7.

Bill Aitken
Mussoorie
December 1980

The next day I am at the local bank asking for travellers

cheques in preparation for the descent into the world.
The manager smiles: We are out of them…it will take a
week! Right, that means I’m supposed to leave in a
week.
Meanwhile, as I’m sorting out my things — it’s cold in
Mussoorie but will be warm in the south — we have an
amusing visitor. He has lived in India many years
having past through many Ashrams and many scenes
which have turned him into an eloquent if rather biting
raconteur. He agrees to let me record his reminiscences,
but what appears here is hardly one third of what he
has to say.

According to my birth certificate I was born on 31st

May 1934 in Tullibody, Clackmannamshire — the
smallest country with the biggest name in Scotland. Our
back yard ran straight up to a mountain 1,375 ft high. I
remember sitting there listening to the drone of the
universe and watching the sheep: I was anti-social from
an early age. I hate cities and love mountains, so,
Malcolm, this is why I have taken the trouble to
struggle up here to see you.
My father was a coppersmith but he moved to England,
so I was educated in Birmingham and at Leeds
University where I studied comparative religion. My
professor was a Baptist minister who in spite of himself
liked Hinduism; he was, however, disappointed
when Hinduism charmed me more than his own Baptist
line.
I was going into the Church as a minister, but I was too
honest — I didn’t have the call. I was all set to come to
India as a missionary to teach. I was doing an M.A. in
Indian Philosophy and Mysticism, one of those airy-
fairy refined nonsense courses that modern universities
in their learned ignorance specialize in. As a student I
went conscientiously to the services of every
denomination each week — I had holy communion with
the Quakers, the Mormons; I went to the High
Anglicans, the Low Anglicans — Leeds has everything.
Now I had been brought up as a Presbyterian Calvinist,
but it was one of my professors who answered my
questions: Was I cut out to be a Christian?
A guest speaker from France who was a faith healer
gave a moving sermon. I was thrilled. Because my
Presbyterian professor was in the chair, at the end of the
sermon he officially denounced it as against the
Presbyterian beliefs. I forget what they are now, but I
thought: Well, if that didn’t move you, brother, then you
have no bowels to be moved. It was then I decided to
look elsewhere. I was in my early 20s; I turned more
towards the Gandhian studies.
I loved Yorkshire, and Leeds had marvellous symphony
concerts on Saturday nights. I must have heard you,
Malcolm, when you were playing in the Halle Orchestra
with Sir John Barbirolli.

Yes, I was in the Orchestra in those days.

In those days the only thing going on in Britain was

Bertram Russell, and he seemed rather dry. For three
summers I went to the Island of Iona - there was a
Social Consciousness Christian community there. But
in those days I liked Gandhi’s teachings the best.

When did you actually decide to come to India?

After I did my M.A. I felt a filial obligation towards my
parents, so I took a teaching job to be near them. But as
I was an indignant Scottish Nationalist, I would wear
the kilt and never stood up in the cinema when the
National Anthem was played. I had this pointless rebel
instinct which just wore one’s own psyche down and
achieved nothing. As for teaching…No! Life was
beckoning me — there’s more to it than being a faithful
son. And the world seemed to be in a mess: I wanted to
do something about it. My friends all said: Forget it,
nothing will change. The Director of Education said:
Don’t you know if you leave at 24 you’ll commit
professional suicide — what about your pension? I
thought: God brought me into this world. He’s
beckoning me, He’s not saying: Your pension, my boy,
first get your pension.
It was then I decided to hitch-hike round this fabulous
world wearing the kilt.
I passed through the Middle East and was to return via
Australia and America after staying some time in India.
I arrived in India twenty years ago but somehow never
got round to moving on. I found my guru, so eventually
I became an Indian citizen.

Were you looking for a guru?

Not consciously. When I arrived, I was taken up with

the Vinoba Bhave movement: he was walking all over
India collecting land for the landless. I walked with him
for six weeks all over Assam, until my health broke
down. I took a job teaching English in Calcutta, but
during the vacations I started visiting Ashrams. I was
drawn by the teachings of Ramana Maharshi, and in
Calcutta I met Arthur Osborne, Ramana’s biographer. I
stayed with him at Ramana’s Ashram: here I got a taste
of Ashram politics — Ramana had left the body in
1951.
I also went to see Sivananda, a huge man, but although
I accepted his hospitality, I came away criticizing him,
which was mean.

But Bill, what did you intend doing with your life? Did
you just fall into this thing of looking for a guru?

No. I was a big-headed academic gangster trying to get

big qualifications with as little work as possible. My
idea was to go back and be respectable, teach, nothing
more. Though I would have said: No! No! I am looking
for God… I wish to offer myself. I always had a
monkish trend, and my father called me an idealistic
prig. I never liked organizations; my way was to go
against the stream. So after I finished in Calcutta I went
to stay with a similar type: Sarla Devi. She won the
Bajaj Peace Prize only last year for her Gandhian social
work.
But before that I realized that if I were to stay in India I
better learn Hindi. I came up here to the Landour
Language School and stayed with the missionaries. It
was hell… these prim and proper London suburban
ladies telling me Buddhism is all wrong
and Hinduism — the 4,000 years of Hinduism — is
lived in vain. How could they know? When an Indian
Christian sadhu came, they wouldn’t let him in!
Hilarious people; the end of the Raj.
There was something about yoga that appealed to me,
and before I left England I was told about an
Englishman who was living as a yogi in the Himalayas.
He had been a professor at one of the Indian
universities. He changed his name to Krishna Prem…
and was living in an ice cave miles from human
habitation. Actually, I found I only had to walk a mile
from the bus stop and there was a comfortable, well-
established Ashram almost like an English county club.
And Krishna Prem far from being a shaggy yogi with
long matted hair was more like a beaming English
curate with his shaven head. My first impression wasn’t
too good — but he was to become my paramguru. My
actual guru — Ashish Maharaj — was also there. They
were both English six-footers, sticklers for Hindu ritual,
and they were both dressed in orange.
They immediately floored me every time I opened my
mouth. I asked if I could stay, but after they gave me
lunch, they escorted me out. I took away a negative
impression, but even then they had been my mentors:
they recommended I go to the Gandhian school run by
an English woman disciple of Mahatma Gandhi —
Sarla Devi.
She came to India in the late thirties. She is one of the
few people I have ever met who sincerely practices
everything she preaches. Her preaching is austere: Up at
4 a.m. even in winter, bathing in the mountain spring,
not eating salt — the typical, Gandhian faddist diet. It
was a terrific introduction to village India…not typical,
because the nature cure thing was taken to excess.
When I joined my guru’s Ashram four years later,
Ashish Maharaj tried the usual persuasion to get me to
eat salt. I thought Sarla was right, but he said: Look,
you are now living here doing puja to Thakur — Thakur
(Krishna) is the deity — and he likes salt in his food, so
you better like it too! I am still learning to find a
balance; I am one of those awkward customers who
swims the wrong way.

You haven’t said why you left Sarla Devi?

