CHAPTER-2 Those were the days - A STORY OF FAITH AND MIRACLES

CHAPTER-2 Those were the days “School is such a bore And they are building more Lord Macaulay wanted to make A country full of natives who break” These were the iconic lines of a musical called Kidstuf, A powerful musical which was scripted by the students of the celebrated St. Xavier’s School, Delhi under the guidance of Param Var and Barry John who were both classical performers but the makers faced troubled childhood. Perhaps their emotions resonated with this remarkable production. The play had several Aha! moments, where the scintillating score by Param Vir and the script and direction by the fabled theatre personality Barry John enthralled audiences across Sofia College, Mumbai, Kamani Auditorium Delhi, Doordarshan Delhi and Gaiety Theatre, Shimla. Kidstuf which was sponsored by Max Mueller Bhavan, Delhi and produced by St Xavier’s School were keen to peg this outstanding piece of art at a much higher level for larger audiences to watch and empathise with the pangs of growing up. In the year 1979 this was certainly a brave endeavour. Meanwhile there were two strong rumours while we were rehearsing before performing the musical. One, the production would be staged at Broadway! “Wow,” we thought, “We would visit the US,” the young performers of the musical prayed fervently for the miracle to occur. And second that Param Vir and Barry John (a former English school teacher who settled in India to teach English and theatre) were homosexuals. This information was received by us with mixed reactions; both good, bad and ugly. In fact, we were not aware what was the line of actual control in such cases and what could be a possible surgical strike of truth. We proud Xavierians were stripling youngsters who ogled at members of the fairer sex with gay abandon. The fantasises led to our first experience with puberty, night dreams, night falls, understanding our sexuality and experiencing the thrill of masturbation. However, we were young and innocent, not aware about the politics in these extremely personal matters relating to sexual choices and preferences of humans. Students of public schools like St Xavier’s Delhi, St Columbus, Modern School Delhi, Springdale’s and others we were brought up on a diet of Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, English movies, oh yes, some Hindi films too. Songs like Imagine by the iconic John Lennon, Sounds of Silence by the talismanic Simon and Garfunkel and Pink Floyd’s Brick in the Wall have inspired generations across the globe. There was a revolutionary romance in the lyrics and music of these numbers which lifted the spirits of youngsters who were on the threshold of breaking free from all bondages. The prevailing education system had set in ossified thinking among students. They could not think out-of-the-box. Everything in academics was determined by the marks scored and not the knowledge gained. It was plain ROTE learning. Education was merely acquisition of information and not acquiring knowledge or gaining wisdom. Years later Aamir Khan in his classic movie 3 Idiots and Sushant Singh Rajput’s film Chichore had graphically captured these aspects of our failed pedagogy where premium is placed only on obtaining marks can result in disastrous consequences. The immense pressure on students to “perform” or “perish” stultifies their growth process. Thus, these songs and subsequently participating in Kidstuf once again challenged me to emerge as a revolutionary, an anarchist or fighting for the underdog (so I thought about myself, may be for a cause without much pause). But in my case after stepping out of my teens and entering college my dalliance with spiritual masters continued in some form or the other. While in school, Ganapathi Sachhidananda Swamiji was the lifeboat of our family. Perhaps today with some study I would indeed attribute it to karmic cycle or positive deeds on part of my ancestors and parents that we were associated with various spiritual masters and pristine religious centres at different points of time which suffused us with constructive thoughts and positive energy. Everything is finite in life, but one experiences infinity sitting at the feet of a spiritual master. And this flowers the plant of faith in the life of an ordinary person or a seeker. It was not a case of spiritual shopping, but our family had the unique opportunity of seeking the blessings of Swami Chinmayananda, Jiddu Krishnamurthy, Sathya Sai Baba, Pope John Paul, Mother Teresa, Raghavendra Swamy, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (Sri Sri Ravi Shankar who was to still attain fame as Gurudev, Sri Sri or Guruji was present with his master, Mahesh Yogi, at that juncture, the ministering angels through their inner voice told me) and the noted environmentalist Sundar Lal Bahuguna. In meantime I was now in the 11th to 12th standard and later went on to join college. It was around this time that I had the unique opportunity to listen to the spellbinding speeches of the eminent philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurthy in person. While as far as my father was concerned the philosopher’s speeches were a voyage into science once again to prove the credentials of thought process, for my mother it was diving into divine faith. In either case, both my sister and I were to be blessed by the exposure. The noted philosopher and scholar spoke for an hour and there was pin drop silence. Once he spoke on “death” which left the audience spellbound, some in tears, others weeping. We were left numbed. His piercing eyes, handsome face and extraordinary persona were exceedingly attractive. But what attracted me and several others was is espousal of non-formal system of education as imparted in the Rishi Valley School. The pedagogy was truly the Gurukul form of imparting education. Many years later, I had the unique opportunity of visiting the Rishi Valley School at Madanapalle and spent several hours at the school and meditated in the polymath’s library. I happened to come across a certificate signed by Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar extolling the virtues of educational system imparted by the school. This was a unique testimony of faith and something miraculous which touched us all deeply. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx My schooling began at a nursery located in Delhi University. Subsequently I was schooled at St Michael’s Grammar School. The principal was once a teacher at St Xavier’s School, Delhi who broke ranks with the prestigious school to become a renegade and founded his own school. I was faring reasonably well at the school and participated in athletics and extracurricular activities. My mother encouraged me to participate in these events so that I could overcome the demonic thoughts about my frail health. She was fighting her battles and was desirous I confront mine by chanting the names of Lord Rama and Bajrang Bali. But then, life is never hunky dory. Soon there were a string of events as a result of which my school was relocated to Badli village around 15 kilometres from our house. The long journey to and fro meant there was not adequate time to look after my health. Those days my diet in the morning was a concoction of egg flip which included all proteins, but more than often I threw up. In fact, my mother used to hold my nose and make me drink the concoction. Tiffin to school included sandwiches. One fine day my mother was intrigued by the presence of a large number of mice scurrying in and out of my study room. It almost appeared that there was a Pied Piper lurking in the corner of the room. Upon investigating further, my parents were aghast to witness several pieces of sandwiches, half-eaten by rodents lying below my study table. It was a shocking and terrible sight. I got a sound hiding from my parents who had no other way of expressing their concern. It was more of an anguish of the concerned parents. Meanwhile, on a couple of occasions the rickety school bus by which the students were ferried from Badli village to Kingsway Camp broke down and we were despatched by auto rickshaws to our respective houses. My mother, the perennial Joan of Arc clad in a shining armour could not accept the callous attitude on part of the school administration and confronted the principal. When she found no satisfactory resolution to the problem, she followed the advice of some friends and well-wishers and decided I should change schools. The premier educational institutions at that point in time in Delhi were St Columba’s School, St Xavier’s School, Modern School, Springdale’s School, Delhi Public School and Army Public school. Though my father was agreeable for a change given my predicament and puny health, he closely looked at his pocket and realised that Modern School and Springdale’s were beyond his means. The options then zeroed down to the Jesuit schools – St Xavier’s or St Columba’s. My mother was clear in her mind that I should be shifted to St Xavier’s School located at Rajpur Road, Civil lines. The school was close to our house at Kingsway Camp unlike my present school. Since we were followers of Swamiji at this time, we met him and he blessed me that I would be successful in getting admitted to the St Xavier’s School. As was his wont