DOWN MEMORY LANES

(  Preamble –

I have not written for past two months. My existence entered one of those dry periods that suddenly make an appearance in the life of mortals.  Listlessness takes over one’s consciousness. Depressed moods, like dark floating clouds, come and go. Nothing seems to have any significance or value.  As time moves ahead on its relentless journey, existence looks no different than a dream. With this realization comes a sinking feeling of helplessness and a resounding cry from the heart: “What is the meaning and purpose to life?”

A few weeks back, I got a call from Arun to write a blog on Ranchi. My friend added: “there is   a suggestion from Dr Avinash that I should write a book on Ranchi.”

I immediately dismissed the idea of a book as far-fetched, to say the least.

A small write-up looked doable, but I could not generate any enthusiasm for many days for even this. I mused over my friend’s request many times and dismissed it an equal number of times.

But, try as I might, I could not get over the idea completely.

On a late night last week end,  as I sat alone in the quiet of a city fast asleep, I asked myself: “Can I write something on the backdrop of my native place and relive some of those glorious years spent there? If I entwined my narration about Ranchi with some endearing relationships and connections from the years gone by, my readers could possibly relate to them in context of their own lives and times.”

Finally, I sat up and opened my word processor. Ranchi has many memories so dear to my heart. I wanted to give Arun’s request a try.

Once I started on this BLOG, I had embarked on  a unique journey back into times.

Enthusiasm reappeared in my life like a pleasant breeze blowing at dawn across the summer-time landscapes of my mind. I felt like a person on his TIME-MACHINE speeding back to yesteryears when life had a fairy tale existence.

I have woven my narration around my recent trip to Ranchi and what I saw with “fresh, new eyes” of a mortal struggling to come to terms with his emotions of the years gone by.

I have included only those places I visited during this trip. A large number of tourist attractions does exist in and around Ranchi, but I have omitted them completely here.  When I write a book on Ranchi, its surrounding areas and its wonderful people, if at all, many places of interest would be included in the larger than life collage of my city.

The narration that follows is a small tribute and a token of my love for my home town and its people. Words alone cannot convey fully my collective feelings about Ranchi. It is a place which can never go stale for me. Every visit is looked forward to with the rising excitement of a child returning home to his mother.

I have written this POST under the caption “DOWN MEMORY LANES”. This has more to do with my emotions about Ranchi rather than the city itself.

Ranchi has many shades and can be seen inside a larger frame – tourist spots, industries,  temples, Ashrams, hills, water falls, beautiful country side, educational institutions, dams and, of course, the simple and joyous tribal population who receive so little in life  but give out so much . But all this can wait for some other day when I have more time in life.

)

                                                                DOWN MEMORY LANES

A trip to my home town is always a special blessing from the Gods.

Joy broke on the shores of my mind when an opportunity to visit Ranchi presented itself during the closing weeks of December 2012.

The year gone by saw many important events unfolding in my life. Marriage of my niece in Bangalore kept me and Nutan on our toes for months. Anurag’s concluding year of high school intruded into our sleeping hours at night. Often, Nutan kept company with Anurag as he burnt midnight oil on his study table, just as we had done during our school and college years.

The year ended on an uncertain note when my elder son, Amrit, resigned from Infosys to embark on an unusual journey. He had worked for 1.5 years here after graduating from MIT, Manipal in 2011. He chose to break lose from a “stable” career in the software industry that promised much, but failed to ignite his mind.

Life for me appeared like an action-packed motion picture show full of a myriad twist and turn.  “WHAT NEXT?”  is a question that remains an integral part of my life like the ever beating heart and the ever flowing breath.

I kept going on, as we all do, even when the mind and body reminded me several times to step back and let go. For months, I suppressed all desires to visit Ranchi to spend time with my elder brother, Nandu.  My Guru’s Ashram in Ranchi often beckoned me to come, but my “endless duties” as a householder kept saying: “NO-NO-NO, NOT NOW; THIS CAN CERTAINLY WAIT.”

The mysterious forces in creation that silently but surely govern our lives, decided to break the rules of karma in my case one more time. As they have done on several occasions in the past with their interventions and blessings, the hidden hands in the high heavens pulled a few strings for me with BRAHMA, the governor of our destinies.

You don’t say “no” when God decides to intervene and bestow a gift on you.

The unplanned vacation was put together in a hurry amidst many competing agendas. Office pressures notwithstanding, I decided to break loose from a hectic work-schedule.  The endless demands on my time in Bangalore are like the proverbial tail of a pig which can never stay straight.

The credit for my “bold” decision to visit Ranchi goes to my younger son, Anurag, who turned 18 a few months ago.

Anurag’s “tryst” with the education system of our times left him with little space for anything else but “studies”. The High School years between 2010 and 2012 had been hectic. The world of academics, which comes loaded with what is called “competitive examinations”, kept him in perpetual distress. From day-long class room sessions in school to “special coaching” classes in the evening hours, he remained a busy teenager with no time to stop, stare and relax.

At the end of a marathon academic-run that went in no particular direction, Anurag made it to MIT for a 4-year course in biomedical engineering. From the time he entered High School, the boy traveled long and hard to his engineering college in Manipal without missing a beat.

In retrospect, it could not have been worse for a teenager struggling to come to terms with the realities of the present-day education system. The meaningless pursuit for admission to a “premier engineering” college of the nation, all but snuffed out Anurag’s interest in academics. It took a superhuman effort from the lad to extricate himself from the dark nights of HighSchool-CoachingInstitute-Tuitions syndrome.

A definite break from the craziness that comes under the covers of “education” was long overdue.

After a few months into the first term of his engineering curriculum, Anurag saw the dawn of a holiday arriving in the not too distant future. It promised a cease-fire on the battlegrounds of his battered and bruised mind. A real respite from years of “education & learning” was now within his grasp when the Christmas holidays of 2012 appeared at the next corner of his time axis.

Weeks before his winter vacations, the young man sent an SOS from his hostel. He asked for a “break-holiday”.  His ardent plea for a respite came loaded with many pent-up emotions.

I had remained a silent and helpless spectator of the boy’s travails during the concluding years of his schooling. My guilt feelings left me with very little choice now. I am not heartless. I fell in line with Anurag’s simple wish – a week’s holiday away from Bangalore where books and studies would have no existence.

Anurag’s delight knew no bounds when I offered to take him to Ranchi for Christmas.

The attraction for my native city has seeped into the psyches of my two sons even though they have spent most of their years in Bangalore. They love Ranchi and our extended family back home. Memories of their late dada and dadi, and of bade papa(my eldest brother, Dr Madan), have taken deep roots in their gentle hearts.