There was a sexual crisis in my life, and in the

Gandhian movement it is all brahmacharya, a distorted
sense of celibacy. Celibacy has much to be said for it,
but obviously God has given one sex for a reason.
Anyway, I was running into embarrassing possibilities,
and the crisis came when I hovered between life and
death with typhoid. Sarla treated me homeopathically,
and I fasted for 40 days. I was about to peg out — I had
bequeathed my sleeping bag, the only thing I possessed
— when I had an extraordinary experience, the sort of
thing one reads about the medieval mystics — all is
One and One is all.
It completely opened my eyes: life is not what we are
taught it is — it isn’t the rat race…we are taught by
people who don’t know what it is. They mean well, they
haven’t seen, that’s all. The scales dropped from my
eyes: I saw what a glorious thing human existence is; I
experienced this engine of the cosmos beating by the
crude force of Eros and there is nothing to be ashamed
of. But as soon as I recovered, I lost it when I started
eating — I had received this experience in an out-of-
the-body state. I knew I had to find it again. Gandhian
ideals were fine, but now irrelevant to me. I had to
move on. This tantalizing glimpse, call it divine - it was
real - changed my life: I was going to be a
wandering sadhu! It sounds like bravado, but that’s how
it was then.
I would rather die in a ditch looking for this, I was
telling myself, than stay on doing good work changing
others. Then Sarala said: All right, become a sadhu, but
first go back and get advice from Krishna Prem, he’s
lived like that for years. She, being a social worker
could not bear sadhus. She regarded them as bums. So
this was like a communist advising one to confess to a
priest.
I walked the 30 miles across the hills to the
Ashram. Krishna Prem was the only holy man of any
denomination I have ever met who treated every subject
as fair: nothing was taboo. His mind was a mirror of
nature: nothing is small, nothing is great, nothing is
good, nothing is dirty. We talked. My ideas and beliefs
were crushed, I was punched into the ground. He was
just telling me: You are running away…you ran away
from England…you ran away from Sarla…when are
you going to stop running?…you are standing in your
own light! I was knocked down, kicked in the ribs and
stamped upon.
Then I was shown my room. It was 10 at night, end of
March, snow falling, 7,000 feet, no bedding, a wooden
bed with a mat. My aim being to become an
instant sadhu, I only had the clothes I stood up in. I can
still escape - I started consoling myself, this is no place
for me, I am misunderstood! But common sense told me
if I did, I probably would never see morning. One of the
things Krishna Prem told me was that wandering sadhus
are lazy; the whole of their lives are devoted to looking
for their next meal; how can they do sadhana or serve
God? He also told me to go back to teaching so that I
won’t be living off anyone, but to do meditation and
keep at the inner work. When the body is frozen,
common sense arises. In the morning, a much subdued
Bill went to Krishna Prem, and said: What you told me
is right. He replied: Before you go back and get a job,
stay for a few days — you can help in the kitchen.
This was the last six months of his life. Staying with
him was the greatest privilege in my life: he had no
hang-ups, he understood everyone’s deepest feelings.
He reminded me of the dervish who was asked: How is
it you understand people’s problems without them
explaining anything? He replied: My mind is still, like a
clear lake; they look in and see their reflection.
That is the whole thing about the living guru…you can’t
get it from any book.

What happened after that? You worked in the kitchen?

Yes, I was given three books to study: Blavatsky’s Light

on the Path, Ouspensky’s In Search of the Miraculous,
and Zen and the Art of Archery. The story of my life
was encapsuled in the last book. It was at times hellish
living in the Ashram.

But you were told to stay for a few days. How long did
you stay?

Seven years. Seven Years!

All the time in the kitchen?

All the time.

What happened when Krishna Prem passed away?

I was given initiation by Ashish Maharaj, his successor.

He is also very British, but when he came to India he
also never went back. First he went to Ramana, whom
he describes as the shining sun, because if you sit in the
sun’s presence you are warm, but when you move away
you lose it. He wanted the give and take of the guru-
disciple relationship; this he found in Krishna Prem. All
this was about 1942. He now himself teaches, although
he’s not interested in what he calls stamp collectors,
those jumping from Ashram to Ashram.

What were the teachings?

Traditional Hindu. This included dream analysis which

was rediscovered by Freud and Jung. We had to take the
study of our dream life seriously, as being nearer the
real realm than the physical. There was work on the
farm — or in my case, in the kitchen from 6 a.m. till 10
at night without a break.

Didn’t you have to take part in the rituals?

Yes. There were three aratis a day, and I had to make

the meals for Thakur and offer them to him.

With your stormy nature, was it not difficult to accept

a guru and Ashram discipline?

The idea insulted my whole being, but call it the grace

of God or whatever, I came to see a strict guide was
necessary. And obviously you never choose anyone
unless you fall in love. Trust and love are close. In
choosing a guru, you have to be bowled over first.

Can you say anything about the spiritual disciplines?

Gosh, you’d have to define spiritual. Realization and

the world are the same, it’s mind that divides: This is
spiritual, this not spiritual.

What was your daily life like? Can you say?

Murder! Really, because there I was, a foreigner, having
to do everything in an Indian mode: the agony of sitting
on the floor with rickety knees trying to make my
chapatis round. My guru was like one of those harsh
Zen masters: He believed in throwing one into the deep
end to make you swim. On the first day, Ashish said:
“You make the chapatis.” I said: “All right, you show
me how to make the first one.” He said: “If you want to
learn, do it!” I started making shapes like South
America or Iceland. I was disgusted. I had to learn.

How many Westerners lived in the Ashram in those

days?

In 1965 only an Australian boy and myself. I was in the

kitchen, he ran the farm. There was an Indian couple
and Ashish, and that was the entire population. Fellow
disciples came and went, of course.

Oh, Bill, I would have loved to see you in those days.

How did you get on with everyone?

I should have thought that was self-evident. Such

dramas. Such Brahmanical rituals and laws: this hand to
be used for this, that one for that….don’t let your
shadow fall on this, total awareness of how you eat,
ritual bathing in freezing water. There were all sorts of
tantrums, explosions and emotional heart-burn, feeling
sorry for oneself and wanting to stab the guru and run
away. Life in an Ashram brings out every gamut of
human experience and emotion.

But you stayed all those years. How did you maintain
yourself?

The four years I spent with Sarla I worked as a

handyman, in the garden, and so on. One’s expenses
were small, so they were met by the school. But what
could you buy apart from toothpaste? …which was
frowned upon… and soap, which was also frowned
upon: one washed with reeta, a local fruit, and cleaned
one’s teeth with soot. For the seven years in the
Ashram, I was given an honorarium for service to
Thakur, who would also pay my bus fare once a year for
a holiday in Nainital.

Bill, you have been here twenty years, how did you
adapt?

I am still adapting. My breakthrough

into Hinduism came when I stayed with a Punjabi
printer in Allahabad who took me for the customary
morning bathe in the Ganga. It was winter, chilly; we
stripped off. I could see flotsam and jetsom and
cigarette cartons and all sorts of muck bobbing about.
He plunged in, calling: “Come! …this is Ganga Mai.”
“You don’t expect me to jump into this” — I yelled —
“it’s filthy!’ He replied: “It’s not the water that’s filthy,
it’s the dirt!” Suddenly, like Zen satori, I knew he was
right: I jumped in too. And from that moment I’ve never
had typhoid or those things. I’ve had immunity —
psychic immunity. You can’t stay in India on boiled
water; you have to come round to the Indian way — if
you get a bug, it’s for a purpose. It’s easier to live that
way, too.

Lama Govinda must have lived near you at the Ashram.

Yes, he was a dear man, the most Buddhistic of men.

His wife was different. Lama would invite you for tea in
a mild and scholarly manner, but the wife would brow-
beat him. She never butted into his scholarly activities,
though. They were so beautifully dressed in their
Tibetan costumes that the local residents used to say
that before setting out for their evening constitutional,
they would turn to one another and say: Do we match?
There was another great character living nearby:
Sunya Baba — Sorrenson, who left Denmark in the
thirties and came to India as a landscape gardener.

Was there anyone else besides your guru whom you

admired?

Admired? Don’t say admired — I feel love is the only

touch-stone that rings true to all men. So did I love
anyone else? Yes. I fell in love with Prithwi, a fellow
disciple, and that’s why I left the Ashram. I had
my guru’s blessings, for he said if I couldn’t find what I
was after through love, I should give up. So I am now
following that path. I left in 1972 and have no regrets.
As you know, I work as a private secretary to a
Maharani. One thing my guru taught me when I started
was: I won’t promise you anything, but you start on this
and you will never have any regrets. He never lauded
anything -- this will be seen inside, that will eventually
be attained — but whatever he said has rung true. The
teachings have been right for me.

Have you found an inner peace you didn’t have

before?

Am I less prickly than before? I suppose with age…it’s

just a fact of life: you give up writing to the editor. I’m
just as awkward as ever, but it’s less apparent. Stir me
and I suppose it will all come up again.

