Indian cities do have some modern conveniences to make life comfortable, and Pondy has all of them: good restaurants, stylish clothes, beautiful fabrics, quality jewelry and crafts. Here the French and English even have their homemade brown bread, marmalade and fresh cheese, which is hard to find elsewhere, even in cities. Then we have the weekly French movie that you definitely will not find anywhere else. Yet the simple amenities of the small town are also easy to find: the bicycle rickshaws, fruit carts piled with apples and bananas—and the green coconut vendor. She already knows me by sight and picks up her machete to start whacking at the thick green husk whenever she sees me approaching. She once made a mistake though; a deep scar crosses one cheek.

No sign board indicates The Ashram’s entrance. Since I am a foreigner and live close by, I end up directing people to The Ashram nearly every day. Just inside the large gates is the ashram headquarters with visitor information. To the right is a tiny garden with a path that curves around the large French colonial building. The first time I visited here, I was surprised to encounter a huge rectangular vault of white marble just as I turned the corner. Immediately, I felt my mind stand still. Was it the sight of this vault covered with flowers and circled by smoldering incense from end to end, or was it the atmosphere itself that radiated a heavy silence.

I now know that the vault is Sri Aurobindo’s Samadhi, meaning “tomb,” but only when it is a tomb of an enlightened sage. The body of a sage has been converted to a higher vibration and is no longer considered gross flesh. Therefore, the body is not cremated, but buried. So the Samadhi of Sri Aurobindo has become a shrine. The ashes of his disciple, The Mother, were also put to rest in this same crypt, as I understand it. However, no one can be sure because there was so much intrigue at the time of her death. I am still trying to collect all the details of that story.

Since I have arrived early in the day, there are only a few people around. Prompted by Usha, I hold a bouquet of roses in my hand to offer at The Samadhi. Just as I reach the marble vault to place it carefully among other the flowers, the roses were snatched out of my hand by an attendant. This act brings me back down to earth. I then note that the flowers on the four-foot-high vault are carefully arranged in beautiful designs. So they don’t want anyone to mess them up, I surmise. A few devotees are bent over The Samadhi, as if saying prayers.

“Those people were saying prayers all right,” Usha fills me in later.

“They go there to beg favors from The Mother.

“The Mother grants favors?”

“Well, that’s what they believe. She was such a kind, generous person. To Indians, she was an authentic saint.”

“And Indians go to saints to ask for things. I thought they went to the temples to ask for things, and to saints to ask for enlightenment.”

“That may be the ideal, but India is a poor country nowadays. These people need help from the gods—from the saints—from anybody—to get through this modern ‘civilized’ life. You know what a terrible time I have had this past year. I was lucky to find Maggie or I would be living on the street myself right now.”

“I shudder at the mention of living on the filthy streets of India. “So Aradhana was a gift from the gods.”

“We really don’t know, but we hope so.” My daily routine includes going to the Aurobindo Ashram for their evening meditation. The quiet, peaceful atmosphere I find there always pulls me back. Also, I remain aware that this is the only time I meditate every day. Somehow, some way, Aurobindo created a perceivable peace here, and somehow, some way, it still persists. Although he spent the last part of his life as a sage, in the early part of the century, Aurobindo was one of Bharata’s foremost revolutionist. However, during imprisonment and the subsequent trial, fate intervened and put his life on a different track. While facing the judge and jury, Aurobindo saw the Lord Krishna superimposed on each and every one of his accusers. Even the British who imprisoned him were only Lord Krishna in form and essence.

The realization was a major turning point for him; he could no longer fight these oppressors as the enemy. He was able to take asylum in the French territory of Pondicherry. Up until that time he had lived a traditional Indian life, educated in England, then marrying to live a householder’s life. Because of his activities, his wife spent a lot of time in her own family’s home, which was quite common for young brides in those days. However, she was going to join him after he fled to Pondicherry. Strangely, she took ill and died en route.

