Her Love

By Varalotti Rengasamy

Her Love is the story of a brilliant scientist cruelly let down by the people he loved; but it is not just that. It is the story of an orphan who finds a mother in the Chief of the company he is working for, it is not just that. HER LOVE is the story of our spiritual journey - from the womb of a mother to the feet of the Holy Mother. It is the story of love that is awake even while you are asleep ya esha supteshu jagarti. It is the story of love that is inside every one of us - the force that generates the passions that cause dreams which in turn propel us to action kamam. kamam purusho nirmimanah.

HER LOVE happens across many timelines and talks of love which is timeless.

I have come to bring out the beauty you never knew you had and lift you like a prayer to the sky.' That's a promise given by God according to Rumi. HER LOVE is the story of how God beautifully delivers on that promise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pustaka Digital Media
• Release date: Apr 2, 2021
• ISBN: 6580542406709

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Her Love

Author:

Varalotti Rengasamy

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Table Of Content

1. 1993

2. 1991-93

3. 2014

4. 2014

5. 2015

6. 2015

7. 2015

8. 2016

9. 2016

10. 2016

11. 2017

12. 2017

13. 1991-93

14. 1994

15. 2018

16. 2018

Sometimes you enter the Heart.

Sometimes you’re born from the Soul.

Sometimes you weep a song of separation: all the same glory.

You live in beautiful forms and

you’re the Energy that Breaks Images.

~Rumi

Acknowledgements:

Artist Shyam for cover design

My wife Indhu who pampered me in the same way a a mother would pamper her pregnant daughter

Villivakkam Yogi a.k.a.Rajagopalan Srinivasan, my soul and my master but for whose love my books would not have been known to this world

Smt Lalitha Shivaguru, my friend and my reviewer who made many basic changes in the script constantly reminding me that, ‘Mind you, it’s Her book and Her love’

Shri R Narasimhan, my father-in-law for his tireless labour of love in editing the script

You, my readers for indulging me again and again

1

1993

The cosy Ashram sat smugly on a small clearing on the high slopes of Himalayas. Surrounded by snow-clad peaks on all sides and a placid lake near it, the place was closest to the definition of heaven on earth.

It was the beginning of winter, not just any ordinary winter, but the proverbial Himalayan winter. The sluggish rays of a lazy afternoon sun made the whitish peaks glisten with an eerie sense of beauty. Himalayas, the highest mountain-ranges on planet earth, separated the Indian sub-continent and the Tibetan Plateau. It is home for fourteen of the world’s highest peaks.

Andes are the second highest mountain-ranges on earth. To understand the majestic beauty of Himalayas – the word means abode of snow (hima – snow aalaya – abode) - consider that Aconcagua which is about 22800 feet is the highest mountain in Andes, while there are over thirty peaks in Himalayas which are more than 25000 feet high.

About twenty people had gathered under a tree near the Ashram. They all wore the uniform of seekers who had strayed into Himalayas – saffron robes on their bodies and holy ash liberally smeared over their foreheads and chests. One person appeared quite odd in their midst. He wore Bermuda trousers and a woollen jacket. The designer specs made him handsome. His body was bereft of religious symbols.

While others were engaged in an animated conversation this man kept to himself. His eyes were fixed on the mountain ranges in the distance. He did not mind the continuous stream of tears gushing out of his eyes. He was deeply absorbed in the panoramic scene before him. He saw something which others did not see and could not have seen even if they tried hard.

The chillness in the air was accentuated by the cool breeze that had wafted over the icy peaks and had gathered enough cold to hurt one’s nerves.

Suddenly all conversation stopped. The place became silent. The eyes of the saffron-clad yogis were focussed on the figure that was walking briskly towards them. The man-in- Bermudas had still yet taken his eyes off the peaks.

How are you, my dear children? Nice to see you again after a long gap.

The bass voice of a young sage greeted them all. All of them except the man- in-shorts stood up to greet their Master, Babaji.

The words ‘long gap’ was not uttered as a conversation opener or to adhere to some social protocol. It had been almost twenty-five years since Babaji met them last.

Babaji appeared like a man in his twenties. He was believed to have been in existence for at least a thousand years. Legend had it that he had initiated more than thirty-three generations of seekers into Godhood. The process of ageing was something unknown to Babaji. His face glowed in the light of supreme wisdom – the wisdom of self-realisation.

It was said that Babaji roamed about the mountain ranges of Himalayas occasionally addressing a gathering of seekers here and there. News about his coming to a particular place, usually a solitary Ashram or a clearing on the mountain slopes or in the middle of the forest would somehow be communicated to those he wanted to meet. It could be by word of mouth. Some Sherpas would tell the seekers that Babaji had planned to visit the place on the next New Moon day. At times it would be by telepathy. The seekers who would also be roaming on the mountain ranges would have a sudden urge to go to a specified place where they would be surprised to see many of their fellow seekers waiting for Babaji to come.

