A Disciple's Journal: In the Company of Swami Ashokananda

by Sister Gargi

  Swami: No. Your mind should be directly in God all the time. I thought you were writing about the past. Are you waiting until you have forgotten everything?

  Me: I have forgotten so much!

  Swami (disgustedly): Then just forget the whole thing.

  Me: What I am writing now in my journal will someday be about the past, and that is how I will remember it.

  That evening

  There had been an earthquake a day or two earlier. Several devotees in the back office were talking about it as an inexorable force over which we have no control.

  Swami: When even the earth gives way, there is nothing one can do.

  Me: Earthquakes don’t convince me. I have never been in a bad one. I am always sure they will stop, and they always have.

  Luke: Swami, isn’t any tremendous display of energy terrifying? Arjuna [the hero of the Bhagavad Gita], for instance, could not stand the vision of the Universal Form, it was so tremendous. There was fear and awe.

  Swami: No. It is not fear one feels—awe, yes—but that vision, tremendous as it is, is not foreign to oneself. One doesn’t feel fear exactly.

  If one feels oneself separate from the body, these things [such as earthquakes] don’t matter at all. One feels no fear. Even if twenty hydrogen bombs should burst over one’s head it would not matter. What happens to the world is not important. People will sometimes be good and sometimes bad; sometimes they will be happy and sometimes they will suffer. It will always be like that. If Swamiji were here he would rebuke me for saying that—he had such feeling for the sufferings of others. But Swamiji also said the world is like a dog’s curly tail [intractable].

  The conversation somehow got around to a discussion of how this world is the only place in which spiritual progress can be made. With the exception of Brahmaloka [the highest divine realm], from which one can attain the Absolute, the other worlds are for enjoyment only.

  Me: Devotees are supposed to see Sri Ramakrishna at the moment of death. Isn’t that the same as the vision of God, and wouldn’t it bring liberation?

  Swami: Yes, it is the vision of God, to the extent that Sri Ramakrishna wants it to be. He comes to lead the soul to Ramakrishna-loka [a realm of joy and meditation], not necessarily to liberate the soul.

  Me (deflated): Oh. (Laughter.)

  Swami (sternly): Why talk about liberation? If God wanted to give it to you, you would run away in horror. “No! No!”

  Me: Won’t people get caught by the attractiveness of the higher lokas and forget all about wanting to be liberated?

  Swami: Do you know everyone’s mind?

  Me: How do you mean?

  Swami: Do you know how everyone feels about liberation? The desire for liberation in some people is so great that the lokas do not interest them at all; they seem unreal.

  May 5, 1959

  A great deal of discussion went on at the new temple about the base of the altar, but nothing was decided. Of one model I said loudly, flatly, and without being asked: “I think it is absolutely terrible.” Swami gave me a prolonged glare. There was also some discussion about the chair for Swami on the platform. Helen had had a sample chair made, but Ediben said its legs looked too feminine. Helen, very cross over this, retorted with her most damning expletive, “You are a hasty pudding!”

  Later that day

  Speaking of a Divine Incarnation, Swami said, “The whole world can become that Divinity—in which there is no limitation; you can drown yourself in it.” He went on to say, “I have never seen any contradiction between jnana and devotion. Only Spirit can truly love Spirit. Pour out your love without seeking anything in return. As long as you seek things for yourself, there will be reserve. There is so much wisdom, love, and joy in the soul, and so little of it has come out.”

  Devotee: It is a pity.

  Swami: It is a catastrophe, too. It is as though you had sent a very intelligent boy to school and he got C’s and D’s.

  Power is the thing. Power must come out from the soul. Then nothing seems too great to accomplish. People who go to fake yogis, swamis, spiritualists, and so on are ruined for Vedanta. Their mind goes off in all directions. It is like erosion; nothing can stop it once it gets started—nothing.

  Sri Ramakrishna has promised that he will come for his devotees at death. That doesn’t necessarily mean liberation, but one’s next life will probably be better.

