16

Giorgio Bonazzoli
Banaras
January 1981

It is time to catch the night-train to Benares, an ancient

seat of Hindu learning.
Asi Ghat is the section where many foreigners live. I
have the address of an American girl who spent years
here in austere sadhana until she met the son of a
Government minister. They are now married and have
four sons which has made her popular with her in-laws.
But she is away in her Delhi house, so no Interview
from her.
I take an Interview from a French girl instead, but it
hasn’t come off well; I can’t use it. I am now being
shown a hut by the river: it’s bleak and dark and sordid.
Two boys live here; one is supposed to be taking a
Ph.D. at the university.
I ask: What are you specializing in?
Resentment!
The other boy says: He left the University of Wales on a
white horse in centurian garb to study life in the
University of the World…
The prospective Ph. D. is toasting chapatis over an
open charcoal fire — grabbing the mike, he confirms:
That’s the reality, man!
I tell him his chapati is on fire; he thrusts the mike into
the flames, calling: Tell your story man, tell it as it
really is!
The other is saying, threatening: You want to take a
good Interview? — better get your act together and
come back tonight…he don’t speak till dark.
I snatch up my things and crawl out into the light
saying I’ll think about it. But no sooner outside, I have
to go back to rescue my forgotten shaw/blanket which
acts in place of an overcoat to keep me warm. A blond
infant is spreading jam over it.
A Japanese boy is now pointing to an old house of
much character and is telling me about a foreign
scholar who lives there. Well, why not? Anything can
happen. The scholar is sitting cross-legged on his
bed, pandit-style, surrounded by books and
manuscripts. He could pass for a high caste Hindu
here in, of all places, Benares. But when he speaks,
there is much music and laughter in his voice, and, yes
— that timbre -- he could almost be Italian…

Interview 16
Well, the first thing I ought to tell you is that in spite of
my Hindu pandit clothes, I am a priest — a Catholic
priest. But everyone just calls me Giorgio…I suppose
it’s easier for them.
But are you really Italian? Where were you born?
Ah, yes…in Cremona in 1934.
The city of Stradivarius?
Exactly. I received my religious training there in the
seminario when I was 11, then in a missionary society
in Milan. When I became a priest I was appointed to
teach Greek. After two years — having paid my taxes,
so to speak — I thought I would be sent abroad to work
in a mission. But — no! — I was sent for further study
to the Catholic University of Milan — not far! Well, I
thought: My life is lost…I don’t want to study, I want to
go abroad. Anyway, amongst the studies I found there
was Sanskrit, so I got myself interested in it thinking
this would take me to India. I was fascinated with this
language, but I was sent — to polish up my German —
to Austria! I thought: If I have to come here for
German, why shouldn’t I go to India for Sanskrit?
No one from our institute had ever gone abroad except
for missionary work, so my superior had to carefully
consider my request. After a week, he agreed, but with
this warning: Don’t go to Banaras; it’s not a place for
Catholic priests. He had been in India forty years, but I
never knew what he had against Banaras.
Anyway, in November 1964 I arrived in Delhi — and
now it is important — as soon as I put foot in India I
felt I had come home. Whatever I saw was already
known. I wrote in my diary: I don’t know anyone here,
but if they told me I am in a remote place in southern
Italy — a place I had never seen — yet I would know it
as my own country. At the first moment I was writing
so.
I went straight to Allahabad, and within days I was
telling my colleagues: Why don’t you speak the
language of the people? — why don’t you eat what they
eat? — why don’t you dress as they dress? — why
don’t you bathe in the Ganges? Nobody understood me,
and I remained upset for months until I met Raimon
Panikkar, the author of many books on the dialogue
between Hinduism and Christianity. I explained my
feelings to him. He was also a Christian, but he opened
my eyes: I could see I could remain what I had been
brought up to be, but could also open myself up
to Hinduism.
After one month in Allahabad I came to Banaras. As I
saw there were Capucines and Jesuits living unafraid, I
decided I could also stay. I was introduced to a
professor at the university, and so improved
my Sanskrit. This went on for two years. Then I had to
return to Italy, but with the idea that I would certainly
come back. Permission was granted, so back I came in
1968.
I came back with two ideas…maybe I should call them
problems: first, how to support myself (you see, I
wanted to be independent financially and make my own
decisions); and second: how to get a visa? For money I
began to teach Italian in Delhi at the Italian Embassy; to
get the visa, I enrolled at the University of Delhi to
study the Puranas. The Puranas are half way between
the Vedas and modern Hinduism. So by studying them I
could get a better understanding of the Vedas as well as
modern Hinduism.
After three and a half years study, I discovered there is a
center of Puranic studies in Banaras which publishes a
magazine called Purana. It is run by the Maharaja of
Banaras so I asked him if there was a place for me. He
accepted me, and since 1975 I have been assistant editor
of the magazine. We do research work on the Puranas.
So this is the external history of how I come to be here.
Can you say anything about the internal happenings?
Yes…you see, India chose me, I never chose India — I
had a strong impression from the beginning that I’d
come home. My early years were a preparation for what
happened later. At first I wanted to make a dialogue
between Western and Eastern cultures. I dropped this
after a while because I wanted to understand the Hindu
culture fully — from the inside, so to speak. I began by
observing, listening, studying, receiving as a child
would — learning, learning, learning, without surprise,
without comparing anything from my own culture and
faith.
Would you give an illustration?
All right. With the food, I ate everything without
judging it too hot or too sweet. With dress, I adopted
this style as a pandit, and as a pandit this allows me to
enter the temples. I never tried to compare the Hindu
gods. I said: Hindus enter temples with veneration - it’s
enough to trust them. I did the same thing with
sincerity, although I didn’t quite know what to do, yet I
complied with the rituals: I offered water, flowers, I
prostrated, I adored the idols. I did all this as a sincere
religious act. Then after a time I could see this started to
weaken my own faith — I could see my Christian
prayers were less frequent. I nevertheless kept on with
the study of Hindu religious books as well as going to
the temples.
I had faith that if Christ is really God, He will make
everything clear. In an unsuspecting way He did. It
wasn’t the sort of victory in which he remained and all
the other gods were destroyed — there was no need to
destroy them. Slowly I went back to my Christian faith,
but in a broader way…there was no exclusion of the
others, rather the inclusion of them all. I saw I was
contacting God through Shiva, through Vishnu, through
the shakti of the Devi as well as through Christ. This
encouraged me to be more and more sincere in my
prayers to the Hindu gods, to understand them better. I
never see them in conflict with Christ or my Christian
faith. My faith deepened.
Did you study any form of yoga?
Not in the beginning. It is only a recent development. I
am not studying it as a sadhana with a guru, more from
books. As I don’t have a guru I try to understand —
perhaps from an intellectual point of view — the many
ways. I am in no hurry, so I’m not looking for
a sadhana, one which will change my life completely.
When I look at my Hindu neighbours, they don’t dash
about looking for gurus: this all comes at the right time,
no? So I’m taking the same attitude. It will develop
naturally.
You are happy going on this way?
Of course. No one is compelling me to do anything. I
live here because I love it. I have no problems with
visas as I work for the Maharaja…he sends a formal
letter to the Government office when necessary.
Most of your time must be taken up with your literary
work and studies, but have you travelled much in
India?
No. I prefer to stay in one place and go deep. I also
have little money and little time. Recently I wanted to
go south to see Father Bede Griffiths — I have never
met him; but I couldn’t go. Have you heard about him?
I wrote asking if I could Interview him for this book, but
the letter was returned: I didn’t have the right address.
Oh, do go...I shall give you the address!
That will help me very much. Now as I understand it,
you are employed by the Maharaja — how does this
affect your relationship with the Church authorities?
Hmm! When I first came to India to do this special
work, no one else had done this before. Now, of course
others are also studying in this field. At first there were
sometimes tensions with the authorities, but I never
disobeyed. They just wanted me to keep them informed
of what I was doing. Now they actually ask me to write
articles on the subject. It’s too early for me to do this.
All the years I was in Delhi I was only in contact with
my superior, not with the local authorities. I kept aloof,
but there was no break. These days I write now and
then. In Banaras I know the Bishop, but there’s no other
contact.
I take it that you are accepted by the local Hindus.
Yes, yes.
Living in this sacred city, do you ever feel the need to
keep up with what is going on in the world outside?
I am not cut off. I take myself as if I have been born
here, so I live naturally like my neighbours. I don’t see
myself in two worlds, so as I am in this one, I am more
interested in what goes on around me here.
Was there any time when you couldn’t relate to the
usual difficulties of Indian life which sometimes come
hard on those of us brought up in the efficient West?
I would say I feel these things more now than at the
beginning. It sounds strange, doesn’t it?
Do you eat hot, spicy food?
I used to. For three years I ate in dark, dirty restaurants.
Now I prepare my own food — it isn’t Eastern or
Western…I don’t know what it is.
You must have seen many Westerners pass through
Banaras over the years.
For many years I kept aloof from all that — purposely I
cut off. I didn’t want to meet the Western community.
But last year I met someone who slowly introduced me
to the others. Some smoke and take drugs, but many are
serious — very serious: they are looking for something.
One French girl is doing her Ph.D. at the University on
contemporary Indian women ascetics — a very
fascinating theme. Some of the Westerners here are
studying Indian classical music, others are with gurus.
Recently a few have started coming to me to talk about
their religious feelings, and I encourage them. I find
they are starting to think about Christianity again.
Have you met anyone who has become absolutely
absorbed in a form of sadhana or the Hindu rites and
rituals?
Yes. There was a Canadian girl living nearby who for
seven years did an extremely hard sadhana — her name
was Sita. Extraordinary tapas she did: in summer she
meditated in the full sun surrounded by four fires
without taking food since the morning.
As a priest how do you accept the Hindu doctrine
of karma and reincarnation?
They can both be reconciled with Christian faith
because the doctrine of reincarnation as developed
in Hinduism, being different from that developed by
Greek philosophy, is not against the individuality of the
persons who are reborn. It is always the same atma
reborn, so there is no conflict with the Christian
doctrine that Christ saves each one of us.
The karma doctrine presupposes the cycle continues,
whereas in Christianity there is an end. There are some
conflicting points, but not serious ones. If we develop
more, understand more, we can still be Christian and
accept the doctrine of reincarnation.
You have so completely associated yourself with the
Hindu way of life, but do you ever miss Western culture
or society?
I don’t. I am at home here. Only recently I have had
some proposals to go back to Italy to teach Sanskrit and
Indology at Milan University — and, well, I’m a bit
upset because I haven’t found a decision. If I were to
follow my likings I would remain in India. But I have
some feeling also of duty towards those who have
formed me, helped me. If I agree to go, I will do it only
if I can spend six months in Europe and six months in
India…otherwise, I will remain here. I do not care to
give up my life here, you see.
Now I think you have heard enough…are you not ready
for some chai? I’m sure you are, so let us go to the chai
shop…they make good tea.