Babaji always managed to gather a class of seekers who were at the same level of spiritual advancement. Unlike a typical classroom in a modern university set-up, where you have students scoring straight As as well as those scoring Ds, Babaji somehow managed to gather around him either all As or all Ds. In the spiritual arena you do not have a lengthy syllabus or complicated project work. For Babaji, spirituality is practical education. He would teach a mantra from the scriptures, a verse from the Upanishad and explain its meaning. He would then ask the class to meditate on what he had taught. The meditation would last a few days, a few months and in some instances even several decades. Babaji would appear again to reinforce the learning.

Babaji’s sharp eyes scanned the class. The man-in-shorts did not escape his attention.

Anantha, are you here or not?

The man-in-shorts stood up.

Yes, Master.

Pay attention to the class. Who knows, this may be the last class for you. I may not meet you again in this life-time. Listen to me.

Yes, Master.

Babaji then turned to the rest of the class.

Shall we start?

A venerable sage appearing to be in his seventies stood up, closed his mouth with his right hand and spoke with utmost humility:

Pranams at your feet, Master. I have a doubt. I don’t think I can pay undivided attention to your words with this doubt remaining uncleared. Swami Ram Tirth once said that it is better to have a bullet in one’s heart rather than a doubt.

Babaji smiled at the metaphor and asked in a voice full of compassion:

What do you want to know, my son?

Two or three years ago, in a village up north, I heard people talking about a saint popularly known as Sindhoor Baba. When holy ash is smeared on his body it turns into reddish Sindhoor immediately. He is a devotee of the Holy Mother, Uma Maheswari. How can he do that, Master? Is it some kind of magic? If it is, isn’t it wrong to use one’s spiritual powers to do magic to impress people?

It’s sheer magic. Magic not in the sense you have understood, my son. It’s the sheer magic of supreme love, love of my Mother, Parasakthi.

Do you know him, Master?

Sindhoor Baba is my disciple, son.

How did he acquire those powers?

"He did not acquire the powers. That is a wrong expression. Nothing has to be acquired by us, ascetics. In fact we have renounced whatever we have acquired in our past lives. We are at least trying to.

We are not Kings. Only Kings acquire powers. We are seekers. We seek God. We seek Her. We seek love. My Mother, Uma, was kind enough to allow me to witness the flowering of love in Sindhoor Baba.

Master, if it pleases you, can you describe the scene for us?

Sure, my son.

Before he became known as Sindhoor Baba he was called Jyotirananda. That was the sanyas-name, the name given to a person at the time he renounced all his ties with the world.

Jyotirananda was devoted to the Holy Mother, Parasakthi. Babaji taught him the Lalitha Moola Mantra and asked him to meditate on the divine form of Lalitha Tripurasundari. Jyotirananda’s devotion was so intense that he became enlightened soon.

He was about to take leave from Babaji before venturing deeper into Himalayas and into meditation of the Holy Mother. He prostrated at the feet of Babaji.

Babaji was highly pleased with the spiritual progress of his protégé.

Jyothi, tell me what you want. Whatever it is, consider it done. I can teach you a mantra which will give you permanent freedom from hunger. You don’t have to search for food for the rest of your life.

That’s a noble gesture, Master. Thanks, but no thanks. When my Mother is ready to provide food whenever I am hungry what’s the use of the mantra, Master? I love my hunger, Master. Only when I am hungry my mother will send me food. And that food is Her holy prasad. Hunger to me is a great boon because it gives me my Mother’s prasad two or three times in a day. But I want something else.

There is no need to hesitate, my son.

I have but one prayer, Master.

I am all ears, my son.

She is my mother; she is the Holy Mother. She is Rajarajeswari, Lalitha Tripurasundari and Meenakshi. Aren’t we all Her children, Master?

We are, my son.

I do not want any of my Mother’s children to suffer, Master.

But my son, you can’t thwart the law of Karma established by Her.

Let that law be, Master. If any of her children has to burn in hell for an aeon let me burn in hell for a hundred aeons for him. If someone has to bear a single unit of pain on account of his Karma let me bear a hundred units of pain for him, Master. Let all Her children be free of pain and suffering. That’s what a mother wants, isn’t it, Master? Let all the suffering be on me, Master.

Babaji stood up and hugged Jyotirananda.

Without speaking a word Babaji smeared holy ash on the forehead of his favourite disciple as a way of blessing him. The very next second the holy ash turned to Sindhoor.

The most venerable Babaji, the One who has lived for hundreds of years, ever young, the One who is celebrated by great seers as the fountainhead of wisdom, the One who has enlightened thirty-three generations of seekers, the One who is without a spiritual equal in the whole planet, folded his hands towards Jyotirananda:

The Holy Mother is highly pleased by your words, my son. See, She has come over you in the form of Sindhoor. From now on you will be known as Sindhoor Baba. The world badly needs persons like you. Now go and meditate, my son. On Her. On the love you just expressed. I am sure your meditation will restore balance in this world.