my agnostic father did not quite share this conviction. But my mother did not budge from her conviction and her faith in Swamiji. As far as she was concerned, His words were cast in stone. Interestingly admissions were closed for 6th standard and to gain admission to St Xavier’s School I would have to literally catapult myself to 7th standard directly from the 5th standard. Little did we realise that there were other factors at play. Doctor’s Colony in Kingsway Camp on the premises of R.B.T.B. Hospital was, as the name suggests, populated by doctors. For a few of these doctors, the presence of my mother a mere medical social worker in the same colony became a bone of contention. Other than this ugly issue raising its head occasionally, there was bonhomie among the neighbours. But if there was one topic that never died down, it was about whose child performed better in school, whose child was better at academics etc through the process of mugging. And this was exactly where our covetous neighbours were certainly not pleased. For some reason, the prospect of the son of the medical social worker joining the prestigious St Xavier’s School was simply not acceptable to them. They found it preposterous that their son, who had been one class senior to me, would now have a St Michael’s product alongside him. This prompted my mother to share the problem with Swamiji, who allayed her fears and instilled confidence in her. My mother’s unflinching faith in Swamiji made her even more determined to go ahead with the project despite all opposition. At the entrance exam, I flunked in the mathematics paper scoring pathetically though I sailed through the other subjects. But this did not deter my mother’s unflinching confidence that I would be able to cross the Rubicon. As a dauntless warrior, my mother armed herself with a letter of recommendation from Father Rego, Secretary General of CARITAS (with whom she had providentially interacted at Agra during a conference of medical social workers), she was to meet Father Puthumanna, the principal of St Xavier’s. She was convinced that Divine Whispers resonate in this gigantic universe of the maker, but our minds and ears are small which are not tuned to be receptors. “Listen to the inner light, it will guide you. Listen to the inner peace; it will feed you. Listen to inner Love; it will transform you. It will divinize you; it will immortalize you,” was an unpretentious post card my mother received from a cousin much senior to me who was serving as a District Collector of Cuddapah and a devotee of Swami Chinmayananda. These were immortal words of Swami Chinmayananda and she was sure everything positive would happen. Meanwhile back in those days the logical mind of my father continued to be disturbed with the jarring development concerning my schooling and as to whether I would be able to attain exclusive membership of this missionary school. Now how did this interaction with Father Rego take place? This was again an intercession by the divine. CARITAS is a prominent Catholic frontline organisation and an administrative wing which funds various establishments of Catholics in the country including educational institutions and charitable projects. One can discern a unique string of connections – her faith in Goddess of Good Health Mother Vellankani, education at Stella Maris, a prestigious college in Chennai and then foray into medical social work and supported by CARITAS and then Father Rego stepping in to the help of my mother who was seeking my admission to St Xavier’s School, Delhi. This was nothing but faith transforming into a miracle. To a lay person these could be pure coincidences; but for my mother these were all blessings of the Universe. Father Rego was to give her a cross which came as a blessing from the Divine and my mother held on it with deep regard. Father Puthumanna, a well-meaning and an affable Jesuit priest mulled over my mother’s request and agreed to do the needful with a strong caveat that I had to reappear for the mathematics paper and emerge successful. Well, numbers and I have never been harmoniously aligned much like a malefic planetary configuration which has to be appeased. So, I was once again put under the scanner and sat to take the maths entrance test. This renewed effort was scoffed at by our neighbours and this in turn taxed my abdomen more than my brains. I continued to soldier on and arrived the hallowed portals of St Xavier’s School on D-day. I had to solve a solitary paper of mathematics, with a fuzzy head and a bruised stomach. The school establishment was stupefied when I performed exceedingly well in the examination and emerged triumphant. I too was shell shocked and rendered speechless with my performance. “It was none other than who Swamiji who appeared in disguise and wrote Munna’s paper,” was my mother’s ecstatic refrain. This was nothing short of a miracle and I was admitted to class 7B while Viresh Chandana a.k.a Bumboo (our green-eyed neighbour’s son) sulked in class 7A. A miracle is an extraordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore attributed to a divine agency. Securing admission to St. Xavier’s was nothing short of a miracle. My father was compelled to grudgingly acknowledge the achievement. Though he was still to accept the miraculous powers of Swamiji quite unlike my mother. It was champagne time for the family. But since we joined Swamiji’s fold, liquor was a taboo and no bottles were uncorked. Instead, celebrations were held in form of chanting the divine name and renditions of soul stirring bhajans during a satsang. The first stumbling block was overcome. However, I was overwhelmed by the colossal environment, humungous number of students, huge buildings, sprawling sports field, a swimming pool, tennis and squash courts, basketball courts, the morning choir, rigorous academic sessions and a plethora of activities. There was romance in the air, a certain mystique about the school which made it so different from St Michael’s. Fines were imposed on students who did not speak in English. One was proud to be a part of the school and to be referred to as a Xavierian. The school had a remarkable pedigree in various fields. There were exclusive schools for girls such as Presentation Convent, Mater Dei School and St Thomas’ School. Students of 11th standard had the opportunity to interact with nubile girls of these schools. These events were referred to as socials and were an important event in the school calendar. The Xavier One Act Play festival, rock concerts, the annual cricket tournament and the prestigious Xavier Fair which drew humungous crowds of Delhi added spice and glamour to the school. With all these momentous events at school and with the reduction of severity of malabsorption I began spending my summer vacations at Mysore Ashram of Swamiji. I was still to enter my teens but have vivid memories of Swamiji. As per our ancient Indian traditions under the Guru’s guidance a disciple learns various skillsets for a period of 12 years. Thereafter, the Guru performs a ceremony called Samvrat and releases his tutee to the world to spread knowledge. The student has two options before him, to be either a shishya or a sakha. Arjuna was the Sakha of Lord Krishna …. and was that nara (human) who was instrumental in revealing Narayana to the universe. I recall with misty eyes and a lump in my throat how I used to breakdown and weep inconsolably whenever I had his darshan. Perhaps I was on the road and the path to be a sakha and not strictly a shishya. These were nascent thoughts germinating in my febrile mind. Mysore Ashram introduced me to yogic exercises. The practice was faithfully followed by all ashram inmates and visitors. Among the popular asanas practised were hands touching the toes, Pavan Mukta asana. But certainly, toe touching and Pavan Mukta asana were help in arresting the bloating feeling and repairing the wounds sustained by the stomach. Oddly, during those peregrinations to the ashram, I would always feel the movements of trains all over the place. Some kind of a model of supply chain management unfolding and I seemed to enjoy it. The ministering angels through the inner voice were to reveal humungous number of trains rattling away and a clear-cut model of business logistics management, which I found to be rather uncanny and freakish. Frankly I could not make any sense of it. But years later these visions were to crystalize into reality as I was to join the Indian Railway Traffic Service. Meanwhile agnostics, rationalists and sceptics debunked the divine manifestations of Swamiji and termed it more of magic and found no solid science or logic to support claims of curing people and materialising objects. To them this was nothing but voodoo. However, my mother was convinced about the manifestations and materialisation as it made me overcome the nagging and troublesome affliction of malabsorption. A high point in this spiritual sojourn was when Swamiji rendered his discourses which were accompanied with heartfelt renditions of bhajans on our terrace under a starlit sky. These sessions teleported us to some kind of a fairy land. This was the high noon of our association with Swamiji. Some called him a miracle man, others God man. But he had certainly arrived and was there to stay. Amidst all these