Do you still meditate?

Not in the sense of sitting down and conjuring up

nothingness, but in the sense that one is all the time
reminding oneself that one is here for a purpose — to
see the One behind it all. So no formal meditation. In
the Ashram one sat all night in special postures,
strapping oneself up; all that jazz. What is it all about?
Even in trance states, does it change anything? You
zoom up, but then you have to come down.

Can you ever see yourself living again in the West?

Because I was put through the excruciating Ashram

mangle — the washing machine — I could live
anywhere. My guru taught me the inner path is facing
things you have always been afraid to face. So he said:
Get back into life, have a bank account, pay income tax.
How can you understand the One that encompasses all
when you are terrified of the irritating aspects of the
establishment? Conquer the establishment, be part of it,
then say it’s not there…there’s no less the One in the
market place than in the Ashram.
So thanks to my guru giving me the boot, these last nine
years have been just as excruciating – that was the
mangle, this is the rolling machine. I couldn’t care
about going back to the West — I could go to Soviet
Russia having read Solzenitizin and how he managed to
stay cheerful. I don’t say I would succeed, but
equanimity would be there in the face of drastic change.
In this age of enlightenment, the West has lost the
validity of the inner search. In India the inner search
goes on — you can talk to almost anyone here and he
will not think it strange if you say you have come here
to be with a guru. India has managed to retain a
balanced attitude towards possessions — renunciation is
a mental attitude, not a forced dropping of everything.
Indians are just as acquisitive as Westerners, but they
don’t have the same attachment; they don’t cling and
are not in such a mad rush to achieve. The real India is
the inner India, so you can carry that away with you.
It’s nice to have the hygiene and comforts of the West
with all its efficiency, but not if we forget what we are
striving to have them for.

Bill Aitken may have arrived in India in 1959 having

hiked over-land in a kilt. He is now in his early
seventies but has never left. He describes himself as a
Sufi Scotsman, a lapsed monk, a tireless traveller, a
prolific writer. He has in fact built up a fine reputation
as a successful author having published several books
about his adopted homeland.

8. Brahmacharini Atmananda
Anandamayi Ma Ashram
Rajpur
December 1980

I am now packed ready to leave. I have the travellers

cheques. I have 50 audio cassettes bulging out of all
pockets. I listen to Kate’s last words of advice, and the
tape recorder and its extention are off. The distant
Himalayan snows are shining: by the time I see them
again they will be veiled in purdah. As I reach the road
a tourist taxi (in late December?) passes: I am given a
lift down to the Mussoorie bus station which saves me
an hour’s walk — an auspicious sign.
The bus is taking me to Rajpur where I used to live, and
where I have to find Atmananda who has half-promised
to try and give her blank-recorded-Interview again.
But first I call at the Sakya Monastery. The place is
empty. I am told H.H. Sakya Trizin is away. No chance
of getting an Interview from a Western Buddhist here.
But I do meet Shyam Bodhisattva: he writes on the back
of an envelope the name of a friend at the Rajneesh
Ashram in Poona. If you go there — he says, all
encouraging smiles — Leela, she is the press officer,
will be the best person to help you, and you will find
that place -- well -- interesting.
But for now I am walking through the nearby sleepy
gardens of the Anandamayi Ma Ashram on Rajpur
Road. Atmananda, whose earlier Interview atempt
registered nothing but recorded silence, is sitting in the
porch of her tiny house; she appears to be surprised:
I wrote to you — she is saying — telling you not to
come before 3 o’clock!
Oh, Lord, another mistake! But I explain: The banks
don’t issue travellers cheques over Christmas, so
perhaps the post office only delivers Christmas cards,
and can’t be bothered with letters during this period.
She lets me in, but she is firm: I will not speak into that
thing again...here is a printed article...(not another
one?)…use that instead!
I glance at it. There are places needing clarification.
She starts explaining, talking so expressively, so much
more naturally, I put the printed, stilted piece aside. She
lets me press the recording button -- this time something
surely will be captured.

When I met you last month at Kankhal, you were

reluctant to give me an Interview — you said you didn’t
want any personal publicity. When at last you agreed,
we found much to your amusement, nothing had been
caught on the cassette. I know you have lived in India
for nearly 50 years and that you are one of Anandamayi
Ma’s oldest and first Western disciples. But can you tell
me something about your early life and what brought
you to India?

My mother died when I was 2 years old so I was

brought up by my father and grandmother. He was
Polish, but we lived in Vienna. I was interested in
religion very early, but I went through many phases. At
school I learned about the Jewish religion, and I got
very Jewish. I remember saying to my grandmother: I
can’t stay here, you don’t keep orthodox rules — I’m
going away! All right — she said — but where will you
go? I was 7, so I began to think I better wait.
But by the time I was ten I was an atheist. When the
First World War started, I got interested in politics —
this lasted a year or two. But I was still religious-
minded and began to read Tolstoy when I was 14. That
impressed me very much.
When I arrived at the age of 16 I became a vegetarian
and started reading Theosophy. But, really, it’s very
difficult to talk if you are going to publish everything.

Yes, I know. But only what you wish to talk about will
be published. You know, our backgrounds are rather
similar: I was also born a Jew of Austrian-Polish
parents, and like you I became a musician. Can you tell
me how you started your musical training?

It was while still a child of 6 or 7. I was considered a

wunderkind, although I successfully avoided playing in
public. It was at my music teacher’s that I met a girl,
much older than I, who was a Theosophist. She gave me
some books to read, but I didn’t like them. Then she
brought me Krishnamurti’s little book At the Feet of the
Master. I didn’t read it. After some time she wanted it
back, so I felt I better read it — you probably know it
— it’s very short. Well, it had a peculiar affect on me.
From that day I couldn’t eat meat anymore. My family
thought I’d get over it, but since then — it’s over sixty
years ago — I have never eaten meat. It became
contagious: my sister became a vegetarian after one
year, then my father, and as my grandmother had no
choice, she also followed. It was like that.
From then on I became a keen Theosophist. When I was
21 I came to India for the Jubilee Convention at the
International Headquarters in Adyar. That was in 1925.
Dr. Annie Besant and Mr. Leadbeater were alive in
those days. I should tell you that I had been fascinated
by India since my childhood although I didn’t know
anything about India. When I first heard the names of
India’s two great epics: Mahabharata and Ramayana, I
went home from school repeating those words like
a mantra. Of course, I didn’t know what a mantra was
until much later.

When did you come back to India?

Oh, it wasn’t for another ten years… in 1935.

And this time you never went back?

I have not even stepped outside India since then.

How did you meet Anandamayi Ma? She could hardly
have been so well-known in those days.