I continue to spend at least an hour a day typing Maggie’s novel. The story is an interesting look into an aspect of Sri Aurobindo that normally is unknown. It turns out that during World War II Sri Aurobindo was making a concerted effort—psychically—to assist the Allies on the European war front. Evidently, both he and The Mother made contact with a certain American soldier, whom I will call Larry. For some reason, Larry had an unusual sensitivity that enabled him to see huge images of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother spread across the sky. When Larry asked his fellow soldiers if they could see anything strange in the sky, they reported that they could only see wisps of beautifully colored clouds. These images continued to be a source of inspiration to Larry to carry him through the grim circumstances of a series of war experiences, which are described in Maggie’s novel. On one occasion, Sri Aurobindo actually saved his life, when Larry heard his voice warning him not to go near a box car. A few moments later the car exploded.

Interesting story, however, I find the story of how Larry found out the identity of the heavenly apparitions even more intriguing. Larry had intended to marry his sweetheart when he returned from Europe. Like so many soldiers returning from war, he became disenchanted with the life of material pursuits; more so, because he was haunted by the memories of the wonderful, saintly images. For all he knew, they were heavenly angels.

Then one day he happened to be in a large library. As he was walking down an aisle, a book fell out on the floor right at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, and unconsciously flipped through the pages. There on the frontispiece was a photo of Sri Aurobindo, his heavenly guide. Needless to say, he was overwhelmed. So much so that from that moment, his whole life centered on plans to travel to India to meet the saint. Tying up all loose ends of his personal life, he even broke his engagement. He then spent all of his time and energy doing whatever odd jobs he could find in order to save money for the passage to India. As wretched fate would have it, by the time he arrived here in Pondicherry, Sri Aurobindo was already dead. However, The Mother was still alive and well.

By that time, The Mother was probably more like a Queen than a mother. You had to have an appointment for an audience with her. Still, there were certain days at a specific hour that she appeared on her balcony to bestow her blessings on everyone. We can assume that Larry joined the crowd at all those opportunities for glimpses of her, for Maggie says he did become rather enamored of The Mother. I would even assume that after finding out who Sri Aurobindo and The Mother were, Larry may have even entertained the idea that he was someone special. He must have conjectured that the random falling of a book at his feet was a sign, an omen, of some great plan of which he was a part. Strangely, the story does not end so well.

For some reason, The Mother just did not take to Larry at their first meeting; then she seemed to avoid additional audiences with him. She would give him no confirmation that he had been specifically picked by Sri Aurobindo, or if she thought he had just been hallucinating. In short, she did not want to talk about any war experiences.

He did get attention from the residents of The Ashram, however, as he recounted his stories of seeing the giant saint and great lady hovering in the sky, giving him solace in the dirty, damp, cold trenches of Europe. Since this novel is a firsthand report as Larry related the events to her, Maggie obviously gave him some consideration. Perhaps, if the book had been completed and published at that time, it could have bolstered his spirits. As his personal plot unfolded, he turned to the bottle and died a drunkard’s death right here in Pondicherry.

It is intriguing getting to know Larry, day by day, as I tap out his war story on computer keys. Then I hear that the ashram management is arranging a program telling about Aurobindo’s war efforts. Maybe Maggie heard of the plan and that is why she pulled out this old manuscript. It would not be the other way around. Whereas everyone loves and admires Maggie, the ashram management is not exactly excited about having her around. Having been The Mother’s personal secretary in those last days, she knows too much.

It’s hard for me to imagine just what the ashram was like back in those days. The Mother must have had some special powers, and I certainly have no problem with anyone using special powers to help others in any way whatsoever. Even though the philosophical path of Hinduism eschews such phenomena as dangerous because these powers can pull one down, I know in my heart that, if I had any special powers, I would want to help others. Admittedly, a problem with power and control can arise because the devotees may be waiting to be granted a favor, so they are afraid to speak up to question the master’s behavior. Some stories indicate that The Mother stepped over the line at times. Sometimes she was quite a tyrant, for example, to her handmaidens over such simple things as dressing her in the mornings.

The Mother was born into a wealthy family in France, of Egyptian and Turkish parents. Even at an early age, she had psychic experiences, such as visitations from saints and even mystical trances. However, she put that part of herself aside, married and had children. Interestingly, it was her husband who told her of the saint of Pondicherry, whom he had met on a business trip to French India. So she accompanied her husband on his next trip. When she saw the great saint, she was totally and hopelessly enamored. I think she made a couple of trips back to France, but came here to live as soon as she could arrange it. It was as if she suddenly came to her senses when she beheld in Aurobindo a reflection of her mystical, spiritual self.

