Prashanto

Dara

Cling to the One who clings to nothing;
And clinging, cease to cling.

Tiruvalluvar KuraL

Dara was born into an aristocratic family of Hyderabad (on 24 October 1902). Hyderabad was then a princely state ruled by the Nizam. He was named Aga Sayed Ibrahim. When Aga was born, his grandfather consulted a soothsayer, to predict about the child’s future. The soothsayer said “E apka ghar todega” (He will destroy your house). The grandfather thought “if he breaks this house, it is to build a more magnificent one.” Aga — later as Dara — found it a great joke and remarked “how mistaken he (the grandfather) was.” He came to Pondicherry for the first time in 1926. He was hooked, yet he went back several times, but finally settled here. Other members of the family too came here — around 1927 — Dara’s step-mother Tazdar Begum (a very beautiful woman), sisters Mehdi Begum and Zahara Begum and brothers Aga Sayed Ishaque and Aga Syed Yaqoob. Only Dara and one sister Mehdi Begum lived here, and served the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, till they breathed their last.

They were all given “Ashram names” by Sri Aurobindo — Sayed Ibrahim was renamed Dara. He was in one of his previous births Aurangzeb’s elder brother Dara Shukoh of the Moghul dynasty whom Aurangzeb imprisoned and killed. Dara Shukoh was a scholar. He translated the Gita and the Vedas into Persian. Dara Shukoh was, in a much earlier birth, in the 5th century B.C., Darius Hystaspes of Persia. He was the greatest of his dynasty. Tazdar Begum remained Tazdar, Mehdi Begum became Chinmayee and Zahara Begum was changed to Sudhira. The brothers Ishaque and Yaqoob were named Prashanto and René.

When Sri Aurobindo first saw Dara, He addressed him as “Dara”, the latter corrected Sri Aurobindo saying “I am Ibrahim.” Sri Aurobindo just smiled. Later we learn that the entire historical family of the Moghul Aurangzeb had come back. Of course we know Ibrahim was named Dara after Dara Shukoh.

I have not seen Sudhira or Tazdar. They and the others, when they arrived, were lodged in the part of the Ashram (main building) which is now the Mother’s Store Room (near the Rosary Gate, to the East — ground floor). Later, of course, changes took place. Tazdar and Chinmayee lived for a time in the corner house North East of the School block. Pourna lives there now.

Chinmayee

Chinmayee came at the young age of 20 or 21 in 1927. She looked very “muslim” (at least that’s what we imagined a muslim woman would look like). She had a gentle-looking face, usually a smile played on her lips. We caught only glimpses of her when she accompanied the Mother when She appeared on the Terrace for what was called Terrace Darshan (over Pavitra-da’s room). I think she held a parasol over the Mother. Chinmayee was the personal attendant of the Mother. She was a meticulous worker, and showed some others how things should be arranged for the Mother. She passed away, not very peacefully, a victim of cancer, sometime around 1953.

Sudhira and Tazdar Begum came and went but could not or would not stay here permanently. René was often here till, maybe, the early ’50s. He even worked in our printing press. He was a handsome man, of fair complexion with a slightly Roman nose (in fact all the brothers had the nose said to be aristocratic). He was of an average build. He was a good worker. He often fell back to his old aristocratic style of living and working: pleased with someone (worker or friend), he would reward him off-hand, off-account and off-proportion. He probably suffered from sleeplessness. In those days when he was living in the Mother’s Store Room, he would restlessly pace the Ashram courtyard through much of the night. I heard it said that once he suggested to the Mother: “Mother, you have given very high and significant names to flowers. Why don’t you do the same with fruits and distribute them to us? We will enjoy them much more.” Not much is known about him. He left this place, as was his usual practice. But then he went over to Pakistan and never returned. He passed away there. I learned later, that he did come here from Pakistan and was in a bit of trouble having misplaced his visa or passport. Madan Poddar and friends had to help him out.

