WAIT A MINUTE: My teacher Sourin Maharaj: A great life that lived and left silently
Swami Samarpanananda writes in his blog linked above
Thursday 5 January 2012
My teacher Sourin Maharaj: A great life that lived and left silently
Srimat Swami Gopeshananda ji Maharj, popularly known as Sourin Maharaj, left for Ramakrishna Loka, the heavenly abode of the devotees of Sri Ramakrishna, on Dec 30, 2011. It was a sad day for me. My long association of forty years with him ended that day.
Not many people know him or have heard of him. Even regular devotees of Belur Math hardly knew him or cared to know him. If he was ever pointed out to be a brother of the Revered President Maharaj, there would invariably be disbelief, for they hardly resembled in matters of dress, habits etc. And yet, there were strong similarities between them. Well... that was Sourin Maharaj... a perfect case study in profundity couched in simplicity.
To give an example, some time ago Rev President Maharaj called him and said with concern, 'Look, it is winter time. If you need warm garments or socks, do ask for it from my attendants. There is no dearth of basic amenities now.' Sourin Maharaj laughed, 'I have enough, and I can even supply to you if you want.' That was indeed funny because Sourin Maharaj was moving about in worn out socks and torn shirt, which was his usual dress --indifferent to what he had put on, or what people thought of him!
Many such hilarious encounters of him floated around, that endeared Sourin Mj to everyone who knew him, including myself.
I first crossed his path in 1972 when I was a student at Ramakrishna Mission Vidyapith (popularly known as Vidyapith), Deoghar (also known as Baidynath Dham), Jharkhand. This higher secondary school, sprawled in more than thirty-five acres of land, happens to be the most famous residential school of Bihar and Jharkhand states taken together. The school was started in 1922 by a devoted group of monks who wanted to convert the grand educational ideals of Swami Vivekananda into practice. Incidentally, Vidyapith is the oldest residential school of the Ramakrishna mission, which shows how difficult it may be even for profound ideas to become practical!
Since its inception, the institution has been shaped by a galaxy of great monks, including Srimat Swami Gambhirananda ji Maharaj. However, the cradle years of seventies, when Sourin Mj went there, were turbulent for Vidyapith. Ripple effects of social indiscipline, Naxal movement and Bangladesh war had bruised it greatly. At times we wondered if Vidyapith too would head the way of general schools.
It was during those choppy days (towards the end of 1971) that Srimat Swami Chandranada ji took over as the head of the institution. To steady it, he brought in a team of great monastic workers, and ultimately succeeded in making Vidyapith what it is today. It was in this scheme of things that Sourin Maharaj was posted at Deoghar. He was still a Brahmachari (novice in white dress) then, but was hand picked to assist the administration in imparting to monkeys "the man making education" of Swami Vivekananda. Those were the early years of reforms, and the students were still kind of monk-baiters!!! Naturally, people laughed at the very preposterousness of the idea of a Brahmachari Maharaj disciplining the leaky ones.
The cat was out of the bag for him soon after he joined. It was his habit to attract a crowd of students around him to chat with them in a friendly manner. During one of those sessions with famed monk-baiters, one senior student (actually he was a very nice person) who had a sing-song voice and an affected style, told him, 'Oh, your name is so long – "Sourindra Maharaj!!" We will rather cut and prune it to "Souri". Ok?'
Pat came the reply from Maharaj in the perfect imitation of that student, 'We also have too many students here, and we will cut and prune it. Ok?' He topped his reply with a mischievous smile.
A wave of shock travelled through the crowd! The boy commented, 'My, my!! He knows how to talk. We better stayed careful.'
Later, students used to say about Maharaj, 'God! He can outtalk anyone!'
It is difficult to say how it happened, but I became an ardent admirer of him soon after I met him. I was in seventh standard, and hardly knew any Bengali. This made my language sound funny to him, who had not yet been exposed to Hindi. Later he used to reminisce how he loved listening to my prattle in Hindised Bengali (or was it Begalised Hindi ?). Quite often he would put posers to me regarding this and that problem of Vidyapith, and I would give him sincere replies, which were in fact outlandish. For example he once asked me why his own dormitory always came last in the Inter dormitory competition. I replied in all innocence (stupidity has been my bane) that one must not expect great things from a mere Brahmachari! He nearly fell down laughing, and never forgot the incident. To be fair with me, my conclusion had seemed logical to me: he ran his dormitory alone, while other dormitories had two wardens, or at least a monk. However, the incident gelled us permanently.
Maharaj never carried any rancour against any student, nor did he ever get angry during arguments with them. His ultimate weapon was laughter. He would laugh and laugh (in a dramatic style) to outshout the crowd that gathered round him for a loquacious exchange. He carried this habit throughout his active life, which annoyed and hurt many egos. But in those days, I used to marvel at his prowess to beat a group single handed.
