palm trees with pitchers hanging on them for collecting toddy. I asked Chinmayi if she had ever tasted toddy and she looked surprised and said in a stern way, “Certainly not—and never even wine.” I had forgotten that she was a true Mohammedan. Later, she told me that she did not like meat either. She had had some pet dogs in her home in Hyderabad to whom she used to pass on the meat, under the table, when nobody was looking.

Chinmayi was usually a very quiet person in my time, and so were most of us. Even I hardly spoke to anybody, and later on even forgot their names or what they were doing.

At the Prosperity Store, where about twenty of us gathered daily to meet the Mother in the evening (before receiving soup from Her sacred hands downstairs) we sat in a semi-circle round Her, listening to Her illuminating talks. The people who most interested me there were Datta, Pavitra and Chinmayi. The last-named was usually very silent, and indrawn, sitting with her left hand over her raised knee, touching her heart.

The Mother asked us many questions to which mostly Nolini and Pavitra gave the best answers. Sometimes Amal put in some words. Whenever the Mother explained anything, I seemed to understand it only with my heart and not with my mind. I never put to Her any questions regarding matters like the Supermind, even when I was alone with Her in Her room, but always prayed to Her to help me keep my psychic being in front. Something in me said, “Where is the question of the Supermind (which is the final goal) when you have not even taken the first step towards it, by bringing your psychic being forward?”

Chinmayi never spoke to me of Krishna or any other God or Goddess, but she too, like myself, had been made in her early days to follow certain dogmas of her religion, such as placing her hands on some tombs and repeating certain prayers. This, she told me, she never enjoyed doing.

She also said that when she came here she did not even know the date of her birth, so the Mother fixed the 4th October for her birthday, which (as most of us already know) was the anniversary day of St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of all animals. She was a true animal-lover and, when the Mother wanted to give her a cat, she told Her to give the ugliest one. “But why the ugliest?” I asked in surprise. She said, “It is because nobody else will take it and the poor animal will be made to suffer all its life”.

Black Nose Comes Back to Me

After our Prosperity-meetings and the Soup-distribution, when the Mother went back to Sri Aurobindo’s room, Champaklal and Chinmayi usually went with Her, carrying a basket of flowers each, for the Mother to give to the sadhaks who had lined themselves all along the way. Sometimes, when one of them was not there, I too got this chance.

One day a strange thing happened. At that time when in the present Ashram courtyard some small buildings stood, joined by passages, the Ashram Kitchen was almost at the place where the Samadhi now stands, but a little to the south. As the Mother was passing that way, a small kitten suddenly appeared and fell at Her feet, rubbing itself against them as if imploring Her help and Grace. The Mother at once recognized it as the one She had asked me to leave in the fish-market. She picked it up and gave it to me saying, “You must keep it.” That is how Black Nose came back to me. It was in a miserable condition and Chinmayi would have taken it gladly but the kitten would have returned to me. The Mother had explained to us once that cats have a wonderful instinct for finding their homes. They are not attached so much to their masters as to the houses where they have lived. What mystified us at that time (and even does today) is this—how did this kitten come straight to the Ashram? Did somebody bring it and place it along the Mother’s route? Nobody could tell me—and I never found out.

I Get Permission to Work in the Mother’s Room

Except for manicuring, I never entered any of the Mother’s rooms, and manicuring was done in just one room. Standing at the staircase door, the Mother took everything I had cooked or prepared for Her and Sri Aurobindo, handed it over to Chinmayi, spoke to me, and let me go after I had made my “pranam” to Her.

One day I said to the Mother, “I like Chinmayi very much and I would be very happy if the Mother allowed me to work with her.” “It is reciprocal,” said the Mother. “She too likes you much, but as for the work we shall see later.”

As we all know, the Mother’s programme kept changing, so one day She told me to come through Pavitra’s office-room, with the olives, etc. for Sri Aurobindo, at a certain time. I was very happy and did as I had been told. Both the Mother and Chinmayi were there. The latter took the tray from my hands and the Mother gave me a glass of lime-juice to drink.

Seeing my reluctance to leave, She told me later to sit inside Her dressing-room and do my sewing-work there. I was very happy and Chinmayi too was glad.

From that day onwards I worked in the Mother’s room and learnt any number of things from Her as well as from my dear friend Chinmayi.

The Mother taught me how to treat all material things with love and care, for they too have a consciousness of their own. She taught me the right way to use and handle them, not so much by telling me how it should be done as by doing it Herself in my presence. How wonderful it was to learn in that way by quietly watching Her!

Chinmayi too taught me many things, and corrected me when I did anything in the ordinary manner. Then finally she gave up much of the work in the Mother’s room to me, saying, “Now this is your work.”

