Pilgrimage is an expression of spiritual longing. In the first part of this article
a devotee shares joy in celebrating Holy Mother’s Birthday.
Yesterday we celebrated Ma Sarada’s Birthday. I have been staying in Calutta with my adoptive family who live near M.’s house. (M. wrote The Gospel of Sri Ramakrisha .) So early in the morning, I took a bus to Dakshineswar to visit Ma Kali’s temple. I received her darshan and prasad. I also visited Sri Ramakrishna’s room and the Nahabat.
Next I traveled to Sri Sarada Math. It was a lovely, joyful setting. There were tents everywhere and in every detail organization and order reigned supreme. First thing, I visited Ma Sarada’s temple to give her my pranams. How beautiful she was, adorned with so many garlands of flowers and bouquets everywhere. As I entered, pravrajikas were doing puja.
Later, I stood in line to get darshan of President Mataji. I was told to come back in a few days to receive initiation. Looking back over the day, all I could say was “don nobat…don nobat…don nobat”, which is Bengali for “Thank you…Thank you…Thank you, Mother!”
And Jayanti recalls her impressions of India and arriving at Mother’s Temple.
Although I have often been a stranger at odds in my own land, I felt immediately at home in India. Confronted with extremes and contrasts, nothing felt strange or out of place or unacceptable. All that I encountered seemed as it should be; which is not to say everything is perfect. Much I saw is imperfect and the hand of time and change looms as a double-edged sword. For good or ill, India felt exactly as she should be, although struggling with the effects of transition along with the rest of the world.
During my three-week stay I longed to shed my skin, my wheelchair and my Western upbringing in order to be absorbed into the culture. Although I felt at home, these three kept me from entering in. Most separating of all was my upbringing. While the Indian within me accepted all that I saw, the Western knew not the proper embrace.
Still, in all honesty, I did not live as many Indians do. I was overfed, pampered, and given every available convenience. Yet, feeling both humility and wonder, I can add that I was given neither more nor less care and attention than other visitors. A guest to an Indian home is received as though God himself has come to visit. Others have since confirmed my feeling, finding themselves recipients of an age old tradition of reverence and hospitality.
My awaited pilgrimage begins in Jayrambati, the village where Holy Mother was born, and where she spent a good share of her life.
“Go now and see Mother.” Marking my arrival Home, these words from the office manager of Mother’s Jayrambati Ashrama are most glorious and welcome. I had come half way around the world to see Mother and to touch the land which was her own. At last this was happening. By this time, too, the anticipation of being in Mother’s temple is overwhelming. Not at all satisfied with my excitement, the manager admonishes me to “be quiet and allow Mother to enter in.” I’ll be quick to add that he is absolutely right. Agitation does not readily invite contemplation or aware- ness. But at this moment calmness is not within Jayanti’s reach. And, well, if a Mother does not recognize and accept a child in whatever manner it approaches, who else will? The next morning I am able to smile up at my spiritual counselor, announcing, “I’m calmer today.
And, indeed, the rest of my pilgrimage is accomplished minus this unnecessary excitement, though quiet tears continue to dot moments of recognition.
At this moment, however, my one desire is to get to the Temple as quickly as wheels will take me. Then out of the chair and touching the floor, tears wash marble as the words “Here I am. I have come” rise within.
