Upen Maharaj – An elevated benchmark in monkhood
--- Swami Samarpanananda
'Kemon achho? How are you?' Upen Maharaj asked me with his characteristic sweet smile when I went to meet him one day. I was in the habit of going to him regularly to feel the flight of freedom that one experiences in the presence of the great. The greatness of such persons is never overpowering, rather it is ennobling and uplifting. The shallowness of even the most ordinary tends to take a back seat in the presence of such persons, and the inner strength starts manifesting itself.
As on other days, I gave the stock reply, 'Oh great.'
'Great, my foot! How can you be doing well when you have not yet attained jivanmukti? You are not a Brahmajnani, you have not yet realized your self, you have not yet had the vision of Thakur, and you say that you are well. What rot!' Maharaj mocked me and let out a sweet laughter lasting a minute or so.
I was taken aback. It was not only a strong reminder of the great purpose of our life, but it was astonishing that the reminder was coming from a monk who was 103 years old! Usually people of that age stay obsessed with themselves, their bodies and their own needs, and there he was – mentally alert, spiritually awake, and fully conscious of his duties towards the next generation.
That is what Upen Maharaj, Swami Nirmuktananda, was – upright, smiling, positive, compassionate, and inspiring till his last -- an elevated benchmark in monk-hood.
I felt him to be like this when I first saw him in January 1970 at Deoghar Vidyapith, where I had joined as a student, and I found him so when I saw him within minutes of his passing away on 1-3-13. Throughout these forty-three years of my association with him, I never saw him inch away even a bit from his core qualities.
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He was one of the first monks whom I met in life, and he was definitely the first one who left a permanent impression on me. I was barely ten years old, trying to find my bearings in an alien environment of a residential school, where the language was different, syllabus, dress, food, habits, customs – everything was different. My trauma in those days was that of a completely disoriented mind in a new place. It was during those first days that Upen Maharaj one day singled me out, along with a few more students, and instructed us to learn Sanskrit chants from him for the coming Saraswati Puja. It was during these sessions that I felt how caring, compassionate and tender he was towards all, particularly towards the innocents in an alien environment. It was his kind attention during those few minutes of training for some days that I got the strength to weather my inner tumult.
Maharaj used to teach Sanskrit in those days. He was a popular teacher and a confirmed saint in our eyes. Kids that we were, we had our own ways of judging the greatness of others. One of them was that a great teacher must not punish us. So, although my reason for admiring him in those days was wrong, the conclusion was correct. Yes, he was great. And although he never punished us, he was always firm in handling even the most wayward.
To give an example. In those days it was my habit to skip dinner to avoid eating anything other than potato curry. Being in a residential school, we had to eat whatever was served, and if we missed a meal, we missed it. One day he chanced to see me loitering in the grounds during dinner time. Concerned that I may not be well, he enquired about it. I said, 'Today there will be Patol (Parwal) curry. So I am skipping it.' Maharaj became grave and said, 'I see. And, may I know what exactly you eat at home?'
Well, there was an irony in what he said, which fortunately he did not know. I was from an area where this vegetable grew in superabundance, and from there it used to be exported to other parts of the country, including Deoghar. For all that I know, the vegetable that night might have come from my own village!
The lesson has stayed with me. Although I continue to be choosy about most things in life (including vegetables and dinner), the sting of derision towards the objects of refusal has gone away from me.
That conversation also taught me the art of argumentation, 'keep it short, keep it sharp; hit it where it sinks the best.' Interestingly, this principle also happens to be the right way of teaching. A teacher must not say too many things. Rather, he should focus on what the learner knows well, and then from there he should lead him forward.
Monks arouse curiosity in most minds. By the time my senses had adjusted to the rigours of Vidyapith life, I had started getting curious about monks and was getting fascinated by monasticism. I was around fourteen then. One day I asked Maharaj, 'How to know a great monk? What is God realization?'
Maharaj first laughed at my question, and then replied seriously, 'Look, the greatness of a gentleman comes from goodness of conduct, but the greatness of a monk comes from spiritual realisation. And I assure you that here, in Vidyapith, there are monks who have attained degrees of realisation. However, it is beyond you to comprehend all this, or to recognise such persons.'
