Recollections of Lalita related to her life & experiences at Sri Aurobindo Ashram. Also includes her life in Bombay especially her sadhana with cats.
The Mother : Contact
THEME/S
At the age of 21, Lalita, née Daulat R. Mistry, a fair, dark-haired, doll-like figure, came to the Ashram on December 16, 1927 with her husband at the time, K.D. Sethna (afterwards named Amal Kiran by Sri Aurobindo). They were the first Parsis to enter the life of the Integral Yoga. From the beginning Sri Aurobindo and the Mother saw intense spiritual possibilities in young Daulat. A few days after her arrival she offered all her rich saris and every piece of her jewellery to the Mother.
Her self-dedication to the Divine was immediate and whole-hearted.
Very soon the Mother took her up for personal work and attendance. Sri Aurobindo gave her the name "Lalita", explaining: "Beauty of refinement and harmony - this is the idea underlying this word. It is a name also of one of the companions of Radha." Daulat became indeed a companion of the Mother whom all members of the Ashram took to be inwardly to Sri Aurobindo what Radha had been to Sri Krishna.
A pioneer sadhak, Amrita, in close contact with the Mother, once remarked to Amal Kiran: "Lalita is a part of the Mother." The Mother herself told Amal on one occasion: "Lalita has the nature of the saints." This, of course, does not certify an utter transcendence of the common human stuff-and Lalita repeatedly spoke to Amal of her own weaknesses and shortcomings and aspired for her Gurus' Grace to overcome them. What the Mother's comment assures is the never-obscured and ultimately triumphant "psychic being" in the midst of all defects, difficulties, setbacks. And that is what we saw in Lalita not only in her young days but also in her old age when, after a protracted absence, she returned to the Ashram on the death of her husband M.B. Panday. The Ashram gave her a warm welcome, knowing how generous she had been in her relation with it throughout the years. In her turn she never ceased to appreciate its generosity to her. However, her later period was no smooth run. Various infirmities were her lot and many a trying circumstance had to be met. But she passed through everything with quiet patience and never faltered in her faith in the Mother and in Sri Aurobindo whom she always called "my sweet Lord".
In her early days she was skilful at embroidery and at making artistic boxes for the Mother. Up to the last she remained a gifted musician and a keen admirer of painting and literature as well as an adroit story-writer and an eager pursuer of knowledge in several fields. A distinguishing trait in her nature was a deep love for animals. But, above all, she had the heart of a child of the Divine, with no pretensions, no personal ambitions, no rancours against anybody. What she prized most was the inner touch of the Supreme on her life and the vision she had time and again of spiritual and occult realities. A source of great satisfaction to her was the memory not only of the physical intimacy she had long enjoyed with the Mother in the past but also of the numerous occasions when, during her work in the Mother's apartment near Sri Aurobindo's room, Sri Aurobindo used to come out and talk with the Mother and often look intently at the young assistant who would stand in rapt amazement at the Master's majesty and compassion.
-Mother India 1985.
THEE…
THEE to love and adore, Thee to serve, My soul has taken birth Upon this ignorant earth. Grant me the constant Grace Never from this aim to swerve. Hold my hand firm All through the devious days. Lord of my life and heart, Be to me all in all, not only a part.
IN THY EMBRACE
IN thy sweet, calm and deep embrace I spent the whole long starry night. Time's tardy footsteps were not traced Till dawn arose, a gold surprise.
I gazed into Thy eyes, they fused with mine, Soul's-silent ecstasy each atom stilled. To be merged in Thee and be completely Thine, Fibre and nerve with wondrous lustre filled.
O Lord of compassion, Master of all time, Withdraw not ever from me Thy Grace sublime.
SUPPLICATION
Linger not on the supernal height,O harbinger of Heaven’s delight,On earth’s sorrowing thought a gleam bestow-Enlace her heart-beats with Beauty’s dream-glow.
Let thy magic sweetness enrich all solitude,And with thy marvellous Lustre make rainbow-huedEach glooming soul plunged in time’s agony.Waken Life’s unending swirl to Truth’s unborn felicity.
Widen the human mind to a tranquil vast,Tear from man’s spirit Matter’s inconscient cast.
Let Knowledge break through God’s radiant skies,Lift dark Ignorance’s veil from mortal eyes.
PRAYER FOR PERFECTION
Let not my life be a hush of sleep. Forgetting the clouds of yesterday, Waken it to the smiling morn’s gold beam.
Let Thy sunlight melt my frozen mind, Thy kiss of love a white ray on a rose, Slowly unfold a perfect pearl of dream.
In these aching limbs let Thy Grace divine Steal in like a lovely slow surprise, And change all to a perfection hyaline.
To my heart so weary of mortal things, Reveal Thy blissful swards and laughing flowers Upon Thy summits ever cloudless and calm.
Embracing Thy sacred feet, I implore Thy flawless silent Presence, and a new life’s hours Born from the light of those limbs even Gods adore.
A BEGGAR’S BOWL
My being — a beggar’s bowl — Offers itself for a mercy-dole Of Thy Love divine. My bleeding heart Naught save Thy touch can ever console.
For earthly riches I do not pray, Long have they ceased to allure me or sway. Sweet Mother, Thou and Thou alone Can my poor soul’s deep thirst allay.
Small am I and very frail. How break these bars that my being jail And grant no freedom to move and mount — How carry this cross and its gripping nail?
My heart has now no strength to bear The adverse Force so well aware Of big or tiny faults in me. Let me not fall into its snare.