Padre Giorgio Bonazzoli stayed on in India for some

years but eventually went back to Italy to teach.

17
Anil Bhai
Hospital for skin diseases, Sarnath
January 1981

I spend the night in a central but not very comfortable

hotel; at least it is near the bus station where I am
leaving for Sarnath which is only about an hour’s bus
ride away. This is the quiet, sleepy place forever
associated with Buddha. I am hoping to meet some
Western Buddhists here. But first I go to the
Government Tourist Bungalow which is breathtakingly
devoid of any sign of life. Eventually a clerk with an
arm in a plaster-cast shows me to an empty dormitory
and explains the whole place can me mine for rupees
six per night. The deal is struck.
I then go to the Tibetan Institute of Buddhist Studies
across the way — the whole of Sarnath is a one-street
village. But that too is breathtakingly devoid of life. I
go up to the library: it’s open, but no readers, no
librarian — oh, one boy is reading a Tibetan
newspaper!
Where’s everyone? — I ask.
Sir…he says, standing up…it’s the Dalai Lama…he is
this moment arrived at Bodhgaya(1), and for it all have
gone.
Well — yes — all Buddhists I am thinking, but surely
not everyone? The place is so devoid of human
potential, but in this holy of holies, there must be
someone I can Interview?
A research scholar (did he miss the train out to
Bodhgaya?) is telling me of a young dedicated
Englishman living in a nearby village working in the
local leper hospital…Ah, surely he has something to
say? Maybe I HAVE come here for some purpose!
But he is incommunicado down a huge well hammering
at an obstinate pump.
He yells: Half a mo… I’ll be up soon!
The wretched patients are sitting warming themselves
in the winter sun; it’s more like a home for the forsaken
than a hospital. I see leprosy isn’t anything from which
anyone can recover.
From the depths of the well come reassuring signs of
life; a little more clanking, a yell of triumph, then a
smiling face appears.
Yes, yes —a quick wash then you may question me at
your own peril!
He is now ready to start, but only to find that the
electricity supply has been cut. Have the power-house
people and their entire staff also gone to see the
Dalai Lama? No matter, I remember the tape recorder
has batteries, but — unlike the obstinate pump – are
THEY going to work?

Interview 17
I hope I’m not interfering with your routine.
I don’t spend my life down there, if that’s what you
mean. Anyway, I never get any visitors here, so that
will make a change.
What brought you here — can you tell me?
I have been living in the village — Chiraigaon, the
village of the birds — for two and a half years. Before
that I was in Andhra Pradesh; before that I lived in
Europe. You see, I was born in England of Catholic
parents — let me see, yes, about thirty years ago — but
there I was plain John Davis. Here they call me
Anil Bhai — Brother Anil. I spent six years in a
seminary in Birmingham, but in the end, the Bishop
was not keen to ordain me…he thought I should do
more social work.
So social work I did with some Sisters until I went to
Rome and met the Brothers of Charles de Foucauld. I
left England with the intention of visiting the Brothers
in the desert, but somehow I ended up in Sicily. Life
there with the Brothers and their principles attracted
me very much. I was finally sent to the south of Spain
for a year as a formal novitiate.
During that time I did in fact go to the Sahara Desert
where Charles de Foucauld had set up what you would
call an Ashram. I stayed six weeks. During my
novitiate I was asked by the prior where I would like to
go. I replied: Anywhere outside Europe. I was offered
India, so I accepted.
Can you describe what Charles de Foucauld stood for,
what he created?
He was born in 1856 of a French aristocratic family. He
was thrown out of the army, he left his religion, he
explored Morocco which was then closed — he went
disguised as a Jew, and his survey of Morocco is still a
standard work even though his work was hidden. What
impressed him was the faith of the Muslims: the
adoration of prayer. This brought him back to his own
religion. He then joined a silent order, and lived in
solitude and recollection. He spent three years in
Nazareth, very much the servant — he became the
door-keeper to the Sisters.
He was later ordained a priest in France, but decided to
return to the Sahara where there were no priests. He
built a hermitage in Beniabbes. Here he stayed many
years living a life of silence, although on some days he
had perhaps a hundred visitors. His idea was to
proclaim the truth not by what we say but what we do.
He had a big thing about being a brother to all men,
and so all the Brothers who follow him carry this on
irrespective of religious differences.
Was he involved in doing good work, social work?
Not really. People came to see him as a brother for
advice, for money. He never left his compound —
people came to see him. In the Sahara there are only
five towns, and there was always trouble with
terrorists. In 1916 he was killed in his hermitage; he
was alone without any Brothers. Not until 1932 did six
Brothers go to his hermitage to live the life he had
lived. Now there are fourteen different Charles de
Foucauld families of Brothers and Sisters scattered all
over the world. His basic principle was to live amongst
the poor — the poorest of the poor. Here in this village
we don’t find the poorest of the poor, but they’re pretty
poor.
But what do you actually do here?
We are at the moment three Brothers. The other two are
from Goa. Within our fraternity there’s no difference
between ordained and non-ordained Brothers. One of
the Brothers here works in the village as a carpenter;
the other is learning to be a tailor. I am in this leper
hospital, sometimes in charge — which I’m not happy
about, nor the fact that I have this big room and drive
the van. But no one is keen to work in a leper
hospital…the patients are maltreated by the doctors as
well as society. I am on the medical staff but as you
saw, I also have to fix things like broken pumps. But
doing mechanical work keeps me sane. My main work
is going to villages trying to detect early leprosy
symptoms, then going regularly to give treatment,
doing a little education, and on every second Saturday I
go to the main ghat in Benaras giving medicines and
dressings to the leprosy patients there.
How many patients do you attend to in Benaras?
80 to 100 regulars, mostly beggars. It was hard — I can
tell you — at first.
Are you given a wage by the hospital?
300 rupees monthly — about 35 dollars, I guess.
Somehow I manage.
Does your work involve teaching the Gospel?
No, not at all. Charles de Foucauld’s basic thing was:
no teaching, no preaching — we go out of our way to
avoid this. We never even accept money from the
missions…we want to avoid identification with the
Church business. In the village they all know we are
Christians; on Christmas Day lots of people come to
see us for prasad, and if anyone asks questions, we just
answer them. Our aim is to be amongst simple,
ordinary, poor people, to treat them as Jesus treated the
people of Nazareth.
Have you been influenced by Hindu forms of
meditation and prayer?
In a sense, yes; we are affected by the way they pray,
by the arati which is unknown in the West but which
we do here. We do not copy but use the form we are
more at home with. We celebrate the Hindu feasts. All
the three of us are conscious we are young beginners;
so where we are going to be in five years from now is
to be seen.
You have chosen a hard way not only living with the
poor but being poor yourself. Was it difficult to adapt
to these conditions?
There are millions living in conditions much worse
than these. In the eyes of a Westerner — yes — it’s
hard, and some people will never adapt. Some Brothers
have tried it, and it doesn’t work — they can’t take it. I
have had no problems, partly because I don’t worry
about what I eat, and if there’s nothing to eat, there’s
nothing to eat. The heat gets bad in summer, well…
Does the electricity ever work?
You can see there’s an electric wire that reaches us, and
— yes — sometimes it actually works. Last night it
came on at 10 and went off at 5 a.m. which isn’t much
good to anyone. You can’t rely on it.
Can you describe a typical day in your village?
I never have a typical day — all are different. When I
come to the hospital in the morning I never know what
is going to happen. We tend to get up at 5.30, wash, go
to chapel till 6.30 for silent adoration, then have Mass,
read the psalms and Bible. 7.30 we cook tea and roti; I
then shoot off to hospital. Yesterday I was in the city all
day long. The day before I cycled 10 kilometres to
another village for a clinic; this means I sit by the side
of the temple from 8 till 10, and all sorts of people
come. What is important for leprosy patients is regular
dressings.
All your work is done in the open?
Oh, yes. Usually with an audience. When the school
opens at 10 I get all the kids — the foreigner, you
know.
How do you sterilize your instruments?
There’s none whatsoever. I have to use spirit. I have to
work amongst the flies and the muck, and the other day
I had a dead body facing me all the time. I usually get
brought lots of cups of tea. When I leave I have lunch
with a neighbour, spend some time on my Hindi
studies, return to the hospital where there’s always
something to repair, or I might have to take a patient
into the city — I’m the only driver. If there are surgery
cases, I either bring the doctor here or take the patient
to him. In the evening back in our house, we do the
cooking, eat, talk a little, then hit the bed any time
between 8 and 11 — it all depends. There are no rules.
Once a month we have one complete day off for
recollection; I do this away from the house and hospital
— just to be alone. The house is usually full of
people… mostly village children.
Can you explain the purpose of the two Brothers
working here as a carpenter and tailor?
In India you have the sadhu, a man consecrated to God,
and usually he is supported by the community. We are
also consecrated to God, but we follow St. Paul’s
advice: Let him who does not work, let him not eat!
Charles de Foucauld was very strong on this because
he saw the missionaries sitting about being fed. For us
the key phrase is the hidden life of Jesus of Nazareth.
We are living with the poor but not supported by them.
It’s not very obvious being a carpenter or a tailor
leading a consecrated life. The clergy in Benaras
cannot understand what a priest is doing here living as
a carpenter or tailor. But this is a calling; it’s nothing
we’ve chosen.
18
Russell Balfour-
Clarke
Madras
January 1981

