In the Presence of Mother

Swami Saradeshananda

(Continued from the November 2001 issue)

Mother kept a close watch on the welfare of her children. She could not bear to see her children cheerless, poorly clad or thin. Therefore, fish was served daily at Udbodhan, as Bengali boys did not eat their fill without fish. Everyone would chew rolls of betel leaves after food, so she herself got them ready, offering more to those who were particularly fond of betel leaves. The sight of her children chewing a mouthful of betel leaves filled her with happiness. She disliked their wearing pure white dhotis. Devotees used to present her with dhotis with attractive borders. Her own needs being few, these she used to give away to her sons. She was aware of the inclination of some of them for fine things, to them she gave dhotis of fine texture, with pretty borders. She gave coarse cloth to those who preferred them. There were some who soon wore out their dhotis, to them she gave more than she gave to the others. In all matters, whether meals or refreshments, she catered to each according to his/her taste, and also, as it suited his/her system.

The monastic members at Udbodhan had different natures, but all were her sons, having equal claim to her affection. She was much concerned about their food, clothes and comforts. This reminds me of an incident. The Doctor Maharaj at Udbodhan (Swami Purnananda) was often late for dinner at night and used to be scolded for it. One day he was more late than usual and noticing that he had to face unusually strong words, Mother drew him aside and gently asked him the real reason for this delay. At her loving words, he burst into tears and said, 'Raja Maharaj's (Swami Brahmananda's) instructions are to repeat the mantra 10,000 times keeping careful count, and in case of a mistake, to start all over again. If there is any error in counting, he says, demons devour the fruit of the japa.' At the mention of demons Mother laughed and said: 'My child! You are young and have restless minds. Rakhal has said this so that you may repeat the mantra with unwavering concentration. But I am telling you to come for your dinner as soon as the bell goes, even if you haven't completed the requisite number of japa. Nothing will be wrong with that. Complete it later when convenient.' His fears thus allayed by Mother's assurance, Swami Purnananda thereafter was always on time for dinner.

Everyday after her morning worship, Mother used to have a drink prepared with sugar candy that had been offered to Thakur. This had always been her practice. This drink, the principal item of breakfast for her, was considered adequate to avoid the ill effects of abstinence from food. After this negligible intake Mother would serve breakfast to her children. I still recall that sweet summons at Jairambati, 'My child, the day has advanced, come and have something to eat.' The call still seems to ring in my ears, I am overcome with nostalgia. How I yearn to fly like a bird there, to that verandah, where having spread a mat and placed before it a glass of water and a bowl of bell metal with puffed rice and molasses in it, along with fruits and sweets from Thakur's prasad on a leaf, Mother sits waiting, her loving eyes watching the door anxiously like a cow awaiting her calf. But those happy days will certainly never return. Such love of a mother can never be found anywhere, even if one searches the world over. After her boys had had their breakfast and the women too had eaten, Mother herself used to have a little to eat. The fruits and sweets brought by devotees were all given away to others. She herself just tasted a little of them. A small quantity of puffed rice sufficed as refreshment in the morning. Later, having lost her teeth, she could not chew. So holding some puffed rice inside one end of her sari she used to grind it with a pestle while the woman from Nabasan, who served her, gave her some salt and green chillies to eat it with.

At Jairambati the food served in Mother's household was of the usual variety as served in an average middle class family. In the morning there was puffed rice and for lunch parboiled rice of medium quality was served with kalai dal (a variety of lentil soup), some preparation with poppy seeds, a hot vegetable item and some chutney. At times, greens or curry or some fried stuff would be added. Fish was also served frequently. Occasionally, other items of food were also there. Mother herself used to cook and serve the food as long as she was physically strong. Towards the end, she couldn't. But she used to sit there from first to last and watch while everyone ate. The mats, the leaves (used as plates), the glasses, all had to be clean and properly placed. The water in the glasses should not be too little or too much and the leaves had to be placed right in the centre in front of the mats which in their turn had to be carefully spaced, not too close nor too far, equidistant from each other. As food began to be served, one would hear Mother's sweet call--'My child, it is quite late, come quickly, the rice has been served, come and eat.' At times the boys were delayed by the work on hand. Mother used to guard the food from flies, driving them away with the loose end of her sari. How radiant her face was as she watched us eating! Lovingly she would ask, 'How is the food?' One had no rice on his leaf, another needed more dal--what great pains were taken to ensure that everyone had his fill, each according to his taste!