We heard in those days that he was an electrical engineer by training, had taught at an engineering college, and had successfully handled disciplinary issues in Naxal infested college at Belur. That was awesome for us. Also, that he and four of his brothers and sisters were monks was too awe-inspiring in our young minds. Those of us who were star struck by him, would watch how he walked at a furious pace (he was forty five) in kharam (wooden slippers), worked at every kind of machine, went to sleep after midnight and got up before five, supervised the dormitory of the most mischievous kids, looked after the office correspondence, worked as the chief warden (supervisor of the supervisors), handled discipline in the dining hall (a true place of notoriety), could drive well.. and well.. he had his finger in every broth that cooked at Vidyapith.
In those early days of my acquaintance, I started liking him so much that I tried getting near him whenever possible. This annoyed many, and I was openly taunted as chamacha, and, telbaaj (door mat/toady). Fortunately I never cared. I was then stepping into adolescence, and was at an impressionable age. Everything Maharaj did or said, impressed me beyond measure, and shaped my personality. It was from him that I learnt to have an integrated life in straightforwardness. If today my straight nature is to the point of being haughty or arrogant, it is mostly due to the influence of Sourin Maharaj on me – he walked and talked so straight till his last.
It was due to this straight nature of his that he was hopelessly misunderstood by nearly everyone with whom he interacted, for, he was invariably taken for an insensitive person. But no, he was not at all insensitive. Once a classmate of mine had mistakenly inhaled a little of Chlorine gas during laboratory work. Fortunately, medical assistance was at hand and nothing serious happened. Sourin Mj was our warden and also the chief warden. He did not express his joy that the crisis was over, but purchased a big packet of toffee and distributed it among the students. Similarly, once a boy broke his head during games. Sourin Mj rushed to the in-house hospital and stood by the side of the boy till the doctor arrived. Finally when the stitching began, Maharaj fainted. Later we came to know that he could not bear the sight of blood.
The fact is that Maharaj was like a railway train that can run only on fixed tracks, and can crush anyone that crosses its path when it is in motion. If Maharaj had to do something, he never budged from the original plan even a bit. But, that is not how we people are made. We expect flexibility from others, which he lacked. So, even those who loved him were wary of crossing his path when he was in action.
It did not help the matters with him that he was non expressive of his loving nature. To give an example: When I was asked to deliver talk at Belur Math in 2009, he came to listen to it. After the talk nearly everyone at Math congratulated me, excepting Maharaj. The next day when we met in the dining hall, he began with a twinkle in his eyes, 'You had rehearsed perfectly well how you would smile, adjust the microphone, and would look around!' Everyone in the dining hall laughed uproariously at his comment. They knew that that was his way of telling that everything in my talk was perfect.
In Vidyapith we were mesmerised by his phenomenal intelligence. Just one look was enough for him to know what was happening where in that huge campus. One day he went to supervise the dining hall where he instantly noted the absence of a particular senior student. Without telling anyone anything, he came out, took the jeep, went to a cinema hall (Deoghar town had two halls in those days), talked to the Manager in his Bengalised Hindi, went inside, collared the errant kid, brought him back and sent him home to Kolkata with an escort! The entire episode took less than an hour. Gosh! What a sensation it was for us in those days. Like the Superman, he seemed to be present everywhere in the campus at the same time, keeping an eye on everyone and sorting out all kinds of issues in a whiff.
Vidyapith has a magnificent temple with a grand frontage, unparalleled in the Ramakrishna Mission. Interestingly when the temple was constructed, it had no front staircase, which goes on to show that architects too have sense of humour! Visitors could never make out how to enter the temple. Sourin Maharaj literally forced Rev Chandranandaji to construct the staircase in the front. He himself designed the whole thing with the help of a guardian who was an engineer. Later, he got the temple and all the buildings of the campus painted white. That gave a unique glow to Vidyapith. He was also instrumental in many other small but highly important constructions which made us feel that he was sincerely and truly committed to the welfare of the students.
It was during those days with him that I told myself, 'Man, if you have to become someone, be like him.' I had hardly entered teenage then but the first stirrings to be a monk began in my mind not because of any idealism, but only because of aping a great person. In recent times when I was posted at our University, I continued staying at the main Belur Math campus. It was thus that I got to sit by the side of Maharaj in the dining hall for years together. Reliving my old days at Vidyapith, I used to poke fun at him, 'Maharaj, I had to forgo all the fun and merriment of the world only because of you. And see what I have to undergo now!' He would nod his head with a meaningful smile.
While at Deoghar, we never saw him lock his door -- probably because he had nothing to hide, or had nothing that we could loot or destroy. This habit of his impressed me so much that excepting on rare occasions, I have never used lock in my life, not even when I was in college residence, nor while travelling by trains. My brother monks have scolded me many times for this, but it has become a permanent habit with me. Interestingly, I have never lost a thing from my room or from the train.