Back in the peace and quiet of my solitary dormitory I

am writing to Father Bede Griffiths; I would like to fit
in a visit to his Ashram after my stay in Pondicherry.
But first I have to send a telegramme to
the Theosophical Society in Madras, my next port of
call. In India when we have a lot of time it’s amusing to
pay a visit to village post offices — Westerners are
often invited in for chai – Indian spiced sweet tea --
while the clerk unlocks his cupboards looking for air-
letters, telegramme forms, rubber stamps and special
forms.
I’m supposed to leave for Madras tomorrow but have
discovered that the train journey will take 36 hours
which means I may be too late for the marriage of Ram
and Parvati — my American friends from Anandamayi
Ma’s Ashram. They are arranging the ceremony to
coincide with my arrival at the Theosophical Society at
Adyar (according to a letter from my wife who is now
snowed-up in Mussoorie). I was hoping to take their
joint Interview on their wedding night.
But here I am at Sarnath’s village post office, tealess,
and being told: It is inconvenient to send any
telegramme today, could you not go to the main post
office in Benares?
Inconvenient? — I ask, trying not to appear too
eccentric.
Very — you see, the line, she’s out of order!
I dash all the way into Benares — what else can one
do? First I am begging them at the Indian Airlines
office for a seat on the afternoon plane, any plane, to
Madras. No chance: twenty-nine people on stand-by. So
now off to the recommended, hopefully fully
functuating, main post office.
In India there is no queuing system: we are all expected
to push. The pushing is greater in city post offices…
more people, more pushing, the only way to get hold of
a telegramme form, hand it back, pass the money, the
only way to secure the receipt. The vital sorry-I-will-be-
late telegramme finally on its way, I extricate myself,
and move away all of a heap.
In the morning I am sitting on the train to Madras
dazed at the prospect of a 36 hour journey. The
business man opposite me in the compartment laughs:
The train — he says — was twelve hours late last week.
I am now resigned to missing the wedding, I only hope
there will be time for the Interview… Ram and Parvati
both have far-out stories.
The train this week is only three hours late, and it’s now
night-fall, and I don’t even know if they have a room for
me at the Theosophical Society. The businessman lives
at Adyar, so we share a taxi and he gets me through the
locked iron gate into the T.S. estate. One can’t get in
after dark unless known to the gate-keeper.
I find Norma Sastry, the estate secretary and to whom I
have been writing unsuccessfully to reserve a room: no
reply ever reached me. She looks as if she’s been to a
party — Oh, a wedding! — and she gives all the news.
Ram and Parvati were lovely, the marriage was lovely,
and they have both left this evening for the Ashram of
— oh — I just can’t remember, but you do have a room:
in Leadbeater Chambers…number 15…Ram has just
vacated it.
In the room I find the remnants of a vegetarian party,
and on the table, placed so I can’t miss it, a pink
telegramme:
PILL ARRIVE ONE DAX LATE FULL LOVE
MALCOLM
This is indeed high style post office creative interpretive
writing; I had written:
DUE TO TRAVEL AGENT’S BUNGLING WILL
ARRIVE ONE DAY LATE. ALL PLANES TO MADRAS
FULL. LOVE-MALCOLM

Madras has three seasons: hot, hotter, hottest… this is

January only the hot season, but in the morning as I
start making arrangements for the first Interview, the
southern heat is forcing me to walk in the shade of the
ancient trees that line the paths of this exotically
landscaped estate, a huge tropical park borderd by
ocean and river beaches.
Adyar has been the International Headquarters of
the Theosophical Society for about a century, and there
is one old resident here who remembers its early days
of glory – not quite early enough to have met Madame
Blavatsky the co-founder, one of history’s most
enigmatic women who played a major part in opening
modern Western minds to Eastern thought, and who can
be regarded as the grandmother of the New Age.

Russell Balfour-Clarke arrived as a very young man

over seventy years ago, he is a walking-talking-history-
book. He still rides a bicycle, he still speaks in ringing
English tones, but he isn’t sentimental about the great
early days. His mind sparkles in its clarity and
consciousness of expression. I automatically feel a
terrible pang of regret -- how I wish this Interview
could be filmed: one can’t meet a walking-talking-
history-book every day, one that spans almost a whole
century.

Interview 18
Before you speak about your early life, may I ask you if
it’s true that you are 96 years old?
No! That’s not correct — I’m only 95.(1) Hmm…my
early life? Well, I am British, born in London in 1885,
June 2nd. My parents were landed gentry — squires —
owners of land and farms. My mother was a Low
Church Protestant; my father, because of his love of
music, would often visit Catholic cathedrals to listen to
the music although he was not a Catholic — he was
broad minded. I wanted to become an engineer, and I
was accepted at London University for a B.Sc. in
engineering, but after one year I had a six months’
illness with typhoid fever and another six months to
learn to walk again and recover.
One little door-mouse nurse came to look after me; she
had a magnetic power, and when I was raving with
fever she would put up her hand and say: “Now Dick,
be quiet!” — and I was like a lamb.
When I began to think and recover — and this is the
way I came to Theosophy — I said to little nurse:
Is there nothing more to be known about God and man
than what we learn from the parson?
She gave a strange answer: There is infinitely more to
be known.
I said: Where is it? It’s not taught in the Bible.
She replied: It’s mentioned in the Bible — Jesus said,
‘Unto the multitudes I speak in parables, but unto my
own I speak of the mysteries of the Kingdom of
Heaven’ — that is the further knowledge.
Then she told me about the Theosophical Society in
London where I could meet people who had found that
wisdom. When I had recovered, I found the Society and
went there.
How old were you then?
About 19 or 20 — it was in 1904. There I met Mr.
Bertram Keightley who helped Madame Blavatsky
publish her book, Isis Unveiled — her first remarkable
book which made the world sit up prior to founding the
T.S. He handed me a form to fill in; there I read the
Society’s three aims:
1) To form a nucleus of the Universal Brotherhood of
Humanity without distinction of race, creed,
sex, caste or colour.
2) To encourage the study of Comparative Religion,
Philosophy and Science.
3) To investigate unexplained laws of Nature and the
powers latent in man.
I was in sympathy with these aims and paid the fee.
Later I was sent for and met Col. Olcott, the co-founder
of T.S., who handed me my diploma of membership,
shook my hand and wished me well. He had a powerful
magnetic personality. I then made friends with a
staunch Theosophist, Mr. A.P. Sinnett who claimed to
have had contact with the Master Kuthumi — he has
written about it in a book called, The Occult World. Due
to his influence, I wanted to become a Buddhist monk
and give up Christianity, but he advised me to follow
my career for a while. I was still studying T.S. books
but took an apprenticeship on the railways in London
which led to an appointment as assistant engineer of
construction in Nairobi for two years. That was a world
of candles and kerosene oil.
Did you have any contact there with Theosophists?
No, but I formed a group of three people called the
Occult Group. Now I hear that there is a live T.S.
movement in Nairobi. At night in my tent I used to read
Theosophy. I became more and more interested, and
when I returned to England in 1908 I attended lectures
by Dr. Annie Besant, the new President of the Society. I
had written to Col. Olcott about becoming a monk, but
he had died, and Dr. Besant replied:
I strongly advise you not to plunge into
orthodox Buddhism, but perhaps if we can meet we can
discuss it.
After meeting her three times, she said:
I would like a young man like you to see India — today
I have been given two thousand pounds to do what I
like with, so I invite you as my guest at the International
Headquarters of the T.S. at Adyar.
I jumped with joy, but she said: No, no! — think about
it for a week, then let me know.
At that time I was also offered a very good job in West
Africa; it meant a high salary and a step up in my
career. I was at a crossroads. Now, Mr. D.N. Dunlop
was a famous Theosophist who had a miniature of two
adepts, whom I recognized as the Masters Morya and
Kuthumi; he had copies made for me….
They were paintings?
They were photographs of paintings made in Madame
Blavatsky’s London studio I believe; somehow she
placed her hand on the painter’s head, he saw the
Masters and painted them. I was thrilled to have these
copies, and as I was at this crossroads, I placed them
before me and sent out a plea: If I am worth being taken
notice of by the Society founded at your instigation by
H.P.B. (Madame Blavatsky), could you give me a hint
which way to go? I received a definite sentence in my
head: Choose the way of unworldly wisdom, and there
will be no regrets. It was clear.
I arrived here in 1909 with a letter of introduction from
Dr. Besant. I was put in room no.7 at Blavatsky
Gardens — a very simple room. C.W. Leadbeater had
already awakened the kundalini and was cultivating
clairvoyance; I went to his Octagonal Bungalow, and
told the man leading me to say Dr. Besant had sent me.
He went in and said: Dr. Besant has come. I could hear
Leadbeater saying inside: Hmm! She must have
materialized, let’s go and see. We laughed when we
met.
And then I met a shy, sorrowful-looking boy — J.
Krishnamurti. He was about 13 years old then. I was 10
years older. Mr. Leadbeater took me into his confidence
when he got to know me better and said: Master
Kuthumi has asked me and Annie to look after these
two children of his, -- at that time Krishnaji’s younger
brother was still alive. I was entrusted with the task of
helping. What we had to do was to clean up these two
boys: they were unhappy, dirty, ill-fed because their
mother had died and a very hard-hearted aunt was in
charge of the house — the father was not much good
with children so they were neglected.
We set to work. It was a great joy to me having come
into all this. People point to me now and say: He was
Krishnamurti’s teacher. That is not quite true. I was
Krishnamurti’s constant companion, his nurse, his valet
de chambre. We went cycling and swimming together
— yes, and I did teach him his first English. I moved
with him closely day and night until his 19th birthday.
That was from the beginning of his career until 1915
when I had to go to war and join the army.
There has been some criticism that the booklet, “At the
Feet of the Master” was never written by Krishnamurti
himself during this period. Do you know anything about
this?
I certainly do. When Mr. Leadbeater first saw the 13
year old Krishnaji, he was struck by his aura, which he
described as the most wonderful he had ever seen. It
could not have been Krishnaji’s outer appearance that
was striking, for at that time he was undernourished and
uncared for. But Leadbeater took him and his younger
brother under his care. The father — who was a
Theosophist — and the other children were given a
place to live within the Society’s grounds. Leadbeater
told me Krishnaji was destined to become the World
Teacher: He will undergo spiritual training; there will
be opposition but it has to be done.
Now Mr. Leadbeater had Krishnaji come to him at 5
o’clock every morning and asked him to recollect what
the Master KH had taught him on the astral plane
during the night while he was out of the body. I was
always present so I saw Krishnaji write down the
teachings in the form of notes. The only outside help he
received was in his spelling and punctuation — you see,
he was still learning English. But these were the notes
that were later turned into the book, At the Feet of the
Master, and published under the name of Alcyone; it has
been translated into about thirty languages and gone
into forty editions or more. Yes, I know there have been
many skeptics who have tried to prove that a boy of 13
could not write such a book. But I saw him with my
own eyes; that is my personal testimony.
That is invaluable testimony, thank you. What happened
after you came out of the army?
I became a civilian again in 1924, and Annie Besant
suggested I should join Leadbeater in Australia. I was
with him for five years living a strange and wonderful
life. I was initiated into Co-Masonry and into other
ceremonial groups and helped Leadbeater; I cooked his
food and nursed him when he was sick. I toured with
him, he made me a priest of the Liberal Catholic
Church and I attended the meetings of the esoteric
school of Theosophy and the general meetings. A very
full life. I plunged into all this with enthusiasm and
believed that all I was doing and hearing about were
facts.
When you say you believed in everything then, does it
mean that later you had doubts?
Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t doubt, but through the years
because of my strong link with Krishnaji I seemed to be
going through, in a lighter vein of course, what he went
through. So now I have to say that in my book, The
Boyhood of J. Krishnamurti, I wrote about things as
though I knew them, but I had been told them by
Leadbeater and others and accepted them as facts. Now
I would say that whether they are facts or not I don’t
know, but because I don’t know I can’t deny or affirm.
I see. How did you part from Mr. Leadbeater?
I married. I came back to London, took a job, but after a
time my wife and I came back here to Adyar where we
lived and I was given permission to take a job in a big
engineering firm outside.
Was all this before Krishnamurti renounced his role as
the World Teacher?
Long before, oh, yes, yes…
You were still in contact with him in those days?
Yes, of course. I met him often. I met him in Australia
and observed the painful fact that Leadbeater, from
being affectionately disposed towards him, turned
against him and said everything had gone wrong.
Krishnaji later told me how he was asked to get out of
Adyar and never come back. Well — as everyone
knows — he did get out, and it was only a few days ago
that after fifty years he was invited back by the
President of the T.S., Mrs. Radha Burnier, and he
walked through these grounds again. I had the pleasure
of welcoming him, although I have been seeing him
practically every year when he comes to India. He is
now looking in better health than ever. He is 85, you
know — 10 years younger than me.
All these many years you have lived in India must have
been very fulfilling for you.
Yes, they have. I can say that when I first came to
Theosophy, my mind, through contact with the early
Theosophists, was filled with visions of the Wise Men
of the East, the Great Adept Brotherhood, the Hierarchy
standing behind the people who were said to be running
the inner government of the world. But all that has
rather faded — I don’t say it isn’t true. Leadbeater
wrote a wonderful book about this, The Masters and the
Path. I have been presented with much teaching and
have read many books, but I took into my heart what I
liked and made it my own. But in the past I made a
mistake in an effort to help others by writing and
talking about the Masters and what they did and didn’t
do as if I knew. No, whatever progress I have made, I
have progressed to this point of view that much of my
belief has fallen off me like a cloak: my Co-Masonry,
my priesthood, the teaching about karma, reincarnation,
and the rest of it. I don’t say it isn’t true, I say belief
isn’t knowledge.
But you do follow Krishnaji?
Yes, rather. He looks at us and says: I suppose I have to
talk — why do you come to hear me? — Well, the
world is in a mess… Then he paints a picture of the
chaos of modern life. He asks: What is the root of
chaos? — the power of thought! As I sit there I
remember Madame Blavatsky saying: The mind is a
great slayer of the Real; let the disciple slay the slayer.
Krishnaji puts it in his own way, and then asks if it’s the
mind that creates confusion, how to stop the confusion?
Well — by realizing it, that stops it…then in freedom
from confusion there’s love. That’s his message. It’s so
tremendous, we can’t take it. He’s still emphatic that
he’s not a teacher. I don’t touch his feet — I wanted to, I
feel like it. I told him the other day when I was holding
his hand on his historical re-entry into this place that I
feel like touching his feet but I’m not going to. He said:
Quite right; and laughed.
As a last question, what do you think you have achieved
by your seventy-five years association with the T.S. and
Krishnaji?
I am not able to estimate what I have achieved — you
or others who meet me may form their own opinion: I
can’t say I have arrived at this or that. I have learned
that nobody can teach me how to meditate or
“muditate”, as most people do. And nobody can tell me
how to become spiritual or to define God. It’s all
ineffable wonder and beauty and love. That’s what I
think, I can’t describe it. Should I try, I would destroy it.
19
Norma Sastry