How far away now seem the skies! Give me the power forever to rise, To live in Thee, for none but Thee. Help me this goal to realise.
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER
At meditation this morning I tried to go within, and felt as if I were in the dome of a temple. There was a pale golden light pouring from above, which changed into deeper shades of gold, then rose-pink and orange, as it descended below.
My body was felt as something below. The higher I tried to climb the more intense grew the light. And I felt that something in the head had opened, and there was wideness, peace, and coolness above. I wanted the meditation to go on much longer, and just a few seconds before the gong was sounded I saw a pale gold light turn into a fire with many tongues and rise upward from the heart. Then the gong was sounded, but it took me some time to get into the body and to make it move.
The physical mind was not quite silent, still this experience went on side by side. Now what is left of the experience is a peace and a cool feeling from the top of my head down to my nose...
May they remain with me!
April 1982
Heart-broken and utterly depressed I came to You, my dearest Mother, feeling lost and forlorn. It was between 1 and 2 a.m. on the 20th November.
“Is this a defeat of the Divine?” I asked. Why did You leave Your body when all along we were expecting its transformation?
Life was not worth living any longer, for all my hopes and aspirations were centred in You. You were the heart of my heart, my sole guide and protector.
As I sat complaining thus and weeping inwardly near Your body which lay in state in the Meditation Hall, I felt a strong Force pulling me deep within myself until I lost all sense of time and space.
My physical mind, which is usually very active, ceased its noise. My body, which was full of pain and discomfort after a long and tiring journey, became so quiet that I was hardly aware of its presence.
Then slowly You appeared, as if from behind a veil. You were clad in a pale-gold robe. You looked young and beautiful — radiant with a brilliant white light.
This light was strongest round the head, circling it with an indescribable halo. It extended intensely down to the waist. Still lower, it was a little less bright. From Your body it spread out to the whole world.
Seeing me gaze at You in utter amazement, You smiled Your sweet and loving smile and said, “There is no defeat of the Divine. This too is a triumph leading to Glory.”
When You spoke these words I understood them perfectly; later when I tried to explain them in the mental way their precise meaning evaded me. Actually words as we know them were not uttered, but I could hear within me what was silently conveyed.
You added, “I have not left you and never will. Forget ego, give up self; live and work in harmony and unity for the Divine.”
Then, opening both Your palms and interlacing Your fingers, You finally said, “And the Advent will not be far.”
I was greatly heartened by Your Message. All sorrow and forlornness passed from me.
The vision withdrew as if You had gone into another room, and I gradually woke up and became conscious once more of time and space and all that they hold for us.
( Mother India Dec 1973)
Some people have lately expressed doubt about the presence and guidance by Sri Aurobindo and the Mother in these times. I should like to put on record a few recent experiences of mine.
A number of months back, when I was in very bad health and there was nobody near me to help me, I was lying on my bed and praying to the Mother for her help. I told her that if I died in this condition nobody would even know I was inside my room and they would have to break open the door to find out.
As I said this, suddenly I found that a powerful golden light had descended near my bed. I thought my neighbours had switched on their electric lamp but on opening my eyes I saw that it was about 11 a.m. and there was no electric light anywhere. I closed my eyes and prayed again, and the same experience repeated itself.
After this I have seen a beautiful white light near me (especially at night) and on March 29 it came right down to my feet.
Once I also saw a solid white light in front of me, but as I looked and made my “pranam” to it it was covered over with a black curtain which came from both sides as in a theatre. I call the light solid because it was just like that, and not transparent as on other occasions. Whatever the curtain may temporarily do, the Mother’s light is most concretely among us. No one need despair.
July 1977
AN UNUSUAL AND SIGNIFICANT EXPERIENCE
On the 14th of September while I was resting on my bed at about 2 p.m. I had a very unusual experience which struck me as highly significant.
There were two parts of my being, both dressed in a plain white sari and standing side by side. One was reading to the Mother something written on a white piece of paper, and the other which was standing to the right was weeping in a heart-breaking manner.
The Mother was there in front listening attentively to what was being read to Her, and shaking Her head from side to side. She too was dressed in white and, though She was full of love and compassion, there was a deep sorrow on Her face.
The most surprising part of the experience was that, as soon as I finished reading one para or one part of what was written, it slowly faded away, and another para or portion emerged to take its place. The writing was about what people were doing after the Mother’s withdrawal. Although She knew all about it, She was listening to everything read as if it were for the first time that She was hearing of it.
The writing was not composed by me, nor did I have any knowledge of what was written. I was only an instrument used for reading the passages that emerged on the page.
The other part of my being, which was weeping, was saying to itself, “Is this the way in which we repay You and all Your wonderful Love, Grace and everything You did for us—all that both You and our beloved Lord endured, suffered and accomplished for our sake?”
Never before had I seen two different parts of my being together, each doing its own work. The part that was weeping was so profoundly grieved that, even when I woke up suddenly, I could hear it crying deep down within my heart, and I had to make an effort to stop it. This was because, from the beginning of my contact with the divine Mother and Sri Aurobindo, I have never been able to bear anything by which they were made to suffer.
The present experience came to me spontaneously and most unexpectedly, to show me how much we hurt the Mother by going against Her Will, letting anything happen which might tend to undo Her great work. She has repeatedly assured us of Her constant presence watching over us. I have also been shown on various occasions how a drop of sincerity on our part and of consciousness of this presence can bring a flood of Her Love and Grace.