ongoing events in my life, a few of us formed Children Gyan Bodha Sabha, mimicking the parent organisation. We tried to play the role of the seniors. Some of us in turns became Swamiji and other devotees and enacted the scenes we witnessed. The youngster who became Swamiji produced mysterious ash and talismans. He would plunge into an imaginary havan kund and emerge unscathed and slip into a trance. Other children would sing bhajans and sway like gopas and gopikas, while the person enacting the role of Swami would play the flute. But it was all fun as my inner voice transmitted by ministering angels seemed to have experienced all this in some previous birth form and was to disclose to me about the Raas Lila held during the times of Krishna and Radha. “But they were Sattvic in nature and not Rajasic or Tamasic,” they were to tell me. We also did some social work. As a young army of Divine soldiers, we set up a library which was to feature comics of Tintin, Asterix, Phantom, books by Enid Blyton, apart from Amar Chitra Katha and Panchatantra, began conducting yoga classes for youngsters and helped out the seniors in assisting my mother at the T.B. Hospital. My mother was certainly pleased at the evangelical activities in which I participated as it diverted my attention from whenever I faced any unexpected revolt by my stomach. Now some of the doctors raised the cudgels against my mother and spread false charges against our family that voodoo was practised at our house in the presence of a tantrik. To their minds the tantrik was none other than Swamiji who produced ash from thin air, materialized objects from nowhere and was always surrounded by a bevy of female devotees. It was Bumboo who led the army of naysayers and spread this canard. It did not bode well for the overall atmosphere of the colony, but several people seem to buy the argument. Every Thursday and Sunday satsangs were held at our place where bhajans were sung, Guru Puja performed and some knowledge sessions were conducted by Mr A.S. Hebbar, a devotee and an intellectual from Jawahar Lal Nehru University. He also gave discourses on the Bhagvad Gita. This was too esoteric for a bandwagon of evangelic children who disappeared to play various games and explore the innocence of the young world. My mother used to cook a lavish prasadam for around forty devotees on Sundays but astonishingly nearly a hundred followers of Swamiji savoured a hearty meal. “How did this happen, Amma?” I was to enquire from my mother. “It was my faith and Swamiji performed a miracle,” was her confident answer. Our house had become a virtual spiritual and religious energy centre. In addition to the swamis, rishis, followers of Swamiji, there was the enigmatic Jallababa who made the odd appearance, Catholic priests who helped my mother and some RSS and Congress functionaries who gravitated into the fold of Swamiji. It began with murmurs, but reached cacophonous proportions when our neighbours led by the maverick Bumboo complained to the Medical Superintendent that the interlopers were disturbing the quietude and privacy of the doctors of the colony. But when the Vice-President of India, Shri B.D. Jatti, the Municipal Commissioner Mr Tamta and Gautam Kaul a prominent DCP also known for his proximity to the Gandhi family began following Swamiji and visiting our house the naysayers of the colony beat a hasty retreat. All the calumny and canards spread about my mother, Swamiji and so-called tantric acts faded into the background. The inner voice of the ministering angels was to tell me, “Whatever be the situation power always pays and the presence of powerful people is welcomed by a slavish mentality.” Without doubt proximity to administrative and political power more than religious and spiritual power was quite apparent to be seen for any discerning observer. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx It was early January, and the final results of the 7th grade had been announced. For some strange reasons the final result was delivered through the postal service in those days. And there was a post office very near our flat. My performance in the new environment was subpar in general and in mathematics it was pathetic. I was sure, that I would flunk in the examination. “I will not score more than 28 out of 100 in maths,” I told my mother. We were hoping that I would scrape through. She kept her fingers crossed, prayed to Swamiji and Mother Mary and applied sacred ash. She also asked me to hold on to the talisman materialised by Swamiji. Uma, my younger sibling watched my march towards the post office with a great amount of trepidation. A pack of friends had invaded the post office. The group included Viresh Chandna too. The outcome was sealed in medium sized envelopes. “Eureka! I have stood 4th in the class and secured 90%,” screamed Bumboo. My palms were sweaty as my friends pulled out the mark sheet which was populated with several red digits. My heart was pounding thinking about the impending score. Eventually a well-meaning friend scrolled down to the end of the mark sheet where it was mentioned passed in third division. My scores in sciences and mathematics were exceedingly poor and I could barely cross the finishing line. It was no surprise that I secured only 28 marks in mathematics as I anticipated. We headed back to our flat D-19 as the Chandana’s rejoiced the moment of triumph while I was ashen-faced, yet hugely relieved. “Balaji aur jao Swamiji ke pass …. Fail hote hote bach gaya aapka ladka,” was general refrain. “He deserves to be in 6th standard not 8th and that too in St. Michael’s and not in St Xavier’s School,” was the clarion call of the inhabitants of doctor’s quarters. But my mother plugged her mind and ears to shut out all negative comments and soon our house once again resonated with melodious bhajans of Swamiji as there was an impromptu satsang where the spiritual master’s renditions were played with gusto. My redoubtable mother rang up Vasu uncle, my grandparents and other devotees and friends and ordered jalebis to celebrate clearing of the hurdle, much to consternation and annoyance of jealous neighbours. “This is time for you to kick-start the new academic session emboldened and not with timidity. Swamiji and Mother Vellankani are with you and will guide you,” she fortified me. Algebra was replaced by geometry which appeared Greek, Newton’s Laws of physics were orbiting in some apogee, my brain was taxed by formulae like C4H8O2 besides properties of inorganic chemistry continued to confound my mind. Like in the 7th grade, my performance in history, geography and English were my saviours as I stumbled through the sciences and mathematics. The year 1967, had been a significant one for the family, especially in my father’s life. Uma, my younger sister was born and it coincided with my father’s transfer from Delhi School of Economics where he still could not complete his doctoral thesis to Economic and Scientific Research Foundation (ESR Foundation) of FICCI. Over the years he regained his mojo and began fashioning our personalities. “Was it a chance happening or faith in the birth of my daughter?” he smiled and wondered while preparing a policy paper on the state of Indian economy. Faith, beliefs and even superstitions never seem to leave us. He was indeed concerned about my frail health, the problem of malabsorption and academic performance. Like others in his family, he was keen that I join the coveted Civil Services. His elder brother had been selected to the prestigious ICS and others to the IAS and other Central Services. Thus, sound schooling was paramount in realising his dreams which seemed tenuously poised as my academic performance in St Xavier’s kept plummeting and was at best pathetic. I was nowhere the same Munna of St Michael’s School who cracked the periodical tests, mid-term papers and final examinations in a facile manner. The bar of St Xavier’s School was much higher and I was studying in a higher class. It was a daunting task and this had a detrimental impact on my academic performance and confidence. But this did not deter my mother’s confidence or faith. For her the first hurdle of my recovery from the problematic malabsorption was addressed … the rest would follow. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Even the most studious amongst us for whom cracking the papers of mathematics, sciences and social sciences was a walk in the park, apart from the languages of course, relished the break offered in by three subjects. These were Moral Science and SUPW (Socially Useful Productive Work) and library period. SUPW soon became the acronym for Some Useful Period Wasted by the brainy ones. We were taught about God, godliness, religion and ethics in the Moral Science period. But the minds of youngsters meandered away and were under the grip of Satan. In the Library period even, the serious ones also ventured to pore into lascivious literature in some books rather than absorb knowledge from an array of encyclopaedias. These three classes were a welcome break from the claustrophobic atmosphere of rote and soon discussion meandered to the prohibited topics of Adam, Eve and the forbidden Apple and about girls in the neighbourhood and in other schools and eventually leading to the much-maligned conversation of masturbation. The electric feeling and sensation were discussed animatedly by students. I was then more the shy type but did participate in the discussion jostling between the smarter chaps, overbearing ones and those who were intellectually sound. As the secrets tumbled out there were uproarious scenes in the class. Lurid description of a drenched Simi Grewal in Mera Naam Joker and in Siddhartha were the high points of discussions. Like any youngster, I too experienced the electric sensation and secretly admired our neighbour, who had acquired the nickname Satra as she resided in flat D-17. Satra was turning into a very attractive young woman and became an overnight rage in the colony. Some of us became covetous of Bumboo as he was the first to break ice with her by studying mathematics and science with her (group studies!). Satra clearly ignored me and it did pinch my ego or rather self-esteem. “Boss Munna, to win Satra you have to master the bugbears maths and science,” a friend would remark. I could not but help agree to his prescient observation. While growing up not everything bordered on faith and miracles. But on a larger perspective and canvas, life and existence itself is a miracle. To study in a broad-minded school such as St Xavier’s which opened our antennas and apertures to a variety of subjects also was nothing short of a miracle. It was a muggy day. A sharp shower in the morning made weather conditions pretty humid and unbearable. Most of the students of Class 8- B were feeling uncomfortable and were drenched in sweat. I think I was sweating the maximum as we were waiting for Mr Abraham, a Keralite with a pronounced Malayali accent to declare our first term mathematics results. I had hoped to pass the examination, more for my mother’s sake if nothing else so that she would not be subjected to the innuendoes and barbs of the Chandana’s and some other doctors residing in the colony. Sporting a dour face, he distributed the answer sheets, patting the backs of the students who performed well. He sneered at me with a piercing eye while handing over my answer sheet. My jaw fell when I was to see my marks. A mere 7 out 80! It was a shattering moment and I wondered how would I face my parents. I checked and rechecked the marks and finally realised the score was not seven but eight. The floor seemed to cave-in. I somehow mustered the courage and went up to Mr Abraham who looked at me with a stern face. He added one more mark to the abysmal tally and confounded my problems by hurriedly writing Very Poor. How would I get the paper countersigned by my father as a mark it had been seen by him was my worry; not the number of marks secured per se. I was pretty sure that my days at St Xavier’s were now numbered. I had little choice and had to disclose the results to my parents since Bumboo had scored seventy-eight in the subject which made headlines in the colony the previous day. My father wrung his hands in desperation and my mother remained sullen. As if designed by the Gods, my mother received some good tidings from Mysore Ashram. Swamiji was to visit Delhi shortly. I was advised to immediately take up tuitions in my nemesis subject – mathematics. Amma observed Swamiji’s clairvoyance, while Appa had little to say, except to ward-off the barbs of our not-so-friendly neighbours. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Set against the backdrop of the Himalayas and with the pristine Ganga flowing through it, the ancient town of Rishikesh is one of the major tourist and pilgrimage hubs in northern India, where people from across the world arrive in search of peace. The destination is abuzz with visitors, who come here to learn yoga and meditation. Rishikesh has numerous ashrams, some of which are internationally recognized as centers of philosophical studies, yoga and other ancient Indian traditions of wellness. Rishikesh is also known for its connection with the Beatles. In February 1968, members of the legendary English rock band visited Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's ashram (now popularly known as the Beatles Ashram) to learn transcendental meditation. They too dabbled with mystical faith in meditation. The Ganges was tranquil as Swamiji conducted pujas on the banks and sang soulfully. I felt absolutely surcharged away from the humdrum of school and Mr. Abraham and mathematics classes. After spending a few days in solitude and under Swamiji’s divine canopy the group of devotees headed to Haridwar. Haridwar is an ancient city and important Hindu pilgrimage site in North India’s Uttarakhand state, where the river Ganges is at the Himalayan foothills. The largest of several sacred ghats (bathing steps), the Har Ki Pauri hosts a nightly Ganga Aarti in which tiny flickering lamps are floated off the steps. Thousands of devout gathered as Swamiji sang soulfully. We all felt blessed and were tied to deep faith. That night, I was summoned by Swamiji and in my mother’s presence he pressed my bushy eyebrows hard and produced the miraculous sacred ash and applied it on my forehead. “These problems will pass away Bala,” Swamiji assuaged my mother’s worries and demons in her mind if any …. for she had surrendered. “But Swamiji, I have no fear. You have already cured him of malabsorption and I am sure he will do well,” added my mother. Once she was convinced about something or someone, she gave her 100 % without fear or favour. In a matter of few days Swamiji and his entourage left for Mysore Ashram and I was under the tutelage of Mr Abraham to study mathematics for a princely sum of Rs 200/- per month. “Swamiji travelled all the way from Mysore just to take care of his devotee. You people should develop robust faith in him and his powers,” my mother was to tell me and my father. The Chandana’s once again flagged an issue about my taking tuitions, but this time my father silenced them. He had become a more confident person after joining ESR Foundation of FICCI. How does life suddenly metamorphose? A change in planetary configurations, an unexpected divine intercession, faith or science … my father was to ponder on these quintessential questions. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Winter was setting in, there was a nip in the air. Delhi winters are pretty harsh. Several students were wearing the trade mark grey pullover of the school. Silence had gripped the class of 8-B as the students were writing a class test in mathematics. Mr Abraham who was normally the butt of various jokes and pranks by the students for his typical Malayali accent walked up to me and whispered as to why could I not answer a particular question in the mid-term examination. The query left me dumbfounded. My heart fluttered and pounded as Mr Abraham distributed the marksheet. I could not believe my eyes ... the score read 78/80 and I had topped the class. The stunning result made my father extremely joyous while my mother was more Zen like and stoic and gave a look that appeared to say, “I told you so but you never believed me or Swamiji’s predictions.” Among our neighbours, only the Chandana’s were green-eyed and played down the event. Bumboo even called the success a mere flash in the pan. “Papa, we ought to register a protest with the principal. Looks like Mr Abraham had leaked the paper to Munna.” Our family meanwhile was the proud owner of a PIE black and white television set in the age of scarcity. This became yet another source of unpleasantness between the green-eyed Bumboo and our family. He could do nothing to restrain his grandmother from coming over to our place to watch DD news, Chitrahar (a programme where Hindi film songs were telecast) and the weekly Sunday feature film. Other friends and the new found friend Satra (I wondered whether it had something to do with my performance in mathematics) made a grand entry to watch programmes like a German detective series dubbed in English, The Old Fox, the riveting sports programme Telematch and sci-fi programmes like Star Trek and Fireball XL-5. As the clamour for the temple construction for Ram Lala grew across the swathes of land, the iconic mythological serials, Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana and B.R. Chopra’s Mahabharata were televised by the state-run Doordarshan (DD for short). What I find surprising in hindsight is that it was a Congress-led government at the helm of affairs at that time. These serials caught the attention of the of the public and the nation came to a grinding halt at 9a.m. every Sunday, at the appointed hour of the telecast. And we were watching these on our colour television set acquired from Singapore by my mother! Both during the black and white TV period and later when we watched these programmes on a colour TV set, our flat was packed with neighbours much to the dismay of Bumboo. My mother was quite indifferent to the antics of Bumboo and advised me to concentrate on my studies without any encumbrance and remain in good physical shape. Her holy grail was to develop an unflinching faith in the supreme power of the Universe and its intelligence. Friction between the two families continued as Bumboo was consumed with malicious intent. He was irked with the presence of number of devotees and followers of h Sachhidananda Swamiji swarming our complex as also by my improved academic performance.