Perhaps it was the ardent desire of some newcomer among the devotees to partake of Mother's prasad. Mother used to persuade him to have his food right at first, saying, 'Now sit and eat your fill, I may be late in having my food. I shall keep aside some prasad for you, you will certainly get it.' At lunch time, Mother used to have a little rice with milk. After tasting a little of all the items she would mix some rice with milk in the bowl and having herself taken a little of it, she would summon the devotee desirous of prasad. Upon the devotee's arrival, she would offer him the bowl, with a pleased look, saying, 'My child, here it is. You had asked for prasad, sit and enjoy it to your heart's content.' The devotee ate blissfully and Mother, too, was delighted. There have also been occasions when a devotee having expressed great eagerness for prasad, Mother would take a sweet in her hand and having held it before Thakur in offering, would then touch it with the tip of her tongue and hand it to her son with much affection and a happy smile, 'Here, My child, take the prasad!'

At night at Jairambati dinner consisted of chapatis, a vegetable curry, some molasses and a little milk. The chapatis were well made. Mother herself kneaded the flour to a very smooth dough, devoting considerable time to it. In the evening, the food was offered to Thakur and then she kept it beside her, well covered lest it should grow cold. Her children would have a late dinner --after dark they would be engaged in meditation and japa. Also, unless it was late they would not be hungry and could not have a substantial meal. So Mother waited for them. A dimly flickering lamp burned beside her. Having burned incense before Thakur and offered pranam to him, Mother would dim the lamp and sit there with her legs stretched out before her. Who knows in which realms her thoughts dwelt! There was absolute silence all around.

I used to gather flowers, bel (wood apple) leaves etc. for Mother's daily worship. One day I forgot to include tulsi (basil) leaves and Mother was very upset. She said, 'Haven't you brought tulsi leaves? How sacred the tulsi is! It sanctifies whatever it is placed on.' Regretting my error bitterly, at once I hurried out and brought some tulsi leaves for her worship. Since then I have been particularly fond of the tulsi all my life. Daily, at the end of her Puja, Mother would touch her head to the ground in obeisance to Thakur. After that she used to drink the sacred water used in worshipping Thakur, also taking a tulsi leaf and a bel leaf from the floral offerings and putting them in her mouth.

Once a couple, devotees, came to meet Mother at Jairambati, with their four children. They had travelled long and were quite exhausted by the journey. Moreover, one of the children was suffering from malaria. On arrival they found a very small thatched cottage, that too, overcrowded. They hardly knew where they could rest or even sit. Besides where was Mother herself? Helpless, they stood outside the house with their children. The news reached Mother. She had them brought indoors and going forward to receive them, personally escorted the lady and the children with much affection to the verandah in front of her own room.

Her loving greeting, 'Come my daughter', not only served to dispel the daughter's feelings of distress and dejection but also filled her heart with joy and she grew cheerful once again. The magic of Mother's affection changed the scene in a moment. Arrangements were made at once for the children to sleep and for the parents to rest. Mother spread mats beside the door of her room. Milk for the children, and medicine too, were provided in no time. What wants can a daughter have in her mother's house? What diffidence can she feel there? In a short while the lady was seen to accompany the other women of Mother's household to Banrujje-pukur (the pond belonging to the Banerjee family), just as one of them, with a pitcher resting against her hip in order to bathe and fetch water afterwards.

The couple were going back. Mother stood at the entrance, her eyes brimming with tears, gazing steadfastly at them as long as they could be seen. When they were finally out of sight she heaved a long sigh and coming back sat down very sadly in the verandah adjoining Nalinididi's room, her legs outstretched and her hands resting on her lap. Sometime later, a towel left behind by them was suddenly noticed. As mother began to lament loudly, her attendant (Swami Saradeshananda) ran after them with the towel in his hand. They had not yet gone very far. They were embarrassed on seeing the towel and gratefully taking it, continued their journey happily. The son communicated this to Mother and she was relieved.

Mother was still sitting in the same place with a heavy heart and her son was about to go to the outer room in order to rest, when Mother's loud wails suddenly reached his ears, 'Alas, tomorrow my child will not be able to change her sari after her bath. When looking for it she will remember having left it behind at Mother's house.' The attendant-son rushed to Mother with great concern. The lady devotee had spread out her wet sari to dry on the bank of Punyapukur after her bath but had forgotten and left it behind. Now there was an outburst of the pent up grief that Mother had suppressed so long. She sobbed loudly. One childless woman rudely remarked, 'That woman, how can she manage anything, what with so many children!' Her strident tone and harsh words only served to aggravate Mother's grief. Shedding tears she continued to bewail in a broken voice, 'It is only natural to forget. Is parting so easy to bear? She could not spend even one night with me, could not say even one word to unburden herself.' Upon the attendant's glancing thoughtfully at the sari, Nalinididi said condescendingly, 'He has just returned having run after them once, there is no need to go again, they would have travelled a long distance by now.' One look at Mother, and the son could no longer contain himself. Taking the sari he assured Mother, 'They cannot have gone very far. I shall give it to them and return at once.' Mother was happy and she spoke tenderly, 'My child! The sun is hot, do take an umbrella.' The devotees had gone quite a long distance. They were astonished to see him running back again. On seeing the sari, the lady remembered that she had spread it out to dry and had forgotten to bring it back. They were ashamed and humbly apologised saying that so much trouble need not have been taken to return the sari. When the attendant conveyed to them Mother's anxiety and sorrow, they were at first struck with wonder. Then they were thrilled to the core of their beings, their hearts were full, with this experience of Mother's love.