Dara was one of the earliest legendary figures that I got acquainted with — and what a figure! It was because of his figure that one came to hear of Dara. He was a colossus. It was proverbial to say of anyone of big dimensions, “He is a Dara.” I too, when I saw him back in 1945, was, like many others, a bit awed and, being a 9-yearold, also amused. But there was more to Dara than just great size. He was as large-hearted as he was large. This fact was well-known. He helped many a person in need of monetary help. We kids too knew of his large-heartedness.

In 1945 Dara lived in the building to the East of Golconde, across the road. He lived on the first floor. The building is now named “Ressuscité” (Resurrected — I wonder why). The name came much later. Dara hardly came out of his rooms, not even downstairs. Whether he wouldn’t or couldn’t was, and is, a very justifiable and unanswered question. Passers-by could see some of him, sitting at his window, filling its frame. He would sit there and hail someone he knew. He would then request him to come below his window and let down a string with a clothes-clip at its end. Clipped to it hung a newspaper or a chit that he would like to be passed on to someone or some place. Most obliged, for most knew Dara. We boys too did run such errands for him, but later we drew our wages. Once in a while two or three of us went up to his room and started a conversation, mostly about ourselves, all about what we did in school or the playground. Dara heard all we said patiently and with interest. He seemed very impressed and pleased. When we judged that he was sufficiently mellowed, we struck! We pleaded with him saying, “Dara, please, we have not had toffees for a long time. Do give us some.” He was so touched. He would take a piece of paper and write: “Standard Stores — please give the bearer 1/4 lb of toffees.” Off we would run to the Stores (Standard Stores was a general stores, then newly opened, in the present Book Store below Ira Boarding — Dara had a credit-account there).

The few occasions that we had a close and whole view of Dara, were usually on these “toffee-procurement” ventures. What most people saw enframed in the window was, as the saying goes, “the tip of the iceberg.” What we saw when we entered his room was a white dhoti and kurta-clad colossus. The tip was impressive enough. The whole could have been unnerving — but no, it was not. The face though large, with the hooked nose, was charmingly reassuring. Two large kindly eyes, round cheeks and an innocent, trusting smile large enough to split those cheeks, took us close to him. He wore his hair long. He had, in earlier times, a thick well-groomed beard, now shorn off, leaving a clean shaven chin. His dress was always white dhoti and kurta — except for a short period when he joined the Playground and donned a pair of shorts and sleeveless banian — a further treat for our eyes. Why was he so fat? Probably physical inactivity and love of good food helped him attain those proportions. The short stint at the Playground didn’t do much to produce any changes. We never saw him or heard of him participating in any physical work. The only regular job I heard of, that he held, was supervising the milking of a couple (or more) of cows in a remote past (when cows were brought to the house and milked in front of the consumer/customer). This was done in the Ashram main building. (It had a very different topography then.)

Dara had other dimensions too — of a different kind. He was a poet of sorts. He often wrote 2-4 rhyming lines addressed to the Mother. Some are lost, one or two are remembered by a few:

    Mother, Mother, come to the pier
    Do not fear
    I am here.

or

    Mother almighty
    Finished is all my tea.

He surrendered everything to Her. He sold a huge house, and much of the money from the sale he gave away to the Mother along with chuddars, and some of the furnishings like chandeliers, and other items that he brought over. (I believe some of the things are exhibited in “Sri Smriti” opposite the Playground.) But he was simple enough to ask her for some money to buy himself (and incidentally us) something more and different than that offered by the Dining Room. He would even send a friendly rickshawalla to get him some biriyani.

Dara had, in his student days, managed the canteen. Consequently he had formed his ideas as to the quantity and quality of food to be served to others and to oneself! This, coupled with his largeheartedness, often put him on a collision course with Dyumanbhai. A classic case of “the irresistible meeting the immovable”. It was as well they took different paths. Dara was given means to satisfy, at least himself.

