My stopover in Calcuta

Wednesday, 11 January 1995 5 hours

Going to College Street

India, my India, will always remain immortal, either positively or negatively. This was my very first experience on Indian soil this time. I landed at Calcutta Airport, and there were many coolies who were welcoming the passengers and helping with the luggage. When I went outside the airport building, I looked for a taxi to take me to a particular place called College Street or Bankim Chatterjee Street. It is better known as College Street, which is its old name. There you can get thousands and thousands of old second-hand books. It is my most favourite place in Calcutta.

I had thought of going to Belur Math, the Ramakrishna Mission, and I was even planning to go to Mother Teresa’s place. It falls practically on the way to College Street. But something within me was more interested in buying old books, Bengali books. College Street gives me immense joy.

Choosing a taxi

Now the taxi story starts. There were three or four taxi drivers waiting outside. I was examining the taxis to see what kind of condition they were in. One particular taxi had pictures of Mother Kali and Sri Ramakrishna. Both of them were garlanded. I said, “There cannot be a better taxi than this. I am carrying a picture of my Mother Kali all the time. Plus, this one also has a picture of Sri Ramakrishna.”

I said to the driver in Bengali, “You have to take me to College Street and bring me back. How much will you charge?”

He said, “Oh, no problem.”

“Meter?” I enquired.

He responded, “Babu, whatever the meter reads.” When they say “Babu,” it means gentleman or sir.

I said, “Perfect. Whatever the meter reads I will give you.”

I entered into the taxi. I bowed to my Mother Kali and her dearest child Ramakrishna very devotedly. I was so happy. After we had covered about a hundred metres I realised that the driver had forgotten to turn on the meter, so I said to him, “Brother, now turn on the meter.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that the meter doesn’t work!”

Can you imagine! Just two minutes before he had told me that I would pay whatever the meter read. So I said to him, “How could you forget such a thing? You told me that you would charge whatever the meter read after I asked you for a flat rate.”

So that is how the story started. Then I asked him his name. He said, “My name is Gauranga.”

I said, “Oh, Lord Gauranga, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu.” I was so pleased to hear his name. We began talking about Gauranga, and he had also read a little bit of Indian scripture. I said to myself, “All right, the first time he fooled me, but now let us see if Lord Gauranga will also fool me.” We were talking and talking. He was telling me about his son. His son’s name is Abhijit. He is studying at the Ramakrishna Mission High School, and he is very happy there.

But in the back of my mind, I was thinking, “His first deception I know. Now let us see what he is going to do.”

Buying spiritual books

The taxi driver took me to quite a few stores on College Street, and he was telling me that Mother Teresa’s place was not far; I could easily go there.

I said, “No, I have changed my mind. I am not going there. This place will give me more joy.”

I went to a few more spiritual bookstores. There are so many spiritual bookstores on that street. As usual, we Bengalis do not know how to speak, we only know how to scream. Perhaps it is our national trait. The vendors were all screaming, encouraging people to buy their books. Everything is reduced, reduced to absolutely nothing, they say. But when you go to buy something, at that time you see that it has a high price.

I bought spiritual books from different stores. At one particular store, I saw a few books on Mother Kali and some that contained devotional songs. To my great joy, I found my favourite song that I sing, “Tumi nirmala karo” by Rajani Kanta Sen. I was so happy that one particular book had this as the first song.

The book stalls were all out on the street. I was standing there, reading the words to the song. The owner noticed what I was reading and said to me, “Babu, I am so happy you are reading that book. I myself am a good singer. Do you want to hear me?”

I said, “Certainly.”

He said, “I can sing this song.”

O my God, how sweetly he was singing the first song! I was so pleased with him. Then I said to him, “Do you now want to join me? I will sing the same song.” Then both of us sang together standing there in the street.

Before that I had told him that I do not live in India; I live in America. The price of the book came to 80 or 85 rupees, which is under three American dollars because there are 30 rupees to a dollar. After we had sung the song, he said, “I would like to charge 5 rupees less.”

“Why?” I asked.

He said, “You live in America and there you study music, so 5 rupees less give me.”

I said to him, “This is one of my most favourite songs, so I really want to give you 5 rupees more.”

It was 85 rupees, so I gave him 5 rupees more, saying, “I am so happy to find that you can sing the song so well. Every day you are working so hard to support yourself.”

That was my very first good experience. Then I bought quite a few more books, and I was very pleased. When I mentioned the titles of some books that I wanted, this fellow went running to other stores. He said, “I have three stores. Just wait here.” Only he knew which ones had those particular books and so he went there and brought them back. As long as I got the books, I did not mind waiting.

Returning to the airport

We drove back to the airport, and again the meter did not run. Finally, I said to the driver, “Now for God’s sake, tell me how much you want! Do not charge me too much. First, look at Mother Kali’s picture, look at Sri Ramakrishna’s picture.”

He said, “Oh, I will never deceive you.”

I said, “No, you will never deceive me! You started our trip with deception.”

It was all in Bengali, so there was no problem.

He gave me the total: “Three hundred fifty rupees.”

I said, “Impossible! Three hundred fifty rupees!”

He said, “Yes, yes, I charge 350 rupees.”

Then I said, “I will give you 300 rupees and no more.” So I gave him 300 rupees. I knew it could not be more than 150 rupees or maximum 200; 300 was absurd.

Then with folded hands he said, “What about my son?”

“What about your son?”

“My son needs your blessings.”

I said, “I am blessing him.”

