Evolution of Love 2

Karmic cycle

Now she went into a wild bhava, she herself darkened and the structure of her head became noticeably different.

The bhava was somehow secretive, in-drawn, particularly when she began, with accelerating speed, to pull off each petal, one by one. When, finally; she had pulled off the last petal she held the dahlia by its stalk, fingered the golden centre, and then for a long time gazed at this with the most rapt and delicate attention. Had she, I wondered, made the connection between what she had just done, and an incident recorded by her beloved disciple, Bhaiji? The Almora ashram, after all, was built beside Bhaiji's last resting place, his samadhi, in 1937:

One day at the ashram, Sri Ma took a flower and plucking away all its petals, said to me: "Many of your samskaras, psychic traces, have dropped away and many more will fall off like the petals of this flower, till I shall remain as your main prop, just like the one stalk of this flower. Do you understand?, saying this, she began to laugh. I enquired: "Ma, how can I reach that state."
She replied: "Every day remember this once: you need not do anything else."

One of the morning speakers that season in Almora was an eminent and powerful monk who headed the Shankaracharya Math in Bombay; A very tall and imposing figure with bald head, bull neck and ash-smeared brow, he was an intimidating presence on his dais in the centre of the hall, while Anandamayi was seated well to one side, taking no part at all in the proceedings.

She was in a restive mood, looking about her, apparently not listening to what the monk was saying. He was lecturing on Vedanta, larding his words with formidable Sanskrit terminology in a somewhat hectoring tone.
Playing with the string of a flower garland, very casually, almost in an absent-minded aside, Mataji interjected a one-sentence remark, addressing the Swami respectfully as Pitaji father, but in the lightest of tones. The Swami stopped in mid-sentence, paused, looked down and suddenly burst into tears.


To everyone's astonishment the giant monk just crumpled before our very eyes. With a word to an attendant, Mataji swept the girls of the ashram school into bhajans and everyone joined in. The mood relaxed, the Swami regained his composure and was soon rattling on. What had touched him to the quick nobody could tell.

During satsang in Varanasi about 50 of us were gathered while Mataji listened to someone talking. In the background, down below in the courtyard, two men were talking, their voices rising in a crescendo until they were bellowing angrily at each other. Hitherto, no row had ever erupted during any of my stays in the ashram.
The noise was now beginning to wreck the peaceful atmosphere in the hall. Mataji looked at me, beckoned an attendant to her side and sent him over to speak to me. Would I, he whispered please go and stop the argument. I had no alternative but to do as I was bidden. I went down to the yard and found that the row was between the senior Swami and Mataji's brother.

It suddenly dawned on me why I in particular had been selected to remonstrate with the culprits.
The plain fact was, I realised, I could not speak their language, nor could they mine! Thus are the winning ways of Anandamayi! She knew I would not become ensnared in the karmic net of other men's disputes and that everyone's self-esteem would remain intact. It ended with both protagonists reduced to helpless laughter by my futile remonstrations.

One drowsy afternoon at Vindhyachal there were very few people about; nothing stirred. Up on her balcony; Anandamayi was having her hair carefully combed by an attendant who had just washed it. A young doctor from Allahabad came to take his leave. "What train do you intend taking?" Mataji enquired.
The doctor indicated which one. "And where will you change trains to get the Allahabad connection?" Mataji persisted. The young man gave a seemingly reasoned reply; but this did not satisfy Mataji and she questioned him further concerning his connection, suggesting with some emphasis that he not take the train he had first proposed, but the alternative which she was now proposing.
She was most meticulous about this, yet the doctor just could not see any logic in her suggestion. Mataji was not looking at him, her head bent to the comb as it was passed through her hair. Selecting a long strand, she tautened it as she talked.

The eyes of all three of us were now fixed on the strand of hair. Holding it in her right hand she began, very slowly; with the most attentive care, to wind it round the first joint of her left index finger. She wound it with such precision that it made no more than a fine millimetre-thick circuit of her finger. She wound it thrice in overlapping coils without looking up, and again addressed the acutely discomfited young man.
"Everything I say . . .", and at this she made a further turn of hair tightly round her finger, ". . . and every thing I do has ' - one more turn, '. . . meaning." She looked up; the man raised his hands in namaskar, bowed, and departed without saying another word.