Slowly, I begin learning some details about Sri Aurobindo, an incredible intellect. Everyone here has a set of the big volumes of all his writings, but few understand them. Most have not even made an attempt to read them. That seems to be the reason most ashram residents have moved their allegiance to The Mother. She was more down to earth. Well, even that statement must be qualified. She was down to earth in establishing the ashram, the school with its innovative curriculum, and the industries to make the beautiful handicrafts she loved. Nevertheless, there was nothing practical about her “teachings.”

Her memoirs, recorded by a European, given the Indian name of Sat Prem, often read like science fiction in inner space. Using the excuse that they were written by a European, they are not sanctioned by the ashram powers that be. Although Hinduism has its flexibility, I think the Mother probably exceeded the stretch test, not for the actual content, but for the flights of fantasy. Therefore, you will not find them in the ashram library or book shop. Actually, they are more difficult to comprehend than Aurobindo, so the censorship may be unnecessary.

After my daily trip to the library, I usually walk over to The Ashram to sit and meditate in The Mother’s samadhi room. When Aurobindo died of kidney failure, the burden fell upon her to test their immortality theory. No one thought she was going to die. When she appeared to have “left the body,” they put her in this room to watch over her to be sure she was not in a mystical trance.

Coincidentally, the first I knew of any intrigue surrounding The Mother’s death was years ago in 1978 when I met a young man from Europe when I was visiting near Dharmasala with Swami Chinmayananda. It was during my first trip to India, so I am sure I had not even heard of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother at that time. This young man had been at the Pondicherry Ashram for fifteen years and had come to the Himalayas to take a retreat from the heat. He told me that The Mother had believed herself to be immortal. In her last years, she was always looking in the mirror, remarking how she was getting younger every day. No one dared to cross her and tell her the simple truth: She was an old woman and she looked it. She was also getting more and more cantankerous every day. During this period no one was allowed to see her except a couple of the ashram trustees; not even Maggie, her secretary, and Sat Prem, her scribe, saw her.

The event of the season is the performance of Savitri by the ashram residents. The theater, a covered amphitheater at the other end of the beach, is usually empty. This evening is the only time I ever saw the heavy gates unlocked. Everyone from the ashram is present. Although the play is free, it is not first come, first served; you have to have an ashram pass to get a decent seat. Of course, Maggie arranged passes for Usha and me.

The history of the Savitri is taken from the Mahabharata epic. Due to her devotion and wisdom, Savitri was able to save her husband from Lord Death. Therefore, she has a place of honor in the hearts of all Indian women. Every young girl knows the story of Savitri. In a subtle way—
Westerners can never perceive—the Hindu culture has always idolized woman.

However, Aurobindo was more interested in the theme of immortality than wifely devotion, so he converted the story into a lengthy poem highlighting his ideas on the possibility of human immortality. The drama is spoken in Bengali, the native language of Aurobindo. Since I already know the essential story, I am able to follow along. The director has gone all out for the costumes and lighting effects, so it is visually pleasing.

Here is the jest of the story: The elderly king and queen of Madra remained childless. As was common in those ancient days, when anyone had a problem, the couple went to the forest to live an ascetic life and pray to the Goddess Savitri for a child. After EIGHTEEN YEARS, the Goddess appeared and granted them the boon they requested. They returned to the palace for the delivery of a daughter, named for the Goddess herself. Although Savitri was an unusually beautiful maiden, she received no proposals for marriage from princes of the surrounding kingdoms. Her father told her to go out and find a suitable spouse for herself. (Yes, princesses chose their own husbands in the ancient days. However, the common practice was to call the princes to a big durbar, so she could take her pick.)

In her travels, Savitri came upon a royal family, who were living in the forest. The honorable regent had been disposed in a court intrigue. The blind king and his elderly wife were being served by their young handsome son, Satyavan. It was love at first sight between the prince and princess.

Both of their families agreed that Satyavan and Savitri would make a most handsome royal couple. But wait, there is a twist. The heavenly messenger, Narada, happened to be visiting Savitri’s parents at the time. He affirms that Satyavan was a most honorable mate, but, unfortunately, he was destined to die in exactly one year. Savitri’s parents were quite distraught and suggested she make another selection. In spite of the forecast, Savitri’s heart was set; the marriage ceremony was performed.