He was very simple — maybe too simple. Once, troubled by mosquitoes, he bought some mosquito coils to repel them. But he did not know about or did not have the little tin stand that goes with the coils. So, he lit one, held it between his toes and lay down. Fortunately Puraniji came to know of this unusual method and told him: “Why don’t you ask the Mother for a mosquito net?” He asked for one, may have written “Mother, Mother, give a net for mosquitoes — else I’ll burn my little toes!” The Mother gave him a large blue net. He was so glad! He showed it off to whomsoever he met.

I mentioned that Dara’s physical activities were near non-existent. But it appears he did tend to some plants — watering them with cans, carried to and fro from a tank — no pump, no hose, — that too, he, a large man, on a pair of “khadams” (wooden sandals). He loved the plants and watched over them tenderly, thrilled when they flowered or bore fruit. But he was equally thrilled, if birds or squirrels got the fruits of his labour. He even hand fed them sitting in his armchair.

Dara spent much of his time in that armchair of his (apart from the hour or two spent in the watering effort). He filled it to overflowing, immobile, reading, writing, smoking or just looking at nothing or everything or just dozing in deep contentment. Often his paunch would come in handy to rest his writing material — or even the table lamp. The table lamp needs special mention. It was a heavy one, all in metal — the base, stem and all. The shade was missing. When reading (Savitri) he would cover himself and the lamp with one white bed-sheet, a white hillock glowing in the dark. So far so good — but the lamp would give nasty shock to anyone touching it except Dara! When they warned him about this habit of his lamp he would give his usual reply: “Oh kuch nai hoga.”(oh nothing will happen). He seemed immune to electrocution.

Last, but certainly not the least of all, Dara was, let us say, the Adi-photographer of the Ashram. His father was a good amateur photographer and Dara learned enough from him to shoot away here and there, thereby leaving us a vast and valuable pictorial history of the old Ashram, its inmates, and the times. The photographs are surprisingly clear and well preserved to this day. This is one priceless contribution of Dara’s to us and to the Ashram. And this he accomplished with an ordinary box-camera! So lived Dara simply and quite peacefully.

One could look at Dara with some awe and respect because some people attributed to him some achievements in Sadhana. Dara himself disliked such notions — not out of any humility, true or otherwise. It just did not occur to him that there was anything special about him. His thought process never slipped into that groove. As his luck would have it, there came a Telugu gentleman named Subodh Krishna who considered Dara a Mahapurush! The man was endowed with a great amount of patience and persistence. He, one day, went too far — he prostrated himself full length in front of Dara — who was dismayed, annoyed and avoided the gentleman, and declared: “E admi pagal hai” (This man is mad). One day the man went to meet Dara, waited and watched patiently for one hour, while Dara was busy balancing lemons one on top of the other. Dara finally condescended to meet him, and even went with him in a rickshaw (no mean effort on the part of the passengers and the rick-puller), to be photographed. Dara modified his judgement on the man saying: “admi thoda pagal hai, lekin achcha hai”. (The man is a little mad, but a good man).

Dara had “large kindly eyes”. He saw what we all saw. Did he see something more? It appears he did, and in this too he could not think it was a special capacity or gift he had — and others may not have. I narrate two occurences:

Once some disciples gathered round Sri Aurobindo and during some very informal talking, Sri Aurobindo asked those around what they wanted. Dara asked for a vision of God. There was no immediate compliance to his wish. But when Dara went up on the Darshan day, he did not see Sri Aurobindo as a person, but saw him as a source of a bright white light. Dara thought at first that there was something wrong with his eyes. Then as he was returning, — on the stairs he saw the Raslila. It then struck him that he was being granted his wish of a few days back.

Then there was this happening in Dara and his extended family’s house. (A Reddy father, mother and daughter. We will speak of them anon). One morning Dara confronted them (the Reddys) with a question: “Who was that lady who visited you last night. They were baffled. They had no visitors — night or day. Dara was sure — he described the lady and her movements. Little did it occur to him that what he had seen others could not see. Well, he saw a lady with a clean shaven head, wrapped up in a voluminous white sheet, stand beside their beds, then move on to the Mother’s Room. There he saw the Mother and her discussing animatedly with gesticulations. What he could make out was that the lady was pleading for something and the Mother was not giving it. The lady persisted and finally the Mother relented. Then the lady, in great ecstasy, took off at great speed and disappeared. The identity of the lady dawned on the Reddys and they wondered at Dara and doubly so when... Let me first tell you the story of the white clad lady.