Our 35-year old dwelling in Ranchi carries a mysterious attraction for them. The quiet of the surroundings is a unique experience for my boys, long exposed to the hustle and bustle of a large metropolis.

Scores of trees and hundreds of bird-nests on their branches set the stage for the “1000-piece orchestra” of chirping birds as they come out of the nests at dawn and return home at dusk. The enchanting silence of the neighborhood in-between gives their tired minds a much-needed rest.

The vacant half of our premises is spacious enough for a game of cricket. The window panes remain at risk when “matches” are played with the passion of soldiers fighting a war. Fortunately, a dhoni-like player is missing in our neighborhood.  The chaos these sessions create in the household brings out from our memory-closets a flood of nostalgic remembrances of the past.

Samosa and Chat shops in south office Para are more attractive for the boys than the fast-food eateries of Bangalore. The hot samosas and jalebis are absolutely delicious. They never fall short of providing the culinary delights for their evening snacks.

The vast expanse of the sixty-year old MECON colony, with its large playgrounds and well maintained basketball courts, provides them enough space for their evening rendezvous with cousins and friends in the neighborhood. The knowledge that Dhoni bhaiya had lived in one of the dilapidated 2-room quarters of the colony holds a lure of many dimensions for them. They have made many trips to Dhoni’s old quarters where he spent his childhood years.

Not too long ago, Dhoni  lived in MECON colony with his parents and two siblings. Lying on an old cot, he often dreamt of the big stage of cricket. The floodlights of Eden Gardens of Kolkatta would light up his dark days of struggle and kept him on course to stardom.

Dhoni’s success in converting his dreams into reality catapulted the city into the limelight as much as it placed the man on the highest pedestal of the cricketing world.  His humble background and his stupendous achievements as a cricketer is one of the biggest stories of our times.

When the travel plans firmed up, it looked like a Christmas gift from the much-loved and venerated saint, Santa Claus. The ways of Santa are as mysterious as the saint himself. His gifts of matter emanate from reasons no human mind can ever fathom. Any act of benevolence that Santa bestows on a person brings much joy and cheer into the individual’s life, as it surely did for us at this time.

The moment of reckoning arrived when the Howrah-Hatia express entered Ranchi station on the morning of 17^th December, 2012.

Biting cold winds of a winter morning greeted us as we disembarked on the platform. The crisp, cold air that blew across the open platform felt as pure and fresh as it had ever been in the years gone by.

As many things changed over time in the city, the station also has seen extensive growth and transformations over the years. It is not difficult for me to recollect the old façade of the station. The medieval style British architecture of the single-storey building gave the station a supernal charm in the not too distant past. The modern extensions fail to match the beauty and attraction of the older structure in any way.

Many organic changes crossed my wide-open eyes, while many stuff around the station area looked like the “good old days.”

The coolies still wore their trade-mark red kurtas and dhotis with cloth lengths wrapped over their heads in the shape of a turban. An oval-shaped brass plate, with a number engraved on it, announces a coolie’s status as a railway-authorized porter. They appear from nowhere to rub shoulders with the disembarking passengers. As in the past, they arrive on the platform just-in-time to lend a helping hand. After some haggling on rates, they carry the heavy luggage of arriving passengers to the rickshaw and tempo stands located opposite the exit gates.

Many of the porters are well past their prime. Over the decades, they have seen the sleepy 2-platform station grow into a large 5-platform busy junction. The station remains as dear to them as their own children. It is more than an inanimate presence in their lives.

The station has been the source of their livelihood over the years that now span a lifetime

Porter at the station

of labors. Their innumerable trials and tribulations, laughter and tears, agony and ecstasy, have unfolded on the backdrop of the station. The cemented half-a-mile long platforms hide the invisible milestones of their tough lives. Indeed, the station will look lifeless without the good porters around to break the monotony of the time tables.

As I looked all over in wonderment, I reminded myself with an ever-increasing delight:  “a lot has not changed in essence. Time cannot take away everything from us. The contrasts of life – light and shadows, pleasure and pain – are indestructible. The actors may change but the lines they speak will stay the same. World will always be like the good old bottle of wine we enjoy so much. It will always generate the same emotions, the same highs and the lows. Every flower will blossom in its time, spread a fragrance and then fall off from the tender stems of the plants. New ones will take the place of the fallen ones, but the beauty and the fragrance they exude will ever stay indestructible.

I felt an exhilaration – a heady mixture of joy and love – erupt forth from a deep region of my heart. The countless pent-up emotions, frustrations and never-ending engagements with the world of matter gave way all of a sudden.  A gentle wave of bliss made its appearance on the shores of my consciousness. Stillness collected my being in a soothing embrace. The gentle footsteps of the ever-moving time echoed over the pathways of my consciousness. The unique experience came with a countless blessings.

God’s world is beautiful, if we can just give it a little glance, if we can just stop for a few moments to stare and wonder.

The aura of the station had not changed. The people exuded the same joy and cheer seldom seen in the large metropolis of Bangalore where I live now. An indescribable bond seemed to hold everything together in a spirit of simplicity and togetherness.

As we walked out of the station gates, the mighty sun had traveled high enough in the heavens to embrace the surroundings and our shivering bodies in its comforting sunshine-embrace. The experiences of those moments, as the city emerged from a foggy winter dawn, came with the same uniqueness of the years gone by.

The biting cold sent a shudder through my 56-year old frame. The chill of a Ranchi winter morning can be quite mean in comparison with the temperate climate of Bangalore. But did I mind this enervating weather now? Not a bit. The warm sun, the cold winds, the pure crisp air…all mixed into pure manna which appeared to descend in torrents from the heavens.

It had been more than a year since I last visited my native place. The warmth this quaint city generates in my being at the start of every visit is almost impossible to describe in words.

Rejecting better and quicker options of reaching home, Anurag insisted we engage a cycle-rickshaw.  I joined him in the fun as we placed our large suitcase and a few bags on an old rickety rickshaw. The smiling face of the rickshaw-puller looked appealing; his grit was palpable. The harsh life he lives had failed to dent his spirits.

Road from railway station towards Yogoda Math

We took a small detour. The good rickshaw-puller obliged as he paddled into the quiet road which leads to the Yogoda Ashram yonder. This being a railway-owned area, much is yet unchanged. The hockey stadium on one side and few quaint office buildings and old-fashioned Bungalows on the other are still intact and look as beautiful as ever.

