Daughter of Fire

by Irina Tweedie

  Later I went to the door of the room hoping to be able to go inside.

  There was such a glare in the garden; it was beginning to get hot. He was sitting in a big chair.

  “May I come in?” I asked timidly. He made an impatient gesture with the hand and said something. I came near him: “I am sorry I didn’t understand what you said.”

  He looked at me with irritation, pointed to the seat and mumbled something I could not understand. I went out. No use to sit there and irritate him with my presence. Be still my heart… it is not the first time I have been treated like this, nor will it be the last. Be still. Be not hurt. He is bound to do this and other things too, because the self has to go. I will sit in the glare till nine, then I will go. But after ten minutes the wife beckoned to me from the door and, seated opposite me, looked at me with much curiosity. I wondered if he told her something and if she wanted to see if I was hurt or even crying. I was not. There was much peace. The heart was at rest. Left about nine when he was to have his bath.

  15th June

  IN THE AFTERNOON, as soon as I sat down, he asked me if the second registered letter had arrived. I had to ask him to repeat it, as the blow of the fan carried the sound away, for he spoke so softly. I answered that no, it did not arrive. Must have gone astray because it was posted on the 18th of May. Told him that I wrote to H. to take the necessary steps and also to the senior superintendent of the post office to look into the matter.

  Seated under the fan I was reflecting that there was a great difference in my attitude as compared for instance with the time I was here a few years ago. It was difficult to formulate the thoughts properly, but seated there quietly—he resting with closed eyes—I was so much aware of the feeling of belonging. I had the leisure to analyze it. It was a wonderfully rich, full feeling. It is security, it is peace—one seemed to stand on a rock forever… belonging to that in me which is part of That. For life or death. Forever. It cannot be put into words. Not really. But it is a deep bliss, welling from within, coming from the center of oneself. And it seems to me that this deep awareness of non-being comes from the same center which is responsible for it. I cannot put it clearer. To put it differently: the non-being is part of the very make-up of ourselves. Without it, surrender is impossible. But when I feel less than a grain of sand, what criticism can there be? I am bound to accept anything, so much more because the mind is in such a bad working order that I know that I cannot rely on it, and what it tells me can very well be wrong. I try to describe it so much in detail, because if somebody one day happens to read these lines, I want to convey to him the conviction that non-being is nothing to be afraid of. For the mind it may be a frightening prospect, but what can the mind know of NOT TO BE? It is absolute, incredible, bliss…. Hours passed like this, me seated there trying to formulate the thoughts as clearly as possible in the mind which worked at half its speed….

  Later the gardener began to dig, and I opened the door wide that Bhai Sahib should be able to watch the earth being turned over. It is a lovely sight—I have the feeling that the earth loves being dug. Later I sat outside on a tachat, thinking. The secret is not to say that it will pass; the secret is to say, and BELIEVE, that it does not matter… does not matter: the gross people surrounding him, sometimes unbearable conditions. Only he matters… to whom my heart flies in mute prayer to help me to the Truth… and this wonderful feeling of belonging, of nothingness, of deep, mysterious beauty, like a song far away….

  A golden cloud was stationary in the sky. I looked at it….

  When? I thought. How long? How long will this suffering last, when will it finish? And it was like a voice in my heart: not long anymore, said the Voice. It is nearly finishing; it is coming to its end. This suffering will finish soon. The Great Suffering, the Longing, will remain forever… for thousands of years. But this one will soon go.

  With the first clouds of Monsoon….

  I forgot to note down in my diary that all the time I had the feeling, since I have been here, that it will be in July when he will do something, initiate me, or something of the sort… that he considers the months of May and June as a test, as a sacrifice….

  The golden cloud floated and changed shape—it was nearly transparent now and melted away gently. Yesterday’s kite was trembling high up in the azure. It had lost its tail. The wind took it away, probably. The tail which made its beauty, its personality… the wind carried it away. And the wind of the spirit is carrying something away from me too… just as it does from this kite….