Nov 1977
During the night of January 23 I dreamt that I was in a big room in the same place as Sri Aurobindo’s room is at present. Many people were there. Some of them I knew, and others were strangers.
Sri Aurobindo was there seated on a chair or something else which was on a higher level than we. He was holding a volume of one of His own Centenary books. He was giving to each one an appropriate volume to study as a help to their sadhana.
As I could not find the Mother, though I looked everywhere, I asked someone about it, and I was told: “Sri Aurobindo has said that as the Mother had worked very hard and suffered a great deal, He wants Her to take rest, and He is Himself attending to all the work now. He has a personal relation with everybody in the same intimate way as the Mother, and is attending to the true need of everyone individually.”
No sooner was the word “intimate” uttered by the person who was telling me these things than I felt a subtle hand touch my chest—and I understood that it was Sri Aurobindo’s hand and what He meant was perhaps that He was working in me through my psychic being. His touch gave me a sweet feeling of joy and devotion.
After this, I passed on to receive my volume and woke up. I looked at my watch and found that it was exactly twelve o’clock midnight. Twelve, as I learnt later from a friend, is Sri Aurobindo’s number.
I made my “pranams” to the Lord and prayed that we might all be worthy of this supreme Grace and help, and learn to do our sadhana more sincerely.
April 1978
OUR TROUBLES AND THE MOTHER’S INSIGHT
One morning I asked the Mother from within, “What brings about so often such a lot of difficulty in one’s outer day-to-day life? Is it some fault for which one is thus punished—or is there some other reason? I have asked this question to you many a time but you have not given me an answer yet. Please tell me why one has to suffer here?”
I looked at the Mother’s big photograph that is always on my table, and she was only smiling sweetly as usual.
Then I took up the book Questions and Answers 1953 not with any hope of finding an answer there but simply to distract my troubled mind. I opened it at random. I lighted on page 159 and my eyes fell on the long paragraph which is given below in part:
“If you come to the spiritual life with a sincere aspiration, sometimes an avalanche of unpleasant things falls upon you...
“It is for very sincere people that the thing takes such a form. Fundamentally, the avalanche of troubles is always for sincere people. Those who are not sincere receive things with the most beautiful bright colours just to deceive them, and then in the end to enable them to find out that they are mistaken! But when someone has big troubles, it proves that he has reached a certain degree of sincerity.”
I was much heartened to read these lines, and I am giving them to Mother India that all who may be in one kind of trouble or another may read them and take consolation.
“Is this your answer?” I asked the Mother in the photograph. But she was only smiling in her usual sweet way as much as to say, “What else can it be?”
Oct 1978
2 DECEMBER 1978
Although one of my friends had repeatedly requested me not to miss this year’s Physical Demonstration at the Sportsground, I was not very enthusiastic about going. Firstly because I needed someone to accompany me and secondly because I was afraid that it might rain at any time, and so make me all wet as it had done last year. But I left it to the Mother to decide and arrange everything. Evidently it was Her wish that I should go. So I found a suitable companion who took me there at the right time.
No sooner were we seated on our seats than I commenced to feel happy. I watched with keen interest each and every item and, as I was doing so, I felt the Mother’s Presence more and more concretely, which, I am sure, others too felt.
Something in me widened, and my whole being was filled with an intense love for all the participants. I felt as if my two arms were encircling all of them and holding them close to my heart. I forgot the existence of my body. I was only a soul filled with love and admiration for all these children.
When the sports were over and I heard the Mother’s voice, a sob escaped from my heart and tears threatened to well up in my eyes. But I controlled myself and looked at the sky.
Immediately something in me widened and prayed to the Mother to raise me above all outer circumstances, and keep ever before my soul and inner eye the high aim for which we are all here.
Then came dinner time and as I was standing with the others and talking, I felt a sudden and intense whirling of a Force overhead. It was dotted with gold-and-white Light, which I could see with my eyes open although really by an inner vision.
I felt as if I would faint and lose all awareness of my body. With great difficulty I controlled myself and behaved in the normal way. If I had allowed the Force to pull me inward (as it seemed to want to do) I would have fallen down and put my friend in trouble.
I asked myself whether something was going wrong with me owing to the tablets I was taking at times, which had been prescribed by the doctor. Then I remembered that I had not taken even half a tablet during the two previous days. It was only the Mother’s Force at work everywhere, of which I had suddenly become conscious.
March 1979
On the night of the 13th April, I went to bed early (as I am forced to do these days, owing to the pain in my knees).
As usual I concentrated on the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, and longed to go to them in the subtle-physical. But I could not do it. When I was fast asleep, I had an extraordinary dream-experience. I found myself in the front line of a large army which was facing another army.
I was clad in a steel armour, a steel helmet, and was holding a sword or a spear in my right hand. I was on horseback and prepared to charge as soon as we received the order from our general to do so.
Strange to say, a fine handsome man, who was the leader of the opposing army, stepped forward and had a long talk with our leaders. He was said to be not only a great general but also a very experienced and clever diplomat. And thanks to his intervention the impending battle was stopped, and the army ordered to disperse. From the talk which I overheard I knew that I was in France and that the time was that of the great Joan of Arc.
So strange and vivid was this experience that even after waking up it took me several hours to start my normal work in the house. I asked myself again and again how a weak and cowardly person like me could have been a warrior in the far past. But there was no mistaking the experience, which had come so spontaneously. And if I had not read in Sri Aurobindo’s letters how a soul which has chosen one sex for its general evolution can sometimes change to the other in order to undergo certain experiences for its development, I would never have believed this dream experience to be true.