I was surprised to hear this, but later on I found that she wanted to be more and more with the Mother, and also to sit and read what Sri Aurobindo was writing at that time.

She was a poet, but, to my knowledge, she never showed her poems to anybody except the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.

She loved Sri Aurobindo as much as she loved the Mother and, as far as I remember, she was the only sadhika at that time who was allowed to go for a few moments with the Mother to His room.

As for her attachment to the Mother—it was simply marvellous! She called the Mother “Petite Mère,” and the Mother called her “Ma chérie” and “Ma petite mignonne”. The Mother had taught her French as well as painting. She became a very good artist and even did my portrait. One day she wanted to paint a picture of the sea. As the only time she was free to do it was when the sun was high up—perhaps at 10 a.m.—she became dark brown with sun-burn on one side, but she did not care at all.

I too was very attached to the Mother, but not lucky enough to be so close to Her. However, I took every chance I had of seeing or watching Her. Every evening for some time She would sit on that cane-chair which is at the door leading to the landing from where one goes to Her room on the second floor, and Chinmayi would sit close by and learn French from Her. At that time the second floor was not constructed, so the chair was quite visible to me when I sat on the staircase leading to what is now Kamala’s room.

Chinmayi often told me that she wanted to be an angel with wings so she could fly and help those she or the Mother wanted to help. “I could go to the hills or the rocks whenever I wanted and watch everything,” she said, “I really wish I had wings.” “But how will you wear your blouse if you have wings?” I asked. “Oh I will cut it in a special way,” she answered. As she repeated this many times, I felt that probably she belonged to the world of Angels and had taken a human body to do the Mother’s work.

One day I asked the Mother, “How is it, Mother dear, that You give me only these roses whose significance is ‘Tendresse’ and no other flowers like ‘Faith’ or ‘Devotion’ or ‘Psychological Perfection’?”

“You want those flowers?” She asked me and told Chinmayi to bring Her some. The Mother gave them to me but without Her sweet love and smile, for She was not pleased. I realised then what a mistake I had made and begged Her pardon; for these other flowers seemed to have no meaning for me.

After “pranam” in the mornings when the Mother used to go upstairs, I too went with Her, carrying some flowers in a basket. After removing Her crown-band She would carefully arrange these flowers and keep them for Chinmayi and others. But if at that time I felt any desire for a particular flower She would throw it at me in an annoyed manner, to teach me to be above such petty desires. Chinmayi and Champaklal never had such desires, I am sure.

Sometimes the Mother was very stern both with Pavitra and with Chinmayi, but, as I have mentioned before, they both took it in the right spirit and smiled. She even once said to Chinmayi in my presence, “Ne soit pas idiot, chérie!” (“Don’t be foolish, beloved.”) and my dear friend only laughed.

The Significance of My Name

People in the Ashram and outside asked me several times what was the significance of my name “Lalita”, and I told them what Sri Aurobindo had written and sent to me: “Beauty of refinement and harmony.” He had added that the name was of one of the companions of Radha.

I told Chinmayi that when I had been a child of nine years, a friend of my father’s had first spoken to us about little Krishna, a wonderful God who would not only eat and sleep at night by your side but also play with you whenever you called him to do so. At once something in me had awakened and said that it was just the kind of God I wanted.

Thereafter I used to leave half of my meal for him and always keep a special pillow on my bed for his use. Chinmayi laughed and said, “How wonderful!” But my parents thought I was going mad, so I had to give it up.

“Did you ever see Sri Krishna in a vision or a dream?” Chinmayi asked me.

“No, not that I remember,” I said. “But my first guru, Thakur Haranath, was a great devotee of Sri Krishna and taught us all to love him. ‘Love Him—don’t forget Him,’ he used to tell us any number of times. He would also say, ‘Lay all the burden of your sins on my shoulders and go and roll in Krishna’s love.’”

“You were lucky to come into contact with such people from your childhood,” said Chinmayi. “I had no such chance. Sri Aurobindo is the only guru I have known and, as you know, we all love Him very much.”

So the days and years rolled by till I discovered that Chinmayi’s behaviour was changing from day to day. I could not understand what was the matter, for she hardly spoke to me. I felt very sad, but later on I was told that she had two different personalities in her, both equally strong. And when the other personality came in front, she became quite the opposite of what she usually was. I kept quiet and went on with my work, hoping that a day would surely come when she would be her old self again. But this was not to be.

Soon afterwards some trouble connected with my family cropped up and I had to go to Bombay for a long stay, and our friendship was interrupted.

Chinmayi lived on until Sri Aurobindo left his body. Not long after the Master’s departure she grew more and more indisposed and a few years later passed away.