A few Gulmohar trees look down from its fixed coordinates along the two sides of the street. There are numerous other trees which provide the shade during the hot summer months. No modern constructions have intruded into the skylines in this section of the city.

The rickshaw reached the back gates of Yogoda Math near the end of the road. Our Guru’s Ashram would be the center of most of our activities during this short trip.

A few tea stalls had commenced business quite early, it seemed. But they had customers milling around their stalls for a cup of hot tea or a cigarette.

Several people huddled around mounds of burning coal and twigs to ward of the biting cold. A few stray dogs moved around confused as they struggled to come to terms with the harsh climate. They had just survived another long night of a Ranchi winter.

From Chutia-chowk, the rickshaw entered the famous Club road. Many commercial and residential towers now occupy one side of the famous street. The old world charm of the surroundings remains preserved in most part despite modern day intrusions – high rise apartments and commercial centers.

I pointed out many landmark structures to my son as we soaked into the scenes enfolding in front of our eyes. The imposing building of Gossner college looked as attractive as  any educational institute one can see in Bangalore. An International Library and culture center is housed in one of the premises which once years ago was the British Council Library.

Ranchi Club

The city’s famous Ranchi club looked inviting. I recalled several evening parties I had attended in the premises of the club.

Our rickshaw traveled through the half-mile long Club road and entered the city’s shopping hub, the famous Main Road of Ranchi. Most of the single-storey old-time shops here are still intact. Sarda Color Lab, Auto Sales, Sujatha Cinema, The Ranchi Club Shopping Complex, Income Tax commissioner’s office, and several grocery stores, among many others, provided a familiar sight.

The Shopping hub – Main Road, Ranchi

In the past, I had done all my purchasing from the shops located here. My favorite tailoring house, FITWELL, still survives the onslaught of jeans and ready-to-wear clothes. The youths of the town are as crazy about branded clothes as their counterparts in the metropolis. Very few have the patience to go for tailor-stitched dresses. But the older residents still give enough business to the tailor masters of Ranchi to make their two ends meet.

I tried in vain to locate the famous BRT Kindergarten School which ran from a large, old-fashioned tiled Bungalow. The School had witnessed the birth of ARC , an acronym for the famous Arun Roy Classes. ARC came into existence in the year 1976. The first batch of 18 students spent hours in the evenings in a small classroom of BRT School with their mentor and friend – Professor Arun. Twelve qualified in the first year of establishment of ARC. A legend took birth and the rest as they see is a history.

The Main Road ended at the foot of an over-bridge which curves high over the railway tracks and descends on the Doranda section of the city. We stepped down from the cycle-rickshaw to lend a helping hand to the driver. We pushed the rickshaw over the steep incline of the bridge. Anurag’s excitement knew no bounds; years rolled back for me as I hummed an old Hindi film tune as we pushed on to the top of the over-bridge.

We stopped to catch our breath here. Nivaranpur locality below looked beautiful with the famous Ram Mandir in the distance beckoning us to come soon. Dozens of Hanuman-flags fluttered against the cold winds inside the sun-drenched temple precincts. The age-old structure of Ram Mandir remained in the range of our vision as the rickshaw hurtled down the over-bridge at a breakneck speed.

Our excitement kept pace with the rotating wheels. We were close to our ancestral home now.

With pounding hearts and darting eyes, we looked around at all the familiar buildings and offices we crossed on the way. A big lump made its appearance in my throat. Many memories erupted in my consciousness, leaving me breathless. I lost Ranchi when I left the city in 1995 to seek “greener pastures” in the garden city of India, Bangalore. Time and destiny had connived to take away so much from me.

MECON OFFICE

The sparse traffic and empty streets around the imposing MECON office presented a welcome sight. I often visited the office of this iconic organization in the past. Posted in Canara Bank’s branch nearby, I made many trips to this place for Bank related work.

The tarred roads here looked in good condition. The surroundings presented a neat look.

The government quarters in the forest colony on the far side of the road had not seen any change over the years. They retained their charm with their single-storey, tiled structures intact. These British-style bungalows had come up more than a century back. They withstood the test of time and Ranchi’s thunderstorms quite well.

We entered the final lap of our ride when the rickshaw took a sharp right turn in front of the famous St Xavier’s school. We were at a shouting distance from our family home now. Memories from the past came rushing in with whirl-wind emotions like the waters escaping from a dam just opened to release the pressures on its gates.

At last, the rickshaw arrived in front of our 2-storey house. I looked up towards the balcony of the first floor.

There stood my elder brother, Nandu Bhaiya,  wreathed in his trademark smiles. A man endowed with immense love and kindness, he is an inspiration for me for more reasons than one. A person respected for his absolute integrity, goodness and efficiency, he has been a legend in the Income Tax department for over 35 years now. Humility remains a hallmark of his personality. His affections for me are a blessing that is as dear as anything else that I have received in life.

Silence abounds in our home. Nandu and his wife live here alone. All the children in our extended family have moved out to other cities where they are employed now.

This house was once a large joint family home for us. With our parents around, our world reverberated with laughter. Love abounded in all corners of the house. All the three brothers lived here under one roof with our families for several years. Delicious food came out of a common kitchen. Our kids romped through all the rooms without any restrictions.

But time comes with its own dynamics for mortals. I moved out in 1995 with my family to Bangalore. My mother passed away in 1997; my dad in 2007. Old age and ill health had troubled them for some time before they crossed over to  “The undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns.” We faced the most tragic moments of our lives when my eldest brother, Dr Madan, decided to move on and left the earth plain without giving any notice. He had been our mentor in all matters of the spirit. A quiet, unassuming, jolly-good Samaritan doctor, he had been a popular face of the colony.

A haunting silence permeates our family home. It holds a million emotions in its bosom for all of us. The passage of two score years has failed to dim our memories of those glorious years.

Nandu Bhaiya carries the family flag for us. His presence here is a grace which comes with many dimensions so dear to my heart. Our Ranchi connection thrives and has outlived all the separations and tragedies of life we witnessed over the years.

After taking the dust of my elder brother’s feet, I embraced him with all the warmth I could generate in my emotional heart. The severe cold failed to dampen our bonhomie. The love between us was all that mattered as we rejoiced in our reunion.

We sat down for a heart-warming chat. Hours slipped by unnoticed. We exchanged news about the happenings in our individual worlds. Many reminiscences of the past cropped up, as they always do when we meet after a gap. Nostalgia of the glorious years of our lives when we lived here under one roof came to haunt us one more time.

A delicious breakfast prepared by Bhabi followed a quick bath.