I was teaching at Rajghat School in Varanasi, and

although I had heard much about Mataji from friends
who knew her, and I was searching for spiritual
guidance, I was in no hurry to meet her. It wasn’t until
1943 when I was spending my summer vacation in
Almora that I had my first darshan. The
Danish sadhu who lives there one day said to me: “The
Holy Mother is at Patal Devi, why don’t you see her on
your way back?” The Ashram there was not built then,
but I found Mataji sitting in the open on a string cot. A
few devotees were squatting at her feet. She seemed all
joy and beauty. She addressed a few words to me. She
didn’t treat me as a stranger but as if I were well-known
to her. At that time I knew no Bengali and only some
colloquial Hindi, not enough for a serious conversation.
I wanted to know more about her. In those days there
were no books on her in English. She was always
travelling, never in one place for long.
All my life I had been taught to look at things critically
and never accept anything on authority. I knew it was
difficult to distinguish between an enlightened being
and one with a semblance of this divine state. At that
first meeting I was wearing European dress, a solar topi,
I carried a hand-bag in one hand and a mountaineering
stick in the other. My appearance clashed painfully with
Mataji’s surroundings, and I was sensitive to the curious
glances of the devotees.
Nevertheless, I was struck by the inward beauty that
shone from their faces. After 15 minutes I got up to go,
but within a few months I was able to have
Mataji’s darshan in Varanasi, where I taught.
This time she was surrounded by a huge crowd under a
pandal by the Ganges. This was the site chosen as her
new Ashram, although no building had
started. Kirtan was going on. I was not used to this
spectacular worship and felt out of place.
In spite of the dense crowd and the loud singing and
dancing which disturbed me, there was something about
Mataji which attracted me profoundly. I wanted to
know her at closer quarters, but the chance didn’t come
so quickly.
She says: No one can come to me until the time is right.
It was, therefore, two years later before conditions
brought me closer to her.
It was at Sarnath. I was allowed to spend a whole
evening with her on the roof of the Birla Dharamsala.
Here there were no crowds, only a few companions and
Buddhist monks. It was informal and I didn’t feel out of
place. Sarnath had been my favourite place of
pilgrimage ever since I had come to Varanasi ten years
before. I spent much time there reading Buddhist
scriptures, enjoying the peace and wondering how it
was that after millennia the presence of
Lord Buddha could still be felt so strongly. I never
dreamed that Sarnath, where he delivered his first
sermon after attaining illumination, would be the setting
for a decisive turning point in my life.
I sat quietly by Mataji not wanting to ask anything, just
imbibing the atmosphere. Several days passed like this
until one evening I had a long private talk with Mataji.
What she said was so simple and convincing; no room
for doubts. I thought: How strange I had not been able
to find this out myself. And yet I knew it was not
another talking to me, but my Self conversing with my
self. What Mataji said was evidently only the outer
expression of something that took place simultaneously
at a deeper level.
The next morning we had another talk to clarify some
details, during which Mataji asked whether I had to
support anyone in my family. Several weeks later I
received news of the death of my aged father, the only
near relative I possessed. He had died a refugee in
America three days after Mataji had talked to me at
Sarnath. The time to make close contact with her came
when all worldly ties had dissolved. With extraordinary
ease and naturalness she had exploded my problem.
Where there had been a constant dilemma, now there
was a straight path.

Was it from that time you started editing the magazine

“Ananda Varta”?

The nominal editor I have been only for five or six

years, but, yes, I have been doing the work from the
beginning. The chief editor, Dr. Gopinath Kaviraj(1) ,
trained me — he was wonderful to me. Anything I
couldn’t understand he would explain for hours. I used
to think: What a waste of time — if he would only
dictate the answer I would use it and finish with it. Only
afterwards when he was no longer available did I
realize he had trained me to do everything myself. The
magazine started in the early fifties and is published
quarterly. In those early days I had such an intense
desire to know what Mataji was saying that I spent all
my spare time studying Hindi.
In a year I was able to talk to her without help. No
sooner had that happened than Mataji would often call
me to translate for foreigners. I had a unique
opportunity to witness many private Interviews which
enabled me to get first-hand experience of the
universality of Mataji’s teachings and how she modified
them to suit each person’s nature, conditioning and
needs.
When you were young you were such an accomplished
pianist. I wonder if you ever miss classical music now?

Every day I do kirtan for one hour, and at every Ashram

function also. Of course, this is Indian music. In the
beginning when I heard this loud music I would sneak
out — I couldn’t bear it as my ear was finely attuned to
Bach, Mozart and Beethoven. I think I once told you
that when I first came out to India I played piano
recitals on the Indian Radio. My favourite composer
was Bach, but I also played Chopin, Schumann, Ravel,
Debussy, etc. Yes, I gave it all up, but it never was my
life really. I was born into another culture and
background, but this was no new life that I entered
when I came here… you see, I didn’t belong to that life.

You would never go back to the West?

No, no, no! No question. But suppose I were deported, I

know there would be a quiet place for me somewhere.
Even in the West people are living high up in the
mountains with no electricity, no running water. One
can live the simple life anywhere. If you are meant to
live this life, you will live it wherever you are…but I
don’t want to go back.
Have you taken Indian nationality?

Long, long ago… in 1951. But I have to tell you a

strange thing. I don’t have a passport. When I was
filling out all the forms, they said: You don’t want to go
out of India? I replied: No, what for? So they never
gave me a passport…I don’t suppose I can ever leave.

Are you really 76?

Yes. I ought to tell you what happened in 1945 when I

wanted to spend the Divali holidays with Mataji at
Vindhyachal. The war was not yet over, and being an
enemy alien I couldn’t leave Varanasi without
permission…there was a permit one had to get. I had
only just been drawn close to Mataji. So I was anxious
that permission be granted. Can you imagine my joy
when told henceforth I was free to travel without
permission? Since 1939 all my movements had been
restricted. As soon as I was free of desire to go
anywhere except to be near Mataji, I was suddenly free
to go anywhere I liked.

Can you remember something of special interest from

those early days spent with Mataji?
I can never forget the Kali puja which was celebrated at
Vindhyachal during that first visit in 1945. Mataji was
present throughout the whole puja. Her face changed
continually: a drama appeared to be enacted on her
features. I cannot claim to know how a goddess looks,
but she was so radiantly beautiful and so young that
night, it surely could not have been the countenance of
a human being.
When the puja was over, I didn’t feel sleepy in the least,
but I went to my room to lie down. Someone knocked at
the door calling my name. An asana — a small
meditation rug — was handed to me with the message:
Mataji sends you this. It was 4 a.m., the time one
usually rises for meditation. How subtle — I thought —
Mataji is presenting me with a reminder: this is no time
to sleep but to sit in meditation! I went outside to thank
her; she was still surrounded by people, but she said to
me: You were cold sitting without an asana? This small
treasure is still with me although through the years it
has become badly worn.

When I Interviewed Simonetta, she had much to say

about Ashram hells. Have you gone through any hells?
Now you see my place…where are the hells? Yes, in the
beginning there are difficulties, but difficulties are a
necessary part of the training. People from the West
think that when you come to the guru you just bask in
the Holy Presence. That’s part of it — the other part is
the difficulties. Mataji is often asked about this. She
says: Whatever happens to you is due to
past karma which has to be worked out. We come to
Ashrams from different social and cultural upbringing
and have to mix together. Naturally it’s going to cause
upheavals. But we take it as part of the polishing.

Perhaps we only see this when the polishing is

complete? What do you have to say about the benefits
of Ashram life?

The secluded life isn’t a thing you choose like going to

a hotel. It has to be meant for you. The benefits? I
couldn’t live any other life. Where would I go? I could
never live with a family.

When did you start wearing ochre robes?

You probably know Mataji doesn’t give sannyas to

Europeans. In 1962 when I had been with her for almost
twenty years, she asked someone in my presence
whether he wanted to take sannyas; he was not willing.
I said: “Mataji, I can take it.” She replied:
“Achha?”(2) So she gave me a robe with instructions
how to dye it and that I should bathe in the Ganges
before wearing it. My name she gave at the very
beginning.

Is that when you started shaving your head?

Oh, that!…no, no, that’s a funny story. Mataji never

told me to do that. A few years ago I slightly injured my
head; it became septic and troublesome. I asked the
doctor to shave the hair off, but he wouldn’t. The
wound didn’t heal so I did it myself. The wound healed
but I like to keep my head shaved.

With all the literary work you have been doing, does it
not keep you away from Mataji?

I am now too old to travel with her all the time. It was
different in the beginning — I was with her very much,
at times going to small villages where they had never
even heard of a bathroom. I often had to sleep in a
storeroom — on the floor — having arrived in the
middle of the night. All that was good; you see,
everything depends on your attitude. Yes, there may be
Ashram hells, but there are two sides to everything. If
you wish to be with such a being like Mataji, you have
to be prepared to go through ups and downs. I have seen
Rajas and Ranis putting up with conditions they hadn’t
met before. It’s hard, but look at how many Ranis come
of their own accord to the Samyam Saptah!

Is that the austerity week Mataji holds every year?

