by Sister Gargi
Only when I came to know Swami Ashokananda did I see the ocean of selflessness for the first time. My only thought was “Oh! That’s it.” I did not pinpoint characteristics such as generosity, charitableness, and kindness. There were no overlays, good or bad; there was just a being whose only need and desire was to help others. He was not merely unselfish—there was just no self, no ego to affirm or to efface. Out of that emptiness, that Buddhistic void, came a strength and a wisdom without shadows or doubts. This was true selflessness.
I do not want to sound partial or fanatical, but next to that ocean of revealed selflessness the goodly people of my former acquaintance seemed like dewdrops—however lovable, admirable, deserving of praise, and necessary to the ongoing dance of civilization. Even in thinking of his own eventual death, Swami Ashokananda’s only concern was the effect it would have on his students.
January 8, 1956
Last week when I was sitting in Swami’s office, he said, apropos of his not finishing the new temple, “I don’t think I will die soon, but my health is so uncertain that I must think of that possibility.”
Then he went on to say, “You must carry on. Perhaps you think that a new swami won’t make a place for you. But don’t worry about that. Sri Ramakrishna will make a place for you. This is his house. It does not belong to any one swami. Always remember that. Don’t worry. The only reason people are left out is because they themselves become bothersome. They want to push themselves forward because of their own ego. Work for Sri Ramakrishna and Swamiji. Of course, sometimes a surreptitious ego enters that work also, but it is harmless. Work on; you will see that a place is made for you. Don’t worry about that. Your work will go on.”
I said that I didn’t worry about that so much; I worried about not having him in my life.
“There will be greater swamis than me,” he replied. “That is impossible,” I said. Knowing he would object, I hurriedly added, “Even so, you are my guru.” Swami agreed, “Yes, that is so, but Sri Ramakrishna will take care of that too.”
Swami still takes me driving through Golden Gate Park almost every day. Ediben says she can practically feel and see the healing power he is pouring over me.
So many wonderful things I hear every day both on rides and at the Temple. I should have a miniature recording machine like Luke’s, or else a good memory.
January 9, 1956
Swami took me to the Vedanta Retreat at Olema along with Ediben. I took a walk alone. It was misty and God seemed to be brooding over the whole 2,000 acres.
January 12, 1956
Today on a drive Swami said (speaking of one of the devotees), “A person who has been good all his life becomes fearless, not only because he has a sense that what he does is right, but because he has literally become in tune with the moral law—the cosmic law.”
January 19, 1956
Swami went to Sacramento today. Before he left he called me into his office and spoke very severely about the fact that I am having dinner with Leila, my sister, tonight at Clay Street, the family home where Leila and her husband are living.
Swami (sternly): You are making a regular habit of that. Why are you doing that? You will get a liking for domesticity. You will want a home and a husband. It is one thing if you want a little religion and a domestic life; but if you want to make religion your whole life, you must exercise extreme caution. A little chink will come in the dam, then another little chink—you will think it is nothing, but the whole dam will be washed away.
(I made numerous excuses about how I had not had dinner at Clay Street last week, and about how Leila didn’t like to eat alone.)
Swami: You are no longer your sister’s guardian.
Me: You mean I want to be cozy.
Swami: Yes.
Me: I sometimes feel like that.
Swami: I know you do. (He strode from his office.)
January 21, 1956
Yesterday, a newel post was being placed in the balcony of the new temple. Swami wondered if it could be seen above the balcony rail from the auditorium. Ediben and Anna went to look. They came back and reported, “Yes, it can be seen about one-half inch from the very front of the auditorium.” “How much can be seen from the platform?” Swami asked. Ediben and Anna had not gone up onto the platform.
I took note of this little story because of the fine anger it brought out in Swami, the glaring and the scolding and, finally, the striding off, like a wind rushing by and down the stairs to see for himself. That striding—erect, purposeful, and so fast! There is not room enough for it in the Old Temple.
