Roopanagunta Subramanyam Pantulu

Roopanagunta Subramanyam Pantulu

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.

Sir Henry Wotton
(The Character of a Happy Man)

Roopanagunta Subramanyam Pantulu was known as “Pantulu”, a suffix short, convenient, meaning “teacher” or “school master”, or an honorific title. Subramanyam is another name for Kartikeya, son of Lord Shiva, general of the armies of Heaven, a name befitting Pantulu (as we will see).

Pantulu from afar seemed just an ordinary “Madrasee”. He was always clad in a white dhoti (South Indian style) and a shirt. What struck the onlooker first was his great beard. Neat, lush and long, it covered his front nearly up to the belly. The longish, curly hair of his head was gathered into a neat little knot at the back. A good nose and full enough cheeks. A closer, second look struck harder and dazed you with the fire in his eyes. And next what could really floor you, if you happened to be around and the occasion right, was the thunder of his voice. Some can yet catch the echoes of it — long after the Thunderer is no more. The overall impression one gathered from the eyes, the beard, the hair-do, the simple attire was one of ancientness. Then, if you knew his ways, views and his works, the impression carried further — that of an ancient Rishi. When and if the hair-trigger temper went off and the voice (content and volume) hit like a thunderbolt, the impression only grew stronger and stayed longer — a Durvasa on the move.

Pantulu was born in a Brahmin family on 14 June 1887 in the village Anakarlapudi in Nellore District of Andhra Pradesh (no A.P. in those days — only Madras Presidency). He was the eldest child. Father Venkatasubbayah and mother Sheshamma, three brothers Chandramouli, Srinivasulu (my father), Venkateswarulu and last, a sister, Tulasi, comprised the family. The family lived and led a village life — teaching or engaged in small time business. Pantulu, after his father’s demise, took up the family burden. It was he who came out and brought the family out from the village life. He studied and worked hard, reached Ongole, and then moved to Guntur for his matriculation (English medium). His hard work paid off. He got admission into the Engineering College at Madras. It was probably the only such college in the whole of the Madras Presidency. Only the best could get admission. There, after three years of diligent work, he passed an exam called “Upper Subordinate”. He got a job as an overseer in Cuddappa District. This was the year 1910. He was 23 years old. The family moved to Cuddappa. He was now the sole earner; two brothers studying for matriculation, another in class IV — and wife Annapoornadevi (he was married by then), the sister Tulasi and his mother were all his dependants! He worked from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. with just a short lunch break. His reputation slowly built up on solid foundations — his diligence, forthrightness, honesty — all backed by a Vesuvian temper. He was like a keg of gunpowder with a short, very short, fuse. The explosion could and would come at very short notice. The blast could catch anyone — all were equally treated — “Beware all, big or small, peon, boss, friend or foe.” Even the “white sahibs” were not spared. He was not foolhardy. He relied on his sincerity to ward off any retribution.

Time passed. He worked hard — so did his mother. Her heart was larger than their purse. She never turned anyone away without treating them as one of the family. Such open hearts and minds inevitably put a mere overseer under great financial strain. But neither he nor his mother ever let go their principles, nor did they change their minds or shut their hearts. It was at this time that Fate chose to strike, hard and fast. First the youngest brother died. Next, the sister Tulasi, now married two years; then his wife Annapoornadevi passed away — all in quick succession. At this time Pantulu was already a follower and admirer of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Swami Vivekananda. He had shaved clean his head and went about with a large Vivekananda-type turban and attended lectures at Ramakrishna Samaj. When he walked along the streets, children used to shout, “There goes Swami Vivekananda.” Now, after the three deaths he was somewhat depressed and had half a mind to become a Sannyasin. He lost, to some degree, interest in family life.