It was now time to visit our Guru’s Ashram, Yogoda Math, located about four miles from our home. This is always the high point of my trip to Ranchi.

Yoganandaji

Sri Paramahansa Yogananda, a well-known saint of our

Yoganandaji

times, had established the Ashram in the year 1917 when he opened a residential school for boys on these premises. The property, once owned by the Maharaja of Kasimbazar, Sri Manindra Chandra Nundy, was given to the Guru for running his school.

Known as the Kasimbazar Palace, the Guru purchased the property when he visited India in 1935-36. It is now registered in the name of Yogoda Satsanga Society of India, a religious non-profit organization founded by Sri Yogananda.

The purchase of the property by the Guru set the stage for many spiritually hungry souls who were destined to come on the Kriya Yoga path in future. Guru’s father, and many of his western disciples and admirers, heeded the clarion call of the Master and sent in contributions to make the purchase possible. This historical event put the Yogoda movement in India on a solid foundation.

All of the Guru’s time had been taken up by his world mission in the west. The spread of Kriya Yoga across the globe was a task entrusted to him by the great masters of India. He lived in the USA since early 1920 for this world mission at the behest of a line of exalted avatars – Babaji, Lahari Mahasaya and Sri Yukteswar Giri. The sublime and much loved Guru never forgot his Ranchi Ashram or his Indian devotees. He asked and got assurance from his closest disciple, Sri Daya Mata, that she would, as a future president of YSS, take the same interest in India as he had taken in the west.

Since the time the property got registered in name of YSS of India,  Yogoda Math has become an ashram-hive for thousands of spiritual seekers. The sublime Guru had left for posterity an institution where any truth seeker could find his heart’s deepest longings bear fruit on the fertile soil of his devotional seeking of God. Thousands continue to come to this spiritual haven to drink deep from the chalice of God’s love.

The Guru’s teachings on the science of meditation and Kriya Yoga are available to all seekers irrespective of caste, color, economic strata and creed. The monks in the Ashram carry on the work of the Guru in quiet obscurity. No publicity or controversy has ever visited the spiritual haven of the Guru who is acknowledged as one of the preeminent spiritual masters of our times. He is also known as the father of Yoga in the west.

Much loved and revered, Paramahansaji’s legacy, his teachings, his sacrifices, and his unconditional love for all continues to spread across the globe through the devotional hearts of his disciples. They come from all walks of life. Christians, Sikhs, Muslims, Hindus and people from many other faiths have been inspired by his teachings. His AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A YOGI has been a best seller since 1948 when the first English edition came out in the USA. Since then, it has been translated into 31 languages. I have seen the miracle of this spiritual classic unfolding in the lives of even those who are not followers.

Many who are not disciples of Paramahansaji, use the deathless essence of AY to further their own spiritual quest. The Spiritual classic explains the laws of creation, of Kriya Yoga, of God’s love for all, of the rewards of a spiritual life, of world brotherhood, of many endearing tails about Indian saints the Guru met, of astrology, of law of miracles, with such power that the reader is held spell bound. Many have read the book in one seating. Many re-read portions of the AY to reinforce their spiritual understanding during some difficult phase of their lives.

I have found the AY ever-fresh and ever-new whenever I read any portion of it. It never looks stale. The power of love and the blessings of seeking God is so beautifully narrated that the reader is forced to re-evaluate their goals in a new light of realization of the deathless essence of all religions. In fact, the power of the book is such that it can, and often does, change lives of the reader.

A few accolades that AY has received from different sections of the world community is quoted below:

“I met Paramahansa Yogananda on two occasions in the 1930s as a boy….Twenty years later someone gave me Autobiography of a Yogi….The moment I started reading that book, it did something to me that I can’t describe. I have read many books on yoga, by yogis; but I was never impressed as with this book. It has some magic in it.”

Autobiography Of A Yogi

— Ravi Shankar,
Indian classical musician

“I keep stacks of Autobiography of a Yogi around the house, and I give it out constantly to people. When people need ‘regrooving,’ I say read this, because it cuts to the heart of every religion.”

— George Harrison

“Autobiography of a Yogi is justifiably celebrated as one of the most entertaining and enlightening spiritual books ever written.”

— Tom Butler-Bowdon,
Author, 50 Spiritual Classics: Timeless Wisdom from 50 
Great Books of Inner Discovery, Enlightenment & Purpose

“I am grateful to you for granting me some insight into this fascinating world.”

— Thomas Mann,
Nobel laureate

“One of the most charmingly simple and self-revealing of life-stories…a veritable treasure-house of learning. The great personalities one meets in these pages…return to memory as friends endowed with rich spiritual wisdom, and one of the greatest of these is the God-intoxicated author himself.”

— Dr. Anna von Helmholtz-Phelan,
Professor of English, University of Minnesota

“Decade after decade, Autobiography of a Yogi has been one of our best-selling books. While other books come and go, it sustains because critical inquiry over time has shown that it opens the way poignantly and sublimely to spiritual fulfillment.”

— Bodhi Tree Bookstore, Los Angeles

Blessed are those who have read the great Guru’s AY.

The Yogoda ashram stands on a beautiful 25-acre expanse of trees, greenery and beautiful gardens. For the visitors, it is a spiritual oasis amidst the ever-increasing sand dunes of matter-mad ways and contradictions of the material world.

Millions of readers of AY know about Ranchi and the Yogoda Math. Ranchi’s fame has spread across the globe through the Guru’s AY. Thousands from faraway lands have visited the Math. Many of them saved for years to make this sacred pilgrimage to the ashram.

Ranchi has been immortalized by the Guru and in years to come, it will be one of the sought-after pilgrimages for millions of truth seekers. The Guru said once: “ In two places I have left my vibrations the most – Mt Washington Ashram in California and Yogoda Math in Ranchi.”

The Main Building of Yogoda Math.

The premise has a large building with red-tiled sloping roofs. A beautiful lotus dome rests on top of the architecture marvel and gives it an exotic look. The structure existed when the Guru lived here in 1917 and is preserved as a heritage building. Standing high above the grounds, it stands majestically   overlooking   a beautiful front-lawn and a water fountain. It houses the Guru’s room, Matri Mandir, the administrative offices and the book section of the ashram.

A big meditation hall, a marble memorial temple built in honor of Sri Paramahansaji, a Shiva temple, residences for the monks, several quaint century-old buildings, dozens of rooms for visiting devotees and  a large cow shed completes the picture of the Math in so far as its physical aspects are concerned.

Every visit to Guruji’s Ashram brings forth a thrill that is ever new and unique. This time again, it proved no different.