  Me (laughing): Probably? My, there is no guarantee anywhere.

  Swami (looking at me sternly and then relenting): I can tell you this: You will have at the utmost two or three more lives. Isn’t that better than having thousands more? Isn’t that guarantee enough?

  Me: Yes, that is certainly enough. That is wonderful.

  Nancy: Is that absolutely certain?

  Swami: Yes, certain. Those who have taken refuge in Sri Ramakrishna will have at the most two or three more lives. Moreover, I feel sure—it is my conviction—that those who have been devotees in this life will be born much further ahead in their next life, much further ahead.

  May 6, 1959

  When I write of the stories that Swami tells us about the great disciples of Sri Ramakrishna, little incidents, it does not sound like much. When he tells the story, though, the whole atmosphere of it comes alive, and we can feel the tremendous power of those direct disciples and their intense humanness. “They are proof of the existence of God,” Swami has said. “Such infinite love and infinite kindness in a human being is proof that God exists.”

  Today Swami enchanted us with stories of his days of training under Swami Brahmananda at the monastery in Madras. Swami Brahmananda’s attendant, Swami Nirvanananda, cooked for him at Madras, unleavened bread and vegetables. Waiting for his dinner, Swami Brahmananda would get hungry and come to watch the food being prepared. Once Swami Nirvanananda allowed something extraneous, like a matchstick, to fall in the vegetables. Swami Brahmananda was angry at this carelessness and told him, “Don’t cook for me anymore!” So for several days Swami Nirvanananda sat very quietly while someone else did the cooking. He just sat silently without resentment or fuss. “We watched this going on with great amusement,” Swami Ashokananda said. “We knew that Swami Brahmananda would relent.” In a moment, he added, “Ah ha ha! Those days have gone forever.”

  13

  RICHES

  May 7, 1959

  For many months Swami has talked to us every night in the back office, sometimes until after midnight. All kinds of subjects are discussed. If I could remember one-tenth of what he says I would be well off, for I haven’t read or heard these things anywhere else. Once in a while I jot down notes. A few jottings represent an entire evening’s conversation in which there are riches galore. Those riches sink into me and into everyone present, but I feel they should be captured on paper. I am restless and ill at ease—as though something were happening that has never happened before, something that will be lost if it is not written down.

  One morning a week or so ago when I drove Swami to Mr. Shinn’s studio, Swami told me to meditate while I waited in the car. He said he would probably be gone about an hour if Mr. Shinn was in a good mood and he could work with him; but if Mr. Shinn was in a bad mood, Swami would not stay long. I meditated for half an hour or so, feeling sure that I would hear Swami when he returned and opened the car door.

  It was not a very intense or deep meditation, but there was an undercurrent of peace and light about it. Suddenly I heard a gentle, almost inaudible, knocking on the car door. I looked up and there, about twenty feet away from the car on the side of the road, was Swami. He could not have knocked. He was standing very straight and still, the picture of patience. I had no idea how long he had been there, just waiting for me to finish meditating. If I had not opened my eyes for another hour, I think he still would not have disturbed me.

  “But, Swami,” I said after he was in the car, “my meditation isn’t wort
h that; it can be interrupted any time.”

  “Never mind,” Swami said.

  May 8, 1959

  As we drove home from the daily visit to Mr. Shinn’s, Swami suddenly turned to me.

  Swami: Marie Louise, are you growing tired of me?

  Me: Of course not, Swami—how could you think such a thing? (After a pause) But last night I felt for the first time that I was tired of Vedanta.

  Swami: What made you feel that?

  Me: It was during the lecture. I looked around and everybody seemed so wan. I wondered what they thought they were doing. I have never felt like that before. It was as though some light had faded.

  Swami (smiling): You are being poetic about it, but in spiritual life there are periods like that when one must be very cautious. The mind can suddenly turn to the world. Not only will the mind be drawn to the world, but also Vedanta will seem all wrong. Then loyalty is the only thing that can save one.

