Kameshwar Rao

Stranger

[The “STRANGER” of the title and the first para does not refer to the “angel” in the quote from the Bible.]

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers
Lest we turn away angels unawares.

Bible

I have not named the person. But I am penning my story to show how it was in those days when the Ashram was young and its rules rather unbending (for good reasons). When you came you were a stranger unless proven otherwise.

I refer to the friend in the story as “he”— for the time being. Now the story:

Long ago in 1920 a young lad of 16 ‘chanced’ to attend a political or soap-box meeting (of patriots) somewhere in Andhra Pradesh, Ongole district Again, it was ‘chance’ (seems more like a planned chance) that a young poet read out a poem wherein he addressed Mother India thus: “O Mother, why are you so sad, crestfallen, head bowed — when Sri Aurobindo is there to save you?” etc…. Our young man’s interest was roused. The first buzz of a bee in his bonnet. He thought, “Who is this Sri Aurobindo? I must see him.” He was too young to make any independent moves. But, when once the family (father, mother, brother etc.) came to Tirupati, he suggested, “Why not go to Pondicherry and see Sri Aurobindo?” The others did not evince any interest — the idea or urge went back into incubation.

In 1928 another occasion came his way. The family was travelling to Kumbakonam to see the family guru. This time his suggestion to make a slight diversion to Pondicherry was accepted.

The family came to Pondicherry, to the Ashram and knocked at the gate. The gate, in those days, was kept closed, to be opened only when someone called. It opened a wee bit, and a person from inside enquired as to what business brought them thither. Naturally, he replied, “We would like to see Sri Aurobindo.”

The person (inside): Do you have a reference or have you sought prior permission?

He: No sir, neither.

Someone: Sorry, then we cannot let you in.

The door was shut gently on them. Great disappointment. But they made the best of a bad situation. They went round the Ashram (pradakshina).

I think another chance went the same way — ended in another pradakshina.

Then one day, back in his village, he met a sadhu, walking with great steps northwards. He invited the sadhu home, offered him a meal and enquired of him, “Where are you going, swamiji? From where are you coming?” The sadhu replied that he was coming from Pondicherry and going to Bengal (walking!!) — it was not that he couldn’t have money to buy a train-ticket. Walking was the preferred way of locomotion and the only one he took — for this was none other than our old friend Poornananda (Among the Not so Great, chapter 7) who after a short stay at Pondicherry was going back. Our “he” asked Poornananda if there was any Telugu-speaking person living in the Ashram at Pondy. The sadhu said, “yes, one Krishnayya is there.”

‘He’ started again for the Ashram. By now he was married. His wife too went with him. They met Krishnayya and introduced themselves and told him about their desire to meet Sri Aurobindo. Krishnayya, unmoved, said, “But, I don’t know you. You just introduced yourselves, that will not do. You must be introduced by someone who knows you and knows me.” Back again to Ongole after the usual pradakshina. Once there, he found out, to his great joy, that their family lawyer happened to know Krishnayya — again that “chance”! He got a letter of introduction and went to Krishnayya. This was in 1934. Sri Aurobindo had retired in 1926, saw devotees only four times a year, and the Mother had taken up the helm and the rudder of the Ashram. Krishnayya consented to take him to see the Mother. His perseverance paid off. He did not even know that there was now a “Mother” at the helm. He was nervous as he approached her. He had hardly ever seen an European (white) lady — let alone coming so close to her and then talking to her. He started by addressing her as “Sir” — he was all that shaky. Then he changed over to “Madam”, then by and by to “Mother”.

This was his first contact — yet no sightings of Sri Aurobindo.

But a long-cherished and nurtured desire was at last bearing fruit.

The “he” was Kameshwar Rao.

After a few days’ stay, Kameshwar thought of going back to settle some matters. The Mother said, “Oh! you are leaving us?” Kameshwar mumbled some excuse and left. It was only in 1936 that he could ‘get a fix’ on himself vis-à-vis this place and settle down to this life. A voyage, with three false starts since 1920, had at last arrived at a midway point. The next leg of the pilgrim’s progress was about to begin.