Driving through the park later with Ediben at the wheel, Swami said, “Sometimes as we drive I have a small flash of memory, a feeling the same as when I was a student in India. I would take walks for hours and hours in a sort of ecstasy. A tiny spark of that comes back like a flash.”
He turned to me in the back seat and said, “Would you believe it, Marie Louise? I was a poet in those days.” I said I believed it, and that he was still a poet.
In February of 1956, Swami Ashokananda was anticipating the coming visit of Swami Madhavananda (the general secretary of the Ramakrishna Order) and his traveling companion, Swami Nirvanananda. He wondered what Swami Madhavananda would think of the changes that had been made since he had been here in 1929; he wondered how the weather would be, and if the swamis would be comfortable. He was anxious about their visit, as though Sri Ramakrishna and Swami Vivekananda themselves were coming to inspect the work.
There was, perhaps, good reason for Swami’s apprehension. A journal entry of mine explained the situation. When the Sacramento temple became a branch of the Vedanta Society of Northern California in 1952, Swami Ashokananda wrote to Swami Shankarananda, the president of the Order, to inform him about it. His letter mentioned that he was sure Sri Ramakrishna wanted the Sacramento temple. The president showed the letter to Swami Madhavananda, the general secretary, who became furious and sent a harsh letter back to Swami Ashokananda in which he wrote sarcastically of “esoteric reasons” (referring to Swami Ashokananda’s allusion to Sri Ramakrishna’s wish). In turn, Swami Ashokananda wrote a scathing reply to Swami Madhavananda. This heated correspondence continued back and forth for some time.
Probably because of this controversy (at least, this may have been one reason), Swami Madhavananda came to San Francisco in 1956 with a sour mind, determined not to like anything.
On Wednesday, February 29, Swami Madhavananda and Swami Nirvanananda flew directly to San Francisco from Los Angeles, where they had been the guests of Swami Prabhavananda at the Vedanta Society of Southern California. Brought from the airport to the Temple, they stood unsmiling in the downstairs hall. They wore dark gray Nehru jackets, and in the dim light their faces looked ashen, stonelike. Swami Ashokananda introduced me to them. I did not know enough to make pranams (to touch their feet)—and Swami did not tell me to. Perhaps, because they were accustomed to this Hindu gesture of respect everywhere they went, the lack of it offended them. I don’t remember what I said or what they said, but it was clear to me that they had come full of criticism. I remember that I went home and cried.
The next week everything that could go wrong went wrong. The visiting swamis immediately declared that the food prepared for them was not right. When they were driven over the Golden Gate Bridge to see Olema, the car was stopped for speeding. Its registration card was made out to a business in San Jose, and the clear implication was that these dark-skinned people had stolen it. Somehow, Al Clifton, who was driving, placated the police officer and they drove on to Olema, which Swami Madhavananda found to be much too big—unnecessarily big. Sacramento was also an unnecessary expansion, he thought. Shanti Ashrama (a holy retreat in the San Antone Valley)—well, it was Swami Vivekananda’s acquisition, but the day of the swamis’ visit it was cold and rainy and altogether miserable. The temple under construction in San Francisco was far too substantial, as though built to
last hundreds of years. (“It is not temples that are needed,” the general secretary said with cold disapproval to Ediben. “It is devotees.” And Ediben, barely hiding her fury, had replied, “But, sir, how can there be devotees without temples for them to come to?”) In Swami Madhavananda’s eyes, the Berkeley center was just as unnecessary as that of Sacramento. I don’t remember whether or not the swamis were driven to Lake Tahoe; but if they were, they probably viewed the place with stony, unaccepting eyes. And all the while Swami Ashokananda’s heart was breaking. Some said later that he acted like a little boy in the presence of stern, faultfinding mentors.