It was at this time, around 1914 (one family version says 1914, another says 1919) that Pantulu came across the first issue of Arya. He fell for it, and through it for its author. He came to Pondicherry as soon as he could and had the Darshan of Sri Aurobindo. The path was set; henceforth he was a marked man. He never missed a chance to come for a Darshan. In fact he hardly left it to chance. He rarely applied for leave from his office. But on 2 or 3 occasions when he applied for leave to come for Darshan and it was not granted, Pantulu unhesitatingly handed in his resignation and came away. His British superiors were good enough or practical enough to request him to rejoin. It seems he was usually the last to arrive for the Darshan. Sri Aurobindo would remark, “Pantulu has come, now we can close the doors.” Nolini-da recounted to me that Pantulu would somehow make it (for Darshan). If he missed the train, he would catch a goods-train, sit with the guard and reach here. Such was the urge or Force that led Pantulu and his likes here. (Sadly, I overheard much later, in 1971 or 72, when the Mother with great difficulty appeared on the New Balcony — a gentleman, a resident of Pondy, saying, “Oh I could not come for the Darshan. You see my driver was absent!” The gentleman held a valid licence to drive the car!)

Pantulu came and went. He was as yet a widower. Once in the course of a conversation, Sri Aurobindo said to him, “You could remarry.” He set out to do so. His mother was naturally quite happy. The quest was strange, short and successful. At this time there lived in Cuddappa a Tehsildar, Chittamoori Krishnayya. His eldest daughter Meenakshamma was deemed to be of marriageable age — she was 10 years old. Krishnayya consulted an astrologer. The astrologer told Krishnayya not to look too far or too hard. He further said that someone would soon approach him for the hand of his daughter. The bridegroom, he added, may be somewhat old, but that should not matter. Soon enough, Pantulu, now about 30, and his mother, approached Krishnayya for the hand of 10-year-old Meenakshamma. Krishnayya readily agreed and the marriage was solemnised in 1918. (Incidentally — Meenakshamma had a younger sister named Venkatalakshamma. Pantulu had a younger brother Srinivasulu. Matters were brought to a marital conclusion — they were later married.) They say, opposites attract. Pantulu and his wife were living examples — he was a live volcano and she was a vast cool glacier. What mysterious hand — Fate, Providence or Divine Plan, brought them together? Whatever the mystery it was a happy event for us — the family and others. She was a shield for us, a deflector, and a saviour for some others.

Pantulu then shifted to Madras. He was by now an Assistant Engineer in the PWD. A few incidents would show the stuff the man was made of.

There was a time when Pantulu possessed a walking-stick of rosewood; in its hollow length lay hidden a sword (I hold it now, unused, in my custody). He, for a short period went to office in a horse-drawn carriage (Jhatka). One morning, Pantulu got on and the driver started off. The horse took a few steps, then shied and reared up on its hind legs. Reflected rays from a puddle of water had hit its eyes (it had rained the previous night). Pantulu slid back on to the road. No corporal damage. But, the jolt set off the short fuse. He walked into the house. His mother, surprised, asked him, “What’s the matter?” He said, “Get me a glass of water to drink.” She went in. Pantulu drew out the sword to punish the horse. The driver was horrified and frightened, but stood in his (Pantulu’s) way, begging his master to pardon the horse. Pantulu shouted, “Get out of my way!” This delay was enough to bring a reprieve to the condemned horse. His mother appeared, and this strange scenario met her eyes — a frightened driver with folded hands and tearful eyes, confronting an angry master, sword in hand, and fire in his eyes. A horse in the background. She was after and above all his mother. She took in the situation — Dies Irae (Day of Wrath) — and stepped in, barring Pantulu’s warpath. Pantulu simply said, “I am going to kill the horse.” She as simply said, “After me,” and stood. What could Pantulu, or anyone, do? He cooled down, sheathed his sword and retreated. Thus was a horse sacrifice averted.

On yet another occasion, a similar eruption nearly ended the life of a cow. The Pantulus like many others had their own milch cows. One of the cows contracted some disease of the milk ducts. When milked, blood spurted out, not milk. Pantulu saw red, shouted for his peons. He ordered them to belabour the cow with sticks. They were unwilling, but fear of Pantulu overcame their better senses and sensibilities. They were about to start their job, when on the scene appeared Mrs. Pantulu. Her concern for the cow roused a cold anger and courage in her. She shouted at the peons, calling them fools who could not discern a wrong order given in anger from a right one. She ordered, “Get out.” The poor blighters — they were waiting and praying for just such an intervention. They dropped their sticks and ran away from the spot.