How did I miss Kameshwar — all these many years? We had much in common. He was quite close to me and my family. I was indebted to him in other ways (I’ll speak of it later), yet I passed him over! Perhaps he was too close to come into the right focus… no matter, a confession is half an absolution. I will proceed with my story.

Kameshwar was a cheerful, strangely likeable and mild-mannered day with him — 32 years later. He was all of a Telugu gentleman, a Brahmin (pukka). He was of medium height and build, rather on the slimmer side. Later, the all-too common middle-age paunch asserted itself. He did not do much to fight it. He was soft-spoken and his eyes too were soft and tinged with kindness. He wore a lush crop of hair and a beard — not too long but respectable. Both hair and beard did not grey much through the 80 years or so of his life. A small vermillion bindi came on long back. It grew in size (2 cm dia) (till he looked a tantric, starting from a small-time poojari). His dress was and remained from the start to the end a white dhoti and a white shirt. He would, on special days or function (Darshan, pooja), wrap on a chuddar; a “rudraksha” mala (beads) was a later addition. The picture is now complete — a priest, or a sadhu (no ochre clothes). That was the Kameshwar as I saw, from 1945 to his last days with the many small changes in the outer appearance. The man, his ways and his attitude were more unchanging. Deeper is not for me to probe.

Kameshwar lived very simply and happily. Life in general, in those days, was very simple, even bare. And most ashramites did with very little, most often by choice. Kameshwar’s house was small considering that it was also his department (maids, visitors, etc.). It was a typical Pondicherrian house — a seating place in front, an ante-room opening on to a three-sided pillared verandah enclosing an open-tosky court-yard. The verandah itself gave access to 2-3 rooms and to a passage to a backyard with a well and the lavatories. His terrace was covered with a keeth (coconut leaf) shed. There was no running (tap) water for a very long time. I don’t know if later he got a connection. He got water from neighbours. He had a mongrel that usurped his heart and the best spot at home i.e. right under the single ceiling fan, on a table. Once when I saw this browbeating (dog) I teased him about it. He smiled resignedly and said, “Oh! this is not all. When there is a power cut, I am expected to fan the fellow!”

Kameshwar’s first work was to help in the construction work. Golconde was being built at the time. Kameshwar was to work under Chandulal, the engineer overseeing the work there. (Chandulal was Vasudha-ben’s — alias Akka of the Embroidery Department — brother. Akka was the Mother’s personal attendant.) Though Kameshwar’s father and brother too had come, they left. Only his young wife stayed back. They were given accommodation in what is now the “Grace” office (earlier the Mother’s kitchen, behind the Ashram across the road). But he did not last long in the construction work. Amrita-da, then the Ashram manager, needed help, so Kameshwar was given that work. That too was not for long. He was given another work and shifted house too — a house on the rue Law de Lauriston where he lived for more than 50 years till the end of his earthly sojourn (except the very last few days when he took ill). The new work he was given was ‘Liaison’ work between the Ashram and the many Departments of the Government and the Town. He had another thankless job too — to provide maids or man servants to the many ashram houses. (There was already one department for this — Padmasini-amma, Amrita-da’s relative, looked after it. But it was not enough.) This Liaison work suited him well and he took to it like a duck to water. We will see him at work.

Kameshwar also worked in the laundry for a period, under Jyotin-da (late). They went collecting “to-wash” clothes, and delivered the washed ones from door to door! It was very nice of them, but only possible on those days when the quantity of clothes was small and the quality of the people concerned was different. Now we are more ‘organised’.