He said, “No, with money. He is studying at school; he needs your money.”

I said, “That is great.” Then my stupid or compassionate heart had to come forward. My stupidity and my compassion are absolute synonyms; there is no difference. I said, “All right, I am giving you a hundred rupees for your son. I wish your son well. Let him become a good student.”

In my pocket I had kept about 500 rupees. I saw that I had used most of the money to buy books, so I had only 90 rupees instead of a hundred-rupee note left. I counted the rupees and said, “I am sorry. I told you 100 but I can only give you 90.”

He immediately objected, “Oh no, you said you would give me 100 rupees.” I said, “I have 90 rupees.” I did not want to take out my main wallet from my money bag. I wanted to use only the money that I had kept inside my pocket to spend buying books. This was my fate. I said, “I have 90 rupees. What is the difference? I am giving 90 rupees instead of 100 rupees.”

No, he wanted 100.

Then I became furious. I said, “Now look here, the time has come for me to call in the police. Enough!”

Immediately he brought my bags out of the car, took the money and disappeared. When I went inside the terminal, I asked a guard, “How much do they charge usually to go to College Street and come back?”

The guard said, “A hundred and twenty. But if you are kind, you can give them 140. Otherwise, it costs maximum 120.”

I told him I had paid 390. Then in Bengali he used a foul tongue, saying what a bad fellow this taxi driver was. What made me sad was not the man’s deception, but the fact that Mother Kali’s picture and Sri Ramakrishna’s picture were both in his taxi, framed and garlanded with fresh jasmine flowers. If he could behave like that, as a spiritual person, what could you expect from others? That taxi was my choice. There were three or four cars and I made the selection. Indeed, I found the right person!

The computer error

The time came to go to the ticket office to check my ticket. The agent said, “Your name is not there in the computer.”

Inwardly I said, “Ashrita can never make a mistake! He is so smart. He will never fail me. How can Ashrita do this?”

The man went on, “Your name is not there. You cannot board the plane.”

I replied, “Definitely my name is there. I was supposed to reconfirm from Pondicherry, not from here. It is not a matter of reconfirmation. I have got the ticket. I am supposed to go from Calcutta to Madras without any difficulty.”

He said, “No, your name is not there. What can I do?”

I said, “Absurd!”

Then he took me to four different places, and they all said the same thing, that my name was not there.

I said, “Thank you. What is the matter? Now tell me what is there.”

He said, “On the ticket it says Ghose, but there is no Ghose.”

“How can it be that there is no Ghose?”

“We have Chose, but not Ghose,” he said.

It was clearly an error.

I told the man, “That must be my name, only instead of ‘G’ it has been written with a ‘C’. Is it my fault that it is spelt incorrectly?”

The man said, “It is not our fault. We can’t go against the computer.”

I was becoming exasperated. I said to him, “You cannot go against the computer? Look at my passport, and look at me. Is there any similarity?”

Then he said, “But your middle name is missing on the computer.” I said, “If my middle name is not there in the computer, what am I going to do? My middle name is Kumar, but if my first and last names are there, why do you need my middle name?”

Then he went on, “But here it is written Sri Chinmoy.”

I said, “This is my name.”

“Oh, so now your name is Sri Chinmoy,” came the reply.

Finally, I got disgusted. I never carry anything with me, but this time I had one newspaper article from the last day in Myanmar. There were pictures of me with their highest Buddhist monk and the Minister of Religion. The whole front page was dedicated to me. I opened it and said, “Look at this. My name is Sri Chinmoy. I do not need Ghose.”

He looked at the article and recognised my picture. What a rogue he was! My passport picture he did not value, but he valued the silly newspaper picture. Then he agreed, “Oh no, Ghose is not necessary.”

After such a long time he allowed me to board. I was laughing to myself, “My passport picture has no value, but the silly newspaper picture has value because I am with some big shot. This always happens.”

First-class treatment

From Bangkok to Calcutta my ticket was executive class, but from Calcutta to Madras it was economy class. When I went to the gate, the same man who had harassed me at the ticket counter put me in the first seat of first class — now that I was a big shot. He was afraid that I would make complaints to higher authorities!

Arriving home

I arrived in Madras at eight o’clock in the evening of January 11th. It takes three and a half hours to reach the Ashram by car. Around eleven o’clock I reached home. A friend of mine who works at the Ashram car company drove, and my two brothers came. When I saw my brothers, I got a tremendous shock because age has descended upon them. But, strangely enough, in two days’ time they looked much, much better than when I saw them at the airport. When we arrived home around eleven, my sister Lily was so happy to see me.

Followed

Now my sad story starts: how unfortunate I am! I was not getting any sleep that first night, so around three o’clock in the morning I decided to go out for a walk. If you walk for about 200 metres, you come to the seaside, the Bay of Bengal, and there you can walk for one mile flat. I had a very good, very powerful meditation, while I was walking and walking. Nobody was there. Around four o’clock an old friend of mine who was out jogging saw me and he was very delighted and excited.

Everything went well. I was only 30 metres away from my house when a lady approached me. She said she was from Florida, near Miami. She wanted to have an interview with me. I said, “No, no, no! No interview at this hour; I am going home. Some other day I will give you an interview. I will be here for four days.”

Then the following day I went out at four o’clock in the morning to walk. Usually people go walking at six or six-thirty, but at four o’clock I left my house only to find that this particular lady was waiting for me! She lives near our house. She has been at the Ashram for 14 years, she said. She started following me. There is a Durga Temple only two houses away from our house. When we reached the Temple, I said to her, “Please do not follow me. I am in a meditative mood.”