My son kept pace with me all the way. We got into a shared auto at AG more for this blessed journey to our Guru’s Ashram.

The famous litchi tree in the ashram

When we entered the Ashram precincts in the afternoon of Dec 17th, a hundred enchanting scenes unfolded before our eyes. The gardens were in full bloom. Multi-colored butter flies floated around the bushes and plants.  Hundreds of birds chirped in merriment on the trees.

Beautiful Ashram grounds

Beautiful manicured lawns, well-kept mud passages and grounds, the large

Dhayana Mandir standing amidst trees and exotic gardens, and the splendid marble memorial of the Guru, took our breath away in an instant.

Marble memorial Mandir built in honor of the Guru in 1995

Dhayana Mandir

The ashram precincts always generate ever-new wonderment in my being.

Ashram workers, monks and disciples moved around the campus in dignified silence,  engaged in myriad chores. A few persons sat below the famous litchi tree with a long-haired monk in ocher robe engaged in quiet discussion.

It looked like heaven. Words fail me here to describe the exhilaration I feel whenever I visit my Guru’s Ashram.

We spent several hours in the spiritual vibrations that permeate every nook and corner, around every shrub and tree, of this paradise-like spiritual oasis.  Evening arrived and the sun entered the last lap of its journey towards the other side of the planet.

Time to start for our next destination had arrived. We came out of the ashram to catch an auto. Soon we were headed for the ancestral home of my college friend, Arun Roy, located far away on the opposite end of the city.

While no one from Arun’s family lives here now, the place still holds an attraction for me. I make time to visit his home for on the first floor of the house lives the saintly Mukta di. She is dear to many of Arun’s friends who have received the blessings of her wisdom and the love that springs forth from her gentle heart.

While playing her humble householder role of a wife, mother and grandmother in God’s play of light and shadow, Mukta di  is sought after by many for her spiritual wealth.  Her “secret” vaults hide many riches of the metaphysical realms, known to a few rare souls who dare to explore the meaning behind the verities of life. These treasure-troves are indeed priceless and scarce in the world we live in at this time. Not many want them – Mukta di can live in peace and safety from matter-mad worldly people.

For few of her admirers, who have been graced by a passing vision of her divinity and wisdom, she indeed attracts attention and respect.

Mukta di’s realizations of truth and her imitable style in which she renders the outflow of wisdom from some deep storehouse of consciousness, is unique. Her words spread like a healing balm over my matter-battered and bruised consciousness. An epitome of humility, grace and goodness, her  Darshan is a blessing. My meeting with her is one of the high points of my Ranchi trips;  next only to the visits to my Guru’s ashram and the joys of reunion with my elder brother.

Darkness had descended over Ranchi when I and Anurag reached Ratu Road riding the ever-present public transport of the city known as the shared-tempo. It is an adventure of sorts to travel in one of these vehicles, sometimes with 75% of the body frame jutting out. It is risky but cheap and fast. Besides, choices of better options are non-existent.

The cold of the winter night added an extra portion of “shadows” over the darkness of the sleepy road that leads to Arun’s home from the busy, noisy Ratu Road. His double storey house is  nestled several hundred feet inside a residential colony called Sukhdeo Nagar.

Low wattage bulbs hanging from rusted iron lamp posts and covered by cob webs greeted us. They spread more shadows than patches of light on the streets. A welcome illumination spills over from the homes located close on the two sides of the narrow lane. They provided more visibility than the overhead lamp posts do.

We met very few pedestrians on our way. Most of the residents kept indoors to avoid the bitter cold outside.

I tried in vain to identify the home of Professor Prasad, a friend of my dad. During his teaching years  in Ranchi University, the humble Professor  was renowned as an authority on the English poet Yeats. I wondered who lived in his home now. I have little information about the family, but I recollect having visited his home with Arun on a few occasions’ decades back.

Our good friend, Dr Avinash also lived in this area with his parents and extended joint family. I tried but failed to recollect the general coordinates of his dwelling place. The passage of three decades of time had indeed dimmed my grey cells.

The memory of Shiv-bhaiya, the quintessential elder-brother of the locality, flashed on the screen of my mind. He still lives in the locality with his wife. He is dear to the hearts of all Arun’s friend. Shiv-bhaiya had played a significant role in the life and times of Arun’s family during the  years when any kind help from any quaters looked like a grace from the divine.

We reached our destination in quick time. Our shoes made a peculiar sound as they brushed over the cemented, dust-covered lane with each step. In the darkness of the surroundings of this old section of the city, the quiet of the evening hour spoke louder than the din of the busy Ratu road we had left behind moments ago.

It took a little time to figure out how to open the large compound gate of Arun’s home. Anurag’s sharp eyes came to our rescue when we succeeded in locating the rusted latch and managed to turn it around on its hinges. The screeching sound of the gates as it opened inwards on the pair of old spindles added its own mystery to the darkness and silence inside the compound.

The double storey house of my friend had witnessed the saga of stupendous grit and determination of Chachi (Arun’s mother) who lived here with her large family of six children and a mother. A saga of stupendous proportions unfolded in this simple dwelling, the like of which is seldom seen in the world of our times. The home holds many memories for me, but there was no time to recollect and relive them on the screen of my mind now.

Mukta di

The discordant sounds from the gates served the purpose of a door bell – Mukta di appeared on the first floor balcony with her husband.  Her welcome smile came with her characteristic warmth. The heavy feelings, which the cold evening and the surrounding darkness had generated in our minds, took a quick flight as we climbed the winding steps to the first floor residence of the waiting hosts.

Soon we were seated in the living room. With each passing moment, our discussions moved further into the realms of philosophy and spirituality. My normal exuberance over such matters soon gave way to silence.  I was all ears, trying to absorb the wisdom that came out of Mukta di’s mouth.

The experience of her words is unique. Her sweet voice has a touch of the Magahi-tone of Gaya. I love the Magahi dialect in particular. It reminds me of my mother who belonged to Gaya. Mother always spoke in Magahi whenever she talked to someone from her home town. Her Hindi carried a Magahi flavor which still lingers in my mind. Mukta di is also from Gaya. Her rendering of truth in Hindi with a distinct Magahi flavor is a treat for the mind and soul. Such moments are savored to the full every time I talk to her.

Anurag remained quiet but attentive throughout this unique “satsanga.”

Delicious home-cooked snacks and hot tea arrived. The home cooked Gondh-laddu, a specialty of Gaya, reminded me of my grandmother. She always kept a stock of these laddus for us.