CHAPTER -1 An Unknown Turf - A STORY OF FAITH AND MIRACLES

CHAPTER -1 An Unknown Turf “Hey Bala, hold on for five more days,” my maternal uncle, Vasudeva Rao bantered with my mother. This was in December 1962. That year the mood of the nation was distressing as the country was inflicted with several wounds by our northern adversary during the Indo-China conflict. Kanpur, like rest of the country was plunged into gloom and despondency following the ignominious defeat. Much like Abhimanyu in his mother’s womb, I seemed to have been privy to the conversation between my mother Bala and my uncle. I was to hear my uncle’s remark loud and clear and wondered as to what would I do for another five days. “Nine months are a life time in any case,” I thought grudgingly. Tied by the umbilical cord I began kicking my legs frantically, as I was yearning to peep into the world. Did I ever travel through this place in some life form or the other? Or was I in some other part of this colossal universe? There were some hazy memories of souls transmigrating, those with whom I had had fleeting encounters while being transported over an unknown turf. These souls, both known and unknown ones, were to mention about certain celestial objects, other beings, a few animate others inanimate we had interacted with previously. But presently I had evolved to assume human form. Was I day dreaming or do such things happen, I thought aimlessly, within the safe sanctuary of the womb. “Eureka,” I chuckled as I stumbled upon the answers. Those who assume human form are apparently blessed with supreme intelligence, but still carry the karma of their previous lifetimes, the migrating souls whispered in my ears, quite unmindful of my mother. Humans in the foetus, I was told by the souls and celestial beings, are absolutely pristine and could interact with them as they were not layered by the dust of ego, consisting of attachments, entanglements, lust, obsession, greed, jealousy, anger and arrogance. These attributes begin corrupting humans incessantly layer after layer, once we commence the journey called life, as we lose our innocence on the altar of self-conceit. Well, I was still in the womb, so how come such thoughts germinated in my mind? Was I a soul who had played the fool in the heavens and was cursed to be born again to undo my accumulated karma. Nevertheless, the birth of a child is perhaps one of the greatest creations and a miracle of almighty God. This is a blessing of Divinity. Meanwhile Vasu Uncle had that mirthful conversation with my mother on the 9th of December, in the munificence of Lord’s year 1962 at Kanpur where my maternal grandfather was posted as the General Manager of Life Insurance Corporation. After jostling in the prenatal chamber, I finally arrived on Planet Earth weighing less than 3.5 kgs. A battery of doctors had perhaps attended on my mother but the gynaecologist who dexterously ushered me into this universe was none other than the talismanic Captain Lakshmi Sahgal, once a prominent revolutionary leader of the Indian National Army. Armed with this kind of entry ticket to the Universe, I not surprisingly became a non-conformist right from my early years. Since my childhood the anarchist in me also challenged my health. My weight notwithstanding, as I wailed continuously, a bevy of women relatives (aunts, cousins among others) carried me around. It finally dawned on me that two parallel celebrations were taking place. My birthday and that of my maternal uncle Vasu. “What a coincidence,” I was to think. “So, this was the essence of holding on for five days,” I mused as I recalled the lines verbalised by my maternal uncle. This latest arrival to the Valluri menage was called Ravi and soon the Sun appeared in the skies of Kanpur and there was brightness everywhere. The extended family of aunts, cousins and second cousins generously showered their affection and attention as I was virtually circulated like a worn-out currency much to my chagrin and my mother’s consternation. This was also noticed by my hawk-eyed grandmother who came to my rescue. Soon the bawling came to an abrupt end and I winked at my grandmother, Ganga Bhavani. The shattering sound of wailing was converted into a symphony of silence. This act of her prompt and firm kindness formed the bedrock of a wonderful relationship which weathered all storms throughout my life. But this celebration was short-lived because as a child I frequently fell ill with a seemingly mysterious ailment and was administered allopathic, homeopathic, ayurvedic and home-made remedies but all in vain. As there seemed to be no panacea for the mysterious ailment, I perhaps survived on the oxygen of faith of my mother in some divine power which was protecting me. Though my mother hailed from an orthodox Brahmin family she hardly believed in rituals. Over the years she developed enormous faith in the healing and curative powers of Lord Venkateshwara, Hanumanji, Swami Vivekananda (with whom she shared her birthday) and the intercession of our Lady of Good Health – Mother Vellankani. For her faith rested on the bedrock of devotion which would surely transform into miracles. For the sake of the health of her son she overcame the debilitating pain of chronic sciatica and climbed as many as 3,540 steps, equivalent to 12 kilometres, from Alipiri to Tirumala along with my maternal uncle. “Faith can move mountains, what are these steps Vasu,” she confided in her younger sibling. Meanwhile I continued to suffer on account of ill-health as there seemed to be no human who could provide the magical succour for my ailment. My frail health was to give sleepless nights to my economist-father and medical social-worker mother who were based in Delhi. This provided her an opportunity to plunge into unflinching service or seva of those afflicted with tuberculosis. Was this something to do with the birthday that she shared with the iconic Swami Vivekananda? The spiritual master always inspired my mother in her endeavours. My father was in pursuit of his doctorate under the scholarly and highly demanding Dr V.K.R.V. Rao, an esoteric and stentorian Kannada speaking Madhwa-Brahmin, at the estimable Delhi School of Economics. He remained a terror and my father grappled with innumerable odds to complete his doctoral pursuits. My father was highly logical and scientific in this thinking which remained his credo throughout his life. He forever remained an agnostic unlike my mother. He was a socialist by training where religion and spirituality were some kinds of impediments to his academic forays, and intellectual and political thought process. But these two rays of hope in my life were still to converge to a point where miracles were conjured for me to recover physically and overcome the debility of malabsorption. My harried parents were informed by the medical fraternity that malabsorption syndrome was a digestive disorder which prevented my body from effectively absorbing nutrients from food that I consumed. Was my problem on account of Prarabdha karma, I wondered? Prarabdha karma is that collection of karmas which are primarily the part of Sanchita karma, a collection of past karmas, which are ready to be experienced through the present body (incarnation). In every lifetime, a certain portion of the Sanchita karma, which are most suitable for the spiritual evolution at the time, is chosen to be worked out. Subsequently this Prarabdha karma creates circumstances which we are destined to experience in our present lifetime, they also place certain limitations via our physical family, body or life circumstances we are born into, as charted in our birth chart or horoscope, collectively known as fate or destiny. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I have hazy memories of Banarsi Das Estate, a place in the Timarpur area of North-West Delhi where my parents resided as tenants. My father grappled with the fine intricacies of microeconomics, macroeconomics, public policy and econometrics in an attempt to complete his never-ending doctoral thesis while my mother resumed working as a medical social worker at the Silver Jubilee TB hospital. Apparently, my maternal uncle Vasu who was pursuing M.A. in History from Kirori Mal College, Delhi University not quite far away from our house used to drop in during the weekends and spent time with Amma and Appa. “Sri Ramji, let’s celebrate the weekend over a couple of bottles of beer,” were his famous words. One of my father’s many friends, a librarian by profession and deeply influenced by the communist ideology was to shock my father as this librarian friend stumbled upon a seminal book Brighter Than a Thousand Suns, A Personal History of the Atomic Scientists, by Austrian Robert Jungk, which records how the eminent Father of Atomic Bomb J. Robert Oppenheimer issued a stirring statement that the sight of the fireball of the nuclear test brought to his mind astonishing words from the Bhagvad Gita, “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of the Worlds.” My father’s mind which normally operated through logical thinking and scientific temperament was stupefied about the fact that a cerebral personality such as J. Robert Oppenheimer was influenced by a premier Hindu deity and the exposition as recorded in Bhagvad Gita. Perhaps this incident converted an agnostic to pursue the path of self-examination. My first foray in religiosity and faith in all likelihood was when as a toddler, I accompanied my father to Lord Hanuman’s temple in Banarsi Das estate. Thus, somewhere deep in my father’s thoughts were an intrinsic feeling about some superior power which controlled and guided us and our actions/karmas; even if he did not