The Theosophical
Society Adyar
Madras

20th January 1981

It’s as well that this Interview with Mr. Balfour-Clarke

was not filmed for as he spoke the words: And then I
met a shy, sorrowful-looking boy - J. Krishnamurti - a
powerful evocation of that momentous meeting so many
years ago, caused me to burst into tears. It was totally
unexpected and I became helpless for several minutes.
Mr. Balfour-Clarke then told me about Mary Lutyens’
book: “The Years of Awakening” which gives a truthful
account of Krishnaji’s tormented early life. He also told
me how I could go and see Krishnaji: he is still in
residence nearby but outside the T.S. estate.
But a little later, I meet Charan Das, a smiling though
seriously committed American sadhu in his early
thirties. Since I last saw him six years ago in Delhi, he
has been relentlessly on the move visiting a seemingly
endless list Ashrams, Monastries, holy men and the
more hidden-away sacred retreats of India. I know he
has spent days alone in jungles with the famous chilum
babas who sit around most of the time smoking ganga,
a mixture of tobacco and marijuana, who hardly talk,
but appear to be in a constant state of God-
intoxication. Charan Das, as is his pattern, is pausing
here for a few days only, a place he perhaps considers
somewhat conventional.
They know him well here so can’t be too surprised by
his free-wheeling. He has just left somewhere of
unusual interest, is on his way to meet someone even
more interesting, and then on to visit a sadhu he has
just heard about which will undoubtedly turn out to be
of even more interest. This has been his life for the past
10 years.
Charan Das is a spiritual adventurer. Unmistakable,
unmissable, unforgettable. He is dressed in a white
cotton dhoti and, as this is winter, a cotton shawl; he
carries a cloth shoulder-bag with his simple needs, and
for the past 12 years hasn’t worn shoes. His smiling
face is crowned with coils of faded dreadlocks, and has
been described as looking like a dandelion on acid. He
is constantly en-route from one excitement to another,
constantly planning further forays into spiritual
wonderlands. He over-flows with hardly believable
Ashram anecdotes and the latest Ashram gossip. I can’t
help feeling that all this gathered information should be
going into a book.
Charan Das is certainly not a secretive person. I get the
chance to ask: Could you not share some of your
adventures and give me an Interview? A long pause,
more unfathomable smiling -- his reply: We will think
about it.
Charan Das does not use the conventional “I”. He
consistantly refers to himself as “We”. It takes time to
get use to, but then one has to get used to Charan Das
with his Texan drawl (though now much reduced), the
fey unfathomable smile, his total immersion into the
Indian life-style, and his air of regal floating along the
surface of the earth-face. He has dedicated his life to a
relentless endeavor to see, hear and meet even the most
obscure holy sages of India. No one is safe; he was
born with a serious gift for detection.
He has given me a rough outline of his current itinary
so that if our paths cross again during my own
wanderings, he can share his most recent news and
views. This is no polite gesture: Charan Das has strong
feet that have taken him far, a sweet but purposeful air
about him, but above all, he has a warm shining heart.
He knows I am a mere amatuer at this travelling game.
He also knows that before I started on this journey I
had no desire whatsoever to even enter the Ashram of
another guru other than my own. I remind him that’s
where we first met, in Delhi, at the Ashram
of Sant Kirpal Singh.
I tell Charan he is the most uncharacteristic yet
charismatic of all theWesterners on a spiritual path I
have met in India. I ask if it’s true that he is not above
taking initiation from some of the gurus he meets yet
does not feel an obligation to carry through any of their
teachings exclusively. More enigmatic smiling.
I also tell him surely this is a unique opportunity to
unfold his full story here in this historic setting, so
could he not reconsider and give his Interview for New
Lives now?
The Interview? Well…yes. Oh, yes — certainly.
But he reflects: We are still thinking about it…and we
think it perhaps better when we arrive in Mussoorie --
we are to spend the summer there, did we tell you?
Well, that is near my home. I tell him Right, that’s fine, I
shall also be thinking about it. We are now both
smiling. I love this guy.
And I feel sure I’m going to see more of him on the
road. But I can’t help thinking about the Charan Das
incrutable smile: it can hardly come into the happy-
smile category, certainly not the pleased-with-one-self
category. The smile, there most of the time, veils
something which occasionally peeps through, and
strangely seems to have been caught when I
photograph him: a melancholy-ache smile?

Charan Das travelling light

For now though, here drawing up on her faithful
bycycle – Hello, hello! -- is the T.S. estate secretary, the
much-in-demand woman who gave me all the news of
Ram and Parvati and their wedding.
She has agreed, with the slightest of friendly
persuasion, to talk about her own life and times. The
Annual T. S. Conference has just ended. She is behind
with her work but relaxed and even amused at being
asked to give an Interview.
But wait… first…oh yes…I have to cycle off…it will
only take a minute or two…just round the corner to
make sure a guest-room is ready for the arrival of an
old friend…yes, yes…back in a minute…just read a
book, dear, read a book!