Savitri gave up her royal robes to go to the woods to live with her in-laws where she lived happily for 356 days (the Hindu year has 360 days). As the date of the impending death of her husband approached, she made her plans. As any Hindu woman would do for the sake of her family, she fasted for three days. At the end of the year, on the 360th morning, when Satyavan left for his daily routine of chopping wood in the forest, Savitri followed although she still had not eaten a bite of food. Satyavan questioned her behavior, for she had never gone with him before. Even his parents expressed their concern, but finally gave their permission. She was a determined woman.

First, the young couple gathered some fruits and roots for dinner. Then when Satyavan started to chop wood, he was overcome with exhaustion and practically slumped to the ground. Savitri caught him just in time to place his head comfortably in her lap. When she looked up, sure enough, there came Lord Death, decked out in his blood stained robes with a noose dangling from his shoulder. Savitri tried to delay Yama (the Controller), but he was not dissuaded from his task. He quickly looped his noose onto the soul of Satyavan and headed south, leaving Savitri with a lifeless carcass on her lap. Carefully she set it aside, then followed after DharmaRaja. [Lord Death has many names: Kala = Time; Yama = Controller; DharmaRaja = King of Duty or Righteousness.]

“Go back. You can’t go where I’m going,” Yama admonishes her.

“I must follow, for it is a wife’s duty to go wherever her husband goes. I have just fasted for his sake. Besides I have earned the merit of having lived a life of love and devotion to my elderly parents; plus another one year of credit is due me for serving my husband’s parents.” DharmaRaja must acknowledge this righteous young woman; the king of righteousness is obligated to play by the rules. “I’ll grant you one boon, but you must stop now.”

“I request that my father-in-law’s eyesight be restored.”

“Let it be so,” Lord Death avowed.

However, Savitri is not dissuaded; she continues to follow them. He finally relents, “Okay, you may have another boon, but you must return. You cannot go where we are going.”

“I request that my father-in-law’s kingdom be restored to him.”

“Let it be so.”

When she still continues to follow him, DharmaRaja becomes stressed. “Okay, one last boon, but this is it,” he barks.

In a composed tone, Savitri enumerates her last request: “May there be 100 heirs born to my father-in-law’s throne.”

“Granted,” Lord Death retorts, thinking that he is rid of her.

When Savitri continues to follow him, the ancient fellow losses his patience: “You are such a worthy person that I am duty-bound to protect you, but you must turn back. You cannot go any farther.”

“But sir. You told me that my father-in-law’s lineage is to be continued. Satyavan is their only son. They are too old to have children; therefore, their lineage has to continue through him.”

So Savitri saved her husband from the clutches of Lord Death. They lived a long, happy life thereafter.

Savitri’s devotion to her spouse was such that she was able to outwit humanity’s ultimate adversary. Aurobindo used this story to emphasize his belief in physical immortality. Since Satyavan defied death, Aurobindo calls him immortal; therefore, his lifelong interest in Savitri.

In the event, The Immortal Mother died. She had given specific orders to her devotees: If she were to die, the body should be laid out very carefully without any human touching it. She would return to the body in three days. Needless to say, her instructions were followed with the utmost of care. The European in Dharmasala reported to me that the body started decaying before the three days were completed. Unholy smells that were obvious to everyone, including himself, were wafting from the corpse. This is the tropics; flesh spoils fast here. The British always said that is the reason the Hindus cremate their dead immediately. It’s not the real reason, but it’s certainly a valid one. Wisely, one of the ashram trustees took it upon himself to take the body out and get it cremated.

That was the story, as told to me in 1978 by a first-hand witness, but you will not hear that story anywhere about the ashram now. The story now is a demon of a man took The Mother out to be buried before the three days were up. It was for that reason only The Mother did not resurrect. The same man became involved in the battle to win Auroville as The Ashram’s property; he lost that battle too.

So there is no one left to tell the truth except Sat Prem, The Mother’s personal scribe. He has told the story—in print. In her last days, he was not allowed to see her, but he tried to keep a line on what was happening. He found out much later that the male trustees were giving her a sedative to quell her hysterical outbursts. To Sat Prem that meant that the drug could have interfered with the natural transmutation process she was going through to achieve immortality.

