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From Matruvani 8/01- True Gratitude

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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 ===

 

 

 

 

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