After all, this love is not that of a foster mother. It is not possible to establish such a relationship in such a short while. It was a meeting for only a few moments. But the love they had experienced had been eternal. It was as though a child had got back his long lost mother after wandering about here and there for ever so long.

All kinds of devotees flocked to Mother, good or bad. Mother was pleased when she heard a successful son praised, she would exclaim with delight, 'My son!' She also had to hear the criticism about an unworthy son, and she was sad. But her love for all her children remained the same. Nor did she discriminate in the treatment meted out to them. This brings to mind an instance of Mother's infinite love for a son hailing from Nabasan who had been initiated by her. This young man came of a good family, was well educated and meritorious as well. At one time he fell into bad ways and was guilty of a moral lapse. However, his devotion to Mother remained just as before and he continued to visit Mother regularly. Other devotees did not like this. They urged Mother to forbid him from coming to her. Though Mother strongly condemned his conduct, she refused to do as asked, saying, 'Being his mother, I can't utter the words "don't come".' So, the young man's visits continued and Mother too, received him as warmly as before. Gradually however, remorse possessed his heart and the young man realized his mistake.

Govinda, a boy of nine or ten years, used to tend Mother's cows. Once he suffered a bad attack of scabies. One night the pain was so acute that he moaned and sobbed all night. The boy's sobs and cries kept Mother awake. Early next morning Govinda was seen inside her house where she herself ground turmeric and neem (margosa) leaves into a paste with a pestle. As soon as a little paste was ready, she placed it in his hand showing him how to apply it. Govinda applied it just as directed. Mother's love and tenderness filled his heart with indescribable joy. From hearing their conversation and observing their expressions who could tell that he was not her own son?

Whoever came to Mother's house-- labourers, carters, palanquin bearers, hawkers, fishmongers or fishermen--all were without exception Mother's sons and daughters. All were treated with the same love and kindness that the devotees enjoyed. Nobody can ever forget in this life or hereafter, those eyes full of love and compassion. If oblivion does overcome one some time, whenever one is stricken by adversity those loving, compassionate eyes are bound to surface in one's memory.

Once a woman, a labourer belonging to a low caste, had come to Mother in the afternoon to deliver some goods sent by a devotee. Mother asked her to bathe and have her meal, and also to rest a little before she returned. After she had rested and was about to leave, Mother told her to stay the night also as it was quite late. It was arranged that she should sleep in the verandah just outside Mother's door. The woman, elderly and a victim of malaria, had walked a very long distance and was exhausted. In deep sleep she unconsciously soiled her bed. Mother woke up before dawn as was her habit and upon opening the door immediately discovered this. What was to be done? If the others woke up and found this out, there would be no end to the humiliation and abuses that this hapless daughter of hers would have to face. Mother was worried. Then she gently awakened the woman who was still fast asleep. Re-assuring her with sweet words, she quietly gave her some puffed rice and molasses to eat on the way and said, 'Child, if you start early you will not suffer from the heat of the sun.' Quite content, the woman touched her feet and departed. Mother herself then cleaned the place. She cleaned the verandah and smeared it with a mixture of cowdung and mud. After washing the mat she spread it out to dry on the bank of the pond. No one was aware of anything of this. Later, however, one lady-devotee's investigations as to who had cleaned the verandah so early in the morning, led her to learn all about the incident.

There was a child-widow at Jairambati. Very poor, she earned a living with great difficulty as a labourer. When she had been married, what sort of man her husband had been, when she had been widowed--of all this she had no knowledge whatsoever. When she grew up she realized that she was a widow and as she could not marry again, the pleasures of life were not meant for her. As a carrier of the baggage of devotees she was a familiar figure at Mother's house and Mother was fond of her. When she was in the prime of womanhood, an illicit relationship developed between her and a young man. Things came to such a pass that the affair became widely known. The leaders of society who had turned a blind eye to the helpless girl's sufferings all her life and had not cared to educate her properly, now eyed her with strong disapproval. Abuses and insults were heaped on her. When Mother learned of all this she was both sad and perturbed as regards the girl's future. But what could she do except pray!

God took pity on the girl. A zamindar who was Mother's disciple, intervened and put an end to the social uproar. Mother was greatly relieved. A few days later when the zamindar son came to pay his respects to her, Mother happily blessed him and said, 'My child, now that you have saved that wretched girl, I am at peace. May God bless you!' Who else can express such compassion, such infinite love for even those whom we consider vile and regard with aversion but the Mother of the universe, 'the eternal Mother', 'the mother of the good and the bad alike'?