Guest guest Posted January 29, 2003 Report Share Posted January 29, 2003 Hi Robin, The climax to me was that , in spite of going through all these horrors in her life, Lakshmi says: ". I have shed more tears thinking of Mother's love and compassion, than tears of sorrow and suffering." This is tue bhakti, true gratitude. I bow down to Lakshmi . bala --- Robin Wilson <lilymoonjewel wrote: > > I am completly humbled right now... > In Amma's Loving arms... Robin > balakrishnan Shankar <balakrishnan_sh > wrote: > > Namah Shivaya > > The following is the heart wrenching story of > Lakshmi- from matruvani archives. > > the story has a happy footnote: Amma recently > performed Lakshmi's marriage. > > bala > > > the story of a 12 year-old girl named laksmi who was > given refuge at amma's orphanage in parippally > > Amritapuri. The western sky looks as if it is > yearning > to relieve its burden by a burst of rain. There is a > cool breeze blowing; it must have caressed a > downpour > somewhere up north. I am trying to put together my > memories of the past 12 years of my life. But the > dates and events do not oblige -- they lie > scattered. > > The scene: a crowded street corner in some city of > Kerala. A young mother is begging alms in the > street. > She is clutching her four children who are wailing > stubbornly, unable to contain the pangs of hunger in > their tender tummies. The eldest child is myself, > Lakshmi. Who must have given me that name? Was it my > father who was called Mohanan or my mother who was > known by the name Leena? Who knows? I was a > seven-year-old at that time. I had two younger > brothers, Vijayan and Kumaran. My little sister, who > was always in my mother's arms, was called Girija. > > > As the money that was earned by our begging would be > expended on father's drinking sprees, what remained > for us was his kicks and our empty stomachs. One > such > evening, my mother and I were moving in a crowded > corner of the city with outstretched arms. Someone > threw boiling water on my mother. I saw her reel in > pain and fall in a heap. > > My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having > lost all sensibility because of his excessive > drinking, my father had lately been beating my > mother > mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life, > taking my two younger brothers with him. > > > Another time, goaded by hunger and thirst, I had > peeped too far into a well without sidewalls, and > fell > into it. I remember the faces of the strangers who > pulled me out (I wished then that they hadn't) and > gathered around me, sighing in sympathy. Even though > I > painfully try to forget all these bygone > experiences, > the memories come crowding into my mind's eye, > without > any order. I'm trying to pen them down here. I don't > know where or how to begin. I do not even know where > or when I was born. Do street beggars know such > things? I don't think so. > > My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having > lost all sensibility because of his excessive > drinking, my father had lately been beating my > mother > mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life, > taking my two younger brothers with him. Girija and > I > were left with our mother. Did they divide their > only > assets, us children? That, too, I do not know. But > one > thing I know for certain. The last walk that mother > took me and my sister on was to meet with death. > > It was a deserted beach. I do not know which beach > it > was. It was afternoon and the grains of sand were > burning hot. I was close behind mother. When mother > reached knee deep water, she paused for a moment. As > the next wave came roaring in, she lifted Girija, > her > child on her hip, and hurled her far into the blue > waters. As I stood there gasping, not knowing what > to > do, she grabbed my arm and pulled me forcibly away > with her towards the shore, not even turning once to > look back. She walked so fast I felt my arm was > being > torn off. > > With my heart breaking, I kept looking back until we > were too far away from the beach. I try to imagine > that a snow-white bird might have come flying above > the sea, and might have lifted my little sister from > the deep waters to safety. > > Next my unfortunate, accursed mother went towards > the > railway tracks, pulling little Lakshmi with her. I > couldn't follow her and was left behind at a > distance. > Soon the sight of my earthly mother was blocked from > my view by the train that rushed past with a > deafening > roar, putting an end to her earthly existence. My > ears > were rendered deaf for several minutes. > > "Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train," > the police must have recorded in their duty books. > > "Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train," > the police must have recorded in their duty books. > > One of the many people who had gathered to gaze at > the > scene on the rails took my arm and walked off, as if > he was taking away some goods that he had purchased > at > the market. What he wanted was a seven-year-old > servant girl. When he and his family eventually > realised that I was unfit for physical work, they > left > me at Amritaniketan, Amma's orphanage in Parippally > in > the Kollam district. They left me there, saying they > would return a few days later. But I never saw them > again. I arrived at the orphanage a few days before > Onam (the harvest festival in Kerala). The love and > attention I got there was completely new to me, > something I had never experienced in my life. Within > the next few days, some of the children were taken > home by their relatives to celebrate the Onam > festival. Nobody came for me. A few of us children > remained at the orphanage. > > I asked one of those children, "Will somebody come > and > fetch you?" She blinked her eyes to say, "No." I > asked > again, "Are you not sad?" She then took my hand and > said, "Why should we be sad? We are all going to the > ashram to see Amma. Amma will feed us the Onam > dishes. > She will make us sit in a swing and rock us with Her > own hands. She will sing and dance with us. She will > shower kisses on each of us." As she was describing > all this, her face grew radiant with joy. Her mind > was > full of sweet memories of the past Onam that she had > spent with Amma. I didn't know anything about Amma, > whom she had so exuberantly been talking about. > > I had seen the photos of a smiling Amma in the > office > and classrooms of Amritaniketan. Most of the > residents > used to pray with joined palms before Amma 's > photos. > Would this Mother whom my friend was talking about > really give me that much love? I was fluttering > between disbelief and feverish hope. > > As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately, > with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: > "My > pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't > Amma > with you?" > > We reached Amritapuri in the ashram bus a few days > before Onam. We entered the prayer hall and joined > the > long queue for Amma's darshan. As we slowly moved > closer to Amma, my mind was throbbing. Would Amma > give > me a new life? Would She console this unwanted one, > who was so hated by everybody? "If Amma forsakes me, > where will I go?" > > As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately, > with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: > "My > pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't > Amma > === message truncated === Mail Plus - Powerful. 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