As the horse, so the cow was saved, both by female forces — Shaktis — only they could counter and douse this fire. One bore him and brought him up, the other married and took him over. (Against the superiority of another there is no remedy but love. — Goethe)

Not so fortunate (as the horse and cow) was a Sahib boss who chose to ignore or could not correctly gauge Pantulu. Neither his rank nor colour was enough to save him. Pantulu did not run him through with a sword or have him beaten. It all happened this way. Pantulu was, as mentioned, a follower of Vivekananda. He had a shaven head and an equally clean face. Then a strange occurrence took place. Whenever he shaved he would dream that hair was coming out of his mouth! He stopped shaving and the dreams too stopped. He let his beard and hair grow and did away with shaving. But his boss, the Sahib of the story, did not believe such ‘tales’. He pooh-poohed the whole episode and derided the shabby appearance of this subordinate. The fuse was lit — an explosion — Pantulu cursed the man that he would die soon! It so happened that the poor man was gathered up within a month. Pantulu felt sorry. He regretted and promised to himself to be more careful with his words thenceforth.

Pantulu, it would seem, had an intuitive sense of the future. For often, events followed his foretelling them! He did not “tell” in so many explicit words, but we could conclude so by his premonitions and couched warnings to those around. When his mother called him home from a ‘camp’ for the “thread ceremony” of his youngest brother Venkateswarulu, he asked her not to go through the ceremony. He said: “It is not necessary and moreover I have to come home soon enough.” He did not go for the ceremony. His mother performed it. Soon after that the boy met with an accident on the playing field. He died in a few days and Pantulu had to rush home — as he had foreseen.

Maybe this “feeling into the future” made him a good astrologer. His old notebook is full of astrological castings, his own and of each one of his family members. There is one even of our late Prime Minister Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. For some here in the Ashram he had foretold some events — eventually proven correct. (I think the late Khoda-bhai was one of them.)

Pantulu himself faced danger often enough. As a PWD engineer he was assigned to various jobs like building bridges, canals, etc. He had to move into quite remote areas, often through jungles. His party moved by bullock cart, beating tin cans and waving torches — if dusk overtook them — to keep away wild animals. Even an encounter with a tiger was very much possible (a distant dream now even for animal lovers seeking it). He sometimes lived in a houseboat and travelled up and down canals and rivers. Once, when he was working from a small boat, the boat capsized. Pantulu did not know swimming — not a stroke. He managed to grab a wire stretched taut across the river and held on for dear life. Some people threw him a rope and hauled him ashore. Even his umbrella and sandals were rescued. These were washed ashore downstream and picked up the next day. What was remarkable was that he had warned his co-workers not to go on the boat. But they had insisted, saying the work was urgent — so he went. The wire too snapped after he was rescued.

Pondicherry — Ashram: Pantulu frequently visited the Ashram till his retirement in 1942. Even after he retired, the PWD offered him a job as EE (Executive Engineer). They wanted him to take charge of building an airport. Not many Indians were in such high posts in those days of British Raj. Pantulu refused the job. He had his future chalked out. He moved to Guntur with his family, wife and three children, Suniti, Bhavatarini and Narayan. The eldest son Vishnu had joined the RIAF (Royal Indian Air Force) and gone off to War. The next, daughter Prabhavati, was studying. He pooled all his resources and bought some arable land near a remote village named Nedutippa. His younger brother Srinivasulu was to look after the land. After a brief period in Guntur, Pantulu with his wife and three younger children came over for good to Pondicherry in 1944. They went back to Guntur in 1945 for a few days and on their return trip I too was brought over. The Ashram school had just opened. There were a few departments like Dining Room, Building Service, Sanitary Service, Harpagon, Garden Service. I don’t know if Pantulu worked in any of these. In 1945 our Printing Press was started. Pantulu was made incharge of the Binding Section. He was back in his element — work.