Was she going to listen? I walked for about a mile, sometimes slowly, sometimes a little faster, in my own way. I was on one side of the street and she had to walk on the other side of the street, across from me. I said, “O God, is it my fate? I do not care. I know how to meditate, so I do not have to worry.”

Again I walked more than a mile, and I was coming back very slowly. Still she was following me. When I came to my house, only 30 metres away from the main street, again she said she wanted to have an interview. I said, “This is not the time. I shall see you on Sunday at 4:30 in the afternoon. Please do not bother me any more. I am giving you the time of the interview.”

On the third day at a quarter to four, I went out. I was sure she would not be there. I had made it very clear that I did not want to be bothered and I had even given her an appointment time. But as soon as I reached the main street, she was there! I said, “O God, this is my fate with this crazy Florida woman!”

This Florida woman’s friend had met me in Kathmandu. He came to see me three times, but Savyasachi saved me three times and did not allow him. Finally on the last day I agreed to see him for ten minutes. This is how the story started.

The rainstorm

While I was walking that third morning, it was drizzling at first. Then, after I had covered 400 metres, it began raining heavily. I said, “Since it is raining heavily, I hope she does not follow me.”

O God, she followed me! But I was lucky because she was 20 or 30 metres behind me. I did not pay any attention to her. Then I had to take shelter under the shade of the Ashram press. She also came and stood there.

Another time, I was standing under a big tree with many huge branches. A few seconds later, she arrived and stood under the same tree. I said, “God, You are so unkind to me!”

A third place I took shelter was at the end of one mile. It used to be Alo’s place when she stayed in the Ashram. It has an area where you can come out of the rain. When I went there, the crazy lady followed me. It was too much, too much!

When I was coming back, the rain would stop for two or three minutes and then again it would start raining heavily. It would not even drizzle first but all of a sudden it would rain heavily; then again it would stop. Still the lady was bothering me. Finally I said to her, “If you harass me, if you bother me in this way, I am going to cancel my appointment.”

She said, “Oh no, I will not bother you.” But she did not keep her promise.

The continuing ticket saga

The day after I arrived in Pondicherry, I said, “Let me go and reconfirm my reservation and see if there are any problems.”

When I went there, it was the same story — Chose instead of Ghose. But the fellow who was the agent was a good friend of mine. He spoke to the Madras people in front of me. Madras and Calcutta both reconfirmed my booking, but in Bangkok they said my name was not listed. My friend was screaming at the people in Bangkok: “It is there under Chose. Change it, for God’s sake, in the computer!”

They would not do it. This went on for two consecutive days. The first day I spent an hour and a half; the second day I spent about 45 minutes. My friend was not deceiving me. He was screaming at them, “Why do you do this kind of thing?”

Then he told me, “The Calcutta people could have made the proper spelling change, but perhaps they wanted money from you.”

Finally he got them to change Chose to Ghose.

At Sri Aurobindo's Samadhi

Very peacefully I came down the staircase after visiting Sri Aurobindo’s room. As soon as I came down, one lady started screaming with joy: “Oh, Chinmoy, Chinmoy!”

I had completely forgotten her name. She said, “This is what greatness has done! Because you have become so great, you don’t remember my name, but I do remember your name.” Her name is Vishwabani. She deals with flowers. She said, “Now come here. I have flowers for you, and these flowers you have to offer to Sri Aurobindo at the Samadhi.”

She gave me flowers, and she asked me the spiritual names of the flowers. I was only able to tell her “Protection” for one flower, and for another flower I was doubtful. It was either “Divine Love” or “Power,” but the red hibiscus for Kali has different varieties and I was not sure. I said “Power.” She said, “No, this is ‘Divine Love’, not ‘Power’.” Then she asked me the names of six or seven other flowers, but I had totally forgotten. Very seriously she told me the names.

How could I forget the spiritual names that Mother and Sri Aurobindo had given to the flowers? How many things I have forgotten!

Then she gave me some sandalwood incense. The incense sticks were at least four times as large as the ones in America. They were so thick! She told me, “Now, most devotedly go there and pray and meditate. The way you used to meditate in those days, go and meditate. Although you have become very great, I know, go and bow down most devotedly to Sri Aurobindo’s Samadhi.”

She is older than I am, so she commanded me. With such affection she was barking at me.

So I went to the Samadhi with the flowers. True devotion captured my entire being; it was absolutely overflowing. I meditated at the place where Mother’s message is written. The first two or three lines on the marble I remembered: “To THEE who hast been the material envelope of our Master, to THEE our infinite gratitude…” I had forgotten the rest. In those days I knew it by heart. Every time I used to bow down, I would recite it, sometimes in French and sometimes in English. Most of the time I used to do it in English because I liked the English version better.

This time I tried to recite it, but I had completely forgotten the words. So I looked at the marble inscription and read it out very soulfully:

Anton and Joseph, the rickshaw drivers

Coming back, after visiting Sri Aurobindo’s Samadhi, I took a rickshaw. There was a flat rate of 20 rupees per hour. Perhaps for us visitors it was 20 rupees, while for others it would be 10 or 12 rupees per hour. We are all stupid foreigners to these drivers! My visit took about half an hour or forty minutes, and still I had 20 minutes left. My rickshaw driver’s Christian name was Anton. Anton was supposed to wait for me at the Ashram gate. He spoke absolutely perfect English, so there was no problem.