In my life I have known many a member of the male sex (like my late husband Mehelli) who was much more of a woman than a man. And it was the opposite case with my mother-in-law. She had great strength, courage, and a capacity for endurance, so I told myself not to feel weak and discouraged because of these physical disorders, but to go on with the Divine’s work in whatever way I could.
In the last few years I had found myself in many other places in my dreams. Sometimes it was in Egypt or in Italy or else other places, but no experience was so strong as the one I had on this night which has left me amazed.
I may add that when I woke up I felt centred deeply in the heart-region. From this I infer that it was the psychic being, the inmost soul, that had brought the memory of a past life. Both Sri Aurobindo and the Mother have told us that it is the psychic being that carries memories of the past-life occasions when it has suddenly emerged and joined with the outer self.
July 1983
A LESSON FROM A “TRIVIALITY”
Shortly after my arrival at the Ashram in 1927 I found that the food was very simple. I thought that salt and a little pepper were the only things used with the vegetables and rice. I tried my best to eat well but did not succeed, so I decided to speak to the Mother about it. And one day when I had finished manicuring her nails I said to her: “Mother dear, will you permit me to send for some pickles from my father, and eat them with my food? I find the Ashram food tasteless, and cannot eat it properly.” “Pickles?” said the Mother, and added, “Wait a minute.” She got up from the sofa and went to the adjoining room and returned with a small jar and said: “Take this, somebody has sent it for Sri Aurobindo, but he does not wish to take it. You may find it useful.”
I took the jar, thanked her, made my pranam and went home. I placed it on my table and told myself that I would open it later and eat the pickle. But the desire to eat it completely left me, and however much I tried I could not bring myself to open the jar. So after a few days I took it back to the Mother and told her: “Mother dear, I am sorry, but I felt no inclination to eat this pickle, nor any other, so I am returning it to you.”
The Mother smiled in her charming way, embraced and kissed me, and took the jar back, and gave me her hand for manicuring.
Thus was a strong desire removed from my consciousness and I felt very free and happy. Even today I cannot bring myself to eat any pickle nor even any spicy food.
Nov 1985
A LETTER
For a long time now, I have been reading Sri Aurobindo’s books, mostly Letters on Yoga. I wish I had known them before. What I have learnt from these letters would have prevented me from doing many wrong things. And now too I was forced by circumstances to read them. Because of the almost constant pain in my knees due to arthritis I could do very little work, or play the organ (which I liked doing very much). I could play the piano a little, but not much because of the operation I had undergone for the cataract in my right eye. The left eye too has a growing cataract.
I remember so well how wonderfully pleased the Mother used to be whenever I looked at Sri Aurobindo when he came to her room to show her something or other. He looked intently at me, and it was I who turned my eyes away in order not to take his time.
His voice and gait were like those of a great emperor, and I could never forget them. So you can imagine what a shock it was for me to read his Tales of Prison Life, recently republished by Sri Aurobindo Pathmandir, Calcutta, in S.K. Ghose’s translation.
I knew nothing about Sri Aurobindo’s life prior to his coming to Pondicherry. My father was completely devoted to the British and took great care that his family should be kept away from the influence of Indian Nationalism. So I had never even heard of Sri Aurobindo at that time. But after I came to the Ashram he and the Mother became all in all to me. When I started reading Tales of Prison Life, I was so grieved and shocked at the inhuman treatment my Master had received in jail. “Oh, my beloved Lord, how could they treat you like that?” I cried out.
That very night, during my sleep, I saw Sri Aurobindo standing before me with a most tender and benevolent smile on his face.
My heart opened, I saw a disk of white light inside. It was not brilliant but shining all the same, and it was not in the body but deep within my being. My body was weeping unconsolably but this light within was not touched. I kept sobbing and Sri Aurobindo tried to console me. But I continued to weep. Then I came out slowly from this dream-experience. I felt a strange difference in the consciousness, a great help and progress within. I am told what I had seen in my innermost depth was my psychic being, my true soul in a symbolic shape. This was the first time I had realised the deepest entity within as an independent presence distinct from my ordinary being.
Dec 1985
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.
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.
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.”
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 (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”.
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.
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.
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.
SOME RECOLLECTIONS BY LALITA
My love for animals and birds increased tenfold when I returned to Bombay after sixteen years’ stay in the Ashram. What the Mother had instilled into me blossomed there, and I understood them deeply and they too came closer to me.
Fortunately my second husband Mehelli was a true animal-lover, so no sacrifice on our part was big enough for our pets. And there was nothing in our life that was kept secret from the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. I was in constant touch with Them. And even when They did not send me a written reply, Their help never failed to come to me. Many a time as soon as I posted the letter the illness or other trouble disappeared.
Cats were particularly hated and ill-treated in the neighbourhood where I was staying, so I wrote and prayed to the Mother to send somebody to help me rescue them. And within a month or two my prayer was granted. A Parsi family comprising two grown-up girls and their brother, as well as their father, uncle and aunt purchased a bungalow three houses away from us, and came to live there. They were all animal-lovers and not only kept dogs and cats but parrots, pigeons and other birds which needed help. With their co-operation we also made our road inaccessible to all animal-drawn vehicles because it was a hill-road, and the poor bullocks and horses were beaten like anything to make them draw heavily laden vehicles up the hill. These friends are still living there, though they have shifted to another house, and carrying on the good work.