Yes. The one that has just ended is the 32nd. They
started in 1952. You see, Mataji is extremely particular
about one thing: Without self-restraint nothing can be
achieved. Mataji firmly maintains if we live soft,
indulgent lives, nothing can be achieved. She tells
everybody there must be self-discipline. She says that
worldly pleasures lead to spiritual death. But knowing
that most people live like this these days, she started
advising them to keep one day a week or at least one
day a month to observe strict rules: eat only one meal,
don’t smoke, drink or talk unnecessarily, don’t visit
anyone but stay at home reading scriptures and
meditating.

What were the eating arrangements during this week?

On the first day we only take Gangajal — water from

the Ganges. The next six days, nothing until mid-day
when a simple meal is served. We are not supposed to
take tea or coffee but as much Gangajal as we like. That
is most cleansing. In the evening there is hot milk for
those needing it.
Why do you drink so much Gangajal?

According to what the stomach consumes so will the

mind work. When we start this austerity week, the first
thing to be done is to clear out the system by drinking
plenty of water. Together with the fasting, this clears
and tones up the body. For anyone living in luxury, how
can they take to the spiritual life? It can’t go together.
That’s why many of those coming from the West get ill
— they are spoilt by every sort of comfort. I tell you,
the hard life is absolutely necessary.

I wonder if you could end by telling us something about

the benefits of the spiritual life?

Oh, oh, oh — there is no end to the benefits. On the

superficial level, just look: there are no worldly
distractions, you don’t have to go out visiting people, or
doing useless things. Once you give up these things you
can live a private life, a life of seclusion. People used to
leave their homes and live alone, but this is difficult.
Ashram life is the next best thing, although you have to
put up with all sorts of temperaments.
I will tell you one last thing. For me coming to India
was not really a new life: I was interested in this from
the beginning. I never had to give up anything as I was
always out of place there.
In the early days Mataji asked me what I wanted.
I said one word: “Enlightenment.”
She replied: “All right. Then sit perfectly still in
meditation” .

9. Jamie Smith
Kirpal Ashram
Delhi
December 1980

I have arrived at Old Delhi railway station by night train

from Dehra Dun. It’s 6.30 a.m. Everyone is fighting for
a porter, then for a taxi or auto-rickshaw. I get into one
of the latter, a species peculiar to the East. This three-
wheel contraption skids, and hoots, and thrusts its way
unafraid, through bullock-carts, huge trucks and buses
already pounding the overcrowded Old Delhi
thoroughfares. The fumes are monstrous, the noise
monstrous. I hold on to my luggage. Am I going to
spend the next few months like this?
I know I am spoilt by too much mountain seclusion, but
need I come down with such a thud?
As I nearly fall out of the contraption — an over-loaded
bus has run us off the road — I pray to my guru: Need I
go through all this — need I be the channel for this
book?
I am comforted by the thought of my own guru’s
selfless prayer to his guru, the noblest of prayers:
Should any good ever come out of me, let me not know
anything about it.
I dust myself down, breath deeply, nod to the shaken
driver; we smile sheepishly, we plod on.
As we turn into Kirpal Ashram just beyond the
university, I struggle out of the battered, limping vehicle
a battered heap myself. There are many people here that
know me but haven’t seen me for a long time.
Yes, yes — I am being told — there’s a room for you.
The Ashram is a quiet, unpretentious haven named after
Sant Kirpal Singh, who is my own beloved Sat Guru
and where my wife and I lived in bliss until he left his
earthly body six years ago.
Sant Kirpal Singh was born in the Punjab in 1894. In
his early 20s he began seeing in meditation his future
guru, Hazur Baba Sawan Singh who, when they met,
initiated him into the Surat Shabd Yoga, the yoga of the
inner Light and Sound. He became the perfect selfless
devotee and was allowed to give Satgang, even
initiation, in Hazur’s presence at the Dera in Beas.
On the passing of Hazur in 1948, after spending 6
months in retreat in Rishikesh, Kirpal Singh settled in
Delhi where he started his Mission – Ruhani Satsang,
The Path of The Masters – pouring out his loving
teachings through regular discourses and initiations. By
1955 his fame had grown, and with so many new
Centres having sprung up especially in the West, he set
off on the first of his 3 world tours.
Two years later he was elected President of the World
Fellowship of Religions, a role close to his heart as his
teachings reflect his deep-rooted faith in the unity of all
religions: he never tired of pointing out that they all
embrace a common mystic centre. He travelled
ceaselessly and gave discourses and initiation to tens of
thousands, pouring out such loving concern for each of
his followers that it penetrated the innermost depths of
the soul. He wrote many books, but in his collected
more intimate question-and-answer periods he dealt
ever-patiently with the day-to-day problems facing his
devotees. His whole life exemplified the noblest ideals
of mankind: love of and service to all creation, and the
attainment of self-knowledge and God-realization.
Right up to his last days, although weak in body, with
passionate vigour he delivered his message, every word
becoming a poetic call for spiritual awakening. He died
in his 80th year in 1974. His Mission is now carried on
by his son and spiritual successor, the noble self-
effacing Sant Darshan Singh, who is a poet-mystic
steeped in the Sufi tradition although still very much a
Sikh.
There are only two Westerners living in the Ashram on
a permanent basis although the Mission has a world-
wide following. I have come to see them, but they are
busy and elusive and it will take time and patience to
get them face to face with the microphone. But they
have agreed to the Interviews. So I am now off to New
Delhi to get a travel agent to make train reservations for
the long journeys that lie ahead.
In the evening Jamie is free — Martha is far too busy
— so he wants to start. I have long admired his quiet,
withdrawn manner which almost hides his dry sense of
humour. He and Martha often stay up all night doing
urgent Ashram work. They are both rare examples of
committed, selfless sevadars.

Jamie, I haven’t seen you for some time, but I remember

coming to your marriage a few years ago…

Yes, that was in 1975 over in New Delhi.

It was so long ago? Would you like to start this
Interview by telling me something about your early life
and how you came to this new one?

Looking back at my childhood, this period in India is

perhaps a natural sequence rather than an abrupt change
or new life. Many changes of course take place at the
feet of a guru, however.
Thinking of my childhood brings back the memory of
experiences I had which were of a spiritual nature. They
weren’t unique but they were profound. I was born
Christian, sang in the church choir, but never totally
accepted the church; there seemed to be so much more
to be revealed. It provided a forum for prayer and
worship, but not for realization. As an institution there
is a disparity between what is taught and what is
practiced.
At 16 or 17 the crossroads in my life became more and
more distinct. The values inherent in the process of
growing up: getting a good job, living comfortably in
pretty houses didn’t win a solid place in my mind. Such
a life was a journey with no meaning, no goal, short-
lived. On graduation from high school I entered college
in Vermont. This institution didn’t cherish traditions;
there was a spirit of questioning values usually taken
for granted. I found fellow students interested in a
variety of spiritual disciplines, vegetarianism, health
foods. I became a vegetarian, practiced hatha yoga, but
was aware of searching for something profound,
something I had had intimations of throughout my
childhood.
I was becoming a member, whether I knew it or not, of
a growing movement interested in spiritual awakening.
It was exciting going to New York City to hear some
Swami talk on higher consciousness, or listen to Dr.
Richard Alpert who had transformed himself into Baba
Ram Dass, or imbibe the teachings of a Zen Buddhist
monk. Exciting, yes, but I couldn’t commit myself to
any of it.