But when I came out to look for him, he was not to be found. Where had he gone? I was searching for him, but he was nowhere. An old friend of mine who was at the main Ashram gate was screaming like anything: “Anton, Anton!” But Anton did not come. Instead, a driver named Joseph came and told me, “Anton said something was wrong with his rickshaw, so I have come to replace him.” This driver was also a Christian.

I said, “Are you telling me the truth? Now I will be in your rickshaw, and Anton will appear.”

Joseph said, “No, no, Anton will not appear.”

I wanted to keep the rickshaw for another hour so that I could go to the market and see my friends. I told Joseph, “Now I would like another hour.”

Joseph said, “Anton asked me to take his money.”

I said, “As soon as I give it to you, Anton himself will come to take the money.”

He said, “No, no, no! You don’t have to give it to Anton; only give it to me.”

Then we went to the market.

Caught by the Florida lady in the market

When we got to the market, I said to myself, “Before I buy a few saris or God knows what, the best thing is for me to buy a small bag so that I can keep my stuff inside it.”

I found a big bag for 25 rupees, which is less than a dollar. I bought the bag. While they were wrapping it, out of the blue the Florida lady came! I am “Ghose,” but my ghost was chasing me. She came and stood in front of me. This time I could not bring myself to say anything. I do not remember whether I laughed at her or smiled at her. In the end, I just went away and entered into the main market. Perhaps she could see that I was very angry and, for once, she did not follow me.

Nolini-Da's birthday

The 13th of January was the birthday of Nolini Kanta Gupta. He was my main boss. He passed away a few years ago. Among the disciples of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother, he was the seniormost and, according to Sri Aurobindo’s brother, Barindra, he was Sri Aurobindo’s mind-begotten son. According to Tagore, Nolini-da’s contribution to Bengali literature is unique.

Early in the morning, at eight o’clock, Nolini-da’s youngest son, Robi-da, came to our house with Indian sweets. He and I had been very good friends. He thought that by this time I would have forgotten his father’s birthday, but I said to him, “Let us meditate together for a few minutes and offer prayers to the Mother and Sri Aurobindo to bless your father’s soul. Today is his birthday.”

He gave me a broad smile. By this time, he knew that I had remembered his father’s birthday. We meditated together and then we had a very deep heart-to-heart talk.

Inside Nolini-Da's room

Two hours later, I went to Nolini-da’s room. Manoj, who now works in his room, had been my class friend, but Manoj was not there. Nolini-da’s bedroom and the adjacent room were both open and they were very beautifully decorated for Nolini-da’s birthday. When I arrived, the lady who keeps the rooms clean saw me. I was standing in the doorway, hesitating, because my friend was not there.

I did not know the lady at all, but she said, “Come in, come in,” as if she knew me.

I went inside and looked at Nolini-da’s picture. The lady began asking me questions about when I worked there as Nolini-da’s secretary. She was very, very kind to me. I had been told that you cannot take pictures in Nolini-da’s bedroom; it is forbidden. Pictures can be taken only in the front room. But the lady saw my camera and said, “Normally it is forbidden to take pictures here, but for you nothing is forbidden. You can go inside and take as many pictures as you like. I was told you used to work here.”

I showed her where I worked, on the floor right beside Nolini-da’s bed. The bed that is in the room now is very large and beautiful. The previous one, the one that Nolini-da had used, was half the size. It was very small and narrow. Sometimes Nolini-da used to take rest in his bed while I was working and sometimes he used to sit there.

Then I showed the lady all the files that I used to take care of. Nolini-da had about two hundred files of his writings and ashram activities. I had to know them almost all by heart.

Then the lady said to me, “Please take my picture.” At that moment a friend of hers came into the room and I took their picture together.

I was so happy to see the place where I had worked for years.

The imperfect birds

My cousin, Soma, is only a few months younger than I. She is my father’s cousin’s daughter. According to our Indian tradition, we have to touch the feet of our elders and show them tremendous respect. This time when I arrived, my cousin bent down, and her hands were only a foot away from my feet. But I stopped her, saying, “No, I will not allow you to touch my feet. I live in America. I am modern; you are also modern. Now we live in modern society.”

Soma cooked a delicious meal and we chatted and chatted.

On the second day I was drawing birds. As she stood in front of me, her comment was, “Oh, they are nice, but they are not perfect.”

I said, “You are right; they are not perfect. But, tell me, what do you mean by perfection?”

She answered, “Perfection will be found if you take five minutes for each bird. Here you don’t take even five seconds. If you take five minutes, it will look nicer, and I will call it perfect.”

I said, “I can take ten minutes, but I will still say that the one that took only five seconds gave me more joy. I am doing this only to get joy. I cannot explain to you fully what perfection is for me, but anything that gives me joy and satisfaction is perfection.”

She said, “Indeed, this is your philosophy. But who is going to accept your philosophy?”

I said, “I am going to accept my philosophy. If nobody else does, what can I do?” And then I continued my drawing.

Two missing pages

Two days later I was again drawing. My cousin came up to me and asked, “Do you mind if I take two pages from your notebook and show them to the Ashram’s best artist?”

I said, “Why do you have to invite unnecessary criticism? I am happy with what I am doing. Now you will bring unnecessary criticism, and then I will feel sad. You will feel sad, too, that you are going to an artist who will not appreciate these little birds.”

I am older than that artist by nine or ten years. I knew her grandfather. He was a doctor and he liked me very, very much. Once more I said to my cousin, “I sincerely do not want to be blessed by her criticism even though, according to you, she is now the greatest artist in the Ashram.”