As long as my mother-in-law was alive, we could not give the right kind of protection to the cats we tried to save. But after her death we had wire-netting fixed on all our doors and windows and kept our pets safely inside. They had the whole run of the house and were very happy. They also had a toilet for themselves, sprayed with sawdust and cleaned every day.
Our first cat was Oney, a female, so named because it was the only kitten left at our house by her mother which disappeared after leaving it. As the Mother had taught me how to keep only one kitten at each delivery of the cat and dispose of the others, I kept Oney’s child Browny, again a female, for it. But it was impossible to leave it at the fish-market when it grew up, as advised by the Mother, for I had seen how the fishermen ill-treated the cats there. So we adopted it and except for once it never went out of our house.
Poor Oney died of food-poisoning from some tinned fish given it by my mother-in-law in our absence. We could not even go to see it at the Animal Hospital (where it had been sent for treatment) owing to heavy rains. Thereafter any cat that we saved and adopted we first sent to the hospital to be made sterile, otherwise life would become very difficult for us with their litters every three months. The males were castrated and the females were spayed.
Browny was very open to the Mother’s Force and, strange to say, almost every time that I sat at my desk to write to the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, it would come running from wherever it was, jumping onto the desk, and play with my fountain-pen with its paw and I would write to the Mother, “Browny wants me to send its love to you.”
It lived for sixteen years with us but it would always keep aloof from the other cats.
At one time it suffered from a stone in its bladder and could not pass its urine freely. We wanted to take it to the hospital but at night time, when it always slept with me, I kept praying to the Mother and caressing it. Suddenly it jumped up and, going to its tray which was always kept ready for it, it passed urine. I heard a tiny sound, so I switched on the light and found along with some small specks of blood a stone which had at last been ejected. Browny rapidly recovered after that, and I wrote and thanked my sweet Mother for Her kind intervention.
A tom-cat of ours, which we named Nelson (because somebody had blinded one of its eyes and lamed one of its hind legs), we saved and adopted after it had been castrated. It was very fond of Mehelli, and as soon as he would return home from his work Nelson (Neloo for short) would come running to him, fall at his feet and rub its body against his shoes. Mehelli would pick it up and pat it and then let it go.
Every night Neloo would sleep on Mehelli’s back and, if it were removed, it would protest and jump again to the same place. Regarding these cats our repeated experience was that, after they had been made sterile, within six months they became so quiet, gentle and loving that we wondered if the same changes could not be effected in human beings by the same procedure. They never fought among themselves, but lived a harmonious life together. We had sixteen or more, so we came to know about this very well.
People often asked me why I had not adopted some dogs also. It was only because our landlord had made a strict rule at that time that no tenant should keep a dog. Besides, dogs need to be taken out for a daily walk, bathed and made free from ticks, whereas our cats had no ticks, did not need either a walk or a bath. Practically half the day they spent in licking themselves clean, and licking their companions also. The doctor at the hospital had told us never to try and bathe them except in some rare cases. They disliked water and even if a few drops fell on their bodies they would run away and lick themselves dry.
My favourite cat was a tom called Willy. He loved me very much. Every evening after our meal I would sit on a long sofa with my legs stretched in front of me, and read some of the Mother’s or Sri Aurobindo’s books before going to bed. As soon as I had settled comfortably, Willy would come running, jump on my lap, then slowly climb up to my chest and placing one paw on my right shoulder and the other on my left it would look deeply into my eyes. I wondered what it saw there, for the expression on its face showed amazement. I would say, “Willy, please sit down quietly and let me read, darling.” It would settle on my lap and start purring.
Willy’s twin sister was called Masky, because it seemed to have a perfect mask on its face. It was very sweet and loving, but very restless. One good thing in its nature was unselfishness. It would prefer to leave a little of its food for others rather than take their fish and milk, and was specially kind to our one-eyed Neloo.
On pages 240-43, Volume 5 of the Mother’s Questions and Answers, somebody has asked Her, “What kind of love do animals have for men?”—and the Mother has answered, “It is almost the same as that of rather unintellectual men for the Divine. It is made up of admiration, trust and a sense of security. Admiration: it seems to you something very beautiful, and it is not reasoned out: and admiration from the heart, so to speak, spontaneous. For instance, dogs have this in a very high degree. And, then, trust—naturally this is mixed up with other things: with the feeling of some need and dependence; for it is that person who will give me to eat when I am hungry, give me shelter when it is rough weather, who will look after me. This is not the most beautiful side. And then unfortunately, it gets mixed up (and I believe—I consider it entirely man’s fault) with a kind of fear; a feeling of dependence and a kind of fear of something which is much stronger, much more conscious, much more... which can harm you, and you have no strength to defend yourself. It is a pity, but I believe it is altogether man’s fault. But if men really deserved the love of animals it would be made a feeling of wonder and of the sense of security, something that’s able to protect you, to give you all that you need, and near which you can always find shelter.
“Animals have an altogether rudimentary mind. They are not tormented by incessant thoughts like human beings. For example, they feel a spontaneous gratitude for an act of kindness towards them whilst men, ninety-eight times out of a hundred, begin to reason and ask themselves what interest one could have in being good. This is one of the great miseries of mental activity. Animals are free from this and when you are kind to them they are grateful to you, and it turns into a very strong attachment, an irresistible need to be near you. There is something else. If the master is really a good one and the animal faithful, there is an exchange of psychic and vital forces, an exchange which becomes for the animal something wonderful, giving it an intense joy. When they like to be quite close to you in that way, when you hold them, it is that they vibrate internally. The force one gives them—the strength, of affection, of tenderness, protection, all that—they feel it, and it creates a deep attachment to them. Even fairly easily, in some of the higher animals like dogs, elephants, and even horses, it creates quite a remarkable need for devotion (which indeed is not thwarted by all the reasonings and arguments of the mind) which is spontaneous and very pure in its essence, something that’s very beautiful....
