The Cauliflower (27 page)

It's a melancholy world! Yet Sri Ramakrishna—mere hours from death—is in a cheerful mood. Earlier that same afternoon he has consulted the almanac to find out if August the 16th, 1886, is an auspicious day.

Ah, yes! Look at that! It is! Good.

He has no voice left, but somehow, miraculously, he has contrived to spend two entire hours in the afternoon talking to a well-to-do visitor about
yoga
. He even manages to consume half a cup of liquid farina pudding prepared by the anxious, loving hands of the Holy Mother. But he is warm.
Very
warm. He is hot—feverish.

The devotees prop him up against five pillows and ten of them are fanning him in unison while Narendra (the
guru
's most beloved) gently massages his feet. Every so often the
guru
whispers to Naren, and also signs when his voice gives out, “Take care of them. Take care of my boys. Please—please take care of them.”

Eventually he asks to be laid down on his side. He doesn't seem unduly bothered about the pain which must, in all candor, be perfectly excruciating.

Over recent days he keeps murmuring that the vessel which is floating on the surface of the ocean is now two-thirds full of water. Soon, very soon—and suddenly—it will fill up completely and plummet to the ocean bed. When he is dead, the
guru
seems to think that he will spend some considerable period of time under the surface of the sea.

He often points to his—“this”—body and whispers, “There are two people here—one is the Divine Mother, and the other is her loyal devotee. The devotee is sick.”

He no longer appears able to see the edges of things. Everything—including himself, his devotees—is now just God. Simply God. It is all God. A joyous mess of rapidly vibrating, dividing and coalescing, multicolored particles of light. How on earth might he be expected to delineate between…?

Life and death?

But there are still some hard facts remaining—some constants, some certainties: He expects to be reborn in a northwesterly direction (Canada? San Marino?
Belarus?
) in approximately one hundred years' time (an
avatar
, Sri Ramakrishna avows, must always submit to—nay, embrace—rebirth, for the universal benefit of mankind). The
guru
's niece Lakshmi and Sri Sarada Devi are not remotely happy at this prospect. They don't want to be reborn! Life is too long and dreary and tough! But if the
guru
is reborn, will they not then also be reborn along with him? Are they not, after all, an essential constituent of his divine play here on earth? The
guru
is amused by their palpable sense of disquiet. Don't they love him so dearly, he argues, that any kind of future existence—even a heavenly one—lived without him would be rendered unendurable?

At one o'clock in the morning the
guru
suddenly falls to one side. He emits a strange groaning sound and all the hairs on his body stand on end. Narendra releases the
guru
's feet with a traumatized cry and sprints from the room. There is a doctor present (who is also a devotee). He takes the
guru
's pulse, shakes his head, and then begins to sob.

The young man who will one day become Swami Ramakrishnananda starts to roundly chastise everybody. How can they react in this way? Isn't the
guru
's pulse constantly slowing down when he enters a deep state of
samadhi
? How can they be sure that this is any different?

The
guru
's beloved nephew and servant, Ramlal, is not present. He has spent the night in the
guru
's room at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple. He is immediately sent for. Who better understands the Master's curious physical and mental proclivities than his nephew, after all?

(
And Hriday? What of Hriday, his other nephew? Shouldn't Hriday be here?
)

Ramlal arrives in the Master's room at around 3:00 a.m., his cheeks already streaked with tears. He inspects his uncle's body. Like the future Swami Ramakrishnananda, he isn't certain that the
guru
has passed. He asks for Vishwanath Upadhyay to be called for.

In the meantime, about twenty devotees—including Narendra—have returned to the room and are seated on the floor and loudly—sonorously—chanting: “
Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om!
” in the desperate hope of calling the Master out of his deep
samadhi
. This chanting continues, uninterrupted, for the next twelve long hours.

Vishwanath has arrived.

(
Quick! Make way for Vishwanath! What does Vishwanath say?
)

Vishwanath feels the
guru
's body and detects some tiny signs of life.