What to do? I left college after that first semester, my

intention being to have a short leave to pursue an inner
sabbatical. I withdrew from life’s mainstream to the
sea-side to contemplate the nagging questions of life-
death, and so on. The caravan of life proceeds so
rapidly there’s no time to gaze at the landmarks as they
pass or to seriously consider the goal of the journey.
This was a time to gain distance between ourselves and
the ephemeral world and our identification with
machines and superficial pleasures so as to get
concerned with more lasting values.
I got a job, lived alone, meditated and practiced hatha
yoga. Nights were passed swithout sleep simply
observing my thoughts. Days were passed without
meeting anyone, without outer communication. They
were interesting experiments using my own self as the
laboratory. The results were startling. If the mind could
be stilled as well as the body, would the inner force
come to the surface? What is that inner force, what
animates it, how does it relate to the outside world?
What remains of it after death? These seemed to me the
most pressing questions and yet strangely neglected. A
painful gulf developed around me and those with whom
I had grown up; I found it impossible to share or
articulate my experiences. So much had to be rejected,
so much became unexplainable.
On returning to my college, I came in contact indirectly
— he wasn’t physically present — with my guru-to-be.
A friend had found his spiritual teacher and was
convinced he was a perfect saint. This saint, Kirpal
Singh, lived in Delhi. My friend took me to a nearby
Ashram managed by Kirpal Singh followers. Sense of
time came to a halt, only the shades of day and night
told their tale. I was uplifted.
My meditations were regular but I had no idea of what
was transpiring. I needed a guide, someone who had the
highest experiences and who could lead me to the goal.
I thought of Kirpal Singh; a surge of confidence drew
me into the arena of his love and grace. In February
1971 I received initiation from Sant Kirpal Singh. From
that point onwards there were many changes in my life.
My soul rose above body-consciousness and
experienced God, or whatever you choose to call that
power, in the form of inner light and sound, and I was
able to see vistas in the realms beyond. The Master had
the power to uplift the soul, and he being one with God,
could give such inner experiences from any distance.
He was in India physically at the time of the initiation; I
had been accepted by direct correspondence.
Sant Kirpal Singh’s books point again and again to a
unifying thread which links all faiths and teachings — it
was the thread of spiritual awakening. To become his
follower it was not necessary to renounce my religion.
Instead he showed me how to become a better
Christian.

Would you say something about the conditions attached

to taking initiation?

Yes, why not? The prospective disciple, student,

follower — whatever you may call him/her — must be
a vegetarian for at least three months prior to taking
initiation. There must be abstinence from alcohol, any
form of intoxicant and drugs other than those for health.
The seeker must live a chaste life except if a married
couple wishes to have children. The seeker should be
self-supporting and must be prepared to meditate daily
for two to three hours.

And the reasons for these conditions are?

Those eating vegetables only become calmer, more
serene. Everyone knows the vegetarian diet is a purer
diet for it has none of the toxic effects associated with
the eating of dead flesh. Meat-eating stimulates passion:
sex, anger, and so on. For anyone seeking an inner life
of harmony and peace, these have to be controlled.
There is also the karmic aspect of the diet we take. The
Master teaches that all actions meet with a reaction
according to set rules which govern Creation. By taking
life, life will have to be given in payment to the extent
proportionate with the object. So if we take the life of a
creature with feelings — say a chicken — as opposed to
a vegetable which is almost devoid of feeling, we stand
to pay more heavily.
The strength and well-being of the body lies in chastity;
the life fluid, indiscriminately spent in sex, reduces the
strength of mind and body, weakening the foundation
for spiritual discipline. To be able to control the
attention and direct it within during meditation for
hours at a time is no small feat. For this a chaste life is
absolutely necessary. We all know that alcohol dulls the
consciousness and the taking of drugs deadens the
spirit.

No fees are paid for this initiation, are there?

The only fee I had to pay was the declaration of my

sincerity. No money was given. The Master used to say
that his gifts were like the gifts of nature: air, sun, water
are all free. The discipline is not imposed for its own
sake, but for the seeker to progress on the path.

As you were only 19 when you took this initiation, how

did it affect your life?

A new perspective or awareness within me developed

which affected the way I saw the world around me. That
subtle aspect of ourselves called consciousness
expanded and with it my vision of life. My experience
was in no way unique to myself…it doesn’t lend itself
to words. Wordsworth tried, with difficulty I would say,
in his ode, Intimations of Immortality, so how shall I
proceed? This new awareness made life difficult at
times. I wasn’t reading about consciousness and its
expansion anymore — I was living it! I felt Sant Kirpal
Singh’s presence with me. How was it possible? Well…

You hadn’t even met him physically?

No, I hadn’t! I just carried out the practices every day

and the experiences increased.

Were there any difficulties? Can you say?

I had crossed a major threshold, so naturally I felt I was

enjoying something incredibly unique. But this quality
of uniqueness stimulated a feeling of isolation from
those around me. While I felt a certain at-oneness with
all, I knew my family or friends couldn’t understand it
much. At times I felt like an island adrift from the
stream of consciousness which dominates man. It seems
a paradox, doesn’t it? How could I tell people that in
meditation I rose above body-consciousness and had
direct experience of God? For a while things were a bit
awkward.

When did you meet Sant Kirpal Singh?

He arrived in USA on his third world tour — it was to

be his last also — in September 1972. I was eagerly
looking forward to meeting him, although I felt him
near me all day long regardless of where he was. I had
moved into a farm with fellow initiates. I would get up
every morning at 3 a.m. to meditate for two or three
hours. I was having good experiences — my soul was
no longer lost in the maze of its physical frame. In the
life of any disciple, the most dramatic moment in his
life is when he meets his Master, and my meeting with
Sant Kirpal Singh was overshadowed by many pre-
conceptions.
Many of his followers from all over the country were
waiting for him when he reached Dulles airport; it was
an emotionally surcharged moment. He stepped through
the doors, walked down the corridor, and I saw a man
bigger than life, full of grace in his movements casting
rays of love about him. How could I have expected
more? But in the evening at the Vienna Virginia
Community Centre as we all settled down to listen to
his talk, it was here that he gave my soul that boost
which fulfilled all my pre-conceptions.

I followed the Master on his three-month tour in the

States, and I witnessed many thousands also receive a
spiritual boost, something no one can get from books,
however learned, however spiritual.
So when did you first think about coming to India?

Fellow disciples were always coming back from

visiting the Master in India with stories of his love and
the grace that flowed through him. He had returned to
his Ashram in Delhi in January 1973; a few months
later I requested permission to visit him. So off I flew in
October.

In those days did you ever see yourself living in India

permanently?

Frankly, no. Within a few days of my arrival, the Master

began a tour of the Punjab, taking in many cities at a
fast clip while addressing audiences of thousands. It
was awesome. We who were visiting from abroad were
allowed to accompany him. It was difficult for me to
come to terms with the conditions; we tried to keep up
with the Master in a hired bus. Everything was done to
make us feel at home, but I found it hard to adapt. The
climate, the food, the sleeping arrangements didn’t help
my condition: I suffer from a form of diabetes
associated with low blood sugar. Then I contracted
amoebic dysentery. I began to think: I can’t stay long —
I don’t know about the others — what to speak of living
here. The dysentery became serious, so when we
returned to Delhi I was put in hospital. The doctor said I
would be well in a few days… it was the reverse. I
wondered if my time was up: I closed my eyes and
waited for the Master to tell me inside: Let’s go! But
instead, there he was speaking to me on the phone,
saying, You’ll be all right.
In a few days I was able to return to the Ashram, but in
such a weak condition, I decided to fly home — it
would be better. As I said good-bye to the Master, all
the pain — the memory of it even — vanished; I was
thanking him for his love, a thankfulness which welled
up within me spontaneously. At that moment I could
never have believed I would never see him again
physically. A few months later he left this world. He
was not confined to a body during his life — I consoled
myself — why should it matter now? Our relationship
would continue.

How did you come to accept Sant Kirpal Singh’s

spiritual successor, Master Darshan?

