The house in Pune was where I really became aware of
something dwelling inside me. It was a place where I became aware of a spirit
inside me who was so familiar; more familiar and intimate than the persons
around me. Certain sights and memories have still remained with me. From what I
remember, it was a house facing the west, because I remember standing in the
balcony on an evening, watching the golden light fallen on a huge cloud. The
cloud had taken on a marvelous shape in the sky and it remained still,
absolutely without shifting its shape, for quite some time, as if it was a
marble rock sculpted in the sky into a shape of an ancient Indian sage lying on
his back. The golden tinge playing into his tufted hair, tied into a knot above
his head, and the waves of the golden light flowing down his chin into the long
strands of the beard falling upon his chest, his loin-cloth, his legs and feet,
everything was marked like an ethereal sculpture carved in the cloud. It was a
massive shape, spreading over some eight feet in length as I recall it still
very vividly. I think, I was not yet five years of age then, but I was mesmerized
by the sight.
Standing in the balcony was a favorite pastime of mine and
most of my experiences and moments of awareness were related with that balcony.
I was not allowed to climb down the staircase and step into the world flowing
incessantly out there. So anything that dropped down out of my hand went
straight down the abyss as it were, lost for ever!
The scent of the morning had a peculiar feel there and
remained with me, sunk deep in memory. It visits me at unexpected moments and
demands a total surrender. My whole being unwinds like a rope that was twisted
and some presence accepts me in an infinite embrace of love.
Another peculiar memory is associated with that balcony. My
parents would visit us on week-ends and go back late in the evening. The late
evening twilight was associated with the sound of the horse-cart, bringing them
to the staircase, and then on another evening, taking them back to the railway-station
of which I had no awareness at that time. Standing in the growing dusk,
anticipating their arrival and on the day of their departure, after they had
hugged me and disappeared down the dark staircase, the memory of running to the
balcony to catch sight of the horse-cart rumbling into the dark—these have
become archetypal motifs of waiting and letting go.
My father was a teacher of English and Sanskrit and mother
taught English and French. It was a complementary blend of the east and the
west. But later in my life I learnt English and Sanskrit and because of a very
busy life my mother led, I had no opportunity to learn French from her. I remember,
once my father had brought some examination papers of the Sanskrit language,
and for the sake of amusement, he was asking me to guess the meanings of some
Sanskrit words, many of which were already a part of my vocabulary. Then he put
forth a word which I did not know then. It was a Sanskrit word: ‘Nabha’. I
remember, I looked at the sky and spoke, as if I had always known the word. I said,
‘sky’. The answer was correct, and it did not take me so much as a guess; it
was as if I knew it. My father was surprised. Fortunately, no such weird surprises
were in store for me later.
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