  Me: But if one should feel that Vedanta is all wrong, then loyalty to it would also seem wrong.

  Swami: “Better death than to betray one’s word.”

  To illustrate this saying, Swami told me the story from the Ramayana. Queen Kaikeyi had nursed her husband, King Dasa-ratha, back to life after he had been wounded in battle, so he granted her two boons. Kaikeyi (his second wife) asked him for the extraordinary boon to make her son, Bharata, the heir apparent to the throne and to banish the king’s firstborn son and natural heir, Rama. The king was thunderstruck, but he had given his word. Rama, too, insisted that the king keep his word and prepared to go into exile. The people of the kingdom were grief stricken at the loss of Rama, and King Dasaratha died brokenhearted. When Bharata himself offered Rama the throne, Rama insisted that Bharata keep his father’s word and run the kingdom, while he, Rama, went into exile.

  I drove slowly down Filbert Street as Swami told me this story. He made it vivid and gave many details. We arrived at the Temple and I parked at the corner. Swami went on to tell me how Bharata, rather than rule himself, had installed Rama’s slippers on the throne and worshipped them. As Swami was saying this he suddenly stopped in midsentence. He was unable to speak. I didn’t know what was the matter. Then, again, he started to tell about the slippers—and again he stopped as tears came into his eyes. In a moment he went on as if nothing had happened. I have never known him to do anything like that before. Was it because he was moved by Bharata’s devotion to Rama? Then he went on to say that one’s word must be kept and loyalty did not know reason; it was blind. “Loyalty to the guru is the saving thing.” He got out of the car in a little while with all his usual vigor, and I put the car away.

  In his office Swami was looking at the pictures of Holy Mother’s statue and nothing seemed wrong. He told me about a student who had remained with Swami Bodhananda at the Vedanta Society of New York after almost everyone else had followed Swami Nikhilananda to a new center in Manhattan. She remained faithful to Swami Bodhananda throughout his lifetime and even remained faithful to Swami Bodhananda’s successor, Swami Pavitrananda—faithful to that Vedanta Society until she died.

  Me: Will I have to go through a period in which Vedanta means nothing?

  Swami: There is no reason why you should, but there is always that possibility. A river isn’t always in full flood; sometimes it is just a trickle. One must watch the mind. I have noticed lately that if I don’t do just what you want, you flare up. That is not good.

  Me (embarrassed): It is only momentary, when I am tired.

  Swami: Yes, I know, but the mind makes use of the slightest thing.

  July 7, 1959

  Swami asked me to come to the new temple. Dorothy Peters and Anna Webster were working on the plaster cast of Swamiji—adding plaster to the cheeks to fill them out, widening the face, then smoothing the plaster, scraping it off and adding more. Swami was also working on the plaster cast, to the horror of Dorothy and Anna, though Swami himself looked vastly pleased and amused. He smoothed the wet plaster with his fingers. Someone handed him a tool. “You people,” he said, “always have to use tools for everything instead of your hands. You have to eat with tools. If you did not have knives and forks, you would use the ferrule of your umbrella.”

  As Swami went on he became more and more expert. Absorbed in his work—scraping, leaning back to look, taking off a little here, showing where more should be added there—he was enjoying himself with complete confidence and self-assurance. “I feel very bold,” he said. “Can you imagine how bold we are? Mr. Shinn [then in Washington, D.C.] must be squirming.”

  The next day, and for several days following, he was back working for hours on Swamiji’s statue with Dorothy and Anna, but only on the cheeks and chin, not on the more delicate and tricky features, such as eyes, lips, and nose; nonetheless it was a terrifying business. As I watched I felt the statue was becoming more like Swamiji, more manly and mature. It would have taken Swami at least four months to persuade Mr. Shinn to make these changes. I myself had always wished Swami would just take a tool in hand and go ahead, and here he is doing it. Swami’s sculpting, of course must remain a deep and dark secret.