We had not eaten anything since our morning breakfast at home. The “feast” of fried peas, pakoras, laddus and hot tea was savored to the full. The sharp hunger pangs vanished. Anurag looked quite satisfied now. The agonies of a long-distance trip from Yogoda Math to Ratu road through the crowded streets of Ranchi, released their hold on our tired bodies and mind.

Two hours flew past in what appeared like minutes.  Time is no respecter of emotions. It was no different in this case.

Parting time arrived in the living room of Mukta di. It was getting late and we had a long way to go on our return trip to our home. We had to depend on public transport of shared tempos and change vehicles twice to reach back. After proffering our respects at the feet of the venerated couple, we left, but not before promising another visit during the next trip that I have planned for February 2013.

The temperature outside had dropped several degrees, but the warmth generated by the love of Muka di was more than a match for the cold winds that struck our bodies like sharp pins.

When we reached home, the clock had struck ten times a few minutes back. The cold outside and the late hour had kept my brother worried no ends.  Like good old days, Nandu Bhaiya reminded me that it was never safe to be out so late in the night. Years rolled back in the split of a second when I heard Bahiya’s concerned words. His affection for everyone is palpable and age can never come in the way of receiving his wise but kind words as far as I am concerned.

Soon we sat down for our dinner. The menu had our all time favorite cuisine – litti, ghee,chokha and pickles. I thanked bhabhi for taking the trouble of spending hours in the kitchen for preparing a mouth-watering dinner for us.

We could not have been happier with our experiences on our first day of the visit.  I lay back on my familiar old bed I had used for years during my stay in babuji’s home. As I crawled beneath the thick quilt, I slipped into a state of partial wakefulness. Many endearing remembrances of the past hovered over my consciousness like the ephemeral flakes of white cotton caught in a strong easterly wind (purvaiya).

I almost “heard” the commotion our children made as they romped through the rooms pell-mell. The “kind voice” of my mother, announcing the evening dinner, echoed from the distant past. The “resounding voice” of Babuji, reminding me of an errand not done, seemed to travel throughout the house from the living room on the ground floor. The wisdom-words of Bade Bahaiya, as we sipped tea in the garden under the warm sun of a winter morning, seemed to engulf my soul in its comforting embrace one more time. Everything looked like the good old days, but these remembrances were as unreal as every other episode from the past has become – a dream encased within God’s dream.

At long last, everything faded into nothingness. Sleep arrived to carry me away to the land of dreams. Here, as always, the life energy withdrew from the muscles, the heart beats slowed down, and all tissues relaxed from the pressures and endless demands of the world of matter. As it does every night, the hidden forces of God commenced their job of rejuvenating my tired body and dry-up the emotion-drenched landscape of my mind. The world of matter melted away; my identity was lost; and my possession and wants vanished one more time. God is indeed ever kind. He removes all our trials and tribulations, and takes away all our riches and joys, when he whisks us away into the lands of dreams every night.

When I woke up early next morning, dawn had not arrived over Ranchi yet. Thick mist greeted my eyes as I peered through the glass panes of my room’s window. I shrugged off the desire to stay inside the warm quilt. I got up for my morning meditation. The stillness of the surroundings had carried an echo of tranquility. The light from the high wattage lamps of the adjoining St Mary’s School filtered through the thick fogs. This threw a kaleidoscopic show of light and shadow on the neighborhood buildings and grounds. Time stood at rest; the earth rotated on its axis waiting for the sun to emerge from the shadows of the nights.

I finished my morning appointment with God minutes before the cacophony of chirping birds announced the arrival of dawn. I had resolved to spend as little time as possible in sleep during this short trip. My associations with Ranchi had evolved over many years. I have extensive connections with places, people and things associated with the city. A re-connection with my past remained paramount in my scheme of things.  Sleep beyond a few hours was a solitary adversary in achieving my goal. I brushed aside laziness with all the will power that I could muster.  This trip would be a short one; each moment had to be savored to the full.

Soon I hit the streets of South Office Para – this time with Nandu Bhaiya. I carried a 5-litre steel can in my right hand, well covered with woolen gloves. Monkey caps adorned our heads and covered the sides of the face to protect us from the cold.

We headed for a Khatal (small dairy farm with about a dozen cows) nestled behind MECON colony. The Khatal is located about two miles from our house. The practice of collecting the day’s quota of “pure” milk started by my father decades ago is still followed by my brother. With the cows being milked in front of the customer’s naked eyes, the khatal-owner has little chance to increase the volume of his merchandise with water. For the alert resident, which my brother is, this is the first morning chore he performs. Nandu Bhaiya combines this with an hour of morning walk around the MECON colony.

On the way, as we waded through the fogs, many familiar sights came alive on my retina.

We met several packs of street dogs at different locations before we entered the gated MECON colony. Each pack has its own defined area. Any attempt by a dog to enter a “foreign” land meets with stiff resistance from its “owners”. Incessant barking greets an intruder-dog. A chase and sometimes real fights are not uncommon. Peace is restored once the “adventurous” intruder withdraws into his fiefdom. When they fight, the dogs look no better or worse than human beings when they get mean over spoils of matter.

The quiet roads through the colony leading to the Khatal appeared well maintained. Few joggers crossed our paths as they rushed through their morning exercise regime. The roads that crisscross though the colony spread over 100 acres of prime land, are lined with a variety of trees, including the beautiful Gulmohar.

The colony has hundreds of single and 2-storey bungalows. These come with large, blooming gardens and back yards. Constructed decades back, they give the colony an endearing attraction far removed from the clutter-look of high-rise apartment blocks we see in many parts of Ranchi now. The modern apartment blocks can be classified as ugly without any hesitation in comparison with the old-world charm of Mecon colony.

People from all parts of India live here and provide its cross culture and cosmopolitan framework of community living. Onum and Pongal are celebrated with the same excitement as is the Durga Puja and Ramnavami. Tamil, Konkani, Bengali, and languages from other states can be heard or overheard, even though Hindi and English remain the main medium of communication.  The colony exhibits the Indian spirit of unity in diversity in all its colors.

The place boasts of a community hall where movies, plays and other cultural festivals are held over the weekends. Children and adults flock here in bright attire during the weekends for the shows. Residents from north, south, east and west mingle here in a spirit of camaraderie.

A kala Kendra attracts artists, from veena and santoor players to painters and sculptors. Many courses in fine arts are conducted from the beautiful premises of the kendra. Music performances from renowned artists are held here at frequent intervals. During special days like the Independence and Republic day, painting competitions attract hordes of excited kids to its premises.

