A STORY OF FAITH AN MIRACLES - A TRUE ACCOUNT AVAILABLE ON AMAZON. SHARRING A COUPLE OF CHAPETERS

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.