CHAPTER 3 On a Learning Curve from A Story of Faith and Miracles ( available on Amazon)

CHAPTER 3 On a Learning Curve June 25th 1975 Little did my father realise that on the fateful day of 25th June 1975, a national internal emergency would be clamped in the country and several leaders of the then opposition belonging to various hues such as the talismanic JP, fabled Kriplani, a stickler-Gandhian Morarji Bhai, Sangh leader Advani, socialist Madhu Dandavate, and the renegade Chandrashekhar (who was still in the Congress but opposed to the dictatorial policies of the Prime Minister) and the orator par excellence Atal Behari Vajpayee among others would be garrisoned that night. Scores were hunted, hounded and sent to jail for their acts of defiance, charged with treason. There was apparently an internal and external threat to the nation. An external emergency was already in force after the 1971 war with Pakistan. My father returned home after listening to the galaxy of leaders at the iconic Ram Lila maidan. They had launched a clarion call against the despotic ways of Mrs Gandhi and demanded her resignation following an indictment by the Allahabad High Court for resorting to malpractices in the polls held in 1971. Officially the state of Emergency was issued by President Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed invoking Article 352 of the Constitution because of the prevailing internal disturbance. For much of the Emergency, most of Indira Gandhi's political opponents were incarcerated and the press was censored. Several other human rights violations were reported from the time, including a mass forced sterilization campaign spearheaded by Sanjay Gandhi, the Prime Minister's son. My father, a socialist by training, was working for the captains of the Indian industry at FICCI, yet he waged his own battle. He became an intermediary to pass on confidential literature of the rebels fighting the Prime Minister and her tyrannical and power-hungry son in Sanjay Gandhi. At times some strange looking individuals would surface at our house during Swamiji’s satsangs. They would mingle among the group of devotees, sing bhajans in a croaking voice much to the consternation of devotees immersed in blissful singing. Behind the veneer of religiosity and spirituality political activities were undertaken. While he would never acknowledge it, the fact my father was not nabbed by the police was nothing but providential grace and my mother would attribute it to his good karma, blessings of Swamiji and faith resulting into miracles. Some other locations where my father interacted with the rebels of the government who were then labelled as the enemy of the people included Triveni Kala Sangam and Sri Ram Centre for Art and Culture while savouring parathas with keema (the ministering angels through the inner voice exclaimed animatedly to me). Overnight my father became a dilletante and theatre lover, confabulating strategy of the anarchists in hushed voices with political activists while National School of Drama staged Macbeth, Julius Caesar and Tughlaq. “The fact that once again you escaped unscathed from the wrath of the dictatorial mother and son indicates that you are protected by the blessings of Swamiji and the ministering angels,” my mother was to firmly tell my father who still remained unmoved. A professor friend of my parents at the Delhi School of Social Work began growing a beard to register his protest against the imposition of Emergency. Once a strange incident had taken place when an uncle from Allahabad, who bore an uncanny resemblance with the firebrand socialist and trade union leader George Fernandes was almost taken into custody at Malkaganj near Delhi University where my maternal aunt stayed. Today this may appear hilarious and comical but it only reflected the prevalent fear during that period. He was spared of being arrested as Gautam Kaul, the DCP and a Gandhi family loyalist stepped in at the appropriate juncture at my mother’s behest. Normally people would fear to call the police in such situations, but my mother had immense faith in Swamiji and her icons which did not deter her from taking the step. Tragically a trade unionist belonging to the AIRF and my father’s close friend, was taken into custody the moment he landed at Secunderabad station, apparently for indulging in antinational activities. He was to perform the last rites of his father handcuffed. The ministering angels through the inner voice were to mention how deeply these people were affected by the Emergency while we youngsters squabbled for marks and adored Satras of the day. But the rebels carried the day through an intrinsic belief in the change of regime at an opportune time. All these intrepid efforts of saviours of democracy were attributed by the family to Swamiji’s miracles and dutifully reported to the mystic miracle man of Mysore. My mother continued with her social work alongside organising various events of Swamiji. I continued to visit Mysore Ashram and struck some spiritual roots; my father was busy with his official and political work. Though I had discovered my mojo to a great extent I was to suffer occasional abdominal pains and excruciating cramps. Now that I had apparently overcome the malaise of malabsorption, there were a few savouries which I began to devour in school. These included samosa, bread pakora of the school canteen, Fateh Chand’s delectable kachoris and Tibetan food at Tip Dhab (an acronym for Tibetan Dhaba) as students narrated their wet dreams, sexual fantasies and those who had some close encounters shared them with great pride. Suddenly, one day I was gripped by an acute, unbearable abdominal cramps which lasted for several hours till I reached home. It lasted for 4 to 5 hours and I was taken to the medical room in the school