Interview 19
There was certainly nothing of the Theosophical ideals
in my background. I was born on a farm in Michigan, a
child of a poor family doing the usual things, and as
soon as I finished school I looked for a job in Detroit.
The ad I answered happened to be with a Theosophist,
although this had no meaning to me at the time. When I
was told to come for the Interview, there was a frantic
to-do as I didn’t have any coloured stockings – only
white ones, which I tried to dye black but they came out
a sort of navy blue. Anyway, I was told I could start
immediately although it was in the middle of the week.
Those first days pay enabled me to buy a new pair of
shoes.
It was my first contact with a vegetarian, and I thought
he was exceedingly foolish. He had recently lost his
wife so I thought – Yes, no doubt she didn’t eat
properly. After a while my employer handed me the
booklet, At the Feet of the Master, and in a very
superior 16-year-old-way I said: I am not interested!
But later when the bait was held out to go to Chicago as
he was to attend a T.S. convention, I accepted.
When we arrived, I found there was a reception for Dr.
Arundale, the T.S. President, and his wife,
Rukmini Devi. But I couldn’t go in as I wasn’t a
member. So I said: All right, I will join and go. And
that’s how I became a member of the T.S. It was 53
years ago and I am still a member.
The time came when I had saved enough money for a
coat – I wanted so much to have a fur coat. But when
my employer heard about this, he said: I cannot allow
you to come here dressed in parts of dead animals! I
was rebellious, so I asked advice from a Christian
Scientist who said: You can do what you like with
money you’ve earned, and anyway, God created
animals to serve man. I was shocked at that sort of
reasoning…I never bought that fur coat.
A long time after I began working for that gentleman, I
learned he had given me the job because he thought I
looked sickly: he decided to make my last months on
earth happy. I am now 72. Of course, having joined the
Society, I felt I had reached the top and there was no
need for me to study the T.S. books. But I regularly
went to all the meetings and thought I was doing my
Theosophical duty by standing at the door shaking
hands with everybody. Theosophy at that stage meant
being brotherly, and that was the most brotherly thing I
knew. Whatever study I did came later. When I went to
the World Conference of 1929 at Chicago, I heard Dr.
Besant lecture on: Just Men Made Perfect. It made such
an impression that I began to be curious to know who
she was talking about. She spoke about the Inner
Government, Evolution, and the Great Beings helping
guide the world. That did make me read more.
When did you come to India?
The East had no appeal for me. Rukmini Devi met
many of the young people and they all told her they
longed to see India. She said to me: Norma, don’t you
also want to go? I said: No…I’m sure I won’t like the
food. That was in the early thirties at Wheaton the
American Headquarters where the Summer Schools
were held. In 1935 when they were planning the Adyar
Jubilee Convention, some interest was aroused and as a
message came from Dr.Arundale inviting me, with a lot
of palpitation, I went. I arrived here in October of that
year – 1935 --and as I came over the bridge at Adyar, I
saw a glorious sky with a wonderful moon coming out
of the sea. I can never forget that.

What did you have in mind to do?

Actually, when they asked me to come it was with the
idea that I should do secretarial work for Dr.Arundale,
the President. I was terrified. My typing wasn’t too bad,
but I wasn’t good at shorthand. On the boat coming
over I spent hours practicing every day. The idea of
meditating meant little to me, but the beauty of Adyar
meant a tremendous amount, especially the knowledge
that it had been visited by Great Beings.
How did you spend your time in those early days?
For 9 years I did the secretarial work; I also worked in
the school. When the war started we were rather cut off
– few people came – we had to make our own
entertainment. I’m afraid mine was playing the
gramophone which probably disturbed everybody. In
fact I have a friend in Australia who says: Norma, even
now I never hear the Cesar Franck Symphony that I’m
not back in the quadrangle with your gramophone. As
the war came to an end, many of the people here
thought of going back to the West. Dr. Arundale asked
me: I said I wish to stay. But it happened that I left to
take up employment with the Gwalior royal family and
it was there that I married my husband. After several
years we came back to the T.S., and we have remained
here for the last 24 years.
Is your husband a Theosophist?
Yes. He comes from Adyar, and we had met here but we
didn’t marry until 1945, some years later.
Do you spend any time in meditation? Or do you
consider the time given to your service as a form of
devotion?
If I’m honest I don’t. I’ll tell you, meditation as people
practice it sitting down has always been a struggle, and
I got fed up. What’s the use me always trying to catch
my runaway mind and bring it back? I was very pleased
when I heard a lecture on meditation by Krishnamurti,
for although what he described was even more difficult
it appealed to me. Now it’s dangerous to quote him but I
can say what it meant to me – I won’t make him
responsible. As I understand it, he said many things
about what meditation is not, but then the sentence
which stuck mostly in my mind is that meditation is
leading a righteous life every minute of the 24 hours.
It’s an ideal which appeals to me, not sitting battling
with the runaway mind for 15 minutes and spending the
rest of the day not remembering what you are doing!
Can you describe your present work accommodating
the many visitors who wish to stay here?
The work changes from time to time. I used to help with
the conventions and was appointed secretary to the
committee which manages the estate. I became a sort of
letter-box…where everyone comes with complaints and
troubles. The committee was dissolved but I continued
doing the same work. Now I deal mostly with
accommodating visitors. At one stage we became so
liberal that we were in danger of becoming a tourist
hostel – people preferred to stay here rather than stay in
Madras hotels. We are following a stricter policy now to
make sure that those coming here have an interest along
the lines of the Society; they may or may not be
members, but they must have a reason other than it
being a nice place to stay.
Are you actually employed by the Society?
My husband and I are both honorary workers – we take
nothing from the T.S. We live happily on the small
amount we have. I would be a misfit if I had to go back
to the West, and I don’t think we could afford it anyway.
Living here is a natural way of living. I can’t imagine
another way. I should tell you the Theosophist who
gave me my first employment over 50 years ago
remained a good friend to the end of his life: he
remembered me before he passed on, and this has
helped me be an honorary worker here.
Norma Sastri was active at Adyar well into her nineties
when she had a serious fall which rapidly led to her
decline and death.
20
John Clarke
The Theosophical
Society, Adyar
Madras
20th January 1981

I am looking for the bungalow of John Clarke. He

spends much of his time doing literary work for the
Society and appears to be one of the younger members
living here on a permanent basis. He serves me
fragrant South Indian coffee, and speaks so softly and
confidentially that I wonder if his voice will be caught
on tape.
After a few minutes there is a pause, a chance to check,
and we find a musical bird hiding in the lush
surrounding gardens, perhaps curious, perhaps offering
encouragement, singing full throttle with such lyrical
abandon, such compelling ardour, the Interview is
developing into a duet of Schoenbergian intricacy.
Could this delightful obliging creature be delivering a
message from one of the Great Masters in the Beyond?
Interview 20
You edit “The Theosophist” the Society’s magazine, but
can you tell me how you were drawn to the T. S.?
I have been a formal member for the past 12 years but I
certainly knew many of the teachings long before that. I
remember at College in Dublin picking up second-hand
books which turned out to be Theosophical manuals and
thinking they rang bells. And I know when I went to my
first Lodge in Dublin I wasn’t very impressed as they
seemed to be concerned with obtuse things, not
particularly interesting. A number of years ago when I
was teaching in London, my friend John Coats who was
the President of the T. S., asked me to come to work
here. So I have been here over 3 years now.
You are Irish by birth?
Northern Irish. Presbyterian background leading to
University in Dublin. As a youngster I was conscious of
other dimensions – insights – which didn’t always fit in
with one’s background. I suppose that is why when I
first came across these teachings they seemed familiar.
After I had become a member of the T. S. I came across
the Liberal Catholic Church, and for a number of
reasons I found it very attractive. That came out of the
reorganization of the old Catholic Church at the
beginning of the century, and most of the members were
from the T. S. It was another way of expressing
Christianity – esoteric Christianity as opposed to
exoteric Christianity. It is liberal as it allows members
to interpret Christianity according to their own
development – it’s not dogmatic.
Does one take a form of initiation to join these
Societies?
No. You have to be proposed and seconded.
Have you been ordained as a priest of the Liberal
Catholic Church?
Yes. But it has no formal connection with Theosophy.
Can you explain the aims and principles of Theosophy?
You know there are 3 aims (See Interview with Russell
Balfour-Clarke). They must have been extraordinary
100 years ago, certainly the first one about brotherhood,
particularly in an Indian context when one has to look
beyond caste and creed. But they are outer exoteric
objects, although they express the unity of man.
What about the esoteric side? Do you have a meditation
practice?
There isn’t a particular one. One has to find one’s own
way. The T. S. is not keen on a teacher. It deprecates
running after gurus and going from one system to
another. But we are encouraged to find our way.
But do the members of the Society living here follow a
particular sadhana?
No. Once more, one makes one’s own programme. As
you know, there are certain things you may not do:
smoke, eat meat, drink liquor, have illicit sex, as they
call it, and so on. That’s the way of life here. But most
people living and working here no doubt follow a
system of meditation and study, certainly.
Does your work include lecturing outside?
The residents are quite often invited by individual
Lodges to go and talk to them. And the International
Officers of the Society frequently go round the world
taking part in conferences and conventions.
So Theosophy is a way of life?
Above all. And it includes many ways of looking at life,
just because it embraces Christians, Buddhists, Hindus,
everyone. It must be said that one’s own religious
outlook is modified by Theosophy.
Since Madame Blavatsky and Col. Olcott founded the
Society 100 years ago have the original principles been
modified in any way?
No. There have always been schools – ways – of
looking at Theosophy. There are still small groups
within the Society that claim that the only valid
teachings are those found in “The Secret Doctrine” and
other writings by Blavatsky, and tend to shy away from
the writings of say Leadbeater, particularly when he
writes from his clairvoyant point of view. The basic
teachings have not changes in emphasis.
When the Society was founded it created a tremendous
impact and influence on Western thought. Has the
membership increased in proportion to the spiritual
awakening that is taking place?
It’s odd, it’s remained very much the same. There was a
steep increase at the time people were concerned with
the World Teacher, the early Krishnamurthi period. The
membership has never been very large
Members come here for short visits?
There are Centres all over the world. Yes, they come
usually for 2 to 6 months.
Can you speak about your work as the editor of The
Theosophist?
The magazine has been produced for over a 100 years –
every month – and is the chief link between Adyar, the
International Headquarters and the membership. I
should explain that the President by virtue of being the
President, is the editor and has the final say about
everything, but the putting-together is left to the
assistant editor – so that’s my work. The policy is also
laid down by the President. John Coats, the last
President, tried to make the magazine more popular to
sell at book stalls, book shops. It was given a wider
appeal, but it never has had a wide appeal. The new
President, Mrs. Burnier, realizes that so we are going
back to the old idea of it being intended for the serious
Theosophist. The articles – not enough – means I have
to write around. They cannot have a political flavour
and we don’t print things that are sectarian. English is
the international language of the T. S. so the magazine
is printed in English.
How many subscribers do you have?
About 2,500 – that’s guesswork. But every Section has
its own magazine as well.
Do you see yourself staying here permanently?
That I don’t know. I had a definite feeling – knowledge
– that I had to come here. The inward things are good
here. Adyar is a place of peace and beauty, a great
power centre, one can feel it. I don’t think one must
always know what one is doing or going to do: things
have a way of opening out for one. I have given up
making plans.
Since becoming a member of the T. S. do you feel it has
brought you nearer to God?
Oh, yes. I am sure of that. Before there were many
difficult questions that could not be answered in one’s
orthodox religion – many things never hung together.
Theosophy makes it all one piece. It doesn’t mean that
one knows the answers to everything, but there is a
unifying basis. One might say one is more integrated
with oneself. One’s conception of God has changed
also. The Theosophist is less of a bhakta, he is more of
a student. Of course, all the yogas must come together,
mustn’t they? Just like all the religions.
By the way, have you had time to see the shrines yet?
Our Church, Temple, Gurdwara? Bhakta devotion is
there. I will take you now – I think you should see all
that, and the library.
John Clarke’s health rapidly declined after a nervous
breakdown from which he apparently died.