There was a simple lady (mendicant) who shaved her head wrapped herself up in a white sheet only, who lived under a thatch without any walls — she was called Chinnamma and the thatch and the area around was her ashram. She sat there and many people from all walks of life, gathered and sat around her. The Reddys too had lived there a month or so. Chinnamma always talked in the third person, when refering to herself. People asked her questions and she answered, gave advice and solace. She told them that while she was alive she could help them. She warned them that it is of no use this praying or performing puja to her photo once she is gone. Once she leaves the body she would be dissolved in the Supreme. She would have cut all links, she said, that dissolution is not easy. One needs the permission of the Mahamaya, who does not like anyone leaving Her creation.

The Reddys received a telegram informing them that Chinnamma had left her body a few days back. The telegram reached them a day or two after Dara’s vision, dream — or whatever! It was now possible to explain what Dara saw. Chinnamma approached the Supreme Mother, for Her permission to get dissolved. The Mother relented only after much persuasion and prayer. Chinnamma then took off in ecstasy into dissolution.

Dara was shifted from Ressuscité to a house near the present State Bank and then again to the house where the Oriya Karyalaya Press is now located. He lived more or less like a recluse. He was also afflicted by some rare disease. The Mother asked Prashanto to serve him and look after him. The Mother also asked a Reddy lady, Bharati Reddy (husband Venkata Reddy and daughter Jyoti) to help Dara. Actually this Reddy family was helped by Dara. They were new here, coming from Hyderabad. They got acquainted with Dara in the Tennis Ground where they had gone to watch the Mother playing Tennis. Dara learned that they were to vacate their present living quarters and were looking for a place to live. Dara was ever kind and helpful. He invited them to put up with him — provided — the Mother permitted. He dashed off a letter to the Mother, who granted the permission. The next ten years they shifted 5 houses along with Dara until his demise. One can imagine what the family’s, which we would deem as Dara’s extended family, feelings towards Dara were. Also one cannot but wonder how things work out, sometimes — whose is the Hand?

Bharati, the lady of the house, had a severe attack of jaundice. She was then just recovering (an astrologer had predicted that about that period of her life, she would be dangerously ill). Dara in a generous mood ordered a prawn curry and asked Bharati too to eat. She did. But some elders chided her saying she should have known better — she should have refused the prawn curry (spicy and oily etc). She ran to Dara and told him what the elders had said. Dara was unperturbed. He said the all familiar mantra: “Are, Bharati, kuch nai hoga — I have informed the Mother.” True enough, Bharati never felt any ill effects.

Dara’s prayers to the Mother were two — (1) O Mother, fulfil my desire and (2) O Mother take away my desire. In either case the onus was on Her — once the prayer was voiced. He had full faith, so never protested or worried — so he could say “kuch nai hoga.” Though Dara indulged his palate with some non-veg dish — always informing the Mother — he relished the Dining Room food, licking the dish clean (to its original state, before use) and finishing off with the usual banana followed by its peel.

The disease whittled down Dara and, I think, also affected his speech. One day, I can’t recall how or who called me for help — I reached his house. When I reached there, Dara was sitting in the bathroom, a towel just draped across his thighs, and a minor cut on his forehead. A servant was there; he said Dara could not get up. Dara himself could not say much — he only made some incoherent noises and made signs with his hands. We tried to help him up, but he waved us away, with a bit of annoyance (so it seemed). For a while I was puzzled. Then a thought struck me — maybe prompted by his actions. I asked the servant to get out of our (Dara’s) sight. Then I turned to Dara; he smiled and let me help him stand with a support. I then wrapped a dhoti around him and helped him to his cot. I left after seeing that he was made somewhat comfortable. Later I got a letter from Dara, thanking me for my help — an unexpected and unusual gesture from a dying man, for indeed a short time after (maybe a month or two) I heard Dara was no more. (The letter, alas, was never preserved — I didn’t even think of doing it.) He passed away on 8 February 1966. The Great Helper of all had reached out and helped him “UP”.