“The working of the mind in man in its rudimentary form, its first manifestation, has spoilt many things which were much finer before.
“Naturally if man rises to a higher level and makes good use of his intelligence, then things can take on a greater value. But between the two, there is a passage where man makes the most vulgar and low use of his intelligence; he makes it an instrument for calculation, domination, deception, and there it becomes very ugly. I have known in my life animals I considered much higher than a large number of men, for that sordid calculation, that wish to cheat and profit was precisely not there in them. There are others that catch it—through contact with man—they catch it—but there are those who don’t have it.
“The unselfish movement, uncalculating, is one of the most beautiful forms of psychic consciousness in the world....
“But this kind of wish to gain by what one has or does is truly one of the ugliest things in the world. And it is one of the most widespread, so that it is almost spontaneous in man. Nothing can turn its back on the divine love more totally than that wish to calculate and profit.”
I had neither heard nor read anything of what the Mother says above. But my experience during the thirty years I spent in close contact with different animals was the same. That is why I love them more than human beings. We speak of the great love that human mothers have for their children. But what would you have said if you had seen Mamlujan, the cat which had brought Oney to us and left it in our care? This cat could never live without having a kitten with it, and as it could not have kittens of its own all the time, it would hunt till it found a cat somewhere which had delivered and then take away one of its kittens and bring it up with an astonishing love and care.
As it had no milk to give all the time, it would take the kitten to my friends or bring it to me to be fed with milk through a dropper. And how she loved to play with it, hugging and kissing it! We were so charmed to see this maternal instinct, and I wrote to the Mother about it.
One of the most stupid things I have read about is an old lady’s beating her dog furiously because she believed there was no harm in doing it as the dog had no soul! Poor woman! If she only knew the truth she would never do such a thing; for not only animals but all living creatures have an evolving soul, what is called the psychic being, in them. But it will take a long time for humanity to become conscious of this fact.
My friends used to tease me saying, “It is a pity you are confined to this small place. You and your husband ought to have been placed in charge of a large animal sanctuary where even tigers and lions roam freely.”
When people in Bombay asked us if we did not feel lonely and miserable without children, we said, “Not at all—we have the sweet and loving company of our cats.”
“Cats!” they would exclaim in a horrified tone. “Oh my God, we pity you both. Those dirty, wretched and evil creatures!”
“If there was an iota of truth in what you say, surely the Divine Mother and Sri Aurobindo would never allow cats to be in Their Ashram,” I would reply. “Besides, what is it to you?—it is entirely our business.”
After that these people stopped saying anything. But one of my friends, who called sometimes to tell me something, one morning when Mehelli was there.
She knocked, and he opened the door and asked her to come in and take a seat.
“Sorry, but I will never step into this house as long as cats are there,” she said.
“Then never come again, for we shall always have them,” Mehelli told her angrily and shut the door.
There was hardly anything in our life in Bombay, which naturally included our cats, about which I did not write to the Mother. She rarely sent a written answer, but never failed to help us inwardly. Many a time the illness was gone or the problem was solved much before my letter reached Her.
One day, all of a sudden Neloo developed urine-trouble. He was moaning and miserable, so we rushed him to the Animal Hospital. A kind friend had given me a special cage for transporting sick animals in our car or a taxi, so it was not too difficult. The surgeon examined Nelson and said that a stone was obstructing the passage of the urine, and he would try to remove it after giving an injection, but if he was not successful, he would have to perform a major operation. We told him to do whatever he thought best, for after years of experience we knew very well how kind and competent was the whole staff including the doctors, nurses and servants. Thanks to them, hundreds of animals have been saved. I sent an urgent letter to the Mother, and by Her help and grace the operation was successful, though Neloo took a long time to come home. Its companions at home (specially Masky) missed it, and were very happy when it returned.
Another tomcat which we called Daffoo, because he was somewhat of a duffer, had to be adopted by us, because his master suddenly died of a heart-attack and so the poor animal got thrown out. It was big and very handsome, but after some time it developed a swelling over its right eye, which we could not cure. We took it to the hospital, where the doctors were much puzzled. I wrote to the Mother about Daffoo, but at that time the Mother was not well and nothing could be communicated to Her.
After a few days a servant from the hospital came running to us, saying that poor Daffoo was dying; so we rushed there as fast as we could. The doctors told us that it was cancer, and nothing could be done to save the animal. I insisted on taking Daffoo home, for it looked at me with such appealing eyes as if to say that it preferred to die at my place rather than there. All the way home I held it close to my heart and did my best to comfort it because it was feeling very neglected and lost. But within a few hours it passed away with its eyes fixed on me. I was constantly calling the Mother to take it away peacefully to the cat-world. My only regret was that owing to pressure of work I was not able to visit it often at the hospital.
One day it was raining very hard and I was at the Chaupati bus-stop when I heard a very sad cry of a tiny kitten. It was half drowned in the rushing water. Suddenly my bus came, so I closed my umbrella and, lifting the kitten and placing it inside, I boarded the vehicle. All the way I fervently prayed to the Mother that it might remain inside quietly; otherwise the conductor would stop the bus and tell me to get down. To add to my fear, my neighbour’s servant who was sitting a few seats ahead started asking me how my cats were faring. All eyes were turned upon me, but I tried to calm myself and called for the Mother’s help which never failed me.