But my cousin insisted, “No, no, I really want to show her.”

Finally I gave my permission. “All right, if you really want to show her, then you have to be prepared to accept her criticism.”

Then she looked at me and gave me a very broad smile. I said, “What?”

She said, “I already took two pages from your book the other day. I brought them to her and told her all about your drawings. As soon as she saw the birds, you can’t imagine how happy, how delighted and how excited she was! She showed these two pages to her students, and she told them how fast you draw the birds. She was so thrilled. The birds gave her tremendous joy. She wants to keep those two pages.”

The stretching exercises

Soma wanted to teach me stretching exercises to help my back pain. She herself takes regular stretching exercises. A Canadian had written a book called, Oh, My Back Pain! or something like that. She had read that book, and she showed me some stretching exercises that it recommended. They were really difficult. I deeply appreciated and admired her flexibility.

There was one particular exercise that she tried to show me, but she was unable to do it properly. “I am also getting old,” she admitted.

My sister, Lily, happened to be with us. So Lily said to her, “Yes, I can see you are getting old.” Soma is 13 years younger than Lily. Anyway, Lily immediately did that particular exercise so easily and quickly. Lily put us to shame. I surrendered because I cannot bend that much.

Six or seven exercises Soma showed me. Alas, I could not do even one. She wanted me to learn those exercises so that I would have no more back pain.

My 96-year-old aunt

This story has to do with my own aunt. She is my mother’s younger sister and she is still alive. She is enjoying or suffering, God knows, 96 years of age. Previously, she lost her sight in one eye. Now she has lost her sight in the other eye, so she is completely blind.

From the day of my arrival, I sent her messages that I would come and see her without fail. She is 96 years old, and still she is all affection for me. Even when I was a little boy, when my mother was alive, this aunt was so indulgent to our whole family, giving us affection in boundless, boundless measure. God alone knows how many hundreds and thousands of times she blessed us, in season and out of season. We Indians feel that without the blessings of mothers and aunts one can never become great. She was very close to our family, and even now she is extremely close.

I promised I would go and see her, but the first day went by, then the second day and the third day. If I did not go on the fourth day, it would be time for my departure. Several times I was planning to go and see her, but friends of mine came to our house to see me. What could I do?

Finally, on the fourth day, I went to see my aunt. She was lying down when her daughter, who is twelve years older than I, announced my arrival. My aunt was so happy. She beckoned me, “Come, my son; come, my son.” I went to the side of her cot and placed both my hands on her head, blessing and blessing her. She said, “I am so grateful to you. I know who you are. You are no longer the little kid that I used to scold. I used to scold you like anything. Again, you know how much love I have for you. I am so happy, so happy. Soon I will be going to the other world, and you are blessing me. I will be able to carry your blessings with me.”

Then she started asking her usual question: When was she going to die? Every time I see her, that is her very first question. I was cutting jokes with her, saying, “There is no empty room in Heaven, so you have to wait here. There is simply no room for you there. It is like a hotel. Since there is no vacancy in Heaven, you have to stay here for another four years until you reach 100 years of age.”

She said, “Is that a blessing or a curse?”

I said, “God alone knows whether it is a blessing for you or a curse for you, but I would like you to stay here. You belong to our immediate family. Four years more you should stay.” My aunt was four and a half years younger than my mother. She had heard all about my mother’s centenary celebration last year, and she was very happy and very proud of it.

She said, “In our family I was the youngest.”

Then she said, “What am I going to do for another four years on earth?”

I said, “I told you last time and this time also I am telling you the same thing: think of all the good things you have done. Just remember them. You will be able to count them, even though you cannot see now. Only one by one remember them. Choose the things that you feel are absolutely the best things you have done in your entire life. Ninety-six years you have been on earth. Now please start by remembering one excellent thing you have done. You do not have to tell me what it is; I do not need to hear. Just think of that. The last time I came, five years ago, I told you to remember all the good things that you had done. Now I am saying that only the very best things that you have done in this life you should try to remember.”

Then she started talking to me about my mother and about my father, asking where they are in Heaven. She said, “It seems that I am not to go now. Otherwise, my sister would have come to see me, and all my dearest ones would have come to visit me from the soul’s world. Your mother has not come, your father has not come, your brother and your sisters are not coming. This is the proof that my time has not come.”

I said, “True, true. Your time has not come. You just stay.”

Then she said, “They say that you have occult power. Can you not cure my eyes, or at least give me a little eyesight?” I said, “No, no, no, I do not have that kind of power. I am not another Jesus Christ. I want your eyes to be operated on.”

She said, “No! I am 96 years old, and the doctors have said they will not be able to cure me. Don’t tell me to go to them at this stage of my life. Doctors don’t know how to cure me. Doctors are butchers, and you want me to be treated by butchers!”

I said, “I am sorry. You do not have to be treated. You just stay here. Except for your eyesight, I can see that you are all right. You are speaking quite normally. You are the same person and you have the same affection for me.”

We went on talking, and I was blessing her. Now, you will not believe it, but this 96-year-old lady had to remind me about something that happened in my life in 1952 or 1953. Suddenly she said, “Yes, you did it for your sister but you do not want to do it for me.”

I said, “What do you mean?”

Then she reminded me of the incident. At that time, when I was quite a young boy, one evening my eldest sister, Arpita, said she was unable to see. Something was wrong with her. She was only seeing very faintly. I started bragging. I said, “Oh, I can cure you!”