21
Peter Hoffman
A house by the
Indian Ocean
Tiruvanmiyur
Madras
21st January 1981

Charan Das is still here. He now thinks it appropriate I

should know he is indeed collecting material for a book
– a spiritual guide-book, no less. He has been working
on the project for the past 10 years. With his curiosity
and gift for discovering lesser-known gurus, saints and
holy men, and his instinctive flare for being able to
arrive at the right place at the right time, what he has
to tell us should make for lively inspired reading. His
publisher is a patient man. Charan Das is a real sadhu;
he lives to the full every minute of his roving
experiences, and no right-thinking publisher is going to
put a deadline on that. Charan Das knows all about
devotional life. He also knows more real-life Ashram
scandals than anyone else – he has, of course, been to
more Ashrams than anyone else.
As I couldn’t go across the bridge with Charan Das to
hear Krishnamurti’s lecture last night as suggested by
Mr. Balfour-Clarke, Charan is explaining how he
decided at the last minute to catch Sathya
Sai Baba instead; this other heavy-weight spiritual
power-house has also just hit town. No matter: I am
due to visit Sai Baba’s Ashram in a few days.
Ever helpful, Charan Das is taking me outside the
grounds of the Theosophical Society to a secluded
house by the beach. It’s a long walk. He of course
knows the owner, so”we” and I have been invited for
tea and a swim; I am to Interview the imposing
American who has been living here for many years. The
walking gets slower and slower, we are enjoying the
simplicity of nature. I try to warn Charan Das we are
going to be late. Sadhus don’t rush. They saunter…a
walk by the sea is food for the soul. We are over-doing
the sauntering and arrive so late that our host prefers
to get the Interview over first – he has dinner guests
coming later – if there’s time, the swim can follow. A
swim in January…and in the Indian Ocean!

Interview 21
Before you tell me about life in this superb beach
house, can you translate the name given to your
village?
It’s called Tiruvanmiyur… tiru means sacred place, ur
means village, and Valmiki was the famous author of
the Ramayana — so because he is supposed to have
worshipped at the temple, the full name is Tiru-Valmiki-
ur.
But before I talk about my present life I should tell you
something about my background. I was brought up in a
very well-to-do family in the USA. The only person
interested in spiritual things was my mother who was
basically a Christian Scientist. I majored in physics, but
I realized I was not being taught what I wanted to know.
I became more interested in literature. One of my
professors had an interest in Vedanta and had been to
India, and that influenced me. I read books on the New
Thought Movement, and then I became interested
in Buddhism. I quit Kenyon College after two years to
study Buddhism on my own…that must have been in
1941 — yes — I’m 59 now.
My father wanted me to continue at university so I tried
the Philosophy Department at Chicago University; but
the courses were staid and stilted — no use to me — so
I never went back to college. The war was on; I had
done some flying, so I became a flying instructor in the
Air Force, and this brought me to India. In 1945 I was
stationed at Karachi, and it was there I discovered
Theosophy in a book; it seemed to me a real, consistent,
beautiful, logical, well-organized system of cosmology.
But I didn’t know the Theosophical Society still existed.
I didn’t even know there were other T.S. books.
Not until I was back in Indiana was I made aware that
there were Theosophists actually living there; we got a
group going very soon.
Did it take long before you returned to India?
It happened like this. Rukmini Devi is a great lady in
her own right, but at the time she was the wife of the
T.S. President — she was nominated a couple of years
ago as President of India but she declined — well, it
was she who invited me back. I could talk for an hour
on her, how she married Dr. Arundale at 16, how she
studied dancing with Anna Pavlova, how she revived
and made respectable the ancient Indian temple dances
and later founded Kalakshetra, an academy of the Arts
in 1936 where Indian dance, vocal and instrumental
music can be studied. But when the Republic of India
was formed, she accepted a ten-year period in the Upper
House of Parliament. I became her secretary and helped
her most important work which was getting Parliament
to pass an Act against cruelty to animals.
Did these political activities affect your Theosophical
interests?
In a way they weren’t such a change in the interests I
had. But since 1949 up to the present, I have traveled
every year with Rukmini Devi on world tours…she is
of course a well-known Theosophical leader. And I
should say that every time I return to India I notice the
difference — the magnetic difference — and I would
like to stress that from my point of view, India is like
the spiritual guru of the world. Each nation has a certain
character, as each person is different and has his own
unique value. The fundamental contribution India has
made historically and is qualified to make in the future,
is to be like a spiritual guru to the world. From the
dawn of history, its sages and adepts have experimented
with the forces of the human body and the depths to
which human consciousness can go. In each generation,
spiritual truths have been taught and confirmed by each
succeeding generation. Unlike scientific
experimentation where they experiment on others, the
only way to experiment in spiritual life is to experiment
on yourself.
Is this spiritual experimentation part of Theosophy or
the work you are involved in?
That’s been one of the battles of the T.S. — defining
this sort of thing. In the thirty or forty years I have been
in Theosophy, my conception of it is to have an open
mind searching for spiritual truths…and I think I’m a
real Theosophist because I’m interested in looking into
all spiritual truths, some of them even like Krishnaji’s
[J. Krishnamurti] denying the value of all concepts. I
can see colossal advantages to humanity accepting the
principles of karma and reincarnation from our earliest
school days, as a fundamental part of our basic
thinking. Unfortunately, karma as a conviction is
disappearing even in the East because people are
committing all sorts of crimes even though they say
they know there will be a karmic reaction. But if
children are brought up with the cosmology
of karma, reincarnation, evolution, spiritual progress
and so on, many of society’s problems would be solved.
Can I ask you again if you will talk about your work
here?
My work is mainly teaching — I have developed about
a hundred cosmological diagrams, and have been
teaching that for many years on my travels. I had a
series of classes here at various times. I get invited to
lecture once in a while. In February I have a two-weeks
course in the T.S. school. One can’t tell anyone about
the actual experience of what is called self-realization,
or moksha in Hinduism, or salvation in Christianity.
That’s an experience about a state totally unknown and
incomprehensible to a brain developed in three-
dimensional thinking. To teach spiritual values — in the
sense that you think you can tell anyone how to develop
the knowledge of the Self — can’t be done.
Yet teaching has a value in the sense that it helps people
understand there is such an experience. People can be
convinced that such an experience can happen to them
and that it instantaneously solves their problems. There
are no problems for those who have experienced that.
One can also help others understand that we are not
seeing this world as it is; we are seeing an illusionary
projection of our own consciousness distorted by
desires, likes and dislikes; nobody could call it
objective. Most of our pains and sufferings come from
this ignorance…so teaching can help achieve a higher
awareness state. Teaching has value, at least that has
been my experience.
Do you teach any form of meditation?
The course I’m giving is called: Kundalini and
Meditation. There are many definitions of what
meditation is, but if you don’t meditate there’s no way
to go beyond the illusion we are in. Meditation helps us
turn within and see differently what we are seeing now.
This is so essential that most of us cannot achieve
awakening, illumination — call it whatever you like —
without that inner seeing.
But Theosophists don’t believe in the need of a living
teacher. Or is this Krishnaji’s idea?
I have great respect for his teaching; he’s struggling
with the essential points which will reduce human
suffering and will transform society into one where
spiritual growth is more possible than it is in this one
which is rapidly degenerating. He has the key to get rid
of that degeneration. His idea of not having a guru I
don’t quite agree with. There are stages on the path
where a guru is essential because one goes into a totally
unknown territory with a body totally unprepared; you
really have to get someone to help you. Gurus who can
do this are scarce.
May I ask about the spiritual masters who have been
guiding Theosophists? Have they actually manifested?
I don’t think they have been guiding Theosophists. If
you look at the early literature you’ll find that people
were constantly saying to H.P.Blavatsky and Col.
Olcott: How is it you make so many blunders if you say
you are pupils of the Masters and the Masters are
behind the Theosophical Society? The Masters
themselves explained in their letters: “We give help and
general principles, but it’s up to you what you do.”
When I asked about a Master, I meant one in the body,
one you can sit with and talk to.
Yes, I understood. I did much research and even wrote a
book about that — it was never published; I never
found time to finish it — but there’s absolutely no doubt
that if you went into a court of law with all the
witnesses that had met these Masters in person in their
own physical bodies, you could establish their existence
legally. Obviously no one would do that now. But those
Masters do exist…there’s so much proof.
Why are there no reports of Theosophists contacting the
Masters these days?
If you look at the Masters’ letters, there are things that
have a bearing on that. In a letter to Mr. Sinnett, the
Master said: I wish we could convince you that the last
thing we want to do is convince everybody that we
exist; that would cause our work to be much interfered
with. On another occasion, the Master said: By a certain
time, if certain things are not accomplished - I can’t
remember the exact words - then every trace of the
Masters will disappear.
Can you say how the Masters’ letters were sent into this
material world?
These letters are definitely physical letters. In fact they
are deposited in the British Museum. I was once able to
examine them with a microscope and found that the
words which seemed to be formed by ordinary hand-
writing are actually formed by tiny lines, each one of
which is separate and which couldn’t happen with a
pen, although they look as if they have been written
with a pen. There are, of course, people who don’t think
these letters are genuine. The process of precipitation
which the Master describes as helpful to the chelas is
extremely fascinating. The Master may be riding a
horse in Tibet. One of his disciples may be in the Indian
plains, and that disciple will be instructed telepathically
by the Master to take down a letter for him. The disciple
places paper and ink powder before him which are used
in the precipitation. The master then sends his thought
into the mind of the disciple who then puts the thought
into words which he materializes on the paper using
molecules of the ink powder to embed it onto the paper.
It doesn’t soak into the paper like ink; it’s sort of on the
surface of the paper and is made up of a series of tiny
lines if you look at it microsopically. I personally think
the letters genuine. They have been published in book
form as: The Mahatma Letters.
When were the last ones sent?
When we say the last ones, we are talking about the last
ones published. The Masters are there and the chelas are
there, so they are still being sent, I presume. One of the
first published — I’m not an authority on this — came
to Dr. Besant long after Madame Blavatsky died. Some
people thought Madame Blavatsky was faking the
letters, but this couldn’t be so.
So nothing has been published since the turn of the
century?
One of the most outstanding letters we received came
later; this story I can tell. But remember, it will be from
memory, so the exact words and circumstances may be
slightly off. One night before the 1925 Jubilee
Convention, Dr. Arundale woke up, as he did many
times in the middle of the night and had to write
something down: his whole book, Nirvana, was written
that way. He could apparently only hold the higher
influences in his consciousness brain in the early hours
when everything is still. Well, this message was taken
down and in the morning shown to Rukmini Devi. They
were inspired ideas, so they were shown to Mr.
Leadbeater who declared it was a letter from a Great
Being — a Master of the Masters — and it was sent
specially for the convention. I will give you a copy…
it’s very beautiful.
Thank you. May I ask you as a last question what you
feel you have gained by choosing to live this life all
these years?
Being in India one is in a kind of spiritual atmosphere
— the country is spiritually orientated. In the course of
my being here, I have been helped very much. I have
reached a stage where I recognize that everything, even
something that may make me unhappy, is the most
valuable step that could be made for my spiritual
growth. I know there’s absolutely nothing that could
happen to me including violence and starvation that
would make me feel upset because I would recognize it
as an extremely valuable lesson life is teaching me.
With that conviction — that knowledge — that gives
you a happy life. Even if you are unhappy, you are
happy being unhappy.
I don’t have any regular meditation practices, although I
agree with Dr. Besant who made this categorical
statement: A man should take at least half an hour daily
to bring down currents from the higher world, but I’m
continually travelling so this is difficult for me.
Anyway, I do have an ideal in life and that’s to spend up
till noon in spiritual studies, meditation and spiritual
discourse. And there have been certain periods in my
life here when I have been absolutely disconnected
from all worldly obligations, so I’ve been able to do
that. That is my idea of an ideal life. Now look, before
the sun sets I think we just have time for a swim in the
ocean; that’s if you’d like that?
Peter Hoffman is alive and well.