Finally I got off, and as soon as I entered my flat I pulled the kitten out of my umbrella and explained to Mehelli what had happened. We decided to send it to the hospital the next morning to be put to sleep quietly, as we already had too many cats. But, strange to say, this little kitten as soon as it was placed on the ground made its way to our kitchen at the back of the house, as if it knew the place. All the other cats followed it and, instead of growling or spitting, they smelt it all over and then licked it dry.
I gave it some milk, and named it Pichoo because it was just like my cat Pichun at the Ashram. We sent it to the hospital later to be spayed and then kept it. This little one became so attached to me that as soon as I returned home from my work and sat on a chair, it would jump on my lap and tell me all sorts of things in its cat-language which was very amusing. But when I came to the Ashram on a visit it would refuse to take its food from anybody and would search for me all over the place. Once for three days and nights it took nothing and poor Mehelli had a hard time of it.
One day the daughter of an English lady living in the next house came to me suddenly, bringing the most beautiful black cat I had ever seen. “Please, aunty, I beg of you to keep this she-cat of mine as you have been kind enough to keep the others because we are shifting to the suburbs and cannot take it. It will run away at the first opportunity, and get beaten and even killed on the way. You know how people here hate cats, and specially black ones.”
I consulted Mehelli and he agreed to keep this cat, and from the beginning it got attached to him. It had a coat of shining black fur, a fine black bushy tail and glowing amber eyes. I named it Black Rose, but it would not always remain inside the house and insisted on going out from time to time.
We first sent it to the hospital to be spayed, and when it returned it was more quiet, and gradually it adjusted itself to its new home and its fellow-creatures.
However, Black Rose did not live long with us. We had no idea how old it was when it came to us.
One evening, as it was sitting on Mehelli’s lap, it suddenly jumped down moaning, and went to a door and repeatedly banged its head against it. We could not understand what was the matter, so Mehelli dressed up and fetched the local vet who came and examined her and told us that he could do nothing as it was a hospital case. So we placed Black Rose in our cage and, accompanied by the vet, took it to the hospital.
The surgeon there told us that nothing could be done to save the cat and that it would be much more kind to put it to sleep, as it was in agony. We agreed, and poor Black Rose was given an injection in the heart. Looking at both of us, it passed away quietly. The manager of the hospital, a sincere animal-lover and a great friend of ours, insisted on having an autopsy performed in order to learn what had so suddenly taken place. They found that not one of her organs was in a normal condition and a tumour had burst inside and given her that terrible pain. It was a miracle that she had lived with us for even a few months—all due, I am sure, to the Mother’s inner help. The Mother was apprised of this sudden death and must have taken care of Black Rose in the other world.
After Pichoo and Black Rose, we had only one more cat called Sweety, brought to us by a friend who had helped us a lot for many years and who was leaving for Switzerland and France. It had already been spayed, and was a beautiful gold-white cat. After it, I put my foot down and refused to accept any more. I had had enough. Besides, Mehelli had a serious motor-cycle accident in which he broke his leg and was in the Bombay Hospital for a long time. I had sent a telegram to the Mother about this, and kept Her informed all the time of all that was taking place. Thanks to Her Grace and constant help he eventually recovered and was able to come and see Her once on his birthday.
Attached to the Animal Hospital was a college for students who wished to become vets. I used to dislike going there because I had heard that vivisection was done in it to teach the students. I had seen pictures in some foreign magazines which had made me very unhappy. If only men were more conscious, undoubtedly they would not indulge in this sort of hideous cruelty towards poor, dumb and helpless animals. It is surely our state of unconsciousness and ignorance which makes us resort to such acts in the name of science, and hurt and kill animals for their furs or skins and other things. We have a long way to go before a higher consciousness can be realized. I remember very well reading about a convict who had been sentenced to death and who offered himself for any kind of medical experiment that the doctors wished to try, even the most painful one. The authorities agreed and not one but a few experiments were tried on him which proved helpful to the medical profession (because a man, unlike an animal, can always report with accuracy all that he feels as the result of an experiment). This spontaneous act of self-sacrifice by the convict was so much appreciated that his death-sentence was changed to life-imprisonment. And as long as he lived he helped not only the doctors but also the other convicts in the best way he could.
Nowadays, I am told, those firms which produce toilet articles are also trying all kinds of experiments on animals to find out how the new preparation affects their skins, eyes, nails, etc.
On page 491 of Sri Aurobindo’s Letters on Yoga, Vol. 22 of the Centenary Edition, the Master says regarding vivisection:
“I feel inclined to back out of the arena, or take refuge in the usual saving formula, ‘There is much to be said on both sides’. Your view is no doubt correct from the common sense of what might be called the human point of view. Krishnaprem takes the standpoint that we must not only consider the temporary good of humanity, but certain inner laws. He thinks the harm, violence or cruelty to other beings is not compensated and cannot be justified by some physical good to a section of humanity as a whole; such methods awake, in his opinion, a sort of Karmic reaction apart from the moral harm to the men who do these things. He is also of the opinion that the cause of disease is psychic, that is to say subjective, and the direction should be towards curing the inner causes much more than patching up by physical means. These are ideas that have their truth also. I fully recognise the psychic law and methods and their preferability, but the ordinary run of humanity is not ready for that rule and, while it is so, doctors and their physical methods will be there. I have also supported justifiable violence on justifiable occasions, e.g. Kurukshetra and the war against Hitler and all he means. The question then, from this middle point of view, about the immediate question is whether this violence is justifiable and the occasion justifiable. I back out.”