What conclusions to draw on Dara? Or should we do so at all? To do so, looking at his physical life, may or may not amount to much. He did practically nothing — his life was rather notable for that. But the man was more than just his (rather big) physical self. There were depths in him which would be difficult to fathom. He had his share of difficulties and his share of experiences, all of which are borne out by his correspondence with his Guru. How did Dara come here and why? Let us go back two generations. His grandfather hailed from Lucknow. He had a fortuitous misadventure in Bombay — he missed a ship — and had to wait for 15 days for the next one. (Something to do with the Haj pilgrimage.) So, for some reason or other he drifted to Hyderabad. There he had a fortuitous adventure, saving an influential and rich man from drowning, which led to a friendship and his writing up a petition for the newly-found friend. The letter was to a highly-placed governmental official or minister, who found the drafting of the letter admirable and called the author (Dara’s grandfather) over to meet him. This event got him a good post. He rose higher and higher and settled in Hyderabad. Dara was now a Hyderabadi; during his studies he had a Bengali professor who presented to him a book of Sri Aurobindo. This small seemingly unimportant event brought about by a devious route through two generations (missed ship, drowning man, drafted letter, high post and shifting from Lucknow to Hyderabad) brought Dara in touch with Sri Aurobindo and changed the course of his life and of his family.

Dara wrote to Sri Aurobindo. The following correspondence took place between Sri Aurobindo and his to-be disciple (I have paraphrased it):

Dara: Sir, I would like to come to the Ashram to settle there.

Sri Aurobindo: No, you are not yet ready.

Dara: When and how shall I know that I am ready?

Sri Aurobindo: The “Call” will come to you.

Dara was then readying to go to England for his studies. So again a letter to Sri Aurobindo.

Dara: Sir, I am leaving for England for my studies. If in mid-ocean the “Call” comes, I will jump over and swim back.

Sri Aurobindo: Now you are ready. You can come over to pursue your Sadhana.

I think it is at this point of time that the soothsayers “breaking of the house’’ started, but I think too that the breaking was prelude to a new beginning.

Would this be a good enough pointer to the real Dara — his surrender and sincerity?

Dara may have let down a thought of his, clipped to a string, from a window UP THERE, and it hit me. So began this tale of a gentle giant and his family. The string is drawn up again — so passing on the story, I finish here my telling — until the string is down again!

Dara came to Pondicherry and Prashanto went to England.

Prashanto

Prashanto too arrived in 1927 but went away in 1936, or maybe earlier. He was not here in 1945, but came some time later — early 50s — that’s when I met him. He was an interesting character. Physically, and I may venture to say even mentally, he was very “un-Dara”-like. Some facial resemblance persisted, but then, he was as thin as Dara was fat. He would walk a mile while Dara took three steps.¹ Prashanto would be satisfied chewing a few peanuts while Dara may go in for a chocolate bar. When Dara, on a rare, rare occasion, thought of fasting to reduce, Prashanto chided him saying, “Aré theek sé khao, aur dund baithak lagao!” (Eat well, but do exercises, push-thrus and deep knee bends). Prashanto was himself scrawny, of good height and a fair complexion but tanned well (he roamed around with a banian or without it and a pair of shorts). Same aquiline nose as Dara’s. They both were soft-spoken but spoke of different things.

The dissimilarities did not end there. Prashanto would remain calm (mentally & physically) in all circumstances. Dara would not move physically, but often get agitated or activated and then he would move heaven and earth to reach his ends.

Prashanto had no desires — food, marriage, nothing distracted him. Dara was a gastronome. As for marriage, Dara had at one time written to the Mother about his urge to tie the knot. She did not pull him up short and abrupt. She gently applied the brakes, said “wait, what’s the hurry?” Dara simmered down. Again when the feeling came on him, he wrote to the Mother. Again the reply “No hurry” — and again... Time didn’t stand still — Dara turned 40. He reminded the Mother that he was not getting any younger. She asked him in reply: “Now that you are 40, where is the need for marriage?” The desire slowly dried up or was taken away from him.