term it as almighty God and he developed some faith in that power. My father was however to label this force as some kind of an auto-suggestion and this went on to become his belief. As a small child I found some kind of symphony in the sound of the cymbals. The tranquility at the temple was broken by the fervent play of the cymbals and gongs which rose to a crescendo. As our visits became a weekly affair and the sound became familiar, I began to refer to it as Tum Tum. The sounds were rhythmic in nature and had a soothing effect on my father and me. Memories of my visits to the Tum Tum would always surface in my mind years later. While we were living at Kingsway Camp, when I had stepped out of my teens and was preparing for the Civil Services Examination, the triumvirate consisting of my father, my grandmother and me would walk down every Sunday to another Hanuman Temple. Thus, our association with Hanuman remained steadfast – be it in my early childhood and much later when I was a strapping youngster beseeching the Wind God’s help either for health or my entry to the coveted Civil Services. Even my non-believer father did pay obeisance to the deity. My childhood diaries would remain incomplete, if I do not narrate an atypical incident. During one of my visits to the celebrated Tum Tum at Banarsi Das Estate along with my mother I could suddenly see extraordinary manifestation of animals, stones, plants transfiguring into celestial beings such as Rama, Krishna … among others deities. These visages and images were no hallucination. The inexplicable incident frightened me and I hugged my mother and narrated the incident to her. She was overjoyed with happiness and gratitude and her faith in the Divine power was only enhanced. I was no clairvoyant, but there were vivid shadows and images of celestials and these figurines scared me. Such experiences at that time resulted in alarm and uneasiness rather than faith. Today, I ponder how at that tender age, such unusual impressions were formed in the cranny corners of the mind. “Are humans blessed with traits of clairvoyance and divinity? Or are these out of the blue experiences some karmic debt we carry over?” I was to ponder. The transmigratory souls whom I encountered on my way to this world had perhaps referred to my past life, the problem of malabsorption and the karmic debt which I had accrued and had carried over in the fresh life cycle. My mother would comfort me every night by narrating tales of valor from the epics to bolster my courage and make me develop faith in almighty God. Her talisman always remained unalloyed faith in Bajrang Bali, Swami Vivekananda, Lord Venkateshwara and Mother Vellankani. She tried her level best that I develop faith in them and was hoping for a miracle to be performed so that I could recover from the problem of malabsorption. In Delhi, I was often rushed to medicos for treatment, in particular to the accomplished Dr P.U. Rao. We lived at the doctor’s quarters of R.B.TB. Hospital (earlier called the Silver Jubilee hospital) where my mother had set up a crèche, a stitching unit and a candle and match making set up to rehabilitate patients afflicted by tuberculosis. As the abdomen revolted, peace was shattered in our household. Doctors in Delhi were confounded and wrung their hands in desperation with my infirmity so much so the venerable Dr Rao was to tell my mother, “Bala I think your son Munna (my moniker though I was christened Ravi Valluri) is not suffering, it is you who is undergoing the pain and torture.” My body and the affliction were treated through allopathic medication and also homeopathy through the renowned Dr Coopiker of Madras. My grandmother suggested domestic remedies to ignite the fire in my belly and digestive system. My outwardly chubby appearance, blessed as I was with curly hair, could not hide the frail health, loss of weight and frequent bouts of diarrhea and episodes of vomiting. The stomach revolted against any ingress in the body. I just survived on the oxygen and life support of my mother’s unflinching faith. My medical problems continued to give nightmares to my parents and grandparents. Despite the malaise, I would spend summer vacations at the sprawling Farhat Bagh on Kutchery Road at Mylapore Madras with my mother and was treated like royalty. My grandmother tried her hand to burnish my flailing health. But sometime in early 1971, sandwiched between the two wars, a momentous decision was taken that I would be examined by pediatricians of Christian Medical College, Vellore. This decision was taken by my maternal uncle Vasudeva Rao and endorsed by Dr P.U. Rao and his wife (herself a well-known doctor), besides some family friends who had graduated from the celebrated medical college at Vellore. I was to be examined at Vellore to trace the genesis of the illness and to find a lasting cure. This was the faith of the doctors at Delhi in their counterparts at Vellore hoping for a scientific miracle to occur. I thus realised that science was not divorced from faith. Even agnostics and scientists exist on the premise of faith, which through its curative power provides a cure for ailments. Shortly, I was Vellore bound by the Grand Trunk Express, accompanied by my mother and younger sister. We reached my grandparents’ plenteous bungalow at Madras. The distance of a little more than two thousand kilometers that separate the capital of India and the capital city of Tamil Nadu was covered in a little over two days. On the appointed day, we were received by my uncle at Madras Central Station which was choc a bloc with people. My mother and Vasu Uncle were poring over the details of the scheduled visit to meet the doctors at Vellore as we crossed the massive Marina beach at Madras and glimpsed the waves rising in the Bay of Bengal and striking the shores of the beach. We were headed to Kutchery Road, Mylapore where my grandparents resided. My great grandfather who pioneered the cooperative and insurance movements in the country played a pivotal role in the Madras Presidency wing of the Congress Party. For his stellar work, Ramdas Pantulu Garu was nominated to the Imperial Legislative Council. My grandfather, though never joined politics continued the legacy of proliferating the insurance movement in India. His name may not be known by Baby Boomers, Gen X, Gen Y and the millennials but he laid the foundation of the Life Insurance Corporation. We were all proud of our pedigree, Grandfather had settled at Farhat Bagh, Kutchery Road in Mylapore Madras after his superannuation from LIC. This was the alcazar my great grandfather was gifted by the Nawab of Arcot after winning a successful legal wrangle for the Nawab. My grandparents were deeply concerned about my health and were hopeful the treatment at Vellore would provide the necessary solution. My mother crossed her heart as we drove past Santhome Church with faith, trust and gratitude looked forward to meet her parents and younger siblings. The 1st Tipping Point Surprises, adventures and misadventures are an integral part of every human life and I was no exception. This is what I was once informed by my companions, the transmigratory souls, while in the safe chamber of my mother’s womb. So, the next evening to my utter disbelief, I found myself along with my younger sister (barely four), my mother and grand aunt in a train. And we were not travelling to Christian Medical College, Vellore but instead to Mysore. We were travelling to the Ashram of a mystic saint in Mysore in search of a remedy to my health problems. Just as my grandmother and grandfather could not understand my mother’s decision, my uncle was flummoxed with my mother’s anomalous decision and downed a few more drinks that night. He wondered as to how his intelligent sister, who scarcely believed in rituals and by training believed in service had changed the plans after spending that momentous afternoon with my grand aunt. It was an inexplicable decision and his jaws fell in disbelief. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx This was an extraordinary turn of events where certainly faith in the supernatural superseded belief in science. Why did this occur, I was to ask my ministering angels? As an infant I had interactions with the transmigratory souls but once the period of infancy and innocence was over, the transmigratory voice were replaced by the ministering angels (whom my mother invoked with great devotion and allegiance). According to my grand aunt (my mother’s paternal aunt) Swamiji was known to perform inexplicable miracles like producing objects and sacred ash from thin air and was blessed with a mellifluous voice. During the festivals of Navaratri and Shivaratri he plunged into fire (into the havan kund), sending devotees into ecstasy. By the mere waving of hands, he was said to conjure miracles. On our arrival at the Ashram, we were asked to freshen up and be prepared for darshan of Swamiji who was performing a puja and was in deep meditation. Fact is stranger than fiction. My mother, a medical social worker by training decided to change her decision of getting me examined by doctors and instead sought the orison of a mystic. She had merely seen his photograph at my grand aunt’s house and something in her was drawn to the piercing eyes which were filled with compassion. What could have been the compelling reasons that she charted a different course? Human mind and consciousness are beyond comprehension; I was to surmise something I had learned years ago in the safe cocoon of my mother’s womb. Soon after freshening up and some breakfast the quartet comprising my mother, her aunt, my sister and I stood outside Swamiji’s kutir. This was to be