Pantulu was a giant in his work. It was difficult for any of us to really satisfy him in quantity as well as quality. The standards and pace he set left many panting. But they had to keep going, for he was usually a step ahead, leading. Punctuality and regularity went hand in hand with him. Parikshit, Pantulu’s longtime underling, got his initiation from Pantulu. He avows it was tough going, but rewarding and enriching (to shape iron, you have to heat and soften it and then hammer it). Pantulu would start for his work soon after the Mother’s Balcony Darshan, maybe around 6.30 a.m. He would wait in front of the D.R. (Dining Room) in the Park for Parikshit, who was expected to hurry through breakfast and join him. The two would walk down to the Press, the earliest birds. They caught no worms but were caught up in the work. They dusted and arranged all the work-tables of other sadhaks who would be arriving later. When they trickled in, in ones and twos, they had to just slip in between their seat and table and start working — no chance or necessity to talk. Usually there was not much talking. Surface fear and deep respect kept that to the minimum. When all the workers left, Pantulu would rearrange everything, knives, folders, etc. — close the Section and walk back home. Lunch, 1/2 hour rest and back to work, by rickshaw usually. He returned home at about 6 p.m. After putting back everything, he would write a report of the work done and also the work planned for the next day, close the Section and walk back. He would show these reports to the Mother every day.

Peace and quiet reigned — the deterrent was present. Once in a long while a storm broke loose. It happened like this one day: It was a normal, fine day. The numerous machines (printing, monotype, etc.) were setting up their usual racket (all pre-war models). All of a sudden, above this din a great noise, a shout was heard. All over the Press people felt the shock-waves, switched off their machines and rushed to seek the source of the noise, towards the Binding Section. Someone had blundered — who? — and Pantulu thundered. They arrived in time to see Ravindra-ji making a hasty exit — that was who. And why? Ravindra-ji had the new job of appointing workers to various departments. The same thankless job he is at even now. He was younger then, and used to accompany the new recruit for the introductions. He had just done that, but unwittingly overstepped into Pantulu’s jurisdiction and received a well-aimed Pantulu ‘broadside’. The Mother was told about the incident, I think, by Ravindra-ji himself. Result — early morning, a knock on Pantulu’s house-door and in came Ravindra-ji. Pantulu and he melted into each other’s embrace. The past was effaced.

Quiet and peace prevailed at Pantulu’s house too, as in his workplace — even when we boys were present. We did whatever boys do at that age, but out of his sight. Some reports must have reached him, but not often did he come down on us. He quietly forgave and forgot. For not only did he have a towering temper, but bore some other towering qualities as well. He earned a pension which he offered to the Mother. She gave him back or permitted him to retain Rs. 20 a month. This sufficed to buy some vegetables (Rs. 2/week), some grocery (monthly) and our yearly quota of clothes. One day his son Narayan, after long self-persuasion and encouragement, asked him if we could ask for butter from the Ashram. In those days every Sunday butter was distributed from the D.R. to those who had the sanction. Pantulu asked, “What are you doing so much or so great for the Ashram, that you want to ask for butter?” There the matter ended.

Biren-da used to come to our house every night after our dinner in the D.R. Pantulu would be home just lying down or teaching astrology to some (like Arun-da of the D.R.) or just talking on any subject with Dr. Nripendra, Sisir-da, etc. They would all go for the night meditation in the Ashram later. He was probably most relaxed during this period of the day. One night Biren-da was at the receiving end of his mood. Biren-da had very recently shown on Dec. 2nd a “rope trick”. He was tied up, upper arms and chest, with a stout rope. He was to get out of his bonds. (Actually he failed as the rope was, it seems, dipped in oil and it tightened so well that it cut into the flesh.) But this night Pantulu said, “It seems you showed some rope trick in the Playground?” Biren-da grinned and nodded and said, “Yes, yes.” Pantulu called us two brothers. “Okay, tie this fellow up. I want to see how he gets out.” We brought a strong rope and started to tie up Biren-da (embarrassed and helpless). We went round the body, but Pantulu said, “No, no, not like that. Make a figure of eight under each arm each time you go round the body.” Biren-da meekly protested, saying the rope has to go just round. Pantulu had a good laugh and said, “Let him go — no need to tie him. Anyone can get out if you tie as he wants.”