A 2-storey library comes with large collections of books and novels. Evening hours find many milling inside the reading room with magazines or newspapers. From school children to old parents of resident employees, many make a beeline for the library complex in the evening hours.

Large sized playgrounds attract the cities sporting lights in large numbers. Tennis and basketball courts come under flood lights every evening; residents gather here to try their hands in various sports. Indoor games like billiards, table tennis and badminton are played in the facilities located inside the large Ispat club.

Matches are often organized in the open air cricket stadium of the colony. Cemented seats, constructed like steps that circle the lush green grounds, provide the seating for the spectators to witness the games. Many flock to the stadium to cheer their respective teams.

The DAV JAWAHAR VIDYA MANDIR is a well-known school of Ranchi,  located inside the colony. Free education is provided to the children of employees of MECON.  The teaching standard is good. Many of its alumni have shined in various fields after passing out from here.  It is a sought after school for children of non-employees also.

After a long walk around the colony precincts, we collected milk from the khatal and headed back home.

While visits to Yogoda Math remained constant in my itinerary   for each day, I did take time off to visit other places in the city.

Situated on the busy Main Road is a beautiful bungalow called the Palm House. For those who have visited this place, it remains one of the most magnificent properties of Ranchi. A  tree-lined mud road travels deep inside the front gates. It opens into a spectacular view of an English-style, 2-storey bungalow overlooking a large garden and well maintained lawns.  Scores of trees look down in a benign survey over the Palm House property. Their 100-year old magnificence matches their height and dense foliage.

This place had been our main hangout during our college years. My dear school friend, Govind, lives here with his large extended family of 4 brothers. We have been close friends since our days in the boarding house of St Michael’s school, Patna.  A visit to Palm House is another must for me on every visit.

I reached his home in the afternoon. The bungalow has the same aura of tranquility and silence that we had seen in the distant past. Our reunion amidst the beauty of Palm House brought back remembrances of the past in full measure. We reconnected over the next two hours in a spirit of bonhomie that ever exists between us. Years of separation has indeed failed to dampen our feelings that we have for each other.

Time slipped away without my noticing its flight. Parting seemed painful but alas we are now well past our primes. Our interests and activities have traveled along different paths. Even though our hearts remain warm, our footsteps take us to different grounds. The intersection of our interests and purposes cut thin into our individual spheres now. The infinite verities of life have painted our consciousness in different colors. I often wonder if I have lost all my friends somewhere, sometime. A sudden feeling of sadness engulfed my mind as I came out of Palm House.

Anurag made a solitary demand during our trip – a lunch in Ranchi’s famous vegetarian restaurant: Kaveri.

One afternoon, after Ashram visit, we rode on a rickshaw to Gossner Church shopping complex. Kaveri restaurant is located on the first floor of the shopping mall.

We sat over a spacious table and glanced through the menu card. The aroma of various cuisine wafted through the large restaurant wetting our taste buds. Our all time favorites-  Paneer tikka and Paneer Chili- found their way on the order sheet of the waiter without any delay. A cup of soup, tadka, salad, tandoori roti and nan made up the rest of our order.

The food arrived in quick time. We munched away in silence… every bite savored to the full. The food in this restaurant is delicious. Kaveri remains a hot favorite for many residents of the city. The menu boasts of a large list of items. Deilcacies from many regions of India are avaialable here. While Punjabi dishes are most popular, it is possible to get dosa, upma, chats, dholkas, Pav Bhaji, puri-chola, fruit juices, hot and cold drinks and more.

Most of the tables remain occupied during most part of the afternoon and till late into the evening hours. The waiters are polite and caring – an amazing joint by any standards. No restaurant in Bangalore can match the delicious food one can get here.

Like everything else, the memorable lunch also came to an end. We traveled back to the Ashram for the evening group meditation.

One day, Bhabhi informed me that the head priest of Ram Janaki Tapovan Mandir wanted to meet me. Pressed for time, I had skipped visiting the temple this time.

It was December 25^th  – the day of our departure from Ranchi had arrived. With the message coming from none other than the aged baba, I changed direction and schedules to visit the temple. With Anurag in tow as usual, I arrived at the temple in the morning hours of 25^th Dec.

The temple is located in a quiet section of Ranchi’s Niwaranpur locality. A flight of steps run up from the 20-foot entrance gates and ends in front of a large courtyard next to the main precinct of the temple. The tiled surface of the courtyard leads the devotee to the main temple building   where marble statues of Lord Ram, Sita and Laxman are installed on the right side. On the left are the statues of Lord Jagannath and Ma Subhadra made in the likeness of the deities installed at Jaganathpur temple in Hatia. A large hall in front of the deities is used by devotees who wish to spend time to sit and pray.

On one side of the main temple stands the tall image of Lord Hanuman. This is housed inside a smaller structure. Words from the famous Hanuman chalisa are engraved on marble slabs of the front wall of the Hanuman Mandir. A shiva shrine in the front section of the premises and few other images of Gods and Goddesses around the back walls, complete the picture of the Ram Janaki Tapovan Mandir.

The head Mahant of the temple had been expecting my arrival.  The 85-year old priest lives in the temple premises from the time he arrived in Ranchi as a young man in the 1950s. A celibate and a great devotee of Sri Ram, he has spent all his life serving the people of Ranchi from his one-room dwelling in the temple. Wearing an ordinary cotton dhoti and a sweater over his cotton shirt, he looked an epitome of a bhakta (devotee of God). Three vertical lines of chandan-tilak adorned his large forehead. A red, round vermillion mark placed an inch above his eyebrows, indicated the location of his spiritual eye. A tulsi-mala around his neck enhanced his immense spiritual aura. With an ever-existing smile on his bearded face, he looked an epitome of saintliness.

Free from any controversy which often follows a spiritual head of a temple, the aged baba has lived here in relative obscurity for decades. Much venerated for his simple lifestyle, humble manners and devotion to Sri Ram, he remains one of the pre-eminent spiritual figures of Ranchi.

The Tapovan Mandir had been the scenes of our childhood days when dad was posted here in the 1950s. My elder sister recalls that we had spent many evenings playing in the temple courtyard. The large gardens on the side of the premises had provided many nooks and corners for our hide-and-seek games.

The temple was built by a much-respected saint of Ayodhya, Mahant Siya Ram Sharan. My parents had taken initiation from this sage. The temple, therefore, held many attractions and memories for our family.