In 1977, Maharaj became the Principal of Vidyapith, and in that capacity he was appointed a member of some committee of the prestigious Central Board of Secondary Education, New Delhi. In those days Delhi was considered to be as far off as the moon, and travelling by Rajdhani or Deluxe Express (now Poorva) was like travelling executive class by an expensive air carrier today. Maharaj came for the meeting to Delhi by Deluxe Express (ticket was paid by the Board). In those days I was in college, and so came to the station to receive him. Well, there he was! In ordinary hawai slippers with a khaki bag slung over his shoulder. I laughed, and asked, 'Didn't you feel embarrassed travelling like this by such a prestigious train?' He was surprised, 'Why? What is wrong with me?'
That was an expression that I would here any number of times from him in later days, 'Why? What is wrong with me?' Even when he was literally forced into an ambulance in his last days to be taken to the hospital for severe breathing problems, he kept repeating, 'Why? What is wrong with me?'
Maharaj left Deoghar in 1979 after giving his best for nearly seven years. Once he left, he never went there. Not even when I became the Principal there and fervently requested him to visit Vidyapith once. He would only laugh at my pleadings. Not only Deoghar, he never visited any of the centres after he left them.
I joined the Ramakrishna Sangha in 1980, without the faintest idea of what it meant to be a monk. I only knew that I was a thorough misfit in the world (my only quality), and felt that Sourin Mj was the person for me to be with. I ran away from home (a long and different story altogether), and went again to Deoghar to find out where Sourin Mj was. Seeing my wretched plight, the senior monks there persuaded me to stay at Deoghar and wait. Well, what a wait it was! I could meet Maharaj in 1983 only, when I had well settled in the groove of Vidyapith life.
After that, of course, we kept meeting off and on. As the luck would have it, both of us were in centres of Kolkata for a long time. That is when I could see the monk side of his personality more closely. And, what a monk with imitable traits he was -- adorable in his simplicity, admirable in renunciation, commendable in monastic values, and exemplary in God consciousness. He had all the qualities that any monk would wish for himself.
When I was initiated formally as a Brahmachari in 1987, I wrote to him to gift me something memorable. When he came next to Math, he handed over a packet to me with the words, 'Ramakrishna for Ramakrishna (my pre-monastic name).' Inside it there was a most uncommon photograph of Sri Ramakrishna's statue at Belur Math. It is so beautiful that many brother monks have pleaded unsuccessfully with me to gift it to them. However, it is still on my table and continues to inspire me and lead me through my high and low.
My interactions with Maharaj grew 1985 onwards, when I came to Belur Math and was later posted to Advaita Ashrama, Kolkata. During one of those meetings I overheard him say laughingly to a monk-friend of his, 'Look, I have no sadhana in me, but I have followed the two instructions of Thakur rigorously and have stayed away from kamini (lust) and kanchan (lusting) throughout my life.'
I wondered what was so big about the statement. Wasn't that something obvious for monks? It would be years before I realised that it was not so obvious, after all. Indeed, it is rare for monks to say boldly that they have never felt the charm of maya. Even those who say so, say this very humbly, knowing very well that the unfathomable web of maya can net them any minute.
He never liked monks hobnobbing with devotees, and was scathing in his comments on such issues. And yet when someone had landed in this kind of trouble, he commented sternly, 'Others had these issues in the previous births and you had it in the present one. So what are you cribbing at? Get out of the ghetto mentality and move ahead.' To be sure, his words had authority.
He never kept money with him, and for the last six years he asked me to get whatever he needed. Once he asked me for a dignified amount, which I managed to get and give him. After a few days he asked for a bigger amount, I again managed to raise it, and wondered what he was doing with it. I made enquiries and found that he had wrongly concluded that I had good amount of money with me, so he had decided to gift five hundred rupees everyday to a particular centre, which he had wrongly concluded to be in need of money! I needed all my persuasive skills to desist him from such a grandiose idea.
No one ever saw him pontificate, nor did we ever see him indulge in any kind of worldly talk. Tulasidasa says 'kou nrip hohin, hamen ka haani,' -- 'how does it matter with me whoever becomes the king?' We literally saw Sourin Mj practice this. He would never talk about anything which did not concern him directly. There was a time when he used to come religiously for coffee in the morning at a particular place. Many of us would join him. Once there, he would ask us for clarifications on some scriptural statement that he might have come across. We, however, had juicy things to discuss. So we would say, 'Maharaj, is it tea table, or the parliament of religions?' But he always parried our comments and continued with his discussions. It was thus that the conversation there was never allowed to drift to mundane level.
During those talks if we answered something, quoting great philosophers, he would listen to us with childlike wonder and say, 'When did you people read all that? You are still so young.'