What a cure! I massaged her eyes only to make her blind, totally blind. She absolutely could not see at all. Then this particular aunt scolded me mercilessly. But my sister was full of affectionate compassion. She was saying she would be all right.

On the fourth day she had to go to the hospital for an operation on her eyes. I was so miserable because I was the culprit. Previously, she was able to see a little; then, after I massaged her eyes, she could not see at all. I said, “I will cure her. I will not allow my sister to go to the hospital. At this time I am taking full responsibility to cure her.”

This time there was no massage. This time there was something else, call it inner prayer or occult power. My sister got back all her eyesight and she was so happy. Believe me, my aunt is 96 years old. How could she remember this incident that took place more than forty years ago? And just before that we were talking all kinds of nonsense, saying that there are no vacancies in Heaven and that is why she is not allowed to go there.

I said to her, “Everything depends upon God’s Will. At that time, it was God’s Will for me to cure my sister, but now it is not God’s Will for me to cure you. God’s Will is for me to pray for you. Let His Will be done. If He wants to give you back your eyesight, He will do so. If He wants to take you to Heaven tomorrow, you should go, but happily. We shall always remember you, all the affection that you have poured on me and on each and every member of the family. You carry all our affection, all our love and all our good will.”

In the evening of her life, everything is very happy and peaceful for my aunt. For those over 90, these last years are the golden chance for them to have a new life, to act like a child again and to cry and pray to God.

On my previous visit several years ago when I went to see my aunt, her daughter, Pushpita, was cutting jokes with me. My sister was also present. Pushpita said, “Look how haughty and proud Chinmoy has become! He can’t even bend to touch your feet. He doesn’t want you to bless him. Previously how many times you blessed him, and now he is so proud and haughty, he does not even bend his head.”

But my aunt took my side. “No, no, he did bend. I saw him. Again, why does he have to bend his head?”

Then the daughter began scolding her own mother. “All right, he is bad, it is true. But how is it that you did not stretch out your arms to bless him?”

My aunt said, “Oh no, I can’t bless him. When I look at his eyes, I don’t dare to bless him anymore.” And again, how many times in my life this aunt, my mother’s sister, has blessed me! But on that occasion she said, “I don’t dare to bless him anymore.”

How is it that when we see elderly ladies, at that time seriousness is not born? We only enjoy cutting jokes with them.

The cycle-rickshaw rogue

Now I will tell another rickshaw experience. This was a cycle rickshaw. As you know, cycle rickshaws are much easier to drive and they go much faster than the old-fashioned hand-drawn rickshaws. The hand-drawn rickshaws are made of wood and they are quite primitive, but the cycle rickshaws are made of metal and they go much faster.

The driver of the cycle rickshaw was such a clever fellow. He wanted to kill time, so he would cycle for about 50 or 60 metres, and then he would jump off and start dragging the rickshaw.

I said, “Why are you doing this? Can you not pedal with your legs?”

He said, “No, you are very heavy. I have to pull it by hand.”

I said, “According to you I am very heavy. Perhaps it is true. But I know that this kind of rickshaw can take two persons. I am definitely not as fat as two persons. I do not have the weight of two human beings. I know the real reason why you are doing this.”

He said, “Why?”

I said, “Because you want to kill time. If you do this, you will take more time and I will have to pay more.”

The driver was wearing a wristwatch. I had asked him to take me around the circumference of Pondicherry. I know the route so well. It is only three miles. In an hour easily we could have come back. But the driver was playing a trick. He did not want to go all around, so he would pedal for 50 or 60 metres, and then he would start wasting time and walk slowly. So in an hour, I could not cover even one mile. Can you imagine? This is how he took time. Even while walking he was saying he was so tired, so exhausted.

Finally, I got disgusted and asked him to take me back to the starting point, our house.

The stolen rickshaw

On another day, I really wanted to go around the Pondicherry streets and do the full round, which is about three miles. So I approached another rickshaw driver.

This man said that the flat rate was 20 rupees per hour. Everything was settled. I got in and we covered one mile without any incident. Then somebody came up beside us and started screaming at the rickshaw driver. Why? It seems that this fellow had stolen his rickshaw. There were about ten rickshaws stationed near my place. Without telling the real driver, this elderly man had taken a rickshaw that was in very good condition. Now the real owner was screaming at him like anything. This happened 200 metres away from Alo’s old place.

The owner wanted the old man to leave the rickshaw there and return to the starting point to get his own rickshaw so that we could continue our journey. Then I got mad. I said, “What do I know about this? He will take me back. Then you can punish him or do anything you want. But I am not going to leave this rickshaw. I am not going to come down.”

When I screamed at the real owner, he got frightened. So he allowed the old man to take me back.

Then the old man surrendered the rickshaw to its rightful owner and said to me, “You wait here. I am going only 100 metres away to bring my rickshaw.”

O God, I waited 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. After 20 minutes he came back. By that time I was disgusted, so I went back home. This was another rickshaw experience.

My favourite Pondicherry tailor

In Pondicherry I have a favourite tailor. I went to him again this time to have a pair of shorts made. I said, “My waistline is 36 inches, but how I wish it could be 34!”

So he measured me. He said, “You are fooling me.”

I said, “What?”

He said, “Your waistline is more than 36.”

I said, “No, no, no, this is all my sister’s fault and my cousin’s fault. They have been cooking and cooking for me. Please do not tell me I am over 36.”