  He came out. Looked at him from afar, pale and delicate. Fresh wind was blowing. Went home as usual about 7:30.

  The night was delightful. I discovered another bliss: cold feet.

  When I woke up in the morning after a night of pleasant sound sleep, my feet were cold. What a nice feeling it is to have cold feet! And there was such peace in the heart.

  When I went to him, he was washing himself at the pipe in the garden. I sat near the door and, when he finished, went to salute him.

  He bowed his head slightly, and I had to support myself and then stand still for a moment… was so giddy. Then I just sat there… head empty, much giddiness. The heart was somewhere, suspended in peace. When I opened my eyes, he was turned towards me, lying on one side supporting his head with one hand resting on the elbow.

  His eyes were closed. By the rhythmic movement of his lips I saw that he was repeating a mantra—it must have been only a few short words which he repeated continuously. When a Saint is praying, it is a beautiful sight…. I too began to repeat my mantra, or tried to, because my mind was completely empty. Later he got up and went into the room. When he got up and walked away slightly swaying, supported by his wife, he seemed old and weak. Dispenser of Glory and Gloom, I thought, and went to the bazaar. When my shopping was finished, I returned. Ragunath Prasad was sitting in the room; the wife beckoned to me to go in. I was pleased. Ragunath is one of his best disciples, so the atmosphere would be lovely and we won’t be disturbed. And it was so… all was peace. Left after nine when he was to have his bath.

  Together with Mrs. Scott we gave a bath to the new white cock, just bought from the bazaar and which was in unbelievably filthy condition, and to the dachshund. It was fun, and children were delighted.

  16th June

  WHEN I WENT THERE IN THE AFTERNOON, he asked what time it was. I said it was quarter past four. Stood for a moment at the door of the darkened room.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. I went in and could not see a thing after the bright sunshine outside. Sat myself in the big chair because the wife slept on the floor lying on the mat under the fan. But soon she got up and went outside. Where I was seated the air from the fan could not be felt. It was very hot. The temperature for the last few days was lower, but the humidity was high, over 80, so it was sultry and very humid. Why not sit on the mat? I did. Took off my sandals and sat in the Sufi posture on the mat in front of him, under the fan. At 4:30 his son-in-law came with a large volume of Ramayana. He began to recite. The very rhythm of the recitation, which is really a chanting, creates a special atmosphere of devotion. From time to time I looked up at his face. In his hazel eyes, looking far ahead into the distance, was an unspeakable longing… could not bear to look at him. It was the most deep, the most tremendous longing the human eyes can express. It is true: his eyes are special eyes, like nobody else’s, and still… it was unbearable… his very Soul was crying out. I felt tears running down my cheeks. Ramayana fills the atmosphere with Bhakti and great love. It went on until seven. His son,in,law has a kind face and lovely eyes. Only he is far too fat for his age—he is still young and already so heavy. From time to time he looked at me in sympathy; I was crying.

  At seven the door was opened. I rolled the chik up and went outside. It was cool and pleasant. The temperature was noticeably cooler. Heavy monsoon clouds were hanging low towards the east, grey and saturated with water, but they dispersed soon. Then the sky became quite clear, full of gossamer clouds of
delicate rosy-pink.

  Again he sat in his chair, his overpowering family all around him.

  When I saluted when going home, he gravely nodded. Going home I was thinking that it was a lovely afternoon. When I went to bed, had hardly any food, was not hungry (but I never am now). There was lightning far away in the east, the Lucknow side. Perhaps the monsoon, I thought… but it may pass, need not come this way.

  Perhaps we will be lucky to have a quiet night and rain will come tomorrow. But about half past eleven it began. I woke up a few minutes before I heard the thunder, and the first impact of the wind began. This looks like the real monsoon. Coming from the east, this is not the local rain. No use to hope that it will be a few drops only.

  Went downstairs into my room. Had hardly time to reach it when the rain began pelting down—as it only can pour down in the monsoon period, like buckets of water. Was lying in the hot, hot room listening to the rain outside.