My last morning at the T.S. is spent buying some of

their books, and looking for the letter the elusive newly-
wed Ram and Parvati are supposed to have left for me
(I never find it so I don’t know where they have
disappeared to). I then fall into discussing the rest of
my tour with the king of Ashram travellers, Charan
Das. He is ridiculously over-generous with his hard-
won Ashram information — who to avoid, who to
placate, who to woo.
All this is being written down for me as we go to the
bus station: I have decided to take the mid-day bus to
the Ashram of Sri Aurobindo in Pondicherry so that I
can arrive while it’s still light rather than go by the
evening train which may be more comfortable but may
involve me in another locked-gate-who-are-you?scene.

22

Dhruva

Cottage Guest House

Sri Aurobindo Ashram
Pondicherry

23rd January 1981

Click for a printable view

Sri Aurobindo was a philosopher, poet and mystic who
had been imprisoned by the British Raj for sedition. In
1910 he took asylum in French Pondicherry which he
never left for the remainder of his 40 years. Here he
wrote many profoundly influential books. He drew
devotees from all over India and latterly from abroad
including the French born Mira Richard who became
his alter ego, his spiritual muse, his link with the outside
world, the builder of his Ashram. She was known
simply as Mother. Sri Aurobindo died in 1950. The
spiritual work was carried on by the powerful but
loving Mother until 1974 when she too left this physical
world. Since then there has been no official spiritual or
physical head to run the Ashram.

It is just as well I have arrived early: the manager of the

Cottage Guest House — part of the Sri Aurobindo
Ashram — tells me no letter requesting accommodation
ever arrived. After an uncomfortable few minutes of
friendly questioning, he gives me a room. And it’s cool,
well-designed, clean and reasonable. This, I notice, is
one of the Ashram’s essential characteristics.
Whatever they do, whatever they make is done and
made to perfection.
I am given tickets which will allow me to eat in the
communal dining hall. Pondicherry has a North African
resort atmosphere with its palm trees, permanent blue
sky, its street signs in French. I can’t help thinking the
heat in summer must be unbearable.

The Ashram buildings are spread out over a section of

the town — they are part of the town — and are unlike
any other Ashram I know. These buildings were former
private houses of much character dating from French
colonial times.

During my stay, there is much publicity concerning the

Indian Government threatening to take over Auroville,
(1) but I will avoid all this; it’s of no relevance to these
Interviews. On the notice board in the main Ashram I
see there’s to be a general meditation session in the
sports ground. That pleases me; at the end perhaps I will
meet someone who can suggest Interviewable subjects.
Dhruva is the perfect person: he assures me there’s no
shortage. He is American — so many Americans I’m
meeting! — and as he walks me back to the guest house
he says by the morning he will have a short-list ready. I
tell him something of my Ashram-hopping adventures:
he is so thrilled by the one-day-too-soon Agra story he
makes me repeat it and declares it nothing less than a
miracle.

It is now arranged that he himself will give the first

Interview very early in the morning in my room before
breakfast (he must then attend his work at the hospital).
This means we will begin the day with something more
nourishing than food.

Interview 22

Can you start by telling me the meaning of your name

and how you were drawn into this new life?
Dhruva is the name the Mother gave me in 1970: she
gave the words, Firm, Fixed, Resolute — they were
translated into Dhruva. It’s also the name of the Pole
Star, the symbol of constancy. Mother usually named
people in terms of the qualities needing to be
developed, you see.

Well, I was born in Massachusetts but was brought up

in California. Under quiet protest I went to school and
managed to get a B.A. in anthropology more or less by
accident. For a while I had a literary theatre in San
Francisco and lost a pile of money. When that was
closing down I met a fellow involved in the esoteric:
mainly Egyptian geometry and mathematics. He was on
his way to India to find his guru; but about the time he
arrived in Pondicherry, without me knowing what he
was doing, I found a book of Sri Aurobindo. Later when
I arrived here, that connection developed.

I first wrote to the Mother in 1966, and that was the

beginning of the confirmation from her that there was
an inner receptivity which might be developed. I came,
and here you find me — the therapeutic work I’m doing
began here.

Can you describe this work?

It’s mainly the alternate modalities of acupuncture and
osteopathy, and some homeopathy. I work at one of the
Ashram clinics. There’s one main dispensary and also a
surgical clinic and nursing home which I work in.

Is this run on a voluntary basis or do people have to pay

for treatment?
A mixture. At the main dispensary anyone living as a
member of the Ashram or Auroville can get free
treatment. If they want to put something in the box,
that’s all right. It’s supported by Ashram funds. In the
clinic where I’m working, anyone can come for
treatment and pay normal fees, though Ashram residents
are treated free, of course.

What was it like meeting the Mother?

I met her on the day of my arrival — eighth February
1968. I had never been out of the United States before.
The plane was late, India was overwhelming, and the
scheduled meeting was two or three hours late also. The
room was full of people, and at that time there was no
great revelatory experience, partly because it was early
in my inner development, and partly because of the
sensory overload of just being in India. There were later
experiences, but the most dramatic in its impact was -- I
think it was New Year’s Day 1971.

Mother had been extremely ill and hadn’t been seeing

anyone…she was over 90 then! At Christmas she had
had biscuits distributed with a card saying: Persevere.
But on New Year’s Day she allowed the heads of the
departments to see her; afterwards she said: Maybe I’ll
see a few more people. She ended up seeing 600! I was
at the tail-end of the procession, so when someone
called me, I literally ran up the stairs. I was unprepared
and therefore more open…that was a very powerful
time.

Had Mother been associated with Sri Aurobindo from

the beginning of his mission?
He came to Pondicherry in 1910 after a period in jail in
Calcutta for his political activities. In jail he had certain
inner experiences which gave him the opening to the
possibility of this yoga, and from then he was engaged
in intense sadhana. The Mother, who was French, came
here in 1914 with her then husband, Paul Richard. She
later said that she had never surrendered to any entity
other than the idea of the Divine. When she met Sri
Aurobindo she immediately without question gave
everything. She made the extraordinary statement that if
that was a mistake it was the mistake of the whole
being.

When the First World War came she went back to

France. She later spent several years in Japan but
returned to Sri Aurobindo and Pondicherry in 1920.
Until her death 53 years later she never left. In 1926 Sri
Aurobindo had an experience which was described as
Krishna coming into the cells of his body; after this —
for 24 years, that’s until his passing — he never went
outside his room. From that day in 1926 the Ashram
came into existence; through the Mother, the building
up of the Ashram and the selecting of those destined to
live and work in it took place.