Once he said, 'We become monks at a tender age, without knowing what it really means to be spiritual. But once you reach forty, you must make a conscious choice of leading a rigorous spiritual life.' Probably due to this reason he did not miss the Mangal Arati even for a day. Not only that, if he noted the absence of someone at that time, he would ask me if that monk had gone out somewhere.
It was during light hearted gatherings at the tea table that we saw more of his inner personality. He had a complete disdain for any kind of hypocrisy or duplicity, and would ridicule such persons in his own inimitable style. He would never name anyone, but we knew at whom the jibe was directed. About a monk who made his audience shed tears during his talks through his own tears, he would say, 'Great orators make others cry, while greater orators cry themselves!' We would laugh, knowing very well that he was kind of cautioning us from playing to the gallery. There were other orators who talked about application of Vedanta in management, science and other such areas. About them he would say, 'Ordinary orators convince others, while great orators convince themselves.' Needless to say, many monks preferred staying away from him.
For whatever reason, he had a strong dislike for English. This gave rise to many humorous situations. Once he was in a conference in which speeches were to be made in English, although most listeners understood only Bengali. When he got up to speak, the chairperson reminded him not to speak in Bengali. He agreed and began, 'Brothers, a few days ago one gentleman came to me and had a talk on the issue. I quote him....' And then onwards Maharaj went on quoting the gentleman and his own replies in original Bengali which took more than his stipulated hour of speech. The participants laughed and laughed. When the chairperson tried to intervene once, Maharaj politely reminded him that the quotations must be in the original!
It is my firm conviction that every spiritual person has to be intelligent, and hence has to have a phenomenal sense of humour. There simply can be no exception to this rule. Sourin Maharaj's humour was directly mostly towards himself, and at times towards others. His humour finally found perfect expression in his articles which were collected and published as the book named Baithaki Vedanta. The authorities, however, did not find it funny that he was publishing books without permission, so he was asked to stop doing that. Thus ended a budding literary talent, who was then sixty.
He had worked extensively on the various projects of the organisation till he was around seventy. When he requested to be released from active work, he was allowed to do so. He now made Belur Math his permanent residence, from where he rarely stirred out. For us, that seemed quite unusual. Most monks thought of him as a workaholic, and wondered how he would live without any engagement. But there he was – engaged with Thakur the whole day. Reading, thinking, visiting temples, talking to monks....
His life continued like this till one day he felt that he should not be taking the Lord's prasad without doing any service to Him. From that day onwards he started plucking flowers and offering them at the various temples at Math. Soon it turned into frenzy. He would get up before three in the morning and go out to pluck flowers from every garden, indifferent to weather conditions. Soon monks responsible for different gardens started complaining to me about his behavior, with a request that I stop him from doing so. But like a running train that he was, no amount of persuasion would stop him. We worried for him, but he was too focused to pay attention to our words of caution regarding weather, snakes, insects or anything else.
Soon he made it a habit of offering incense sticks along with the flowers at the temples. He would now be found the whole day and most part of nights either plucking flowers, or busy offering them! It was a sight watching him totter around in torn slippers and a hopeless dress, with a polythene bag full of flowers and his pockets bulging with incense sticks!
He continued doing this till his last moment of stay at Belur Math when he was picked up from the Holy Mother's temple by concerned monks. He had been gasping for some days, but that day his his breath sounded like a fog horn. When he was being forced into the ambulance, he kept gasping, 'Why? What is wrong with me? I am fit and fine.' Unfortunately, everything was wrong.
During the phase of his flower offering, a monk of international fame asked me about his condition. I narrated to him humorously all that he had been doing. The monk became grave and said, 'What a great life it would be for me if I can pluck flowers and offer them whole day to Thakur in my old age!' I agreed.
As his last days approached, he became completely withdrawn from everything around him. A year ago he had given away his phone to me with the words, 'If anyone calls, tell him to write to me on a reply-paid postcard.' And if someone chanced to come to Math to meet him, it would be impossible to meet him: he would be busy plucking flowers, or offering them at the temples.
The last day that he came to the dining hall, he was gasping badly. I asked him jokingly what the matter was with him, knowing very well that he would not accept any medical help. He replied with a laugh, 'It is all over. You make sure to give a good bhandara (funeral feast given to monks).' We all laughed, because no one suspected that that was his last meal.
When his body was brought for cremation, I lit his pyre and looked around to see if any devotee had come to pay his last respects. After all, he had been connected with thousands of students, guardians and devotees at Deoghar, Barisha, Baranagore and Malda. No, there was no one. Not a single devotee was present. Only monks and monks were there. He had lived silently, and had now left silently.
I gave a satisfied smile and told myself, 'That is how a monk should be cremated. Make sure to have that kind of passing away.'
That was his last lesson to me.
***
Author : Swami Samarpanananda (From his blog linked above)
Author : Swami Samarpanananda (From his blog linked above)
