Meeting Swami Brahmananda: VK Oct 2006 issue

[Guest guest]

Meeting Swami Brahmananda

 

DILIP KUMAR ROY

 

Dilip Kumar Roy (1897-1980), a well known musician, singer, poet and

writer, enriched literature by his reminiscences of various great

men he moved with. In the book, Pilgrims of the Stars--Autobiography

of Two Yogis, by Dilip Kumar Roy and Indira Devi, published by

Macmillan Publishing Company, Inc. New York, and also by Timeless

Books, P.O. Box 160, Porthill, IDAHO 83853, USA (pp. 51-57), he

speaks of his meeting Swami Brahmananda, a direct disciple of Sri

Ramakrishna and the first President of The Ramakrishna Order, when

the author was a young man and how his one meeting with Swami

Brahmananda gave a definite shape to his life. The following is a

selection of his recollections which are of historical value. They

are being published here with the permission of the publishers.

These were made available by Swami Brahmeshananda, a former editor

of this magazine, and sent to us by Mrs. Alka Mahajan, a devotee

from Hyderabad.

 

Now it so happened that at this time Swami Brahmananda, formerly

Rakhal Maharaj, was in Calcutta. My grandfather who, as a physician,

had treated Sri Ramakrishna during his last illness of cancer had,

in the course of his visits, come to know the illustrious disciple

quite well. But he never once surmised that I was well posted on the

Swami, still less that I had been praying nightly to Sri Ramakrishna

for strength, purity and Bhakti. I had kept this a jealously guarded

secret in my new milieu at 34, Theatre Road. So he thought he would

take me by surprise when he suggested I accompany him to Swami

Brahmananda, 'a mighty saint.'

 

I caught my breath, 'Swami Brahmananda?'

 

'Who else?' he returned. 'Since you are gifted with a mulish

obstinacy, I am forced to implore him to give you his protective

blessing against the deep danger you have decided to run, like a

fool. Swamiji,' he went on persuasively, 'has great powers, real

divine powers, as everybody knows, But you, too, must help me by

praying earnestly that he may fend off the disaster.'

 

I was overjoyed as I had read all that there was to be read about

Swami Brahmananda whom Sri Ramakrishna used to style his manasa

putra, or spiritual son. But my joy gave place to a palpitation of

awe as we entered the house of the late Balaram Bose (another direct

disciple of Sri Ramakrishna) where Swami Brahmananda was staying at

the time.

 

As we mounted the steps, the fragrant scent of incense filled me

with an exaltation which I attributed to the presence of one of the

greatest yogis of modern India, a yogi whom Sri Ramakrishna used to

describe by the term nityasiddha (born emancipated). I recalled his

apt simile of the legendary eagle that laid its egg in the sky. Out

of this egg the tiny chick is hatched while still falling down from

on high, and conscious from birth that the blue is its home, it

soars back before it can crash down onto the earth. I recalled,

thrilled, how 'Sri Ma' had described the deep human-divine intimacy

which existed between his mighty Master and this ideal disciple. He

was at the time the president of the Ramakrishna Mission and was

worshipped by thousands of devotees as a shining example of how a

yogi should comport himself in life, dominating it like a king, yet

not bound by his kingdom. Such was the man I was now going to

meet! 'Thrice-blessed am I,' sang my young blood. It was with

difficulty that I could inhibit my tears.

 

As we entered the living room of Swami Brahmananda, which was on the

first floor, the great yogi, in an ochre-colored robe, turned and

greeted us with a simple smile.

 

'O Pratap Babu!' he exclaimed. 'This is, indeed, delightful!'

 

The two old friends talked on for a while in great joy, after which

I was brought forward and duly presented. I was aquiver with

ecstasy. But then, alas, began my trial, for my grandfather, having

once started to complain of me, went on volubly, blaming me for

everything with every conceivable epithet. I will recount it

briefly. The scene is graven in my memory!

 

After having given Swamiji all the enlightenment he needed about my

character and antecedents, my grandfather may have felt that he had

overdone it in his zeal.

 

'He is not a bad boy, though,' he extenuated. 'And I will say this

for him, he is rather good in his studies--has passed this year with

first-class honours in mathematics. But I am worried, Swamiji. You

see, his father has left him a fairly large fortune. And then as he

has already attained majority, there is no holding him. Besides, he

is, as you can see for yourself, a handsome boy. But the trouble is,

Swamiji, he is too downright by nature. . . and temperamental. . .

and impulsive. . . and modern--that is the worst of it--modern. So

he refuses to marry. . . God knows why. . . though several beautiful

brides are in the offing--one with a considerable dowry into the

bargain. But alas,' he shook his head dolefully, 'he is obstinate as

a mule and simply refuses to marry!'

 

An amused smile edged the great saint's lips.

 

'I quite understand, Pratap Babu,' he said, 'But what is it that you

would have me do about it? Surely you don't expect me to coax him

into marrying, I being what I happen to be--a monk, untied to the

world. But then,' he added, mollifyingly, 'why not leave it to him?'