What is the nature of the yoga and sadhana which has

evolved?
One of the difficulties about talking about it is that it
can only come through one’s own understanding, which
is limited…and one is in danger of speaking in
platitudes and jargon. Well, let’s try. Sri Aurobindo
came to spirituality through an intense love for India; he
wanted power to free India, so he took to yoga. Then all
these other things started happening.
Basically he says that each of the traditional yogas take
up one aspect of the human experience: hatha yoga
deals with the purification and suppleness of the body
to make it an instrument to receive; in bhakti yoga the
heart is opened; in jnana yoga, the mind; in tantric yoga,
the experiences of occult power and unity…and so on.
Each of these paths is a kind of linear opening through a
particular faculty in the human make-up, the theory
being that as the Divine is everywhere it doesn’t matter
where you touch it as long as you touch it. Once that is
done the work is done.

But Sri Aurobindo felt that wasn’t sufficient as each

yoga — and each religion — represents in its essence a
surrender of that part to the Divine whereas essentially
the totality of the human experience has to be
surrendered. It became clear to him that the symbol —
you can call it the reality — through which that
surrender is made is the Divine Shakti, the Divine
Mother. He became so identified with that quality of
Divinity that for some time he signed his name Kali. He
felt the surrender of the total being was the preparation
of the body for a greater role to play in the higher
scheme. This surrender could bring into the earth’s
atmosphere a consciousness which up till now has been
attainable only by leaving the earth plane in samadhi.

This plane of consciousness he refers to as the

Supermind. But there’s also the Overmind, which as I
understand it is the plane of the gods. This is limited by
what we might call the seed though not the actual
outgrowth of ignorance, because the gods — the power
of knowledge, the power of action, the power of love,
and so on — function as separate entities. In the
Supermind you have all the multiplicity — the action of
diversity — which never loses touch with the One, the
Divine. His idea was that if that Supramental force —
he referred to it as the Truth-consciousness — could
come into the earth’s atmosphere and be active instead
of implicit, there could be a major evolutionary change
in the human make-up. That is what he was working on
from 1926.

What was his method of sadhana to achieve this?

He said surrender to the Mother was the only effective
method…

Do you mean the Mother Kali or the living Mother?

…the Mother who came here, the French lady — she
was the embodiment of the Divine Mother. So for those
doing his sadhana, the surrender to her symbolically
and in physical fact is the ultimate symbol which
enables a far deeper thing to happen than just doing
what she may say at a particular moment. Somebody
asked Sri Aurobindo in the early thirties: Did your 1926
experience enable you to realize that Mother was the
divine Mother? He said he knew much earlier. Many
times he was told: It’s all well and good for you to do
this great sadhana, but you are you and we are just
people. But he would answer: Look, if my being here
has any meaning, it’s only in that it enables others to do
what I’ve done.

So the central technique of his yoga is surrender?

Surrender, devotion and love for the Mother is the
motivation, and through that, one contacts the Lord. Sri
Aurobindo speaks of the Psychic Being — which is
almost the same thing as the soul: it’s the evolving
entity behind the different parts of us, and it’s that
which reincarnates.
For me, Sri Aurobindo’s experience — his perception
— of the third entity, the Psychic Being, the true
individuality that doesn’t lose its touch with the
Divinity, is all important. In Jungian psychology there’s
the constant battle of the ego and the self, the ego
having to defend itself all the time because it knows all
the cards are ultimately in the self’s hand, and the self
gradually imposing itself on the ego structure so that the
sense of individuality is in jeopardy at each step. In
opening the Psychic Centre, which Sri Aurobindo says
is behind the heart, that problem doesn’t exist, as this
Centre is the link to our true individuality; its essential
qualities are quietness, delicacy, joy in giving, and a
gentle assertiveness. The awakening of the Psychic
Being obviates the dualistic struggle. Sri Aurobindo’s
suggestion is also that we don’t have to dump the body
— of evolutionary necessity we shouldn’t do it.

For this yoga is there a form of initiation and ethical

rules or a special meditation technique?
The general answer to all that is No. In my case,
perhaps an initiation took place when I first wrote to
Mother saying I had a problem of being lonely…to
which she replied: Those lonely in the world are ready
for union with the Divine. This was the confirmation
that something could happen. The Ashram is basically
vegetarian, but there’s no rule about that; it’s just felt
there are better ways to be nourished than by eating
meat. The Mother didn’t want a lot of rules because of
the variety of ways people get to where they are going.

There are however 4 Ashram Rules: No sex, no politics,

no smoking, no drinking. When the drug thing
happened that was included in the no smoking and
drinking. The no politics rule was once explained by
Mother in a tape-recorded talk: After Sri Aurobindo
came here, he never again engaged in politics, not
because he wasn’t interested in what was going on in
the world, but because in order to be a successful
politician you have to develop hypocrisy, deceit and so
on, which goes against the grain of spiritual
development.

Now the sexual question — which is an extremely

important one, for the body as it has evolved is made to
produce more bodies — is a fairly substantial limitation
on many people’s behaviour. In this restriction, Sri
Aurobindo said he didn’t mean only the physical act but
the vital exchange that can occur between a man and a
woman without physical contact. It’s a technical
problem in the sadhana, not a moral one. One is trying
to do something else with the energy; the sexual energy
is the energy of change which if used in the ordinary
way drains away the chance of the ultimate change —
the settling in of the higher consciousness. This cannot
be attained if the energy flows outwards, sexually.

How does this affect married couples here?

Sometimes disastrously, sometimes it changes the
relationship to a higher, better level, usually something
in between. Sri Aurobindo himself said it is one of the
most difficult areas in the sadhana. Another writer said:
Traditionally by rejecting sexuality, the yogi rejected a
whole aspect of physical existence, but this was valid if
that rejection ensured a higher body consciousness, for
the energy continues to have a role…it functions in the
sadhana.

You have given such a vivid outline of the teachings,

could you now describe how if affects your daily life?
I can do that in a general way; personal details may be
interesting but not the crux of the matter. I should say
that it wasn’t until I came here that I had any real life,
any focus. I knew there was something I was supposed
to be doing but I certainly wasn’t finding it where I was.
The only real sustenance which kept me together was
music, mainly Bach, from the time I was 16. You were a
musician so you will understand all that. Mother says
somewhere that it takes a large proportion of one’s
sadhana to simply cancel out the early influences, the
lack of clarity, the sub-conscious habits, all of which are
far more powerful than we like to admit. So to get one’s
past into some kind of creative perspective is a major
part of our work.

I didn’t know what I would do here in terms of work,

but as soon as the possibility of going into healing work
came up, that developed naturally; so that problem was
solved. There’s a fundamental change, and when that
happened one realized that everything else was a
preparation. I was once describing my one drop of
understanding of these issues; I said: Is it so difficult to
understand that everything is the Divine? And as I said
that, I experienced a tremendous…blop! And it was so
strong, I was completely out of contact: I had to say to
myself I’m not ready for this…if I do this now they will
take me off to the looney bin!

When you say not ready, what do you mean?

The experience of the Divine being in everything, in
every tiny bit of existence. Those experiences come and
go, but it take years to develop some stable capacity to
bear a consciousness which is — how to say? — well,
which is not natural to the human frame… let’s put it
that way. When people asked the Mother: How do we
know when that thing’s happened? — she would
answer: You know! — if you have to ask the question, it
hasn’t happened.

The only preparation is the aspiration to change, to

surrender. We try to change the very fibre of what
makes us normally human, which happens to be a great
deal more normally animal than we like to admit. If
there weren’t that fundamental idea of giving every
single moment as an offering, the thing would be
impossible — there wouldn’t be a focus.
I saw on the notice board that tonight there would be a
recorded performance of Mozart’s Requiem. Do you
still listen to music?
Oh yes. The Ashram provides a wide variety of
possibilities of expression. You can paint or dance or
play basketball. There’s Western and Indian recorded
music. There’s meditation. But no one says: This is
what you have to do!

There’s no fixed daily programme?

No. You probably know there’s also quite a lot of small-
size businesses associated with the Ashram, mostly
handicrafts. Early on, Sri Aurobindo and Mother had to
decide whether they were going to do this sadhana for
themselves as a point of leverage for the rest of
humanity, or to include people in the process. They
decided to include people; so symbolically they had to
have the whole of humanity here, at all stages of
spiritual awareness from zero to those “highly” evolved.
That’s why there are outlets for everyone. There are in
fact about 2,000 people living here permanently —
Indian and non-Indian.

Is there a reason why Mother didn’t appoint a spiritual

successor to carry on the spiritual work?
When Sri Aurobindo left, she was there, so it was
assumed she would continue his work. Now there is a
problem because a number of people here implicitly or
explicitly have set themselves up as gurus. But this
yoga hasn’t been finished yet; so you can’t be a guru
unless the sadhana has been finished — even Sri
Aurobindo and Mother never finished the process. They
just said: If you want to come along with us, this is
what you have to do, this is what’s been done so far. Sri
Krishna never left a successor. Here it’s not thought that
the Mother has left with her physical passing: her
consciousness is experienceable with a little bit of
openness. It’s very real.

In July 2006 Dhruva gave, as he explained, a brief

summary of his life since our meeting:
“In 1989 I took a trip to the U.S. with a round-the-world
ticket, assuming I would return to Pondicherry and
Auroville. What in fact happened was I stopped in San
Diego, CA where I met my now (and for the last 16
years) wife. I never used the second half of the ticket.

I was at that time working on a book about the

relevance of Indian mythology to the modern world, but
it wasn't coming together as I had hoped. So I began
exploring Judaism as what I perceived then as the
source of the Western spiritual tradition. I realized after
some time that something else was happening besides
an academic exploration.

The final upshot was that in February of 1998 my wife

and I had an orthodox Jewish conversion, a path we
have been following ever since. My name now is Eytan
Grinnell. We moved two years ago from San Diego to
Milwaukee to be a part of the Twerski community here.
We feel very deeply that this has been the right way for
us.”