He said, “No, you have come to a truthful person, you have come to a sincere person. I am telling you, people are fooling you if they say your waistline is 36.”

I said, “I do not want to hear that. I want to hear less.”

Then he measured me and showed me the tape. O God, O God! It was all true. “Now, can you say you are 36?” he asked.

I said, “For God’s sake, make it 36 and put elastic on each side. I am wise, I am clever.”

He said, “That I can do.”

I said, “Now put whatever measurement you want. You do not have to tell me what it is, but put elastic.”

So he has put elastic on both sides. I am wearing these shorts today. I do not know whether my real measurement is 35 or 36 or 37, because elastic is solving the problem.

The stuck car

It takes three and a half hours to drive to Madras Airport from Pondicherry. My plane was supposed to leave at 7:30 in the morning, so I said that at 2:30 I would leave. Of course, my two brothers would accompany me. We were getting ready to leave when my friend who was supposed to drive us to Madras started screaming, “Chinmoy, Chinmoy, come and help me!”

I asked, “What kind of help?” I was upstairs packing my things, and I had to come down. “What is wrong?” I asked him.

Only ten metres away from our house was a big hole. His left wheel had entered into the hole and the car was stuck. He could not get it out, but he made a suggestion: “I will turn on the motor and then you have to lift up the car.”

I said, “I do not have the strength. My back pain is killing me! I cannot.”

“Then it is all a bluff,” my friend said. “You never lifted all those cars and other things!”

I said, “I never did it this way. I did it with a machine, with a special apparatus so that I could take the weight on my shoulders. But this way I will not be able to lift the car. It is so huge!”

“Then you be at the wheel,” he answered.

I said, “I have not driven for years. God alone knows what I will do! I cannot do that.”

O God, his whole wheel was inside the ditch. Now somebody had to come along and witness our misfortune. The witness was the Florida lady! Suddenly she appeared there. Luckily she was not helping me. I was trying desperately, but I could not lift the car out of the hole. The Florida lady did not even try. What were we going to do?

My friend was screaming for assistance. Then three young men from the neighbourhood came. They were enjoying the commotion but they did not offer to help us. Such wonderful people! First my friend scolded and insulted them for behaving in such an unkind way. That did not work. Then he was very pitifully begging them to help us. When they saw his pitiful face, all of them came to our rescue. And when four of us tried to lift the car, easily it came out of the hole. So my driver-friend was very happy.

Maintaining my poise

I had to bring from my house my suitcase, my bag and my other things. Also, I had to say farewell to my sister because she was not going to come to the airport. My usual farewell is to meditate with her. We went inside to meditate, and then, can you imagine? The Florida lady, who was outside in the street, had to come inside our house! The door was open because I had gone back to collect my things, and suddenly the Florida lady was standing inside the house. It was too much!

My sister said, “Don’t be mad. This is not the time. Prove that you have got poise; you have got poise; you have got poise. Don’t be mad. For God’s sake, don’t ruin your day! And I have seen your disciples. They are no better than this crazy lady! I know all your life you have been crazy. That’s why you are blessed with all crazy disciples. All your disciples are crazy and you are crazy, so now here is another crazy person. For God’s sake, don’t get mad! Don’t ruin the meditation.”

Then I entered into my sister’s room. The Florida lady was inside our house, but luckily, not inside my sister’s room. I meditated with my sister for five or six minutes. Very nicely I went into my highest consciousness to prove that I can meditate. My sister was extremely pleased.

Farewell to the Florida lady

When I went outside again, I was wondering what to do. In one of my encounters with the Florida lady she had begged me for money. Now I just took from my pocket whatever I had and gave it to her. It was two hundred-dollar bills. I said to her, “Thank you.” Then she thanked me like anything.

I entered into the car and my two brothers followed me. Even at that moment, after receiving the money, the Florida lady had to come and knock at the window: “May I come with you?”

I did not have to answer. My driver-friend insulted her like anything in front of everybody. My sister perhaps did not appreciate it. She was standing outside the door of our house in tears. First she gives me advice, but when I am about to leave, she is always in tears, tears, tears. Just before I left, she told me what my Indian horoscope said and what a particular palmist said about me. She herself studied astrology and she believes in these predictions. I told her, “It is all rubbish! Do not trust him. Do not believe it, do not believe it!”

The delayed airplane

We arrived at Madras Airport at 5:30 a.m. At 7:30 the plane was supposed to leave. Around 7:00 they announced that the plane would be delayed by three hours. A delay of three hours can easily become five hours. I knew that if I missed this flight, I would not get the connecting flight from Calcutta to Bangkok. So, as you can see, everything was going wrong.

But one of the workers, the deputy manager of the airline, liked me very much. He said, “Mr. Ghose, I will do my best to send you to Calcutta by another plane.”

So we went to Dominea Airlines. He was from Air India, but he was begging the Dominea people to help. They said they would help. They were all sincere people. At 8:30 they had a flight to Calcutta and if I could catch it, I would be able to get my connecting flight. Five or six times he was begging them in front of me.

There was a young man from Dominea, a Muslim named Mohammed Isman. He was also saying I could take their flight, but he would only be able to offer me a seat after eight o’clock. Right then he could not.

Once I tried to give 400 rupees to the deputy manager. It was only because of him that I had hope. He said, “No, I can’t accept that.”

I said, “Nobody is watching.”

He said, “Nobody is watching, but my heart is seeing it. I can’t do that.” He was such a nice man.

I said, “Then give me your card.”