A batch of us boys used to go on outings to Lal Pahar (Red Hills, what is now Auroville) or Lake or First River (Ariankuppam) with Biren-da. Pantulu was interested — he having seen a good bit of outdoor life as an engineer. One day he told Biren-da, “Let us arrange a two-day outing to Gingee.” Gingee was then farther than the Moon, and two days — it was unheard of in the annals of the Ashram. We were feverish with excitement. But how do we get there? A bus was hired for Rs. 90 or 100. It was a steam-driven one (petrol was not available just after the War). The bus was to pick us up early in the morning from the D.R., drop us at Gingee, and return the next day (afternoon) to bring us back home by evening. Next problem — where to get Rs. 100? We boys didn’t have ten rupees between us and we wouldn’t make a busload. So, others were recruited. Krishnayya (Pantulu’s old friend), Niranjan-bhai (Albert-da’s brother), Anil Bhatta the artist (Pavan’s grandfather), Ardhendu (cat-lover and chemist), Krishnalal (artist), were some of the recruits. They all contributed yet could not make up the Rs. 100. Vishnu, Pantulu’s eldest son (RIAF), happened to be there. He made up the shortfall.

We had breakfast in the D.R. and loaded the bus with vessels and food, etc. Off we went, watched by a crowd of Ashramites. It was a great expedition into the unknown. We reached Tindivanam. The bus stopped — we wondered why. The bus-walla said we had to change buses, as he had no permit to go further! Pantulu let go a volley of grape-shot, but was persuaded to make the change. We transferred all the ‘saman’ and sat in our places. Pantulu was to board last and occupy the front seat. As he was about to get in, he saw a police officer sitting in the front seat. He asked the bus-walla, “Who is he? — Why is he here?” The driver replied that police officers are permitted. Pantulu had had enough of this. He blew up — this time it was heavy artillery. All were hushed. He shouted at us, “Get down — unload — no Gingee. We will take the train back home.” We sat still, hoping something would save the trip. The next volley crashed amidst us. We jumped to obey. Seeing all this the police officer was unnerved. He beat a retreat. We all breathed a sigh of relief. We reached Gingee. We were put up in a small school that was closed for vacation. A long shed served as kitchen and dining-room and two rooms for sleeping. Most of the older people stayed to rest, but we boys, with Biren-da, went up Krishnagiri before lunch. And in the afternoon we went up Rajgiri. Rajgiri and Krishnagiri are two of the three hills comprising the Gingee Fortress. It was dusk when we came down and soon it grew dark. We tried a short cut that delayed us longer. Gingee was just a small village and there was quite a scrub jungle around and leopards were rumoured to be there (it was 1946 or 48). Pantulu was filled with anxiety. Biren-da was the first to enter the camp. He took the full blast as Pantulu opened up. We just melted into the dark corners. There were only the wood fire and a hurricane lamp. Dark corners were aplenty. Biren-da took all the blows quietly (boxer that he was). He was saved to some extent by — literally — a ‘diversionary fire’. Krishnayya, who was cooking, got his “gamcha” (towel) on fire and started a merry jig when the heat reached him (he was at first unaware the towel had caught fire). We were a subdued lot for the rest of the night.

The next year, there was a plan to visit Mahabalipuram by sea! The idea was to hire a motor-launch from Pondicherry Port, chug along the shore and reach Mahabalipuram. Somehow the plan fizzled out — we didn’t hear of it again!