After a few years I very much wanted to enjoy being in

the physical presence of that eternal Master Power
which works through a human form. The Power is the
same although the body changes. I came to accept that
if Darshan Singh was indeed my Master’s successor,
there could be no difference between them. At that time
Darshan Singh was still employed with the Government
of India and lived in a small apartment in New Delhi.
I remember the first time I went to see him, my
immediate impression as I climbed the staircase of a
rather dark apartment complex was: How can a saint
live in a place like this? It seemed so utterly normal to
the point of being prosaic. It was my own pre-
conceptions once again coming to the fore. When he
came out, I saw so much in his face — I saw my own
Master: I saw the Light of God emanating from him in
such effulgence, his image was no longer visible — he
had become all Light! But more than that, I met
someone I knew could lead me to my own Master and
who at the same time could relate to little me with my
day to day problems.
I suppose it is the combination of God working through
man which swept me off my feet and fired the desire to
be with Sant Darshan Singh. On that visit I was on
vacation and I didn’t want to lose my job, but at the end
of my three weeks, I just could not go back. It was too
beautiful, too special in those very early days waiting
for the new Master to get back from his office; we
crowded his small room, but he was so patient, so kind
and we were lost in his brilliance. I contacted my
employers: I was given three more months — there was
a recession in the building trade!
It was during this extended stay that Martha and I
married — you were there. During the Christian
service, Sant Darshan Singh gave us one of his intimate
talks, half poetry, half practical common-sense
instruction. Except for a brief visit to the States we have
been living at his feet ever since. We started compiling
a pictorial biography on the life of Sant Kirpal Singh
which is now almost finished .(1)

Your seva keeps you both very busy — Martha still

can’t get away from her work with Master Darshan.
How did you manage to get visa extensions?
How to pin it down? Was it the Master’s grace? Was it
the kindness of the Indian Government? After the initial
six-month period granted to us, the work on the book
was far from finished; we have been allowed to stay on
to complete it. Then I decided it was time to pick up the
thread of my formal education, so I enrolled in the
University of Delhi. I put in quite a lot of time on my
studies, but Martha is free to do service in the Ashram.
She will tell you all about that.

Can you say something about life in the Ashram?

The Master doesn’t advocate renouncing the world, so
those staying here long periods must be doing some
form of service. Living here is not easy but richly
rewarding; there is always plenty to be done. But can
we define sacrifice by any actions coming out of us? In
the early days after my initiation the thought came into
my mind: The Master has given me so much, can’t I
give anything in return? I came to realize we can’t.
There is so much suffering in the world, and as we
move on we go further away from our base — from the
love that’s inherent in our very nature. The guru
reawakens that love, the love for God and all Creation.
Who is there who can sacrifice something to enable that
message of the guru to reach others anxious to hear it?
Well, I have been allowed to do a little service -- yes --
there are difficulties living in an enclosed Ashram life,
but I have never lost touch with those stirrings of his
grace and my helplessness.

Did you find it hard to adapt to the Indian way of life

and culture?

Have I really adapted to them? It is not easy for anyone

who doesn’t have the culture in their blood. Look at the
difficulties expressed in the writings of V.S. Naipaul as
he searches for identity in a home not quite his own.
But perhaps the capacity to adapt is not as important as
the flexibility to receive the Master’s grace.

Have you studied Hindi?

Learning the prevalent vernacular is an important step
as we begin to relate to a culture. India has a rich
tradition of noble thought. This wealth alone should be
revered by the entire world. I studied Hindi at the
university, but even without that knowledge one
admires the simplicity of the Indian way of life: India
has not yet been overtaken by the total identification
with material objects prevalent in highly developed
societies.

I see you have placed service very highly. Do you have

any other aim?

Service is the most important thing in my life.

Happiness in this world is such a muddle; pain and
suffering comes swiftly to sweep it off its feet.
Happiness is flavored by suffering unless we are
touched by some master-saint who frees us from the
shocks of life, and places our feet firmly on the path. If
you believe in something, won’t you support it? That is
seva; holding the belief high so that those looking for a
way out can see it.

10. Martha Smith

Kirpal Ashram
Delhi
January 1981

It is my last night in Delhi. All the train reservations and

the itinerary have been booked and confirmed, but I am
suddenly filled with inadequacy and fear not normal to
my nature. The thought of constant upheaval for so
many weeks appals me: two days here, three days there,
four days somewhere else. And I haven’t photographed
even one of the nine persons I’ve Interviewed so far. I
beg Jamie to come with me to at least take the
photographs. Instead, he gives me a much needed
lesson on my old camera.
A little later Sant Darshan Singh, who is a shining
example of humility, patience and kindness, comes to
see me in my room. I tell him: I feel like an orphan
suddenly thrown out into the cold world. Yes, he says,
full of love and compassion — But wherever you go,
never for one moment forget that your guru is watching
over you… that Power must guide and help you!

I know that is true, and I know I am suffering from pre-

concert nerves.
It is now very late at night, but Martha is waiting for
me; she is keeping her promise. HER life is one long
upheaval — my life of upheaval is, after all, only for a
few months: Martha's life of upheaval, ironically, is
taking place on a static Ashram stage, a refuge of
stillness and tranquility for everyone else…

Jamie spoke much about seva, and I can see you are
very much into that as I have been waiting five days to
snatch one hour of your time. Can you describe your
day to day life in the Ashram?
It has been our good fortune to serve the Master in a
personal capacity for the past five years or so. I have
learned that to live and serve in an Ashram means one
has to completely forget about one’s own self. One’s
personal needs become secondary. It is an experience in
living for others. Part of the day is your own, but —
there can never be fixed times — most of it is taken up
in helping the many Western devotees who come here
for short visits. Physically it is sometimes difficult;
inwardly there’s joy and gratitude for being allowed to
serve others. Sant Kirpal Singh used to say: Do you lose
anything when you give? — No! — On the contrary,
the heart becomes larger as the self expands to embrace
all. The important part is to lose oneself in the Master
and see that he is the doer: it’s he who is serving, not
oneself.

But how do you cope with the individual problems of

the people constantly coming from the West that
obviously form part of your dayly life?

As I am from the West I know a little of what they are

going through. Many devotees coming to India for the
first time are rather stunned by the great culture shock.
This may be why Master Darshan has someone from
the West looking after them — it needs somebody who
can relate to their needs. As you’ve seen, there’s a
constant flow of people: some ask for the Ashram’s
printed literature, others renew subscriptions to Sat
Sandesh, the monthly magazine, some may be sick in
need of medical care. The main request is…Can I see
the Master, I need to speak to him?

Does that mean you are in charge of arranging private

Interviews?

Yes. Everyone arriving from abroad meets the Master,

and anyone with a personal problem can request a
private Interview. I list everybody’s arrival and
departure information – each person is taken care of.

What sort of problems come up? How do you actually

spend your day?

Apart from giving personal attention to visitors, there is

quite a lot of secretarial work. The main difficulty with
that is that one can never sit quietly for long and
concentrate and complete the work. There are constant
interruptions: people knocking at the door requiring
something, asking advice or just wanting a friendly
chat. Sant Kirpal Singh often said: Life is one long
interruption!

Can you explain how anyone arriving from abroad

finds the way to the Ashram?

Only initiates or those accepted by the Master for

initiation are generally allowed to stay. We’ve set up a
system where those expected to arrive at Delhi airport
are met and brought to the Ashram where they are
shown their rooms. The daily schedule is explained:
everyone, along with putting in seven hours for
meditation each day, is encouraged to do seva. For
instance, there’s kitchen duty, welfare officer’s duty,
and airport duty.

But there’s a schedule laid out for Ashram visitors?

The bell rings at 3 a.m. for meditation, at 8.30 we have

breakfast, then more time for meditation or seva until
lunch. At 4 we have satsang consisting of a recorded
talk by Sant Kirpal Singh or a Video-tape of Sant
Darshan Singh. This is followed by an hour of
meditation. At 6 is the highlight of the day: Master
Darshan usually gives a question and answer session in
English for the Western devotees. It is usually recorded
on video-tape. This is followed by a light meal.
Everyone is expected to fill out the daily self-
introspection diary which was started by Master Kirpal.
That is the general schedule. My schedule is a bit
different and I often feel there’s no day or night.
Now the time I start in the morning depends very much
on the time I finish the night before. Sometimes the
work takes me through into the morning. Well, the night
before last, Jamie and I went to the airport to meet a
close friend who was coming with her three children.
But after that, there happened to be twelve private
Interviews, and the Master himself stayed up till 4 a.m.
At midnight, he saw that I looked tired so he said I
should take rest. I find I need five to six hours sleep.
Sometimes I don’t get to bed until 3 a.m… that’s when
the bell rings for everyone to get up! Master himself is
usually up all night — he sleeps very little. Generally I
am able to put in a little time for meditation before the
round of calls and interruptions starts again.
So you can understand why it has been so hard for me
to give you this hour.