I was stunned. I still get goose bumps when I remember that conversation. Much later, when I was a monk of some years, I used to press him to tell me more about his spiritual life. However, excepting for telling a few titbits of his experiences, he always warded me off with his laughter. Probably he knew that I was not yet ready to comprehend and appreciate those matters.
The crosscurrents of life separated us for some years, and then I met him again at Belur Math in 1981, when I had already joined the holy organisation as a monk. By then Maharaj had settled permanently at Math.
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When he saw me, he felt very happy that I had joined the order as a monk. At that time I was too young to understand anything of monastic values. So I hardly remember what many other seniors told me. But I clearly remember the words of Upen Maharaj, 'Have complete faith in Thakur, and never touch anyone's body part even in jest or in anger. Do not even put your hand on the shoulder of your students.' The teaching was simple, elegant and perfect. The entire monastic value is summed up in that.
Regarding faith in Thakur, he used to tell me that once he was crossing an area in complete darkness. For some reasons he felt afraid. That is when he felt someone hold his hand and whisper, 'Be not afraid.' When he reached his destination, he found that there was no one around. Since then it was his conviction that Thakur holds the hand of those who depend on him. During my stay at Belur Math for two years at the Probationers' Training centre, I used to meet him regularly. We were supposed to study a lot and lead a regulated monastic life during our period of stay. So whenever we met, Maharaj would ask me what all I had been studying. After listening to me he would say, 'Study in such a way that after the completion of your training, if you are asked to be a teacher of the subject, you should be able to perform the task well.' I always laughed at the sheer preposterousness of the idea, but I also marvelled at the high bench mark that he put in studying.
Another time he said, 'Study the scriptures well, but remember that "avritti (regular repetition) is far superior to even the understanding of all the scriptures". Avritti is the service to the scriptures, and these sacred books bless those who serve them well. No one can understand scriptures till there is shastra kripa (blessings of the scriptures).' Although I could not fathom the import of these words then, I practiced what he said.
His own love for avritti was so intense that he read Gita and Upanishads with Acharya's (Shankaracharya's) commentary regularly. All his books had gone yellow with age, and they had to be kept in thick protective jackets. Once it so happened that we were staying in the same building. One day he asked me what I was studying then. I mentioned that it was the fourth verse of Isa Upanishad. 'Oh wonderful! See how Acharya says in that verse that the scriptures are untiring in their effort to enlighten people,' he said. I strongly protested, 'No, there is no such comment in that verse.' He kept silent, but came to my room on the third floor at around eleven at night with his book and showed me the relevant sentence. I also opened mine, and found that the statement was actually a joining statement for the fourth and the fifth verse, and could be treated as belonging to either, depending on how it had been printed. He said, 'I was not able to sleep because of your contradiction, so I checked it up and came to you.' There was no sting in his words; there was only deep respect for learning. I felt silly. And, to think that he was eighty-five at that time!
In a way it was also his same old way of finishing off an argument -- simple, short, effective.
The moorings that he had in Thakur and the Scriptures, gave him a tremendous individuality. Throughout my long association with him, I never saw him dwell on anything other than spirituality. Whenever I went to his room, even when he had crossed hundred, I would find him lying down in the bed, or reclining in a chair and doing japam. If anyone came to meet him during that time, he would stop japam and start talking, and when the person left him, he would continue with his japam as if there had been no interruption. It seemed to me as if he treated people like Lord's children, and hence talking to Lord's children was same for him as doing japam of His name.
Till a few years ago, it was usual to see him go to the temple and sit for japam for hours together. He used to keep his asana in the temple itself so as not to draw the attention of the curious. This and many other aspects of his life makes me feel that this is the strength of the organisation -- a great saint walking around Belur Math, unknown, unadmired, and oblivious of his own greatness! Srimad Bhagavatam describes this state as jnana khala, a person who hides his own knowledge. This is something great. So, when I see the ordinary masquerading as great, and pontificate the naive, I wonder if they ever noticed the greatness of Maharaj.
Whenever I met Maharaj for more than a few minutes, he would invariably get down to asking me about my sadhana. 'Nothing much, Maharaj'. 'That is bad', he would say. 'You must be serious about it. And perform little service to Thakur. He does not need your service, but He will feel happy if you do it. This is karma yoga. I used to polish my father's shoes when I was young. There were people to do this, but I used to do it because it gave me joy. My father used to laugh at this, and used to embrace me tightly with love.'