my first encounter with a godman, Ganapathi Sachhidananda Swamiji. He was once a postman but upon becoming a messenger of God was performing extraordinary miracles. The faith and belief of his devotes in His miraculous healing powers sent them into a frenzied tizzy. The weather was salubrious. In a few moments, devotees shrieked in excitement as an ochre-clad Swami, with long black and thick hair and sharp piercing eyes, with vermilion pasted broadly on his forehead stepped out of his abode. As if on a cue the climes changed and there was a gush of wind which literally swept the devotees off their feet. A large mass of clouds gathered over the Ashram which hid the crimson red sun. The dark grey skies threatened to open up as Swamiji looked at the wide blue yonder and waved his hand. The blustery weather soon subdued and the sun was shining bright once again. An assemblage of small group of devotees shrieked in utter disbelief and were transported into ecstasy. Their faith in Swamiji was only to grow exponentially. My aunt fell at the feet of Swamiji and offered him a few fruits out of respect and devotion. Soon we too followed suit as did the congregation of devotees. We were thus introduced to the resplendent Swamiji. Swamiji stood up and produced sacred ash from thin air and distributed it to those present. Several devotees burst into bhajans as he walked to a car. A devotee named Bhupathi had driven the car from Bangalore to seek Swamiji’s blessings. “We will drive up to Chamundi Hills in the evening to seek Mother’s blessings,” declared Swamiji. Named after the Goddess Chamundi, the famous Chamundeshwari Temple sits atop the main hill. “May be my abdomen Chakra or what is also known as the manipura chakra (solar plexus) was perhaps blocked which led to ailments of the region which included malabsorption.,” I was still a novitiate and too young to think about these esoteric subjects. I was still too raw to perform yogic techniques like Surya namaskar, Pavan Mukta asana or not trained to make positive affirmations to cool down aberrations caused to the muladhara chakra. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx It was not a large car, yet could accommodate seven of us including Swamiji and in the evening we were at the feet of the Goddess. From atop the Chamundi Hill we had a majestic panoramic view of the township of Mysore, the celebrated old and Jagan Mohan palaces. As night fell and the city was enveloped by darkness, the palaces were lit and the entire area looked like a bejeweled bride and it was a fascinating sight to take in. At my mother’s goading my aunt took me to Swamiji and attempted to explain the infirmity I was suffering from. “It was a sagacious decision that Munna came to me and not to the doctors of Vellore,” remarked Swamiji. My mother was astounded as there was no reference about my indisposition to the mystic saint. Her belief and faith in the Swami grew by the minute and now she was waiting for the miracle to happen- a magical cure from the pestilence. At the feet of the Goddess, Swamiji materialized a talisman (tayatu, in Telugu) and some sacred ash. He asked me to wear the talisman around my neck and regularly partake the sacred ash and assured that I would be cured soon much to my mother’s relief. She had been waiting to hear these words and secretly shed a tear of gratitude and thanked Swamiji. “Do you want to see these two palaces which are looking so prepossessing to be converted into a pair of foxes?” Swamiji asked me. I had no answer neither did the others. We were simply too awestruck. A little later we were driving down the Chamundi Hill back to the Ashram and Swamiji was at the wheel. “Amma, Swamiji has not put his legs on the brakes or the accelerator,” I exclaimed. This was yet another paranormal act performed by Swamiji. My mother was beaming with delight and absolutely ecstatic. Finally, she could see the light at the end of the tunnel and sincerely believed that the muladhara chakra was being pacified with the benediction of Swamiji, the talisman and sacred ash. The high-octane moment was that her faith was slowly getting transformed into a miraculous cure. We headed back to Madras after paying our heartfelt respects to Swamiji and our connection with the mystic saint of Mysore was firmly established. My grandparents and uncle were however skeptical on the outcome of Mission Mysore. But they changed their minds observing my mother’s unflinching faith in Swamiji and his prowess. Our connection with Swamiji continued unabated, in fact it grew stronger. As my health improved and I could eat like a normal child and was gaining weight like any other child. My mother became totally committed to Swamiji. Her faith in his miraculous powers assumed colossal proportions. My ailment acted as a stepping stone to the family establishing a deep connect with Swamiji and soon we became something like brand ambassadors. I had rediscovered my health and armed with the blessings of Swamiji and the prayers of my mother, my health was rejigged and I reattained my vigour. “Was it not power of faith where positive vibrations from these divine personalities engineered a miracle,” my mother mused. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Upon becoming a firm believer in Swamiji of Mysore, my mother was to soon start a chapter of Gyan Bodha Sabha (an organizational structure which Swamiji gave to the fledging spiritual /religious organization) in Delhi. This became an arm, a vehicle to spread the gospel of Swamiji across India and the globe. Swamiji now stepped out of the sanctuary of Mysore Ashram and began frequenting places to spread his word. He became a regular visitor to our place in Delhi and stayed with us. And while in Madras he stayed at my grandparents’ place. Swamiji could transform the ideology of my grandparents who embraced him with devotion. My agnostic father reluctantly gave permission and Vasu uncle who was slowly getting addicted to alcohol accepted Swamiji as he trusted my mother’s instincts more than the abilities of the mystic. In India Swamiji travelled to Badrinath and Kedarnath, Kashmir and several other places and my mother was instrumental in these spiritual peregrinations. And she was also instrumental in his overseas spiritual forays. Such was her faith in the spiritual Master. Thus, our spiritual and ritualistic voyage with Swamiji and Gyan Bodha Sabha began where several miracles and supernormal acts accompanied. These were inexplicable events which left the jaws of the faithful dropping. At Nepal, Swamiji jumped into freezing River Gandaki as Saptarishis from Mysore Ashram chanted the hymns from the Rudram, as the devout looked on spellbound. When he visited Canada an imposing and beefy police official and an equally towering immigration officer were to ask “What is the purpose of your visit to Canada?” As it is, the image of India in the developed world was that charlatans, snake charmers and rope tricksters. Swamiji was taken aback, when my mother with utmost conviction on the behest of the spiritual leader declared that the ochre-colored Swami planned to have a dip in the Niagara Falls. “You guys are nuts,” was the official’s riposte and planned to deport Swamiji and his friends back to India. The situation turned dirty and raucous and finally a deal was struck with the Indian High Commissioner intervening and stating that Swamiji would immerse some sacred ash in the colossal water fall and not jump into it. On one occasion Swamiji directed my mother that the then Vice President of India, Shri B.D. Jatti ought to be the Chief Guest of a satsang at Delhi where Swamiji was to give a spiritual discourse apart from rendering soulful bhajans. My mother scarcely knew the Vice President of India, but with remarkable fortitude ensured his eminence’s presence at the event. My mother, a woman of substance walked in to the hallowed portals of the Vice President’s office and convinced him to be the Chief Guest for the satsang by Swamiji. This courageous act sent shock waves among the devotees of Swamiji ranging from Delhi to Mysore. Their jaws fell in appreciation and disbelief by this exemplar act of courage by the intrepid woman. Endowed with enormous courage and in a facile manner my mother interacted with the officials of Vice President’s entourage and Indian High Commissioner to Canada. “Deep faith in the Lord can move mountains,” she would famously say. And yes, unalloyed faith keeps triggering miracles which we humans can scarcely comprehend. This is a cyclical process – Faith +Belief = Miracles, and the process goes on. Faith and belief are also sturdy pillars which enables an individual to put up resistance against in inimical forces. “What does this word, ‘faith,’ refer to? Faith is the genuine belief and the sincere heart that humans should possess when they cannot see or touch something, when God’s work does not align with human notions, when it is beyond human reach. This is the genuine meaning of faith and all believers need to trust this aspect and characteristic of faith. Faith emerges not out of fear, criticism or condemnation. This quality and characteristic are based on connection with the divine power based on dispassion and leads to compassion for all. Now quite remarkably my mother braved the furious cold of Europe, travelling barefoot, or in simple slippers as she accompanied Swamiji across several countries. But perhaps the biggest act of faith and miracle was her leaving me and my sister alone in Delhi with my father as she toured the Caribbean, the USA, Canada and Europe in Swamiji’s entourage. This was an unalloyed display of allegiance to Swamiji. Travels in India We children too were