The ashram powers-that-be disposed of Sat Prem too, burned his hut, and ran him out of Pondicherry. Some say they even got his visa revoked, so he had to leave India. In the meantime, he has grown old, but his writing is fresh and wonderfully innocent. Perhaps, he will be the one who remains forever young. I heard that he is back in India, staying somewhere in the Nilgiris, but the exact location is top secret.

Maggie knows many details of The Mother’s death—so much that she is ostracized from the inner circle of the ashram. However, she never rocks any boats and remains busy with her writing and social service projects, obviously content not to be wasting her time with ashram intrigues. Since she was not allowed to see The Mother either, she really has no first-hand information of those last days.

With the kids back in school, Usha and I are alone again and able to return to the serenity at Aradhana. What more could one ask for? Well, maybe a 80 degree day. Rarely are our conversations on everyday concerns. She too is open and seeking some answers about how we divine beings have become so muddled in samsara, the mundane reality.

One evening I ask her, “Aurobindo was really doing his own thing, this supramental plane business. Is he considered a Hindu?”

“Of course, he’s a Hindu. He did develop his own system of thought, but he also wrote wonderful commentaries on the major Upanisads and on the Bhagavad Gita too.”

“Readable?”

“Probably not. At least I have not been able to get through his book that I am now trying to read on yoga. They say that you don’t have to understand his words, that just reading them puts you into another state of consciousness.”

“Well, that was true for me. The other night I picked up that book on yoga, it put me right to sleep before I finished the third page,” I laugh. In Hindu thought, there are four states of consciousness: waking, dreaming and dreamless sleep; plus the underlying turiya, fourth, state, which can be described as the screen on which the other three play out their dramas.

“I wonder how he saw the world. I know nothing about him, but I read once about an incident when he had an unique experience. Yes, I remember now; he did have a Hindu guru. His guru made Aurobindo sit alone in a room until he understood the nature of thought. After three days, Aurobindo perceived that the source of thought is not internal, that thoughts actually come into the mind from an external source, like arrows. It’s a matter of like attracts like. The idea sure gives we proponents of free will a shutter. If it is true, it pushes Western thought back to the starting point.”

“He did have a different view of the world. I guess that’s why he sat up there in that room for twenty-five years—trying to explain his concepts,” Usha replies to my rambling.

“You don’t mean that he literally stayed in that one place for twenty-five years?”

“I mean he never left that small apartment...”

“Not even to walk down the stairs to the garden for a little exercise and fresh air?”

“Well, I can’t say. You have to realize that the ashram has been built around the rooms he stayed in. It wasn’t like this when he was alive.”

I am aghast. “You are telling me that the sage, whose main premise was karma yoga, liberation through action in the world, and who initiated the building of a huge ashram around himself, sat in two small rooms for twenty-five years. On the other hand, Adi Sankaracharya, the great teacher whose main teaching was the doctrine of non-action, traveled around India by foot three times, debating all the religious leaders and revitalizing all the old temples. How in the world are we Westerners ever to understand the Hindus?”

“You certainly never will if you want to nail everything down to one rule, chiseled in stone. Nancy, there are many realms of experience available to humans. You know that, or you wouldn’t be here. In Hinduism there is room for one and all. A huge bouquet of many-colored experiences comes from the Divine—how can one experience be more valid, more important, more valuable, than another?”

“Living in a world where one has eat to live, and work to eat, a world that is dominated by businessmen seeking profits for themselves only, I tend to forget that simple fact.”

“You certainly have a point there. That’s why the Indians are running after money instead of living the simple, traditional life of our ancestors. And I’m not talking about ages ago, I’m talking about even fifty years back. Everything is so different now. Look at me; I can’t live on philosophy. I’m having to work ten hours a day, seven days a week, for a roof over my head and food to eat. Don’t ask me how you live a spiritual life in today’s world. I sure don’t have it figured out.”

I guess trying to figure out this dilemma is one of the reasons I am in India. I am aware that a part of me really wants to have a basic simple life, yet I truly do not know for how long I would remain satisfied without certain luxuries that I enjoy. I have noticed that somehow when I am the most peaceful, the material things do not seem to matter. It makes me wonder if my need to have more things is simply relative to my state of mind.

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