It was this attitude that won him hearts, including that of Swami Akhandananda ji Maharaj, whom he served for three years. Swami Akhandanandaji was the great exemplar of Swami Vivekananda's message of service, and was considered to be a hard task master. It was difficult for anyone to satisfy him with his work, but Upen Maharaj succeeded in receiving admiring nods from the great spiritual child of Sri Ramakrishna.
A disciple of Swami Shivananda ji Maharaj, Upen Maharaj had seen a number of disciples of Thakur, and also other stalwarts of the early days of the organisation. So I used to hold his hand and put it forcibly on my head, 'Maharaj, your hands have touched the feet of so many great souls. Bless me with these hands.' He used to laugh at my childish entreaties, 'atma deepo bhava – be a light unto yourself.'
Many a time he would take my hand to read my palm. I had serious doubts if he knew one line from the other, but it was fun to see him read my palm, and tell the same things again and again, 'Fame, life expectancy till eighty, good health,' and then he would start reading his own palm, 'bahu rekha bhaved dukham, too many lines are a sign of misery. See how I have to live for so long unnecessarily with these ailments. What is there in long life? Nothing. I have nothing more to achieve with this body. I wonder why Thakur has kept me still here. But who knows His ways?' 'To enlighten us,' I would reply.
Whenever I raised the topic of his mukti, he evaded the question. So I would ask him, 'Tell me Maharaj, how do you feel now that you are a jivanmukta?' He would let out a loud laughter that spoke volumes.
Despite his living at a high plane continually, he was always open to our problems. When devastation struck me due to my misadventures in the quicksand of emotions, all my well wishers got worried about my safety. With an ashen face, I told all that had happened to Maharaj. He was firm, 'What? How can they punish you when you have apologized Swamiji has clearly stated in Math rules that it cannot be done so. No, they cannot harm you.' His words proved prophetic. Today this may seem trivial, but for me, who was struggling for survival and sanity at that time, his words were life saving. No one else, not even my best friends, were positive about my fate in those dark days. The words of the great are indeed great aids to survival.
When I was back to Belur Math, I had to fight the daemons of cruel destiny for a long time before I could stabilise myself. Throughout this period he was there for me, never talking about me or my problems, but always talking about the goal of human life, and its related issues. By then he was nearing hundred, but he was fully alert about everything around him. 'How many lectures this week? How many in the audience? What languages? What topic?' I knew that a bloated answer would make him happy, so I never hesitated in adding a few zeroes to my answers. He would laugh the laughter of the innocent and say, 'Nothing is important here other than Thakur. Serve him by spreading his message. Excel in your efforts.'
When Tiya came out, he clapped his hands with joy. He read parts of it, and was happy about it. From that time onwards whenever he saw me, he would exclaim 'Tiya!', and then would add, 'You have written about parrot. Now write about Hans (meaning Sri Ramakrishna).'
Maharaj was a simple man with simple needs. He had no devotee worth naming, and so he hardly got any paranami. Naturally he never had any money with him. When I was going to Chapra, the birth place of Swami Adbhutananda ji Maharaj, to start a new centre there, he rummaged through the drawers of his table and handed me hundred rupees. 'Accept it as my offering to Latu Maharaj,' he said with emotion. It was so touching! To honour his contribution, we drew the first ever receipt of that centre in his name. Although, historicity never mattered with him, unknowingly he became the defining person of a great history.
It was my practice to go meet him around 8.30 am on the first of every month, as also on other occasions. The last time that I went to see him, I was informed that he had just passed away. He had his breakfast, took a little rest, felt uneasy, lied down, and was gone in a jiffy around 8 am. Somehow that sounded unbelievable. I had been so accustomed to his presence that his passing away seemed unacceptable.
I entered his room where he was lying, wrapped in his blanket as if in sleep. I had seen him in that posture countless number of times. There was no sign of passing away anywhere inside or outside the room. I softly called out, 'Maharaj!' and for a moment wondered if he might open his eyes and say, 'Kemon acho? How are you?'
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| http://ushaharding.blogspot.in/2011/03/reminiscences-of-swami-gambhirananda.html |
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