The Liaison work took Kameshwar all over town and further, brought him into contact with many people, and of all sorts and levels — from governor to rickshaw puller, landlords, police, rich, poor — all. Naturally he came to be well-known, a most popular figure all over Pondicherry. His nature — mild, pleasant and straightforward dealings entrenched him in their hearts. It was a treat to move along with him down any street — everyone was greeted with either ‘Bonjour’, ‘Namaskaram’ or “How are you, bhai” — in Tamil, Telugu, English or French. (He never picked up any Bengali, Gujarati or Hindi? Something strange!) Usually it was an “Enna Thambi”, a sort of “Hello, Brother” in Tamil, for his work was to do much with the working class, the police constable or a young officer or clerk — all were Thambis.

Kameshwar was a passepartout, it was a natural spillover of his general comportment. He could walk into any office or even many homes of those who had once come into contact with him, and be received with respect and fondness.

Kameshwar was a film buff. He got to know about all the films that came to town. He was quite knowledgeable about the actors and actresses. He enjoyed the old type of stories, legends and mythologies. But that did not exclude other types. Tamil and Telugu films were favoured — but he did not miss out on the English or other language films shown in our Play Ground. He could walk into any of the 4-5 film tents (only later halls) — of course — no ticket. Just the “Enna Thambi” password and the ticket collector or manager would show him to his chair. He could even choose to see the first half one day and come for the rest another day.

Sometimes, he would tell me, “Orai (a way of addressing a younger and/or close friend in Telugu) film chchala bagaundhira (that film is very nice)” by way of tempting me to go and share his little misdeed. I was not tempted, for I was too young and the formidable figure of my uncle loomed large in my mind and moreover, I was never a film buff. (My uncle was Pantulu — see Among The Not So Great, chapter 5)

(Those film tents were like circus tents. The floor was the earth — sandy and convenient rest-place for rickshawallas who had a pillow — their rickshaw seat. There were rickety old galleries, and chairs. There could be, and usually were, gaping holes, the stars were seen overhead.)

Many young and old went to Kameshwar with their problems. Be it to get a driving licence, a theft at home, a passport, etc. he would never refuse anyone coming for help. At the least he would say, when he had no immediate solution (like Kamraj — late chief minister of Madras State) — “Paarkalaam” (we will see what can be done). That would give him some time and the complainant some solace.

A long time back Kameshwar had to meet an old French lady — one of the old residents of Pondy. (I think her name was Mme. Garnier?) She lived somewhere near our Arya House. (I had accompanied Kameshwar once to the house. She had a horde of cats well cared for and pampered — each having a silken pillow for bed, with a mosquito net!) She was very pleased that an old ashramite had come. She opened an old wine bottle — genuine French make — none of these war. He a pukka Brahmin, an ashramite, was mortified, and as politely as he knew how, refused the “Amritam”. The poor lady was not a little unhappy. Kameshwar recounted the incident to the Mother. She laughed and: “Oh! Why did you refuse? You should have taken my name and taken the wine!” (I think, a truly French response.) She added, “You see, it is customary in France. It is a mark of hospitality. She would have been pleased if you had just sipped some.” (I couldn’t know if any such chance came his way again — and if it did, what did he do with it.)

I spoke of Kameshwar’s liking for films. That was not all. He must have imbibed something from them — for he liked to act (drama) and even dance. In the days of yore, when the Mother came to the Play Ground every day, many programmes were held in front of Her — dances, playlets, songs, magic shows, etc. It was on a darshan day, if I recollect correctly, that Kameshwar surprised us all. In walked a Ganesh — dhoti-clad, a mocked-up paunch, a mask complete with a crown and elephant trunk and — I can’t imagine why, a mridangam (a drum) hung round his neck. He came tapping on the mridangam in rhythm to a few ‘dancing’ steps, that I suspect, he choreographed himself. It was all good fun — but there is more. The Ganesh went and picked up a beautiful statuette of Joan of Arc astride a semi-rearing horse!! It was a piece of art, done in detail, in metal. How Ganesh was connected with Joan of Arc is difficult to figure out. Kameshwar (the Ganesh was Kameshwar) went up to the Mother and offered it to Her. She seemed to enjoy the whole episode — and why not? — one of her older children at play. The statuette today occupies a good corner of the Mother’s Room in the Play ground — on a tall stool in the South East corner.