and was administered an analgesic as a palliative which was scarcely effective. My sister was quite young but could empathise with my agony. She managed to call up my father and my mother. My mother’s simple remedy was, “Give Munna Swamiji’s vibhuti and tell him to hold on to the tayatu. He will be fine.” And the magic worked. Was it a placebo effect my father wondered? Soon my mother made a call to Swamiji and thanked him. Swamiji sent his blessings and asked my mother to be present for the Navaratri pujas at Mysore Ashram along with us children. Swamiji’s directive was a commandment which could not be ignored or violated. Come Navaratri, and it was an extraordinary spectacle to behold as the Ashram resonated and reverberated with the hymns of Devi bhajans. Those nine days passed away in a jiffy as the devout were transported into ecstasy. Swamiji looked majestic in his divine form as he performed numerous miracles. The colour blind got back their hue, those suffering from chronic spondylitis and arthritis could soon move around the Ashram without much discomfort. The prasadam served after the pujas acted as an elixir for the ones suffering from rheumatism, heart ailments, diabetes and other disorders. The Ashram became a veritable healing centre. “This is what faith does, it can move mountains,” my mother’s common refrain and we all were aware about it. What is faith? Under comfortable environments, with our careers going well and family lives maintaining peace, many of us will have the faith to follow the Lord, actively reading the spiritual texts and attending meetings; however, once something unpleasant happens, we will become enfeebled immediately. For example, when we are facing adverse situations because of losing our job, when our families lose peace due to something against our wishes happening, or when we are always refused a new job despite our praying, we begin losing our faith in God. Then, in consideration of all these things, what is real faith exactly? Perhaps in the case of our family the energy or fuel for the extraordinary attenuation was supplied from the Chamundeshwari temple; the moment when Swamiji materialised the talisman and produced sacred ash from thin air which set about the process to repair my health. One becomes a magnet for miracles, only if one chooses to be. Our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, feelings, intentions and actions are nothing but energy and based on vibrational frequency we attract things to our life. In other words, we attract words, events and extraordinary situations and emerge stronger. Swamiji declared that New Year’s Day would be celebrated on the banks of the Ganges at Rishikesh. All of us were to be present and join the Shivaratri Puja in February too. We were at Rishikesh and at Mysore Ashram; when Swamiji produced a Shiva Linga from his throat while he was in havan kund during Shivaratri. My father who was still waging his war against an authoritarian regime in his own small way was never impressed with the miracles of Swamiji. Babas, swamis, rishis and mystics never appealed to his thought process. The bedrock of his faith always remained science and pluralism. Thus, he paid more attention to the Chandana school of thought rather than listen to my mother. This tussle between my parents continued endlessly and my sister and I were a witness to their endless sparring. His mind could never accept a person jumping into fire and producing a Shiv Ling or something else or producing some sacred ash or materializing objects. The only credit he gave Swamiji was the exceptional musical talent with which enthralled devotees and him alike. March 1977 My father’s faith in democracy carried the day as Janata Party which consisted of various opposition parties joined hands to oust the despotic Prime Minister and her coterie which included her tyrant son. Mr Pathak was dispirited with the news of Shri Ramakrishna Hegde’s defeat but nevertheless shaved off the trademark beard he had grown against Emergency the moment Congress Party and the perpetrators of Emergency met their nemesis. My father who was one of the members of the Manifesto Committee of Janata Party was ecstatic with the performance of the Janata Party. In fact, lamps were lit on our terrace and several people like Mr Pathak lit candles. It was a moment of triumph as good prevailed over evil. Around this time, we had returned back from Shivaratri at the Ashram. Little did I know this was to be our last visit to the Ashram. Soon after there was a phone call between my mother and Swamiji. Our relationship was severed over certain misdemeanours. My mother confronted Swamiji and snapped ties. But till her end she never bore any grudge against him and always attributed me regaining my health to the divine powers of Swamiji. My mother always lived on her terms by living in the present moment with the construct of truth and karma. She never spoke ill of Swamiji, but we were no longer devotees of the Miracle Man as my uncle would refer to him. A deliberate Digression My uncle was to marry a Protestant. None in the family had the courage or conviction to defy my grandfather and attend the exchange of vows except my mother. “Walk like a king and be a humble servant,” is what Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar says and this is what my mother did all her life. Meanwhile there were no more questions asked about Swamiji in D-19 much to the delight of Bumboo and the rest of the Chandana clan. But mother never uttered anything negative but only spoke about positive aspects if at all about Swamiji. “Never curse, never speak ill of anyone – you will only fritter your spiritual energy,” says Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. And this is the cardinal principle my mother espoused in her life.