Early on two things happened that softened, if not changed, the whole picture. First, the day after the swamis arrived they were given a dinner in the commodious house which then served as a convent, and afterward there was a reception. Many devotees were present, all of them enthusiastic and eager. Questions about Holy Mother, Swami Brahmananda, Swami Shivananda, Swami Premananda, and other direct disciples of Sri Ramakrishna flowed out, obviously with great devotion. Swami Madha-vananda’s replies, at first stiff, then increasingly warm, were listened to with eagerness, and slowly his face visibly changed. It became smooth and rounded; he began to smile, and by the time the reception was over, he was a different man altogether. He seemed now like the gracious spiritual swami we had heard of—no longer was he an unyielding chunk of granite, from which no light had seemed to emanate. He even gave his blessings to the budding convent (an act that he would later forget).
The second event that wrought a change was a question-and-answer class the following evening, presided over by Swami Madhavananda in the auditorium of the Temple. The questions were written beforehand and presented earlier that day to the swamis. Suddenly, Swami Nirvanananda came running downstairs to the first floor, a bunch of papers in his hand. He rushed into Swami Ashokananda’s office. “Look!” He cried, “These questions! So thoughtful! So brilliant! They show a real understanding of Vedanta. So many questions, all of them keen and intelligent!” I do not remember what Swami Ashokananda said in reply; perhaps he just smiled. In any case, the class that evening was a great success. Swami Madhavananda answered the questions with warmth and as though they were worth answering.
And so, having seen with their own eyes that the devotees in San Francisco were not only true devotees but brainy and knowledgeable, and that Al Clifton, as he said, was a true monk, Swami Madhavananda and Swami Nirvanananda completed their visit with a very different attitude than they had had when they arrived. Later, word got back to Swami Ashokananda that Swami Madhavananda had said in Seattle that real work on a deep level was being done in San Francisco, and that in India he had remarked, “There is no one who can take Swami Ashokananda’s place.” Later, in an unguarded moment on a visit to San Francisco, Swami Pavitrananda mentioned that Swami Madhavananda had said to him in New York, “Never again will I listen to anyone else’s opinion; I will see for myself!” “Ah?” Swami Ashokananda inquired, “You mean to say that he listened to Swami Prabhavananda?” Swami Pavitrananda bit his tongue and was silent.
Swami Madhavananda’s retrospective kind and understanding words went far to console Swami Ashokananda. Still, the stress of that visit had gone very deep. Swami Ashokananda was sick afterward and never fully regained his health. Though the work went on with the same vigor and confidence as before, never again did I hear him laugh with the same carefree wholeheartedness that had earlier echoed through the downstairs rooms of the Temple.
In April of 1956 we had sent the first installment of New Discoveries to the publication office of Advaita Ashrama for typesetting. On July 3, 1956, we sent the last installment—except for the epilogue and a long reflective essay for the close of chapter 4 that discussed, among other topics, Swami Vivekananda’s reasons for coming to America. I started to work on the essay at Lake Tahoe in late July, and the first draft was huge. Swami Ashokananda had supplied me with a vast amount of new research material, which, so far as I could see, had no relation to the themes at hand.
I had arrived at Tahoe that summer in a state of exhaustion. Swami Akhilananda, who was visiting, pleaded with Swami Ashokananda to let me rest for at least one day; but Swami Ashokananda felt—rightly, I think—that if I lay down, the book would disintegrate beyond all restoration. So I wrote on in a more or less comatose state. The words, once so halting, now flowed in a mindless, turgid flood onto the pages. The result was not only voluminous; it was endlessly boring. “It needs condensing,” Swami said. “Reduce eighty pages to twenty.”
For the rest of the summer and fall I scrapped the eighty-odd pages and started over, trying to make sense in my own mind of the themes to be tackled and pounded into comprehensive shape. For the most part this mental battle was fought while I lay sprawled face down and balanced rather precariously on the top railing of Ediben’s porch, much to her amusement. Once I had the squirming combatant limp in my hands, I would move to the kitchen table and pin him onto paper. Slowly, agonizingly, the reflective essay took shape throughout the rest of 1956 and the early part of 1957.