Prashanto was a very qualified man. He had done quite well in his studies at Oxford. He returned to Hyderabad and maybe tried to settle down and failed. He was offered good lucrative posts but refused to accept them. When one to-be-employer raised the pay, Prashanto was not very pleased. He said, “Mai kutta kya...? (Am I a dog?) that you hang a piece of meat in front of me and I am expected to run after you.”

Prashanto was also offered marriage proposals. He would not surrender his bachelorhood. Many a prospective bride and party had to leave disappointed. On one of these efforts to entice him into marital bliss, friends and relatives extolled the virtues and advantages of married life. Prashanto agreed and seconded all their ideas. He seemed to give in. People around were just sensing success when Prashanto dropped a bombshell. He smiled and said, “Look here, I too am a believer in love, marriage, etc. etc. But I have one weakness (or habit), that I cannot get over once it comes.” All, especially the bride’s party were thinking, “Oh, what now?” Prashanto continued, “From time to time I get an urge to travel. I cannot resist it. I leave everything, home, hearth, family, friend and wander off.” This put an end to all marriage proposals. Who would wed their girl to such a gypsy? This wanderlust must have overtaken him and he walked out of his house and arrived here again, probably in early 1953. He recounted that he would, when leaving a place, follow the railway tracks. His theory being that the tracks would lead to a station — any station was good enough. There you could get some food. His favourite form of food, on these wanderings, was “mungphalli” (peanuts) and neem seeds. He would munch those and walk on and on. For most of his travels were done on foot, or ticketless travel. This time the “wanderlust” had a reason. The story took place in Hyderabad.

Zeba was Dara’s niece. She was a very turbulent, naughty girl. She had come to Pondy as a 12 year old. When she was around one could expect and be prepared for anything. She could apply some home made medicine, a mixture of lemon juice, salt and chilli on a boil or wound or pour some coconut oil into the mouth left partly open for snoring while at siesta. Dara was at the receiving end. He would chase her but never caught her. What if he caught her. He probably would have laughed and left her. Dara (and Prashanto) actually loved this lively, imaginative girl.

Prashanto was living at Sudhira’s (Zeba’s mother) house. All were at the dinner table. Zeba was very young, but was already very adept (and improving). She suddenly started smearing food all over her own head and face! Her father thought this needed some corrective measure. He landed a slap on the young Zeba. Prashanto rose up and voiced his protest at this harsh treatment. The father said he very well knows how to bring up his child and told Prashanto not to interfere in what does not concern him. Prashanto did not say a word, got up and walked out of the house — headed straight to his familiar rail tracks, out of Hyderabad and ultimately reached Pondy.

It was all so simple — no dinner, no farewells, no plans, no luggage, no money and no tickets. He was sharing a meal with a gang of railway workers. They discovered the tramp knew English — reading and writing as well. They implored him to apply for a vacant job they knew of in the railways.

In two months he reached this place. Dara informed the family.

When he arrived here he was put up somewhere near Parc-à-charbon (if not at the Park itself, before it took its present posh form). He had many old friends here and Bihari-da of the D.R. must have been one of his closest. He joined him in his work, washing bananas and lemons. He worked and moved around, scrawny, in old khakhi shorts and sleeveless banian, shaved head and usually with an unshaven chin, hunched shoulders — he looked every inch the hobo that he was. He couldn’t care less as to what he looked like. Not many would take notice of him, much less think of engaging him in conversation. He considered it a blessing that people did not take notice of him. He said, “As soon as people take notice of you — you are in trouble.” But those who, undeterred by his appearance, did talk to him found him exceedingly interesting. He talked slow and soft. His English was as you may guess the “King’s” — spiced with an occasional “sala;” or some other Urdu or Hindi word (expressive if not expletive).