“
Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om!
”

He comes up with the idea of rubbing clarified butter along the guru's backbone (the channel of his
kundalini
, the source of his prodigious spiritual energy). This is gently and lovingly done.

“
Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om!
”

Initially there are signs of life, but then, ah, then, slowly but surely, the
guru
's body starts to turn cold.

“
Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om! Hari Om!
”

By one or two o'clock in the afternoon (but what meaning has mere time now?), the
guru
's once bright eyes begin to close. His golden skin starts to dry and crack.

The chanting stops. Does it stop very suddenly, we wonder, or does it just gradually, imperceptibly, peter out? The tears—ah, the tears—begin to flow. He has left them. The Master is gone. Their beloved
Paramahamsa
is no more. The man who was Rama. The man who was Krishna. Their everything. Their all. The
guru
who would not be called … who would not … who could not be … The
guru
is dead. He is dead. He is dead.

How? But how?
How?
How is this possible?

Shhhh!

“The key to this room,”

He whispers, “Has to be turned

The opposite way.”

In one swift move, Sri Ramakrishna cheerfully puts to bed that eternal Hindu bugbear of whether God is with or without form:

“If God was water …

With form he'd resemble ice.

Without? Clear liquid.”

1872, at the Dakshineswar Kali Temple (six miles north of Calcutta)

Such dreadful news: Mathur Baba—our great patron, our loving benefactor, our strong shoulder to lean upon—has been cruelly snatched away from us! He has been killed by a vicious strain of typhoid fever. Each day for several weeks I have traveled to Mathur Baba's home and sought reports on his worsening condition. My heart is so heavy. I am feeling so numb. When I think of how poor Mathur Baba has suffered my stomach twists and throbs inside my belly.

Uncle has been very calm. I keep telling Uncle that Mathur Baba pays for everything—for all of our minutest needs—but Uncle simply shrugs. The Mother has promised him, Uncle says, that he will have four main Suppliers of Provisions in his lifetime. Mathur Baba is just the first of these. Uncle is extremely confident that there will be several others.

Uncle thinks himself immune to earthly attachments. He did not trouble himself to visit Mathur Baba in his final weeks. Perhaps Uncle felt that Mathur Baba might try and make him use his supernatural powers to heal him of his vicious disease. Mathur Baba has not been afraid of making such requests in the past, and Uncle has paid a high price for indulging him.

Mathur Baba is a fine man—a great man—and wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. He loves Uncle almost as much as I do. Uncle is his great joy, his delight, his passion. But Mathur Baba can often be hotheaded, too, and dangerously impetuous in his dealings with others. On one occasion he came running to Uncle after he had ordered his guards to kill a man during the course of a violent dispute with some other landlords. They promptly followed his instructions—the man was murdered! Mathur Baba feared that he would now be imprisoned for his part in the crime. Uncle was the only person he could think of to turn to. And Uncle was furious with Mathur Baba! He was disgusted by his behavior. Mathur Baba begged Uncle on his knees to save him from his awful fate, and Uncle growled—as he always does—that he would place the matter in the hands of the Divine Mother. He stomped off to the Temple and he prayed. And Mathur Baba was kept safe. He was preserved. Who can tell if Uncle was the sole reason for this fortuitous turn of events? But since this occurrence Uncle has been quite irritable with Mathur Baba, and although he loves him dearly he worries himself about Mathur's
karma
.

Mathur Baba has been a rock to us. He has always treated Hridayram with courtesy and respect, and where Mathur Baba leads others will surely follow. If Hridayram asks Mathur Baba for any little thing that Uncle needs, Mathur Baba will always gratify his request.

Where will we be without Mathur Baba?

I asked Uncle whether Mathur Baba's faithful service to him will exempt Mathur Baba from the cruel cycle of rebirth, but Uncle has been strangely vague in his response. This has made me very anxious and doubtful. After the death of my beloved first wife—and then Akshay so soon afterward—I have been turning my mind to spiritual matters. I have increased my devotions to Ma Kali in the temple. I have practiced some austerities and am now saying
japam
quite regularly. Uncle is my example. Like Uncle, I have sometimes taken off my sacred thread and put aside my wearing cloth. Why should I not achieve all that Uncle has achieved if I focus my mind diligently, just as he has done?