  The monsoon has arrived… will my situation change? Or will it be the endless waiting as before… waiting for what?? Ennervating waiting, endlessly, day after day, in the sweltering heat… may the Infinite God help me…. It rained all night. In the morning the air was warm, very damp, and full of bad smells in our courtyard, of wet chickens, urine, and God knows what else.

  He was not on the tachat in the garden as one could well imagine. I saluted; he gravely responded. I noticed when I sat down that I could not see well, could not focus properly, and was giddy. The overpowering family did everything around him, so much activity was going on. Babu was cleaning his throat at the water pipe; all the six children howled in chorus and kept running about. He went into the room. I waited till eight. It was getting hot so I got up and went to the door of the room. Wife was facing the door seated on his tachat; he sat with his back to it. She did not answer, kept talking to him. All right. Clearly I am not wanted inside. But soon he came out and sat in the chair. His face was friendly and he spoke to Sageji to whom he usually does not speak. The drunkard came and he talked with him in a friendly way. Keep still, my heart…. Merciful God, give me the strength not to cry, to bear, to bear, endlessly…. The Longing was terrible. Yesterday when he prayed, he had a strange devic face of sharply cut features, the kind of face which disturbs me because it is like a memory from somewhere… but today he had his usual face.

  And so kindly he spoke to the grandchild, to others… how tender he can look, how kind he can be…. This kindness was never for me, not even once….

  Keep quiet, my heart…. Perhaps I will manage somehow, not to cry…. I don’t see well. Some kind of visual disturbance. The drunkard left soon, thank God. He sat there for another half an hour.

  I sat on the tachat because all chairs were wet and dirty with children’s feet. Later he got up. I hoped he will tell me to come in. But he turned away and went inside. I sat outside. Will wait till ten a.m.

  Perhaps, perhaps he or his wife will call me in… to sit with him alone in deepest peace. I heard his voice in the room talking to his grandchild who was howling once more, then the rapid machine-gun talk of his wife. The rest of his family came out of the big room.

  Durghesh kept slapping Babu noisily in jest; all were laughing, loudly.

  In the courtyard all the children were howling, offended about something, a quarrel perhaps. My God, help me to bear it… please help. Monsoon is here, but the suffering seems to increase instead of diminishing. Left about ten. Could not bear it anymore. Had very little food. Looked at myself in the mirror; how haggard and grey my face has become. I aged considerably in those few months.

  In the afternoon there was a powerful vibration in the heart for hours… and then in the solar plexus Chakra. I understood why I could not eat today. This particular vibration used to make me feel sick. I wondered what trouble is brewing for me. When it begins like this, something is being prepared for me.

  In the afternoon he was resting, so I went inside silently and sat down. Only later, when the wife came and spoke to him, I got up and saluted. He gravely responded. Soon the son-in-law came and seated himself opposite on the divan. He kept looking at me with his soft, brown eyes with the look of compassion. And I thought that I must present a sorrowful spectacle to his family. A sad, old woman, getting thinner, paler, looking increasingly old and haggard. Nearly always red-eyed because of constant crying… my hair looks untidy, because I let it grow, hanging in white, floppy strands around my face. And with this sort of reflection in my mind, the endless longing burning in my heart, I began to cry… and I cried. His wife came in; she stood there and looked at me. He was resting on his back. Impassible. Then he said something in Hindi. Son-in-law went and fetched the Ramayana and began to recite. I did not experience yesterday’s atmosphere; I was slightly bored. So, I began a sort of game to amuse myself. There is a rhythmic verse which keeps coming up from time to time and which is chanted in a different manner from the rest. I began to count these verses. It occurred to me that however many verses there would be, so many days there would be to the First Initiation. I did not mean it seriously, of course—it was a game. I counted them, beginning from the first of June, and when I finished about seven p.m., I arrived at the 18th of July. So, that should be the date according to this improvised oracle… I know it is nonsense, but it helped to pass the time.

  He came into the garden later and sat in his usual chair with his feet drawn up. I could not help thinking how nonhuman he can look in the fading evening light. A being from another world… a Deva, I thought, observing the light which seemed to radiate from his skin.