I was so busy throughout 1956 writing the book that my journal contains very few entries recording the conversations that we had as a group with Swami Ashokananda about spiritual life. What follows are two of the best.
Durga Puja Festival, October 22, 1956
Swami: Do you feel inclined to work or to go to Berkeley [for the puja] this afternoon?
Me: I don’t feel particularly inclined to work, but I don’t feel inclined to go to Berkeley either.
Swami: Why not?
Me: I don’t understand worship.
Swami: What do you feel like doing?
Me: I don’t know—maybe rest.
Swami: Or are you thinking of Los Gatos?
Me: No. But last night I was looking at some family pictures with Jo [my dinner guest] because she wanted to see a photograph of my mother. There were also many of me in various stages of growth.
Swami: When the devotees get together, they ruin one another! Mother, father, sisters, brothers, husbands . . . I suppose Jo has told you about her husband. All worldly talk!
Me: Yes, she has told me a little about him.
Swami (disgusted): What hope is there for any of you?
Me: Looking at the pictures, I really didn’t feel—
Swami (very cross and severe): Just listen to what I tell you. You are not my colleague! You can still learn something from me.
With this, Swami got up and went into the back office, leaving me unable to move for a while. Tears flowed. I pulled myself together and went into the back office where Swami was talking with the devotees.
Elna: I always like these puja days.
Swami: It is idolatry. When you find the externals very pleasant, you don’t go within. That is what happens to a religion. You will always find that when a great deal of attention is given to externals, the religion is beginning to degenerate. Its inner strength is gone.
Elna: Still, there is something about the external worship that is very uplifting.
Swami: Then you know better than I. Very good.
Elna: I didn’t mean to contradict you, Swami. I just wanted to get my thinking straight.
Swami: You heard what I said about it—but of course you can think as you like. If you think this kind of day has something special about it, that is because you don’t want to make the effort to think of every day as God’s day. Every day is special. God is everywhere—always.
October 27, 1956
I came this evening to Swami’s office to show him what I have done on the book, but the conversation took an unexpected turn.
Me: Do you feel better, Swami?
Swami (making a wry face and shaking his head): No. I am an old man now. I am on the decline.
Me (not accepting this): Swami, there is something I don’t understand. You are working for Sri Ramakrishna and Swamiji—why don’t
they keep you well?
Swami: Do you think they should guarantee that I stay healthy because I am doing their work?
Me: Well, they should.
Swami: You are being childish about it. God has His ways that can’t be understood from an ordinary standpoint.
Me: They are odd ways.
Swami: For many years I have had the energy to do the work.
Me: But evidently Sri Ramakrishna wants you to do more. You should have the energy to do it. Otherwise, it is cruel.
Swami: Don’t be childish! Besides, how do you know Sri Ramakrishna wants me to do more?
Me: You have said yourself that there is a lot to finish.
Swami: That doesn’t mean Sri Ramakrishna wants me to finish it. Perhaps he wants someone else to do it. God has reasons for doing what He does.
Me: Do you understand them?
Swami: You see, there has to be a sort of transitional period. Through suffering, one turns away from the desire to do this and that. The soul seeks the Formless. One has to reach a higher state.
Me: For people like me, suffering is necessary—but why for you?
Swami: No, for me too. Even Swamiji had to go through a transition period; it was even more necessary for him. Don’t you see, he was a world teacher; he wanted to help everyone, not just a few people. His desire to help was so strong! Think of the force of that desire—there had to be a period during which his mind turned away from the world. People needing his help began to seem unreal to him; his mind reached toward the Formless. Toward the end of his life, Swamiji used to recite a verse from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad that Brahman alone is real.
Me: But he had nirvikalpa samadhi all along.
Swami: Yes, but his desire to help the world held him here. Before he left, he must have been assured that what he had done was enough for hundreds of years. I don’t think Swamiji would have left this world if he hadn’t known that.