  Swami Nikhilananda was here on his way to Honolulu to attend the East-West Philosophers’ Conference. He knew from my name that I had written about Swami Vivekananda and he said a few complimentary things, but he did not seem to remember that I had been in New York.

  One night Swami Ashokananda pried out from Sally Martin that Swami Nikhilananda had criticized him to her while she was in India, and he made her tell him what Swami Nikhilananda had said. It was largely to the effect that Swami Ashokananda, a promising writer, had failed to write any books.

  “Why should that upset you so much?” Swami asked Sally. “There are worse things than that. And why should I have worked intellectually? What is there in that? You should have said to him, ‘Swami, I do not remember having read in the Vedantic scriptures that one can realize God through the intellect.’ My work here has been to build up the Society, so I have done that; I have done whatever the work called for. Actually, I did not write very much when I was in India, but whatever I wrote was because of my work there.”

  Later that day

  Swami: We are never given the choice of avoiding suffering. Never. Neither God, nor life, nor our own selves will permit it. Good people turn suffering to advantage; bad people get caught in it so that it leads to more suffering. That is the only difference.

  July 8, 1959

  The bronze statue of Sri Ramakrishna arrived at the new temple from the Brooklyn foundry toward the end of June. I first saw it the night of June 28 and was bowled over. It seemed to me that Sri Ramakrishna himself was sitting there, and the tears started to flow down my cheeks. The statue was so lifelike and had such an effect on me that I could not look at it critically, observing what was right or wrong, as Swami wanted us to do.

  July 9, 1959

  Swami talked with us in the back office, as usual, until late. In the auditorium the choir was rehearsing for the dedication ceremony. Swami enjoyed their singing so we opened the door of the back office to hear the music, which sounded like Gregorian chant. After the rehearsal, some of the singers stood in the doorway as Swami talked of Swami Premananda [a direct disciple of Sri Ramakrishna] and of how extraordinary he was—so full of love that one felt one could tell him anything and that he would understand; he would never forsake one, no matter what one had done.

  “It is only when Divine Incarnations come that such great souls come to earth—that is our chance to see what they are like,” Swami said. “How else could one know what human beings can be, what heights they can reach? One cannot imagine it without seeing them.”

  A kind of breathless wonder comes into the room whenever Swami talks about the great disciples; one catches something of Swami’s own wonder and love as he recalls them.

  July 10, 1959

  Swami (to a devotee): They say there ar
e one hundred nerves that converge upon the heart. One of these nerves leads to Brahman. One must find that nerve and travel along it. I do not know about the one hundred nerves, but I know that there is that one nerve. A friend of mine [probably Swami himself] told me that every time he sat for meditation, his mind would at once go deep, within thirty seconds. It was as though he were entering a tunnel of light. The light seemed to be coming from the end of the tunnel; it was like looking through a long tunnel toward the sun. He would travel along that tunnel that led to Brahman. You must find that tunnel, that nerve. One cannot force the experience; it just happens.

  July 12, 1959

  Swami was recalling his high school and college days. He told us how he pushed his mind to see Brahman everywhere every minute of his waking hours, breaking all his old patterns of thought. After several years that way of thinking became a natural state with him; he no longer had to force his mind. He actually saw Brahman everywhere.

  Swami: One cannot retain that state and work at the same time. One cannot build temples and all that. That is why there is the tradition in India that monks should not work.

  Devotee: Yet the path of karma yoga [selfless work] is supposed to lead to the highest.

  Swami: Yes, that is true, but there are different types of karma yoga. In advanced states one should do a different kind of work. Just as there are different stages of bhakti yoga [path of devotion], so there are different stages of karma yoga. It is still work, but it is not building temples and attending to all such kinds of things.

  August 7, 1959

  In the back office, Swami was speaking of the Divine Mother and of how the whole universe was really She.

  Swami: I once saw the whole universe as the tremendous, tumultuous play of living energy. That is the way things really are—everything is the tumultuous and joyous play of living energy, both good and evil.