  As soon as I formulated this thought, he gave me a quick sideways glance and looked away. He knew, of course, what I was thinking.

  His wife, seated beside him, kept talking. I left soon. And going home it occurred to me that there was in my mind a sort of irritation which prevented me from enjoying the Ramayana. For his son-in-law recited it very well. I began to pray lying in my bed.

  “Are you asleep?” asked a voice. It was young Mrs. Scott. She sat on my bed and we had a chat. When she had left, I realized how silly it was to dramatize something which was of no importance. Truth, I want you more than my life, I said, looking at the stars.

  “Do you?” asked a little voice within my heart. “Because if you really do, you would not discuss and question every little thing….

  Surrender is surrender… it is a blank check. You have to comply with his conditions—never ask, never rebel.”

  I was at peace and fell asleep. There was no rain after all, and I woke up to the rosy, transparent dawn.

  17th June

  THERE ARE DAYS WHEN HE LOOKS so incredibly young and of a loveliness which cannot belong to this world of matter. Today was such a day. He always looks special when he is in this kind of double consciousness—one part of him somewhere… and still functioning efficiently in this world, in his physical body.

  He was reclining on the tachat. In a graceful pose resting one foot on the knee of another, hands clasped behind his back. Sat down not daring to breathe… could not look at him. The unearthly light… hurting….

  One day when complete acceptance is here, there will be no suffering. This feeling of nothingness, as soon as I come into his presence, is a bit disconcerting. But it should increase; it must be more; it is clearly not complete…. Why is there suffering?

  Because of the resistance. I myself am causing it. After all this superhuman effort, all this sacrifice, and privations, to see how others are given what is denied to me—others, who did not even do the tenth part of what I have done—to get nothing and to be content, not to desire, not to rebel, is not human. I am expected to achieve a thing which is against human nature… not to desire…. Here it is—the very fact of desiring the knowledge creates an obstacle.

  That’s why from the disciple a devotee is formed; the disciple comes for knowledge; the devotee loves and wants to do the Will of the Beloved only, and nothing else. The Teacher is the representative of the Beloved on earth. By doing the w
ill of the Teacher one learns how to do the Will of the Beloved. That’s how one becomes like him, merges in Him. The disciple for the time being loses himself—his will becomes the Teacher’s will, and by doing that he learns to lose himself in God….

  It is the only way. And he repeated it so many a time. And I know it: But when he begins to put all the appearances against him, I forget… fall into the trap each time…. What to do?…

  Later he got up and sat in the chair. His body was perfectly still. No breathing was noticeable. His eyes were closed. What peace, my dear God, what peace! How can a human face express such an unearthly peace?!

  Then he went in. I left; it was nearly ten a.m.

  When I went there about 5:30, the son-in-law was reading from the Ramayana. But the child of Durghesh was in the room, shouting and making such a noise, wanting all the time something, so restless.

  The atmosphere was disturbed, for he had to constantly be pacified.

  Persian poets are so much lovelier than the Ramayana. I wonder why he lately prefers this scripture… there must be a reason… perhaps it is the rhythm and the special atmosphere it creates. After all, he is a Hindu, and some conditioning pertaining to this culture must be in his make-up.

  Later he came out into the garden and sat in his chair. About 7:30 the Sharmas came. I left about eight. Kept thinking all the time. The cessation of desire, all kinds of desire, will represent the cessation of suffering. This is the core of Lord Buddha’s Teaching. All the Great Masters teach the same thing.

  Lightning was on the horizon in the early evening when I went on the roof. But soon the stars came out and it was a lovely, fresh night.

  Today the papers say that the monsoon will arrive in our province in forty-eight hours. What we had was only a pre-monsoon shower.

  Slept well.

  79 To Endure and to Endure

  18th June, 1966

  COULD HARDLY WALK when I was going to his place. The vibration in the heart was strong and I was giddy. He was sitting in the big chair in his room, his knees drawn up.