by Sister Gargi
Swami: Well, did you get your house clean?
Me: A corner of it. I got tired and stopped.
Swami: Please come in. Sit down. Did you have your dinner?
Me: Partly.
Swami: I see. A preview.
Helen (to me, laughing): A preview! You are a character.
Swami (beaming upon me with a beautiful light in his eyes): A good character.
The discussion regarding the color scheme continued for almost an hour. Then Helen, looking white as a sheet, asked to go home. Swami went into his office with Jo, Mara, Kathleen, and me following. Swami looked at Indian magazines. The dusk deepened—silence and peace, with a remark only now and then.
Me: Shall I turn the light on? (I was sitting near the switch.)
Swami: No. The dusk is peaceful.
Me: I did not want to ask, but your eyes—
Swami: Better to sacrifice the eyes than to sacrifice the peace of the dusk.
August 9, 1953
Swami was working in the library with Helen, choosing samples of glass for the auditorium windows. Kathleen and Mara were there. He asked me to come in. As usual, everyone was staring at him, watching his every gesture and facial expression. He was utterly unselfconscious of their attention, at times whistling meditatively, sometimes looking severe or withdrawn so that no one dared speak. He listened to Helen’s every suggestion, concentrating his full mind on the problem at hand, yet never missing an opportunity to drive a lesson home. This endless going over of plans was like a great drama, something stirring and alive.
August 10, 1953
Swami: Are you going to clean another corner of your house today?
Me: No, I have given up.
Swami: You will put it off for another century?
Me: Yes. I think I had better get to work.
Swami: That is good. Don’t let your mind stall. Even if it works slowly, keep it moving. Sometimes it will work slowly, sometimes fast; but never let it stall. (Swami was silent while he read six or seven letters from students. A small child raced by the window, screeching like an animal. He looked up in mock amazement.) What is it?
Me: A wild creature.
Swami: A manifestation of vital energy.
August 12, 1953
Swami: Please come in. How is everything with you?
Me: Fine. My friend Bobbie is coming to my apartment to dinner tonight. She is going to bring the dinner. Then we are going to Dr. Chaudhuri’s class on Sri Aurobindo.
Swami: Ah! Your friend is becoming really interested in Ve-danta. How did she like Chaudhuri last week?
Me: She liked it. I myself didn’t go to it. Professor Spiegelberg was still having his class on Jung.
Swami: What did you learn about Jung?
Me: Last time it was about alchemy. Jung says that the alchemists were actually projecting their psychological problems into the laboratory and working them out there. The time before, the class was about synchronicity versus causality. The whole thing seems highly complicated and confused.
Swami: Jung is confused. He draws upon all sorts of things—Indian mysticism, yoga, alchemy—it impresses people.
See how it is: when a Divine Incarnation comes, there is a great upheaval and stimulation of thought in all fields. Everything begins to sprout and become activated—spirituality, materiality, art, science—everything flourishes.
Me: People will become confused with so many ideas.
Swami: Yes, but the worthless will die out, and the right things will last.
Me: I guess it works the same way on an individual level. The individual becomes energized in every way when he becomes spiritual.
Swami: Of course. Do you think it could happen collectively if not individually? See, Marie Louise, how it is—things are moving: Sri Aurobindo, the Academy of Asian Studies, the East-West Gallery. Indian ideas are beginning to spread. Only we lag behind.
Me: Vedanta can never be popular.
Swami: That is true.
Before I left, I told Swami that I had heard from Jackson, who had said that gloom permeated his soul. Swami looked deeply concerned. I was, of course, deeply concerned myself.
August 14, 1953
Swami: So Mr. Jackson isn’t happy? (I told Swami of a traumatic experience Jackson had had as a child.) Yes; that could be it. Do you know what his real trouble is?
Me: No.
Swami: It is the outward tendency of his mind. The mind seeks enjoyment in the outside world. That is bound to bring frustration. It will go on and on. Only when the mind tunes inward to God do all those things clear up. The whole mind then becomes free.
It is a matter of prana [vital energy]—the energy goes into outward desires. Animals crave enjoyment; that is their whole life. Then there is the subhuman stage and the beginning of group life; the group makes laws that restrict the individual. If nature does not frustrate him, his own laws do. These frustrations twist the mind. Finally, man sees that there is no use in any of it and he stops striving for enjoyment through the senses. When that happens, no experience can affect his mind.
Look at people who are spiritual. Often they are poor, their bodies are sick, they go through miserable conditions, and yet they remain unaffected. It is not the experience itself that twists the mind, but the way one reacts towards it.
Me: Can’t psychiatry help a little in clearing things up?
Swami: No. To see the experience that brought about the trouble doesn’t help. The mind goes on the same way. What is one to do about it?
Me: I thought it might be like removing a cloud. Then one could turn to religion.
Swami: No. The terrible thing is that after discovering the cause of the trouble, it is still there. The person is the same person. But Jackson is a good person. He will be all right—sometimes happy, sometimes unhappy.
(Referring to my sister) How is Mrs. Jones?
Me: She is all right. She is coming to town today. She and her husband are going to Hollywood for a vacation.