His work in the D.R. over, he may come out and head East, West, North or South — as fancy took him. Once I happened to meet him heading North from the Ashram. I asked him, “Where are you going?” He replied, “Home.” I said, “I thought you lived in Parc?” He said, “Yes, I do. But who says I should go by this road and not by that and reach by the shortest route?” He could be found walking away from his destination to reach it.

One day as I stood in front of the Ashram, enjoying a fine drizzle, Prashanto happened by. He was in his usual attire, but perched on his head was a folded newspaper that he held pressed down with one hand. I plucked it off his head. He stopped and pleaded with me to return it. I happened to glance at the date — it was a recent — a “yesterday’s” — edition. Feigning surprise, I asked why he was wasting so recent an edition. Someone could still be interested in reading it. Prashanto in reply said, “What, you call this news? De Gaulle pulls Churchill’s nose. He in turn twists somebody’s ear.” Intrigued I asked him, “Then why are you holding on so dearly to this paper?” He smiled a bit shyly and said, “Oh, some well-wisher gives me the papers. When a sufficient number are collected, I sell them and Behari and I go eat some ice-cream.” I couldn’t but return his precious paper. I thought “How childlike — innocent and secretive these two old men are!” In fact they were two of the best men I came across. Not only I, but many who knew them hold the same opinion. I recount a strange paradoxical story. Each one has to draw his or her own conclusion.

The story unfolds in or around the D.R. There was a lady who took her breakfast in D.R. every day. She did not eat the bananas — but took them and gave them as alms. This was reported to the Mother. The Mother had, often enough, said that each one should take only what he/she needs. So the Mother instructed Ravindraji to stop giving her breakfast. She pleaded with the Mother. The Mother sent her to Ravindraji telling her to plead with him, as it was his domain of work. Be that as it may, what was more interesting and mysterious (or meaningful) was what followed. Prashanto and Bihari-da washed the bananas. Prashanto would keep aside the bananas which he thought were not good enough to be distributed at the counter. Sometimes there were quite many. On his way out Prashanto would distribute them to the urchins — just outside the D.R. This happened not long after the “lady’s” incident. So, Ravindraji dutifully reported the matter to the Mother. The Mother told Ravindraji, much to his astonishment, not to admonish him. “Simply tell him not to distribute just outside the D.R. He should go a distance away and do it.” She then added, “You just don’t know how lucky we are and from where we get all these things.” What to make of this? Maybe best not to use our ever fallible Reason — just swallow the information and wait.

Prashanto was an avid cricket fan. The Nawab of Pataudi had been his classmate. He had seen him play (play more and study less). India’s late President Zakir Hussain was also one of his classmates. Prashanto was, it is said, the much-disliked Aurangzeb in one of his previous births. Strangely enough he was given the duty of taking care of Dara — which job he did to the best of his ability till Dara’s passing away. (Paying for sins committed 300 years ago!)

The hurt you cause in the forenoon self-propelled
Will overtake you in the afternoon.

Tiruvalluvar Kural

Prashanto spent his days simply, doing his work, taking walks and telling stories if and when we needled him. Then, one fine day, he just lifted anchor and walked away, again on his wanderings — bitten by the migration bug. It was probably not just the migration bug that bit him: He had an ear-ache that seemed to increase when he approached the Ashram and diminished as he went further away. One day he walked on and on and in a couple of months he found himself back in his home town, Hyderabad. Maybe he followed the railway tracks. We came to know that he reached his niece’s house (Sudhira’s daughter). But everything had changed, he was lost in the concrete jungle. He entered a dispensary to have his sore foot seen to. He casually asked the doctor if he knew of a (his) family. One million chance — the doctor knew — and so Prashanto walked into the family he had walked out from the dinner table. Sudhira was there. She passed away shortly after. Zeba was happy to look after him till his demise. He never asked for anything, didn’t need much — just his meals, and a few beedies. Zeba described him as a “Fakhir”, with no wants or desires. He lived a few years doing practically nothing (except smoking), then he too was gathered up — he may have followed a subtler “rail track” to reach his final Station and destination.