About the animals Sri Aurobindo says on page 499 of Letters on Yoga:
“Even the animal is more in touch with a certain harmony in the things than man. Man’s only superiority is a more complex consciousness and capacity terribly perverted and twisted by misuse of mind and the ability (not much used yet) of reaching towards higher things.”
On page 500 of the same book Sri Aurobindo says:
“Yes, it is a more simple and honest consciousness—that of the animal. Of course it expects something, but even if it does not get, the affection remains. Many animals, even if ill treated, do not lose their love—which means remarkable psychic development in the vital.”
“The emotional being of animals is often much more psychic than that of men who can be very insensitive. There were recently pictures of the tame tigress kept by a family and afterwards given by them to a zoo. The look of sorrow on the face of the tigress in her cage, at once gentle and tragically poignant, is so intense as to be heart-breaking.”
“Most animals do not usually attack unless they are menaced or frightened or somehow made angry—and they can feel the atmosphere of people.”
“Cats have very sure vital perception.”
“Yes—to watch the animals with the right perception of their consciousness helps to get out of the human mental limitations and see the cosmic consciousness on earth individualising itself in all forms—plant, animal, man, and growing towards what is beyond man.”
What Sri Aurobindo has written about animals feeling the atmosphere of people was proved very true once in Bombay. A dog which had rabies was being beaten terribly. I intervened and took the animal and caressed it, and it became quiet and stood beside me till the hospital van came and took it away. Everybody was shocked when they saw me actually holding this poor dog by the collar. After it had been removed they advised me to take several things as a prevention against getting the same disease myself.
“I will do nothing of the sort,” I said. “And if I get the rabies I will first go and bite all the people who have beaten this poor helpless animal.” This made them laugh. Of course the Mother’s help and protection were always with me. So I was not afraid.
Here in Pondicherry too there are some animals, which know me and come to me to be caressed, specially a cat at the place of the Consul-General of France. I lift it up and it nestles in my arms and purrs. But alas! ever since I am obliged to walk with a stick for support, they are afraid to come close to me, lest I should beat them—the last thing I would ever do. The stick counteracts my sympathetic atmosphere.
Before Mehelli had the motor-cycle accident a very unfortunate incident occurred in our life.
A building contractor was erecting a very tall house behind ours on the Malabar Hill.
For this purpose he had to use some dynamite to break the huge rocks and boulders on the hill. The work had been going on for some months when suddenly terribly big boulders and other rocks came tumbling down and damaged some houses on our road. An alarm was sounded and, clanging their bells loudly, all the fire engines came to rescue everybody. The landslide was not actually behind our house, still the firemen insisted on our vacating our flat immediately. But where to go? And what about our cats? If there had been two or three only, the hospital would have kept them, but there were many more, I phoned my sister-in-law and she said that we could come to her flat at Gowala Tank but not our cats, and the firemen were in such a desperate hurry to get us out that they would not even allow us to take our dinner or to feed our cats. However, I left some fish and milk for them; and both of us, taking only one set of clothes, stepped out of the house.
The firemen closed every door, window and ventilator, and did not care at all what would happen to our cats.
We spent a restless night at my sister-in-law’s place and the first thing I did the next morning was to send a reply-paid telegram to the Mother, informing Her about our trouble. I also wrote an air-letter to Her. Then we went to our flat to do something for our cats, but the firemen refused to let us enter. We pleaded and did our best, but all in vain. Then I prayed fervently to the Mother for her kind help and intervention. A few hours later a Parsi friend, who was an officer in the Government, came to see what had happened and when he came to our house we told him everything. He at once ordered the fireman outside our door to let us enter our flat. I took this friend right in and showed him all my cats and the condition of our house. He told the fireman firmly to let us enter our flat at least three times a day to feed the animals, and see to our other needs. After this the Mother’s answer too came of only one word—“Blessings”—by telegram so we were assured of Her help and protection. Who else could have sent this friend all of a sudden to inspect the site of the landslide? But the most wonderful part was this that although our cats had been left starving and with no fresh air, they did not seem to have minded at all. One by one they got up and came to us to be petted and fed, then returned to their resting-places. This was nothing but the Mother’s Grace, and I kept informing Her of all that took place.
While we were in the house I used to open some windows and doors, then once again feed them and leave some fish and milk near the kitchen. But we were told to hurry up and get out after closing everything. When the fish in the refrigerator was finished, I had to go to the market, bring some more, clean and cook it, and keep it ready in the refrigerator for the cats. Our Gujarati neighbours across the street were specially kind and understanding and would phone and let us know all that was taking place. And as for my sister-in-law and her daughter and son-in-law, they were extremely good and helpful throughout.
We passed through a terribly trying period and, had it not been for the Divine Mother’s constant help and Grace, I cannot imagine what would have happened. Not only did she save us and our cats but all the inhabitants of the ten houses that were vacated.
At last we were allowed to go back to our house and you can imagine the joy of our pets when they found that we had come to stay.
All those days that we were away, not a cry was reported to us by the fireman who was on duty outside our door.
“Who would believe that there are so many cats inside?” he said. “The flat is always so quiet.”
This was proof positive of our animals having been open to the Divine Mother’s Force all the time, and of Her constant help and Grace, for which we had no words to thank Her.
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