Swami: What is it they have been doing in Los Gatos?
Me: Well, this will be a vacation within a vacation.
Swami (laughing): Do you see your position? If you had not become embroiled in Vedanta, you could be taking vacations within vacations—and the mind becomes vacant.
Me: The trouble is, it doesn’t; it stews.
Swami: No. It becomes vacant.
Me: My sister really has pulled herself out of that state she was in—or was pulled out of it. I think you helped her.
Swami: I am nothing. I haven’t the power to help people.
Me: Not even Sri Ramakrishna had the power to help people.
Swami (shocked): Who told you that? He helped everyone. He liberated people with a touch.
Me: Only those who were ready.
Swami: No. He helped everyone.
Me: Why doesn’t he do it now—for Jackson, for instance?
Swami: How do you know he doesn’t? Do you think God should do things the way you think they should be done? You want things in a hurry and think, therefore, that God should do them that way. That is cheap. It is blasphemy to think that God should act according to the way you think He should act.
Sri Ramakrishna helped everyone. A Divine Incarnation comes for the sake of the whole world. It is true that his special mission was to train a group of close disciples—those special few who came with him—so that they could spread his teachings to the world. He told Holy Mother to look after the people of Calcutta; he left them in her care. You know how he scolded Swamiji for wanting to spend the rest of his life in nirvikalpa samadhi [absorption in the Absolute; oneness with Brahman]. He said to him, “I didn’t know you were a small-minded person. I had hoped you would be like a great banyan tree under which people scorched by the world could seek shelter—and now you are thinking only of yourself.” Y
ou know the story of how he went to call Swamiji down to the earth. He said, “You must come! The whole world is burning in misery!”
You want things to happen your way. How do you know Jackson is not being helped? Go on praying. Do your part. You stand on a mountain peak and want to pull him up by force, drag him up over all the jagged rocks. That would tear him to pieces. The compassionate thing is to point out the path that slopes gently around the mountain.
He wants enjoyment, but pain is also enjoyment. You see it subjectively, but look at it objectively, as in a play. All emotions must be there. You would not want to have a dinner composed of nothing but dessert. Don’t you know that people enjoy their misery? If you take it away from them, they become more miserable. Pleasure and pain are both necessary to the mind—it thrives on them. To pull someone away quickly from the world is not good. The mind becomes blank. I have seen that happen. The mind loses its stimulus. You will have to learn these things.
(Mr. Clifton appeared in the doorway with an armload of maps.)
Swami (to me): All right, now. Please excuse me.
Despite all that Swami said, my heart still grieved over Jackson’s gloom.
4
SWINGING UP INTO FREEDOM
I used to meditate in the late afternoons in the Temple auditorium, sitting cross-legged before the huge oil painting of Sri Ramakrishna. My meditation was a bumpy procedure, frequently interrupted by a heart heavy with concern over Jackson, who used to phone me now and then from Brooklyn Heights, where he was then living. It was clear to me that he was depressed and perhaps lonely.
On some days, my entire meditation hour was filled with prayer to Sri Ramakrishna that he take care of Jackson, give him happiness. I never experienced a reassuring response to this request. On the contrary, I seemed to hear Sri Ramakrishna say quite firmly, “Why are you thinking of such things now? You have renounced all that. Meditate.”
I struggled to put my concern for Jackson out of my mind, but it seemed to hover in the Temple auditorium like a cloud, waiting. The moment I arranged myself before the altar, it descended upon me, dark and damp. I did not have the faith to simply place the problem in Sri Ramakrishna’s hands, knowing he would do whatever needed to be done. I wanted an answer, loud and clear—a flashing of brilliant light. Nothing happened.
Then, one afternoon, there came from the wall on my left, where hung of portrait of Sri Sarada Devi—the spiritual consort of Sri Ramakrishna, best known to her devotees as Holy Mother—there came not fireworks but a gentle whisper, “Ask me.” I turned to Holy Mother, knowing, as I should have known all along, that it was she who cared. I placed the problem before her mother’s heart and at once felt the weight of it lift from my own heart and mind. It was as though she had said, softly, simply, “Will I not take care of my child?”
After that, I no longer worried about Jackson’s state of mind. A few months later, I learned that he had married a cultured young woman who had every asset he could wish for, and, for all I knew, he lived happily ever after. I was free inside and out.
It never bothered me that in the monistic philosophy I believed in, there was room for prayer and answers to prayer. The level on which I lived and found to be real was a level on which God also lived and about which He—She—cared in abundant ways.
I did not tell Swami about my prayer, and it was years before I wanted to talk about it.
August 19, 1953
I came to the Temple at 10:00 p.m. after Dr. Chaudhuri’s class at the American Academy of Asian Studies. Swami was working in the library. Two tables were drawn together. As usual during these sessions, the tables were covered with plans and samples of tile, paint, and so forth. Helen, Kathleen, Mara, and Jo were present.
Swami (seeing me): Come in. (He showed me the designs of chandeliers for the auditorium and then the tile for the rest rooms.)
Mara: Oh, I wish I had a bathroom like that.
Swami (furiously): What would you do? Wallow in it? Have a clean bathroom and clean water. That is enough.