Uncle often says that if anyone cries out to the Divine Mother with a sincere and a longing heart then she will always respond. And Uncle is perfectly correct. It did not take long before my efforts were repaid by a series of brief visions and delightful spiritual sensations.

Ah, these heavenly joys are truly intoxicating! No earthly bliss may hope to compare with them. But my achievements have been small and intermittent. I am very hungry for many more. I want to be just like Uncle and enjoy all of the heavenly pleasures that he enjoys.

I have asked Uncle for spiritual guidance, but Uncle simply keeps on telling me that all blessings will be mine if I continue to serve him with my whole being. “How will it be,” he asked, “if we are both in a constant state of ecstasy? Who will take care of us then?”

Even Mathur Baba was highly critical of my new spiritual direction. When he found me late one morning (after my many chores were done) seated in the
panchavati
, surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers as I gasped and cried in ecstasy there (exactly as dear Uncle does), he scolded me soundly and asked where Uncle was and why I was not attending to him. He said that he and I had been placed on this earth to serve Uncle and not for any other purpose. He said that it was mere foolishness to try and impersonate Uncle. There is only one Sri Ramakrishna, he said.

Later I overheard him in conversation with Uncle, demanding to know why Hridayram was troubling himself with pointless austerities and
japam
. Uncle just shrugged and said that he had nothing to do with it. “If Hridayram turns his heart to the Divine Mother, then the Divine Mother will respond exactly as she sees fit,” he muttered. “Do not worry,” he then added, “she will give him a taste of bliss and then return him to his normal self again.” But Mathur Baba just laughed and said, “Ah, Father, I'm no fool. This is not the work of the Mother. This is all
your
doing.” But Uncle said nothing.

A few nights later I happened to see Uncle heading out of his room and making his way, alone, toward the
panchavati
. I went to fetch his towel and his water pot (thinking he might be in need of them), and as I ran along the path to catch up with him again I was overwhelmed by an exquisite vision. Uncle—walking directly ahead of me—was suddenly transformed, on the inhalation of a breath, into a luminous, radiant being. His whole body glowed. He was no longer simply a man but a million blinding particles of light. And as he walked his feet did not touch the ground. He floated just above it. I blinked and dashed at my eyes with my fists. But everything remained exactly as before—the water pot, the path, the trees. All except for Uncle, that is, except for luminous Uncle—glorious Uncle. And as I watched him I knew in my soul—or I was told—that Uncle is an incarnation of God. My heart was filled with inconceivable amounts of emotion. I could hardly breathe. I stopped in my tracks, my eyes streaming with tears. And it was in this brief moment that I so happened to look down upon myself and saw, to my great astonishment, that I, too, was luminous. Just like Uncle. I was luminous! Because I was Uncle's servant. And I was created to serve Uncle, from the same substance as Uncle. I was a little part of Uncle. I was reflected in his radiance.

I cannot be sure what happened next, only that the blissful waves engulfed me completely and I collapsed to my knees and began to shout. “Uncle! Uncle! Sri Ramakrishna! We are not mortal beings! We are not mortal beings! I have seen it! I have seen what we are! We are luminous! We are made from God! Oh why oh why is this happening to me? What shall we do now? Sri Ramakrishna! Sri Ramakrishna! What is our mission? Surely we must travail the world and liberate souls together!”

“Hush! Hush!” Uncle was suddenly standing by my side and his face was creased with rage. “What on earth are you doing, Hridayram?” he demanded. “Stop making a scene like this! People will think some dreadful accident has befallen us!”

But I could not stop. I was overwhelmed by emotion. I was sobbing and calling and beating at my chest, until finally Uncle lost his temper. “This is impossible!” he exclaimed. “Mother, please make Hriday his old, boring self again.”