He said, “You can take my card, but I can’t take any money from you.”

Saved by Dominea Airlines

The young fellow from Dominea went to so many people and so many higher officials to get me on the flight. Finally he said, “Now it is five past eight. I have taken a risk. I have no idea whether people will come, but I don’t want you to worry any more.”

In India, there is a system that you have to identify your suitcase. First it will go to customs. Then when it goes to the other side, you have to go there and verify that it is yours. This young man said to me, “I know your bag. You don’t have to worry. I will go and identify your bag on your behalf. You just enter into the plane. I will go and check your bag for you.”

By that time it was 8:20. I entered into the plane. Whom did I see standing at the entrance but this young man. He said, “Mr. Ghose, I identified your suitcase. You don’t have to worry at all.”

I asked him for his card. He said, “I am an ordinary person. I don’t keep a card.”

I said, “Then you write down your name and address.” So he wrote it down. He was a very nice man.

I took the flight to Calcutta, and I did not have any problems in Calcutta with my ticket because it had been properly confirmed in Pondicherry.

The bomb threat

When we were leaving Narita Airport, in Japan, there was a long delay. We spent three hours in the plane outside the gate. At first they said it was a mechanical problem. After some time, the pilot happened to pass near me. I was absolutely in the first row of executive class. The pilot was very upset. He said, “Nothing is wrong mechanically. Why can’t they tell the truth?”

The truth was that there had been a bomb threat. The airline officials suspected one fellow from Thailand, who was holding a Thai passport. Before we boarded, they had been announcing, “All people who are holding Thai passports must come to the counter immediately.” So something must have happened, and they suspected a passenger holding a Thai passport.

The result was that we had to deplane. They took us back to the Narita View Hotel, where we spent the night.

The stewardesses' appreciation

The following morning everything went well. The plane took off for Honolulu. I did not feel like writing poems. I had wanted to write 200 songs during these few days but I ended up doing 150. Anyhow, I took out a notebook and began to draw birds. One by one the stewardesses went by and saw the birds. One would say, “Cute!” Another would say, “Beautiful!”

One stewardess asked me, “Are you an artist?”

Quite hesitantly I said, “I am an artist.”

They all came and watched the birds. They were appreciating my drawings like anything, standing there right in front of me. One particular stewardess was very soulful. On my right side there was an empty seat. She sat there and said, “You have to tell me: have you exhibited your drawings?”

I said, “At Kennedy Airport once, my friends exhibited a few thousand, but I do not know the exact number. Then in Ottawa, Canada, they showed one million or two million. I have forgotten the exact number.”

She just looked at me. Then she asked me more about my art. “Where are you going?”

I said, “I am going to Honolulu. There I have an apartment, but I do not know where my apartment is. My friends will come to meet me, and then I will go to Maui. I have been to Hawaii many times. I used to walk near the canal.”

She said, “I also live by the canal. Now I will give you my address, and what you will do, you will give me only your name. I don’t want an address from you. Only give me your name.” So she gave me a postcard with her full address, on Ala Moana. I believe it is very near my apartment. She said, “If you could send me something of yours, I would be so grateful. I can see that you are a very important person.”

I said, “I am very important? All right, I will send you something.”

She said, “You don’t have to write down your address or phone number. I don’t need that. Just write down your name.”

I wrote “Sri Chinmoy.” Immediately she put the piece of paper over her heart. Can you imagine? When she stood up, she reminded me once again, “Please don’t forget to send me something of yours.”

Some of the stewardesses looked Chinese or Japanese. This one perhaps was Hawaiian. They were all saying “Cute!” and “Beautiful!” They would come at intervals of half an hour or forty minutes to see my progress. I was going on, going on, drawing on large sheets.

So this is how my artwork received appreciation on the plane. It seems that people appreciate my art. They like the little bird drawings like anything!

I did keep my promise. I asked Pratyaya to write a letter to her and send some of our peace-activity books.

Hawaiian customs

A lady at customs in Hawaii was very politely talking to me. Then a man came with a note for her, saying that she was needed somewhere else. So she said to the man, “Just sign here.”

But the man started the whole procedure over again. She said she had done everything; he only had to sign. But for some reason he started harassing me. What is worse, people can never understand my tote-a-tune. I explained how it works: “It is a musical instrument. You can play it like this.”

I was showing him, but the stupid man thought that something electronic was hidden inside it. That was too much!

The airport thief

In Honolulu, you have to take a bus to go to the baggage section, although it is not even 200 metres away. We were all coming out of the bus when a man started screaming: “Stop him, stop him! He has stolen my bag!” One of the passengers, as he was getting off the bus, had grabbed this man’s bag and started running away very fast. So the poor victim was screaming, “Stop him, stop him! He has stolen my bag!” His wife started crying. She could not even walk properly, but her husband began chasing the thief. Everybody was saying, “What happened? Who has stolen the bag?” They were all panicking.

Can you imagine? This happened in the Hawaiian airport! Near where they were checking our baggage tickets, the thief was caught. Ten or twelve people grabbed him and accused him of stealing the bag. There were no police available.

He said, “I didn’t know that I was carrying somebody else’s bag.”

“Then why are you running?” they asked.

He said, “I only wanted to go fast.”

I was one of those watching. Luckily, ten people grabbed him; otherwise the elderly man alone would not have caught him. Now, look at this! The man could have thrown the bag aside, but he did not do that. Then, when he was eventually caught, he said that he did not know he was carrying someone else’s bag. How could we believe him?