A STORY OF FAITH AND MIRACLES - A TRUE ACCOUNT - AVAILABLE ON AMAZON ( SHARING A FEW CHAPTERS )

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.