 

'I would, willingly, Swamiji,' explained my grandfather. 'Only the

trouble is--he insists on proceeding at once to England. And I am--

well, afraid for him, don't you see! He is a rather impetuous fellow

and has plenty of money, and you know--perhaps you don't but I know--

how quickly things come to a head there: he will march straight into

the snare and come back with a--er minx--all painted and rouged! And

that will be the end of everything--sheer ruin, I predict. So I told

him: " Since you are so pigheaded, at least come with me to a great

saint: let us at least have his blessings by way of protection and

so make the best of a bad bargain. " And, oh yes, I forgot to tell

you,' he added ruefully, 'he happens to be a musician--simply sings

and sings away--and you know how dangerous that is--when young girls

are about--.'

 

But he was cut short by Swamiji who addressed me eagerly.

 

'You sing, my boy? Why, that is very nice! Won't you sing something

to us? A song about the Mother, I mean. Do you know any?'

 

I was overjoyed and complied readily. I chose a song, a famous kali

kirtan, of the great devotee Kamalakanta--'Majlo Amar Man Bhramara'--

a song Sri Ramakrishna used to love, which I had set to music in the

Raga Bhairavi. I give below my translation:

 

My soul's honeybee of love The Mother's lotus feet invite: And

intoxicate, I fly to lose My world and all in Her delight!

 

Earth's lesser loves have lost their savor: Pledged am I to Her

alone And, thrilling in Her marvel Grace, All other graces will

disown.

 

Dark the twin blooms and dark's my soul: The pilgrim has attained

the Goal! Lo, barriers are overpassed, Desire's snares have alien

grown: For, basking in Her marvel Grace, All other graces I disown.

 

Kamalakanta's dream's fulfilled At last--when She to him's revealed!

Beyond Time's pleasures and pains he harks To Her blissful Timeless

monotone: So, thrilling in Her marvel Grace All other graces he will

disown.

 

As I sang, his face became transfigured, almost self-luminous. Then

he lost outward consciousness altogether and passed into samadhi. I

went on singing, my eyes fastened on his trance-still face, till I

could see no more, through my unshed tears. When I paused at the end

of my song, peace had descended into me--a deep peace which seemed

to fill the very interstices of my being. I felt, with a vividness I

do not know how to describe, that he had blessed me while I was

singing.

 

My grandfather, too, was moved, for once. Perhaps he had felt, for

the first time in his life, that music might, on occasion, avert

danger instead of inviting it.

 

Anyhow, the expression on his face had changed and he looked

approvingly at me as our eyes met. And all the time the great yogi

sat, a statuesque figure, hardly breathing, a beatific smile on his

face. Holiness was there and purity and, for me, romance! A stray

line I had read somewhere recurred to me: 'Eternity in an hour!' And

it gave me not a mere feeling, far less a sentimental emotion, but a

strange experience as of a glimpse--just a glimpse--but of what I

could not define. Only one thing I knew, though I can neither prove

it nor wish to, namely, that I had received from him something which

had purified me in an unaccountable way, and that it was something

that belonged to me though it seemed to flow into me from him. But

much as I would like to paint it more graphically, I can say no more

because such an experience can never be convincing to one who had

never felt the ecstasy of an authentic saint's blessing.

 

We waited in silence till he came back to normal consciousness. Then

he looked intently at me in silence. I lowered my eyes, soothed and,

withal, a trifle embarrassed under his steadfast scrutiny.

 

Suddenly he turned toward my grandfather and said with a beautiful

smile: 'Pratap Babu! Have no misgivings: he will come to no harm

abroad.'

 

My grandfather stared at him uncomprehendingly. Swamiji smiled

again. 'Do you know what I saw while he was singing? I saw an aura

of protection around him…Thakur's [sri Ramakrishna's] aura, which is

an armour, I tell you, and I know what I am speaking about. So let

him go where he will--he will come back unscathed. He may, indeed,

stumble sometimes--but I can assure you he will not fall.'

 

Then, turning his face toward me: 'Come my boy--come nearer.'

 

I could hold myself in no more and rested my brow on his feet as

tears of joy and gratitude found an outlet at last.

 

He stroked my head gently; the touch of his palm soothed my entire

being as a cool current of deep peace coursed down my body from the

crown of my head till it touched the base of my spine. When I lifted

my eyes to his he was still gazing at me tenderly.

 

'Won't you--won't you give me some--some advice?' I faltered,

wistfully.

 

He held my eyes for a few seconds; a gentle smile trembled on his

lips.

 

'Only one thing,' he said, his voice hardly above a

whisper. 'Remember--always.'

 

'Remember?'

 

He nodded. 'Yes, that is what Thakur used to tell us so often:

smaran manana--to remember constantly--that is the essence of yoga.

And, remember his Grace, Thakur's--and keep reminding yourself: " I

have received His Grace: I must be worthy of it. " And then--all will

be well.'

 

These were the only words of advice he gave me and they were etched

forever on the tablet of my heart.

 

I have often wondered whether it was because I was destined to

receive this great inspiration I so sorely needed that my sailing

for England was delayed over and over again. (Once I had actually

come to Bombay but the P. & O. authorities told me that not a single

berth was available for months.)

 

I wondered in India and wondered more in England every time I was

accosted by a temptation and I told myself every time:

 

'Remember Rakhal Maharaj! Repeat on your rosary: " I have received

Thakur's Grace and must be worthy of it. " '

 

This invaluable admonition never once failed to give me the needed

strength to quell the temptation, but the modus operandi of Divine

Grace cannot be described in human terms because it operates from a

plane beyond the vital-mental.