Pantulu was a good cook and scholar (as mentioned in Nishikanto, the last article). He was a born teacher and supervisor. He could run a kitchen sitting on a stool. In 1952 Pantulu, my father (Srinivasulu) and I went to Nidutippa to inspect the fields. We went round the fields in the morning, came home and started the day’s cooking (no women-folk, only the three of us). We were getting along. One day the timing went wrong. It was brinjal ‘sambar’, the brinjals were very much under-cooked, hard and tasteless. During lunch my father pushed aside the harder pieces. I followed my father. Then spoke Pantulu, “Who did the cooking today?” “I,” replied my father. “Whose fault that the brinjals are hard?” — was the next question. “Mine,” replied my father. “Why should you then not eat them rather than waste them?” My father pulled back all that he had pushed aside and ate everything. So did I and so did Pantulu!

The D.R. had some problem. For quite a period the rice was not being cooked properly. Several cooks tried and failed. Pantulu took it upon himself to set matters right. He marshalled his forces, i.e. his family members, a few from the Department (Press) and one or two others. He set his stool near the oven (choola). In those good old days, no steam boilers and gas ovens. Wood, heat, smoke, soot and sweat were the normal kitchen requisites (the food tasted as good then as now). The D.R. kitchen felt as if some military manoeuvres were on. We did conquer the rice problem.

Pantulu was a scholar. By training and profession he was an engineer, but his mind was not to be fenced in in that field only. It ranged far and wide in the fields of Sanskrit, Telugu and English literature (of Sri Ramakrishna, Swami Vivekananda and Sri Aurobindo). He translated many works of Sri Aurobindo into Telugu and started the magazine Arka in that language (printed in our Ashram Press even today). He had read in Sanskrit the Puranas, Upanishads, etc. It is a wonder how and when he and many others of that period did all that they did. The sheer volume and variety of their achievements is astounding — more so when you see the quality of their doings. They imbibed much and let much seep out again. The only limit for Pantulu was the time and tide of his life. 66 years were too short.

We four as children (Bhavatarini, Suniti, Narayan and I) were pulled into this seepage. For a time, during 1942-43, daily after lunch, we sat erect, Padmasan, arms crossed on the chest and repeated or read aloud slokas from Balaramayan or Taittiriyopanishad (Sanskrit in Telegu script). Pantulu would be sitting or reclining on the cot conducting the proceedings. We remember the scene well — Bhavatarini and Suniti do still remember some of the slokas, I none.

Thus days turned into weeks, months and years. Came that fateful year 1950. On December 5 early morning we were all jolted by a rude shock. We were told that Sri Aurobindo had left his body. We as children were quite upset. But the older people were shaken to their very foundations, completely demolished. Their bewildered minds took a long time to settle, to reorient themselves. Some could not and left. Some did set themselves firmly back on the Path, looked up and found a firm light to guide and sustain them — the Mother. Pantulu was one of these. He worked on till his body succumbed to the double disease of diabetes and high B.P. (as did his friend Nishikanto — Kobi). For diabetes Kobi had grown a medicinal plant given to him by a Himalayan sadhu. The leaves were to be crushed and the juice taken with milk. The juice was slimy and tasteless. Kobi passed on this knowledge to Pantulu. I plucked and brought the leaves from Kobi’s house — Santal. Pantulu was fussy and this concoction did not suit his taste buds. He made a modification. The crushed leaves were mixed with some ‘dal’ powder and fried into vadas! Kobi had a good laugh and, conceding a point, said, “Pantulu amarché ek kati uporé.” (Pantulu has outdone me.) The leaf did not have its desired effect. Pantulu’s health slowly deteriorated. We had to help him even to walk. He stopped his work in the Press. As days passed he got worse — he was bedridden. The flesh wore away, the cheeks once full were now hollow. He lay there for about 10 days — no speech, not much movement, fed spoon by spoon of liquids. Probably the last to fade away was the fire in his eyes. The end came one afternoon — on 29 December 1953. My father was here at the time. He wanted to perform the traditional obsequies (mantras, etc). The Mother was asked if such rites could be done. She said, “You can if you want.” She further added, “These mantras are meant for the good of the departing soul. Pantulu’s soul left him ten days back.” So departed one more ‘not so great’, an ancient one who left deep foot-prints on our shifting memories. They may be often covered by wayward winds but are too deep to be effaced. Pantulu walked through life unafraid. His sword was forthrightness, kept sharp by his temper, and sincerity was his shield. He had much to give, but it was often served near boiling hot. We had to wait, cool it and then sip. Then what seemed a bitter medicine lost the bitterness and slowly seeped into our minds, dissolving there many a stubborn stumbling stone. He steeled our minds and spirits (bodies were steeled by another ‘not so great’ Biren-da, boxer, masseur and outdoor man, now old and disabled). Pantulu and his likes lived by one great motto. They always asked themselves: “What can we give?” — (to the Mother and Sri Aurobindo) They never asked or thought: “What can we get?” — maybe that is the reason they got in great measure. But that too they gave.