August 21, 1953
Mr. Allan’s funeral was held this morning. [Mr. Allan, a disciple of Swami Trigunatita, had been the president of the Vedanta Society of San Francisco when Swami Ashokananda arrived fresh from India in 1931. After a strained beginning, Mr. Allan came to deeply love and respect Swami Ashokananda and to support his work in every way.]
It was the first Vedantic funeral I have been to. It was very simple. There were no eulogies. Swami chanted from chapter 2 of the Gita in Sanskrit and translated the verses. He read Swamiji’s poem on Goodwin’s death. [J.J. Goodwin was a young Englishman who became Swami Vivekananda’s disciple and secretary in America, taking down his lectures in shorthand and transcribing them for publication. Most of Vivekananda’s Complete Works are due to Goodwin’s devoted service. He died in India, much to Swamiji’s shock and grief.]
Later, in Swami’s office
Swami: Well, did you like the funeral?
Me: Yes. It was beautiful. I hope I die soon, so I can have one.
Swami (smiling): Someday someone will say services over me. Or maybe no one will. Maybe I will die alone by some mountain stream.
Me: However it is, I hope I die first.
Swami (kindly): Oh, no. Remember that the soul never dies. Always remember that the soul never dies. Well. That is that.
(He looked at temple plans and then at catalogues of bathroom fixtures. I took courage and interrupted to explain my theory of a silent toilet. This required diagrams.)
Me: I had them at the house on Chestnut Street.
Swami: What make were they?
Me: Oh, I don’t know. Well, maybe Kohler and Kohler.
Swami: You are so unobservant. When you look at something you should see the whole thing—everything about it at a glance.
Me (getting up): I think I will go downtown to buy a coat.
Swami: All right. Better luck this time.
Mara, Kathleen, and I went downtown. I bought a coat. When we returned, Swami was in his office talking to Ediben. I stood in the doorway with the coat box.
Swami: Let us see it. Take it out of the box.
Ediben (laughing): Which one is this?
Me: Number six. (Laughter.)
Swami: That is all right. Nothing great is accomplished without a lot of commotion. (I modeled the coat. There was much discussion among devotees as to its pros and cons.) Keep it and wear it. Later you can buy another coat if you find this one doesn’t suit the purpose. People will turn around and say, “Vedantists dress very smartly. My!”
Me: My brother-in-law thinks Vedantists look very stylish. He said he didn’t see any signs of renunciation here. Everyone looked as though they had come straight out of I. Magnin [San Francisco’s most expensive store for women’s clothing]. (Swami laughed and put his head in his hands, as though chagrined.)
Swami (thinking of Mr. Allan): Life here is misery. We will never, never see him again. Each soul goes its own way. Anyhow, Sri Ramakrishna said that he would stand by all his devotees at their dying hour. That is certain. Holy Mother said that he gave his word. He also gave his word that none of his devotees would ever lack the bare necessities of life.
People who are growing old try to act like callow youths. Nothing could be more disgusting. If people as they grow older would sit back quietly, then others would see that they have really a vitality and vigor; their eyes would shine with an unquenchable and ever new youth and fullness from within. Well, I won’t go on; I shouldn’t talk about it until my own eyes shine.
Ediben: They never do anything else.
Swami (to Ediben, who was worrying about her daughter, Anne): How old is she now?
Ediben: Twenty-six.
Swami: Isn’t she a little old and large for you to still carry in your womb?
Ediben: It is uncomfortable.
Swami: You a
ll should have your dinner now. Go and have your dinner.
Me (upon leaving): You have trained me so well, Swami, to take the keys out of my car, that I took them out when I parked in a garage. They charged me $2.25 for having to move the car.
Swami (sternly): You will also learn to leave them in when you park in a garage. You will also learn that there are parking lots where you park the car yourself and take the keys. You will learn all those different things. (Smiling) That is civilization.
August 22, 1953
Swami (on his way upstairs): You look very happy. You must like the coat.
Me: No, I don’t think I like it very much. I am happy anyhow.
Swami: Good. That is true happiness.
I decided I did not like the coat at all and took a bus downtown to Saks, where I returned it and finally found a coat I liked. This I took back to the Temple and left in its box, after modeling it for Mara, Jo, and Kathleen. Swami was not downstairs. I did not go to the Temple that evening but learned later that everyone wanted to show Swami the coat. He said, “No, let her show it herself.”
Swami liked the coat; I kept it and wore it for many years.
August 24, 1953
Miriam Kennedy told Swami that Mr. Allan’s relatives, who had come from the South to attend his funeral, were very much impressed by the concern and consideration Mrs. Allan’s Vedantic friends showed her. One man said that his faith in human nature was restored and that no one he knew—not one of his friends—would show such kindness.
Swami (looking out the window, to himself): In the long run that is the important thing. (To us) It is genuine feeling that people appreciate. If you feel for them, they will listen to philosophy. If you don’t feel for them and yet talk philosophy, they won’t listen; it will even seem repugnant to them.
Later that day
Me: I have been reading a review of the Kinsey Report in Life magazine.
Swami: What did you learn from it?