Now you are making me feel awkward…but could you

say more about your close personal contact with
Master Darshan?

He has his own way of working. Usually as something

comes up that needs to be done he will call the
appropriate person to come and take care of it. I am
called to make phone calls, work on correspondence,
work on transcripts, and locate books. If a religious or
community leader is coming to visit the Ashram, I help
prepare a set of books for presentation. The Master likes
to know who is coming and on which date they are
leaving. I also help prepare the interview lists and go
get people when he calls for them.

Would you explain how the Master presents his

teachings?

He teaches by example. The Masters in this line

encourage us to fulfill our worldly obligations but at the
same time to develop the spiritual life. The Masters
themselves have earned their own living and often
married and had children.

One of the most important teachings is the weeding out

of our short-comings by filling in the introspection
diary. There are sections for failures in chastity,
truthfulness, non-violence and humility; not only the
failures in deed, but also in thought and word are to be
examined and eradicated. Master Darshan emphasizes
the importance of a pure and ethical life as the only way
back to God.
You ask how the Master teaches. Well, a rather
intriguing incident comes to my mind which will give
you a good example. A brother from Canada, rather
intellectual, asked many questions on how to keep the
introspection diary properly. The Master told him to
come up front and bring his diary with him. The Master
then asked him to go back through the day and
remember all his failures as he recorded them on the
diary sheet. The total came to 32. The Master then
asked another brother to place 32 marks on this boy’s
face with a pen. As there was a mirror in the room, the
Master requested him to look at himself, and then asked
him if he had a date with his beloved, would he like to
meet her like that? Then the Master gave a discourse on
how we all are hoping to meet our Beloved — God —
but this introspection diary is the mirror which shows us
every day what is standing between us and Him.

Has your married life been a help on the path?

Sant Kirpal Singh used to say that married life is no bar

to spirituality if lived according to the scriptures: it is a
companionship on the way to God, and as such is
sacred. Most of the Masters in the Sant Mat tradition
were married. They earned their own livelihood, had
children, perfected their sadhanas and taught. Jamie and
I have both found marriage to be a helping factor on the
path — in a way, we are each other’s mirror.

Of course, I know no fees are charged in this Ashram,

but donations are accepted, aren’t they?

Donations towards the mission’s work are all right, but

Master Darshan is very strict: he will not personally
touch a single penny. Even if a cheque is sent in his
name, it is returned — I know this as I have to deal with
this sort of thing. He maintains himself on his
Government pension. I should also explain that the
policy is not to accept donations from non-initiates. He
is also strict about not allowing anyone to touch his feet
— an Indian form of reverence. He is very simple and
his needs are simple. He never wears flowing gowns or
special colours. He touches people by his example, and
his simplicity draws them to the path so that our own
God qualities also begin to flower.

In contrast to some other Ashrams I have been visiting,

here the Western devotees appear to be given more
attention than the Indian devotees.

They are all given much attention. The Master comes

out every day to sit with the Indian sangat in addition to
giving two satsangs in Hindi each week and meditation
sittings. There are no caste differences here, for the
Masters of Sant Mat teach that we are all brothers and
sisters in God, and as such must relate to the divine in
each other. Any barriers there are between people are
man-made and wrong. I would say that the Master is
aware that the Western devotees have come thousands
of miles to see him and sometimes for very short
periods. But I would like to emphasize that he is not
concerned with outer circumstances or forms or even
past actions. He will embrace a poor man as warmly as
a rich man: he takes everyone into his fold. And I can
tell you this is true even with sinners. He says: Every
saint has a past, every sinner a future.
I have noticed many times especially with young people
who may have lived rather immoral lives, that when
they turn to the spiritual path they become obsessed
with guilt. Here the Master consoles and encourages
with patience – well, the patience of a saint.

Martha, I can see on the calendar printed for the

Ashram that Sant Kirpal Singh is quoted as saying:
“Man is what he thinks about all day long.” Would you
like to explain what that means?

He often used to say: As you think, so you become. If

our thoughts are towards God, then we become part of
Him; but if we spend most of the day with thoughts of
lust or mental criticism against others or in thinking
angry thoughts or how to acquire this or that thing,
these thoughts react and drive happiness away.
Moreover, thoughts are powerful; the next step is action
caused by these thoughts which usually means we do
things often detrimental to ourselves let alone others.

I can also see a quotation by Sant Darshan Singhji:

“Through the unbounded compassion of the Master we
can attain communion with God.”

I think it was Master Kirpal who said that when he met

his great guru, Baba Sawan Singh, it was through his
unbounded compassion that he was given initiation. If
the saints themselves say this, how can we poor souls
covered in darkness and illusion know what compassion
is showered on us when a perfect being draws us into
the Light. A perfect Master promises never to forsake
his children even to the end of the world. He goes
further: he says when we leave this physical body at the
time of its death, he will be there in his astral form to
help and guide us into the beyond. This is a tremendous,
and I might say, unique part of these teachings.

When did you get drawn to the teachings?

I became interested in yoga when I was 17 -- I met
someone who had just returned from India. I was loaned
Dr. Julian Johnson’s Path of the Masters – I just read it
through during the night and finished it by the morning.
It was as if the secrets of the universe were being
explained and the purpose for which we are on this
earth plane was made clear. I didn’t know what a master
was at that time, but soon I was led to the feet of Sant
Kirpal Singh and was initiated in 1971 when I was 18. I
spent my days putting in five to six hours of meditation
and going to satsang as well as to college.

Now I am going to plunge deep and ask you whether all

this intensive meditation and service you are now doing
has in fact fulfilled your deepest desires and you are a
better person?

If anyone who knew me ten years ago came to see me

now, I can hardly think they would recognize me. They
would probably walk past me. I am a totally new person
— I fit your book well, Malcolm. When I first came on
the path I didn’t fully understand the teachings; I went
overboard with intense desire to leave off old habits,
friends; I even detached myself from my family in my
zeal to progress. It wasn’t until I came to India and saw
how the Master lives that I realized this is not
necessary. We should grow within the setting in which
we have been placed and have fellow feeling and love
for all with whom we come in contact. I feel this path
has made me a better — certainly a happier — person
and a more integrated human being. I know I have a
long way to go, but at least I’ve been put on the right
way.

Did you find it difficult to change from your devotion to

Master Kirpal Singh to his successor, Master Darshan?

The new Master from the beginning emphasized over

and over again that those coming to him must look on
him as a brother if they had already received initiation –
he could never become our guru. He explained he is
here only to help the old initiates to come closer to
Master Kirpal. I can tell you that through my
association with Master Darshan I have indeed grown
closer to my own guru. As I explained, my initial idea
of the path and what a Master is was all wrong. I had
learned everything through books, and you just can’t get
the essence, the fire – call it what you like – out of any
spiritual book. Books give us a glimpse, a taste, a
pull…there’s nothing wrong with them – it’s like a
photograph gives us a good impression of a person, but
it rarely does the person justice – how can it?

In those early days did you ever see yourself living and
serving the guru so closely?

During my own Master’s life (Sant Kirpal Singh Ji) it

was my most cherished wish to live at his feet. I
actually had asked permission to study nursing at the
University of Delhi in 1972 but my father would not
allow me to go. I met the Master in 1972 when he came
to the United States on his Third World Tour. I was
unable to come to India until after he had passed away.
Jamie had visited Master Kirpal in India in 1973 and the
last thing he said to him was “This is your home.” We
could see the same spiritual power that had been
flowing in the Beloved Master Kirpal was now working
through a new human pole. I have always felt India to
be my home.