Mrs. Pantulu — Meenakshamma

The Pantulu story would be only half told if Meenakshamma is not brought on the stage from the wings she long — nay, right through her life — occupied. For if Pantulu was a storm, she was the ‘calm after the storm’.

Meenakshamma was a great woman in her own right. Married at the age of ten with just class two education in Telegu, she tackled life unperturbed and was a model wife, housewife and mother. She and her compeers could teach a thing or two to their more modern, educated versions. She worked hard, never rushed around, yet got things done to each one’s satisfaction (even though some were often demanding ones). She was called “Kamadhenu” (the wish-fulfilling Cow) by some neighbours. They never knew her to say, “No, I have not got the item” when they would approach her to borrow some dal, rice, oil, etc. She came to the Ashram along with Pantulu, her husband. She worked at the Servants’ Office — Padmasiniamma was her boss. (Arvind Sule continues to sit there daily for a short period.) She picked up enough English, all on her own, to maintain the ‘absence-presence register’. She even learned to read Tamil just looking at cinema posters, equating known names of films to the letters on the posters. She was a cinema buff and that helped her in her linguistic achievements. Sometime in the early sixties she developed cancer. Colostomy followed. She carried on life as usual for more than twenty years. No fuss over plastic bags nor colostomy societies giving helping hints and psychological boosts. Just old-fashioned cotton and bandages and still older-fashioned common sense and grit. Her patience and a strength born of that patience saw her through to the end. The end came of some other complication in her intestines. A few days bed-bound. Doctors said they had to take her to Jipmer. She must have sensed, or at least expected vaguely, the approaching end. She asked us to call Narayan (her son) and my mother (her sister). They arrived. Surgery (supposed to be exploratory) was done. She was a day or two in the IC (Intensive Care) ward. We then decided to bring her home, against the doctors’ wishes and advice. Slowly, with a team of doctors in attendance, we brought her back (drip bottle & all). We brought her home around 5.30 or 6.00 p.m. and made her as comfortable as possible. She was quite conscious. She stayed with us, at home, for a brief hour or so. Then as she had lived her 70 and odd years, so she passed away — in peace. I went to inform Nolini-da immediately. He said: “Oh! cholé gèché — kono koshto neyi, kono dukkho neyi.” (Oh! she has gone — no suffering, no sadness.) For a moment I wondered at what Nolini-da said. Who was suffering? Who was sad? It then struck me it was on her, Meenakshamma, that he was commenting. I felt that she lived, worked and died doing her duty to the best of her knowledge and capacity, lived by her dharma. Then what else matters? What more can one expect of another?

This is as told by an old, old sadhika of our Ashram, who is simple, quite uneducated (no academic life), of village upbringing. (She is now near 90 years old). She, as is the custom among our communities, made it a point to visit and pay her respects, and pray for any deceased, before the body was taken to the crematorium. She went to see Meenakshamma. What she saw, and/or experienced was quite unusual (to say the least). She saw hovering around, some angels or lesser gods or maybe some gods’ messengers. They seemed to be vying with each other, as to who would take away Meenakshamma to their respective regions. She came away happy and quite taken by what she had seen.

What tributes to pay to such as these? Enough to remember them in our quiet moments, uncovering their footprints on the dust of forgetfulness. It could help to measure our own footsteps with theirs. They are our pathfinders, part of the way. Oblivion cannot be their resting place.