On the 1st of November 1954, Pondicherry got her freedom (the French left) and joined the Motherland. There were celebrations in the town. The Ashram too took part. A cultural programme was held behind the Dupleix statue (now, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s statue has displaced Dupleix). One of the items was a dance drama, “Mahisha-sura-Mardini”. Anu-ben was Durga, Togo her lion and the asura was who — but Kameshwar (I think he had on two horns).

On one of the 1st December Programmes (School’s Anniversary) there was a 6-hour programme titled “The Spiritual Evolution of India”. One of the scenes depicted the Muslim invasion of India. There was Kameshwar, a turban on his head and a sword at his waist, a glittering waistcoat, and of course his beard — he strode across the stage with conquering steps and disappeared. He looked good.

Kameshwar had an incurable “roaming trait” in him. Not a very serious or harmful kind. It was more a homely and pilgrim sort of urge. He roamed the countryside or near places of interest. Some time during the early stages of the War (1939-45) one such escapade led him into a lot of trouble. The cause was: a German Warship had run aground, off the coast somewhere south of Pondy, close by. There was excitement. Kameshwar took off on his bicycle in the afternoon. He got to the beach, waded across the Ariankuppam river taking the cycle with him, and reached the spot, hungry, thirsty and sweaty. No German, no warship — just an old tramp (French probably) somehow caught in a sandbank. Kameshwar had 4 annas (= 25 paise, dare not give it to a beggar nowadays!). There happened to be a man, surely an enterprising one, who was selling small packets of pills, 2 annas apiece. One pill dissolved in ½ litre of water — that much of milk! Our man bought one, had his milk and returned home, hungry but wiser (or so he thought). He relived the adventure for the Mother. She stood him on the carpet, saying, “Do you realise into what this thoughtless escapade could have led you? You crossed over into British territory. They could have arrested you, accusing you of being a spy, etc…” She took away the remaining “milk tablets”. Now, he was a wiser man. He had hoped she would return the tablets but no such luck.

Decades later, when retelling the story he was laughing. May be at that time he felt sorry for himself and sulked like a young lad. But his roaming propensities did not always spell trouble. The Mother made use of them. He had the duty often to escort people who needed help and guidance, maybe to Chennai or Cuddalore. He was sent to buy medicines or clear goods from the Customs. There was for a period an oldish French lady named Diana. She too had some inclinations to travel and “search” elsewhere. She went to Tiruvannamalai, Tirukkoilur (a 100-year-old sadhu lived here), and Kameshwar was deputed by the Mother to accompany her.

Kameshwar also helped negotiate and buy land for Auroville. His local popularity stood him in good stead at these times.

Kameshwar was always and remained a pious man, god-fearing as the saying goes, but I would term it god-loving. Yet as the years advanced he was more and more into poojas and meditation. He had a fixed time for his pooja or meditation, when he would close the door of his pooja-room. The instructions to his man were that he should not be disturbed at that time. Once when he went to the Mother he said, “Mother, these many years I am doing pooja and meditating on God. I am leading a pious life. How is it God never appears to me (Darshan)?” The Mother smiled and said, “But are you ready? Can you recognise Him if he does appear?” Kameshwar was confident enough. A good length of time went by then....

Kameshwar was closeted, meditating as usual. A couple, simply clad (as the locals) arrived at his main door. Kameshwar’s man opened and enquired. They said they would like to see Kameshwar and insisted even though the man told them he could not be disturbed for a while. They said, “We are coming from afar and will leave soon. Please call him.” The man went in and knocked on the pooja-room door. Kameshwar opened, somewhat annoyed. When told about the couple and their persistence, Kameshwar said, “Ask them their names and tell them to return later.” The man did just that, Kameshwar returned to his meditation and the couple waited some more time and left giving their names. The gentleman was Shankar and the lady (I forget but it was one of the names of Parvati). It was then that Kameshwar was suddenly struck by some vague sense of unease or a sense of something missing. He rushed out. His man gave the two names.… By now Kameshwar was more stricken. He went out on to the road, made a few enquiries here and there along the road and neighbours. — “No,” none had seen the couple! Kameshwar was now numb with remorse and feeling sorry for himself. When he went to the Mother and recounted the whole sorry tale, she said, “I told you so — you are not ready.”!!