fortunate to travel with Swamiji in his journeys across the swathes of India. To this day I recall in my mind the pristine, majestic peaks of the Himalayas as they rose from the foothills of Rishikesh as we accompanied Swamiji to Badrinath and Kedarnath. We were positively in communion with the divine as cool breeze wafted through the windows of the bus which chilled our bones. We kept ourselves warm by singing bhajans composed by Swamiji. My mother was her radiant self as she saw me gorging samosas, kachodis and puris with a potato curry. A boy who threw up merely glancing at a glass of milk or any food was now relishing savories. She silently bowed down to Swamiji and uttered a silent prayer for intercession, with reverence and faith and not out of fear or favour. Navaratri is a major festival down South, also celebrated as Durga Puja in East India in particular Bengal. During the same period in Northern India Lord Rama annihilates the ten headed monster in Ravana. The devout transcend material longings and are subsumed with a unique sense of jollity as they worship Goddess Durga and Lord Rama with enormous faith and surrender to the almighty waiting for efficacious tidings to envelope their lives. During these nine days Swamiji would step into the havan kund and beseech the deity. As the assembled devotees were enthralled at the spectacle and swayed to chanting and renditions of bhajans, the mystic saint slipped into a trance. On one particular occasion he became unconscious and was in a state of spiritual stupor. As he was carried to his abode by a group of devotees, Swamiji summoned my mother. “Bala, ring Delhi immediately,” he instructed her. Coming from the mystic, this stunned my mother. Clouds of fear gripped a person who was normally not given to betray her emotions. Her ashen pallor and face darkened with fear betrayed her thoughts, though she was always cheery and never beset by antipathetic thoughts. Fraught with a negative thought that perhaps something amiss had happened with me, my mother called up and was pleasantly surprised to hear my voice. Subsequently she was informed by our neighbours that my sister Uma had survived a major accident an hour ago. My sister was travelling by a school bus which had a head on collision with another bus with a motorcyclist getting sandwiched between the two vehicles. Miraculously, the motorcyclist emerged unscathed and mentioned that a bearded man with long hair and dressed in red saree soaked with ghee had lifted him from the accident spot. All the passengers were safe and my sister suffered a minor bruise. Our family’s faith in the yogi increased manifold. We were totally dovetailed to Swamiji and Gyan Bodha Sabha and his increasingly miraculous siddhis. Swamiji’s soulful and mellifluous renditions of devotional songs transported the faithful into ecstasy. The news of a series of miracles among the followers of Swamiji wherever he visited increased his legion of followers in India and overseas. Once on a trip to Kashmir, Swamiji had warned that a group of devotees ought not to follow him to Baramulla and Gulmarg after visiting Adi Shankara’s mutt. But as in the times of Lord Krishna where gopas and gopikas unmindful of anything followed the Lord, so blissfully unaware of any consequence groups of devotees followed Swamiji. And then disaster struck as their cars collided and were cannibalised where the devout were grievously injured. But they were resuscitated by the grace of the spiritual master. This was yet another testimony to the miraculous powers of the mystic which left his followers in a daze. Those who did not obey his command were ashen-faced. Swamiji was soon feted by a Sufi saint by the name of Jallababa at Baramulla in Kashmir who saw the unusual spark of divinity in him. Very soon the seer of Baramulla started surfacing at our house in Delhi and he too gifted me a metallic chain of Islamic origin. This further reassured my mother further that I was sure to be fully healed with no traces of the malaise of malabsorption. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx It was sometime in the year 1977 and I was still in my teens. The country that had been garrisoned as Emergency was imposed was free once again and the Janata Party which defeated the mighty Indira Gandhi had stormed to office. Soon after the Shivaratri festivities and my Class 9 examinations I was at my grandparents’ residence at Chennai again. I was asked by my cousin that I should see Swamiji and soon I was on the terrace in his presence. A splendacious Swamiji was on the terrace of the Ashram, clad in his trade mark ochre dress, with a flowing mane, piercing eyes and bright vermillion pasted on his forehead. Swamiji took me into confidence, blessed me and said softly, “I will not remain your Guru, you will find another in due course of time.” It was difficult for me to hold back my tears and I slumped on the floor of the terrace and Swamiji went to his room. That was the last I saw of him ... in person. The words of the clairvoyant Swamiji came to pass and our family drifted away from Him. I was dumbstruck as to how the person who was to be my anchor in life and saviour from a serious ailment just released his tight fist by which he had clasped me. This was the second shock as my original crutches of support in transmigratory souls had left me in my infancy and the cushion were now the ministering angels. As I entered my teens, the coat of innocence which draped me was lost and with it the companionship of the transmigratory souls. I was now protected by ministering angels who spoke to me in my head through an inner voice.

The truth is always the strongest argument.

The truth is always the strongest argument. We lie loudest when we lie to ourselves. Eric Hoffer Prayer is when you talk to God; meditation is when you listen to God. Diana Robinson The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers. Thich Nhat Hanh One of the sanest, surest, and most generous joys of life comes from being happy over the good fortune of others. Archibald Rutledge Like food is to the body, self-talk is to the mind. Don't let any junk thoughts repeat in your head. Maddy Malhotra People go forth to wonder at the height of mountains, the huge waves of the sea, the broad flow of the rivers, the extent of the ocean, the course of the stars and forget to wonder at themselves. St. Augustine

Overcoming Jealousy and Possessiveness

https://www.dailypioneer.com/2025/columnists/overcoming-jealousy-and-possessiveness.html

PERSPECTIVE

PERSPECTIVE A famous writer was in his study room. He picked up his pen and started writing: **Last year, I had a surgery and my gall bladder was removed. I had to stay stuck to the bed due to this surgery for a long time. **The same year I reached the age of 60 years and had to give up my favourite job. I had spent 30 years of my life in this publishing company. **The same year I experienced the sorrow of the death of my father. **And in the same year my son failed in his medical exam because he had a car accident. He had to stay in bed at hospital with the cast on for several days. The destruction of car was another loss. At the end he wrote: Alas! It was such bad year!! When the writer's wife entered the room, she found her husband looking sad lost in his thoughts. From behind his back she read what was written on the paper. She left the room silently and came back with another paper and placed it on side of her husband's writing. When the writer saw this paper, he found this written on it: **Last year I finally got rid of my gall bladder due to which I had spent years in pain. **I turned 60 with sound health and got retired from my job. Now I can utilize my time to write something better with more focus and peace. **The same year my father, at the age of 95, without depending on anyone or without any critical condition met his Creator. **The same year, God blessed my son with a new life. My car was destroyed but my son stayed alive without getting any disability. At the end she wrote: This year was an immense blessing of God and it passed well!! AND HOW DID YOUR YEAR GO !!!

Value your peace more than people's opinions.

Value your peace more than people's opinions. Your wound is probably not your fault, but healing is your responsibility. You can change anything in life with your willpower. When you see yourself in others, it is impossible to hurt anyone else. Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. Those who fears failure, will always limit their activities. Failure is only the opportunity to more intelligently begin again. There are two feelings that save us in life-Love and Humor. If you have one of the two, you are a happy person. If you have both, you are invincible

Even nature is celebrating Amma's Birthday today"

Even nature is celebrating Amma's Birthday today" Today is "Amma's" (Gurudev Sri Sri Ravishankar Ji's mother's) birthday and today is also a special day for Astronomy. On 7 January at 7pm we can observe 7 planets (including Uranus and Neptune) in the sky symbolically indicating that all the planets are lined up in the sky along with Amma to bless all of us. We can observe Venus in the West direction, just above it is Saturn, the Moon can be seen in the middle of the sky whereas Jupiter and Mars can be seen in the Eastern sky. All these 5 planets can be seen through the naked eyes and Neptune can be seen beside Saturn in the west and Uranus can be seen in the East direction using the telescope. We can take this opportunity to feel blessed and grateful for all that we have received in our lives. Daivagnya Aacharya Milind Gupta Vaidic Astrologer, Consultant and faculty AoL Jyotish Vastu Academy