Sri Anandamayi Ma: Mystic, Mother

By Swati Chopra

Throughout history, women have walked the spiritual path despite thorns placed in their way by patriarchy, discrimination and unequal opportunities. This is the story of one such woman, Sri Anandamayi Ma, a dutiful housewife in early twentieth-century India who went on to become a beloved mystic and teacher. She did not rebel against social norms, or even her own femininity, but so powerful was the evidence of her personal attainment that she came to be accepted and adored as a leading spiritual light of the day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harper XXI
• Release date: Sep 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9789351361374

Swati Chopra

Swati Chopra (www.swatichopra.com) is a New Delhi-based writer. She is author of a travelogue of the spirit, Dharamsala Diaries, and a modern introduction to Buddhism, Buddhism: On the Path to Nirvana. Her writing, exploring spirituality and its relevance to modern lives, has appeared in several publications in India and abroad.

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SRI ANANDAMAYI MA

Mystic, Mother

Swati Chopra

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Title Page

Sri Anandamayi Ma: Mystic, Mother

About the Author

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Sri Anandamayi Ma: Mystic, Mother

A grey pall lingers over Hardwar on a winter morning, veiling the rosy fingers of the goddess of dawn. Two women sit on stone steps leading into Ganga Ma, their shawls drawn tightly around them. Occasionally they peer into the mist that rises from the flowing waters. Their white saris slide off their heads now and then, affording a glimpse of close-cropped hair. At first glance the pair appears to be old friends, now widows together, who meet at the ghat to discuss recalcitrant daughters-in law and other such knotty problems. But if you peep over the stone steps you’ll see their fingers rotating prayer beads, their beings immersed in guru-given mantras. And you might discern a whispered invocation, a breath-warmed call…‘Om Ma’!

The two come here often, to this little canal that carries Ganga Ma through Kankhal, a suburb of the bustling pilgrimage town of Hardwar. From their austere living quarters they walk down the lane that runs through the suburb’s centre, their feet drawn instinctively along a route memorized from years of walking it. They prefer the early morning quiet, when there are no honking jeeps or tourist buses jamming these ancient paths really meant for the bare, dusty feet of pilgrims.

Exhaling deeply, the older woman opens her eyes. The cold has begun to bother her of late, causing aches to bloom in her joints and up her spine. Whenever her knees become too stiff for smooth movement, like now, she smiles and remembers her beloved Ma’s instruction—this is rog