I wonder and the question arises: Did he, could he, get over the loss, of that once-in-a-lifetime, opportunity? Is it only ONCE? Have I, have others such close misses? Each one can ponder over such blindedness and pray for sight and readiness.

There was an episode of a happier note — a quietly enlightening story. This happened in that good old golden period when devotees could go close to the Mother and Sri Aurobindo on Darshan days, and lay their heads on their feet — a real pranam. Kameshwar happened to be in the queue behind (a place or two) a man holding a huge garland of flowers that he would obviously place at the Lord’s feet. A casual thought of concern crossed Kameshwar’s mind, “Such a huge mala. Won’t it weigh down the Master’s feet? He will be so uncomfortable!” His turn came to kneel and bow down. The ‘thought’ led him automatically to move the mala off the Master’s feet. Only then the next thought hit him, “What have I done? I removed one devotee’s offering! What business had I to do it?” Fearfully from his pranam position, Kameshwar slowly peered upward…. What relief! The Lord was smiling at him. (I don’t think many have seen Sri Aurobindo smiling! It was a rare glimpse.)

I have to be thankful to Kameshwar for more reasons than one. There is this “planned” coincidence of our birthdays falling on the same day. What follows is probably an offshoot of that coincidence. It had and has a long-range bearing on my life. It all happened after 1973 (The Mother had left her body). As is the practice both he and I went up to Sri Aurobindo’s Room on our birthday (7th Nov.). We met again outside and wished each other “Happy Birthday”. He then asked me, “Did you go and meet Nolini-da?” I said, “No.”

Then K: Why don’t you go and see him once?

I: But why?

K: Oh, for nothing. Just go for my sake and see him.

I went more to please him probably, or with no particular thought or expectation. I told Nolini-da that it was my “Bonne Fête”, and approached him. He smiled and even through that great moustache of his, the smile broke out on me. It was after that, I believe, that the beginning of a relationship formed between us (I hope this is not assuming too much). It was a happy moment anyway and one to cherish. What started did continue later. So there is the debt I have to repay old Kameshwar. He himself was a great admirer, more — a disciple, of Nolini-da. He accompanied him (Nolini-da) on a daily visit to Sports Ground. They walked round the track or ground from 4 or 4.15 p.m. and left usually before the Groups started. Sometimes when we were playing football and a stray ball went their way, Nolini-da could not resist, he would pick up his dhoti and shoot it back to us. (He was a good footballer in his youth. In 1952, he was in the “veterans” team. The Veterans played the young ones on the inauguration of our Football Field. The game was kicked off by the Mother.) I asked Kameshwar who never moved towards the ball, “You are much younger than Nolini-da. See how he is drawn towards the ball. You never do it?” He replied with a sad smile, but an admiring tone “Oh what is he? And what am I? How can you compare?”

This was Kameshwar of many “gunas” (qualities). You couldn’t probably choose out one that would set him apart above the common man. He was perhaps “the common man” — put into many an uncommon corner. He came out of them unscathed (so to say) without much realising the extraordinariness.

His centenary passed off without any fanfare (as must have many other centenarians’). Not that our bugle sounds are necessary. Yet would I rekindle a few fading memories in the minds of some old friends, his and mine, and maybe introduce him to some new friends.

His coming was so long ago, his sojourn here filled with the mundane, with a few bright happy streaks, and his going was the quietest after 88 years, on the 8th of December 1992. One may ask, “What realms did he reach?” Knowing him I would guess — took a false start and a detour and reached just in Time to say “yessir” to the Mother and enter those Pearly Gates left ajar for him. He needed now no references — a Passepartout.