Ram Janaki Tapovan Mandir’s biggest day of the year is the Ramnavami festival. Thousands of devotees flock to the temple on this auspicious day of the year. The devotional moments of Ramnavami celebrations arrive at the temple gates in the form of a mammoth flag. This is carried by more than three dozen devotees from far-away Ratu Road section of Ranchi. Power supply is stopped from 2pm to 10pm to ensure safety from accidents should the flag crash over the overhead electric wires. Elaborate security arrangements are put in place to maintain peace and harmony between different communities.

The scenes on the streets on Ramnavami present a scary picture. Emotions run high in the devotion charged hearts and minds of thousands of Hanuman-bhaktas. They take over the streets for the countless processions which waft through the city from various localities to reach the Ram Mandir. Young men make a show of their abilities in martial arts by wielding well-oiled bamboo sticks, sharpened swords and knives.

Our 9-day stay in Ranchi sped by quickly leaving us gasping for more. I could not take my son to Jagannathpur Temple, Kanke dam, Hundru falls, Tagore Hills and the Sun temple, to name just a few of the  famous attractions of Ranchi.  Visit to my alma mater, St Xavier’s College, had to be skipped with much regret. Time indeed proved to be the costliest and most limited resource during our sojourn to Ranchi.

The last day brought in its wake a heart-wrenching episode.

The entire neighborhood of South Office Para boasts of many high-rise apartment blocks and residences. They are the residences of well-to-do populace of Ranchi.

The story on the streets, however, has not changed for the poor in any manner. In fact, life has become tougher for the have-nots, even as the potholes on the roads have increased manifolds. Development of any sort is yet to make an appearance in and around the city and the state of Jharkhand at large. The state is rich with many natural resources such as coal, iron, copper, and lime, to name a few. Many industries have come up in the region. Hence, the absence of any sort of positive impact on the economic life of the poor population remains an enigma of the worst kind.

The day was 25^th Dec 2012. I had just returned from my visit to Ram Mandir. The sun had traveled across the clear blue skies from horizon to the meridian. The time was a few minutes past noon. The bright sunlight could lift the spirits of the saddest person in the locality.  My feelings remained synchronized with the cheer that Christmas brings into our lives – church bells, new clothes, cakes and parties.  Filled with an elation that defies all descriptions, I came out of my home on an important errand – to buy sattu to carry to Bangalore for the litti-parties we enjoy so much. Litti is a delicacy as old as the city itself.

When I completed my most important take-away chore of the visit – a few kilos of Sattu of the famous JALAN brand – I came out of the grocery store to walk back to my home.

A rickshaw puller rushed towards me from nowhere. He must have mistaken me for a probable passenger. As my home is at a walking distance from the store, I showed my intent when I waived him away. But I could not look away with the same disdain with which I had dismissed him.

The man was over 60-years old. He was in tatters with just an old shirt and ill-fitting trousers covering his emaciated frame. Biting cold winds blew across the streets, but he seemed to have withstood the harsh weather with the stoic attitude of a yogi. With no shoes or slippers to protect the soles of his feet from the sharp pieces of lose stone chips on the roads, he presented a pathetic sight.

Before I could recover from the shock of observing his dismal state from close quarters, I heard him mumbling some words. He was not audible as my woolen monkey-cap covered my ears to protect me from the cold.

I took off my cap and asked him to repeat what he had said.

I had seldom heard such tragic words when the rickshaw puller mumbled: “ Babu, I have not done any business (called bhoni in local parlance) since morning. I thought you need my services to go somewhere.”

Half of the day had elapsed by then and still the man had not ferried his first passenger. In all probability he had not eaten anything since morning.

While the cold outside was powerless to penetrate to my skin through layers of warm clothes I wore, I shivered with uncontrolled emotions.  Indeed a tragedy of the worst kind had erupted from nowhere without any warning. I felt as if someone had smacked me hard on my face.

“INDIA SHINING”, the economic boom, our dominance of the software landscape of the world, our hype over the nation’s GDP growth, a booming retail market which has attracted even the WALL MARTS of the world, and the large picture of the world-economy with India  occupying the center stage; all looked hollow and meaningless.

Our collective failure as a “vibrant nation” was absolute. Our status as the largest democracy of the world looked no better than the worst-ruled dictatorial and uncaring regime of all times.

There is no dearth of wealth, of resources, of food, of shelter, of opportunities, of progress, in our vast and resource-rich country. The spirit of caring and sharing, of love and compassion, of courage and honesty, are sadly missing in our society. No semblance of good governance exists.

I felt week in the legs. Engaging the rickshaw to reach home had become a necessity now and not an act of pity. While the rickshaw-puller at long last earned his first few rupees of the day, I lost all my enthusiasm and cheer that I had gathered during the visit.

With Aunrag at my side, I boarded the night train to Howrah. We had a flight the next day from Kolkata to Bangalore. As the train gathered speed over the rails, we had commenced on our return journey to Bangalore.

As I lay back on my birth, many thoughts around my experiences in Ranchi crossed my mind. The ephemeral nature of life stared at me with a disconcerting force. The advancing time, it seemed, devours everything sooner or later. My parents and eldest brother had escaped the joys and sorrows of the mortal world. Many of my old connections have become meaningless for me. My priorities have changed; my emotions have entered different waters. My goals have made a decisive turn around on the axis of my life and times. The experience with the old rickshaw-puller in the afternoon haunted me from the time I met him earlier in the day.

“The world is a dream – no different from my own dreams that I broke every morning” I reminded myself for the upteenth time. I could see with increasing realization the futility of a life that goes pell-mell after will-o’-the-wisp desires. All are destined to end up buried deep inside the soil or burnt on the funeral pyres one day. Yet, one lives as if he will never die…and dies one day as if he had never lived.

But I remembered my trips to my Guru’s ashram. Those wonder moments spent in search of the self had indeed provided me glimpses of reality, as they always do. The world within promises a  supernal life where  peace, bliss,  love and wisdom alone exist.

My Guru said it all with his profound words: “REIALIZE IT NOW OR AFTER A MILLION INCARNATIONS; IF YOU DO NOT GIVE TIME TO GOD AND FIND HIM ,  YOU WILL HAVE TO RETURN TO THE SHORES OF THE EARTHLY PLAIN AGAIN AND AGAIN.”

Again, the wisdom-words of my Param Guru, Sri Yukteshwar Giri, resounded over my consciousness drowning the rhythmic beats of the wheels of the train, as it sped towards the city-of-joy at top speed: “Remember, finding God will be the funeral of all sorrows.”

Somewhat consoled, I drifted into sleep. The next morning I would wake up again to continue with my life’s journey over the “ rails” of an ever advancing TIME.