Forgive me, Babaji. Your love is no less. You take care of us seekers who, but for you, will be literally and figuratively lost in the Himalayan Mountains. You love the Holy Mother. Why does not the holy ash on your body turn into Sindhoor?

How can I know, my son? It’s all in Her hands. As I said it is not a magic which I can do with my spiritual powers. It’s Her leela. Perhaps She thinks that I am not yet matured for Her to manifest as Sindhoor on my body. But didn’t I tell you son, there are and can be no comparisons in spiritual life?

The class fell silent.

Can we have a dharshan of Sindhoor Baba, Master?

He has become one with the Holy Mother last year. With that kind of love you can’t be away from Her for long.

If you have all understood the essence of Sindhoor Baba’s life let’s move on. Shall we?

The whole class agreed.

Babaji glanced at the man-in-shorts. He kept his thoughts to himself.

‘Ma, I know I have another jewel in my hand like Sindhoor Baba. Only this time the union will be more intense, far deeper and may take a whole life-time, of trials and tribulations. Glory be to your Holy Feet, Ma.’

" Let’s talk about brahman – the Atman, the soul, that which is the substratum of our existence. I want you to meditate on this mantra for the next twenty-five years. This is taken from Kathopanishad.

ya esha supteshu jagarti

One who is awake even while asleep

What happens when you sleep? You do not completely go out of existence. For if you did, how will you wake up from sleep? There is something inside you that is eternally awake. It is only your consciousness that goes to sleep. When it is time for you to get up that something inside – what we call as brahman, the Atman or the soul – wakes up your conscious self."

The silence that prevailed in the classroom was absolute. Some of the students were old, some very old, some young and some very young. They should have been practising meditation for years. That clearly showed on the sharpness of their eyes and on the quality of their attention. None of them took notes. Yet every word Babaji spoke was indelibly imprinted on their hearts.

On an impulse Babaji glanced at Anantha, the man-in-shorts. He was still absorbed in the beauty of Himalayas. The sun melted the snow on the peaks which came down as perennial rivers. Whatever Anantha saw melted his heart and his heart came out as unending stream of tears. Babaji smiled within and frowned outside.

Nevertheless he continued the lecture.

kamam kamam purusho nirmimanah

It is that which is inside us that generates the passions that cause dreams which propel living beings to action.

Whatever a human being desires, whatever action he takes to fulfil his desire springs from the absolute, the brahman.

tadeva shukram tadbrahma tedevamritamucyate

Know that it is pure, it is the brahman, and it is that which is immortal. Bodies are born, they age and die. Not the brahman, which is without a beginning or end.

tasmin llokah shritah sarve tadu natyeti kashcana | etadvai tat

That brahman is not dependent on this world. The world we see, the loka, depends on brahman. That brahman is the substratum of all existence. It is above everything and nothing can ever transcend it. That’s it. That’s the supreme.

The class gasped as it understood the import of the verse. There were tears in some eyes, an unmistakable glow of realisation in others and gratitude in all. The class was overawed by the depth of meaning contained in the few simple words of the mantra.

That was the effect of listening to scriptures from an enlightened master. A mantra or a verse from a holy scripture like the Upanishad is nothing but a collection of words at one level. When you read them on a printed book or hear them mechanically repeated by a Vedic scholar they are just that , mere words like the words in a novel or a newspaper. But when somebody like Babaji, who has realised the meaning of the scriptures not with their intellects but with the depths of their being, speaks those words irreversible changes start happening inside the listener’s being. When you hear the words from somebody who has the purity of mind of a Rishi, who created the Mantra in the first place, you are truly shaken. Shaken out of your slumber in which you were entrapped for hundreds of lifetimes and shaken out of the repeated cycle of births and deaths, the samsara. When you are so shaken you have an insight about what caused samsara and also about what can put an end to all the pain that comes with it.

As if on cue the entire class folded its hands towards Babaji who accepted their gratitude with a beautiful smile.

But Anantha was not in the class psychologically. He was still absorbed in the snowy slopes of the King of all the mountains on earth. He was still crying.

Babaji instinctively knew that a miracle was cooking.

Isn’t Himalayas the mother’s house of the Holy Mother? Wasn’t she born as the daughter of Himavan, the king of Himalayas and named Uma?

What a silly thought! When the whole earth is nothing but a dust particle attached to the little toe of Her feet, where is the question of Her place and other place? Is there anything outside of Her? Is there anything other than Her?

Babaji closed his eyes and saw the future. His body shivered in ecstasy.

‘Glory be to your feet, Ma. I thank you for making me play an important role in this miracle as well. I am acting on your command, Ma. Let Thy will be done, Ma, as always. Please bless me with the strength to carry out your command."

In the depths of his heart the venerable Babaji could see the Holy Mother’s mesmerizing smile. She had given a go-ahead signal.

Babaji cleared his throat. In a few seconds his eyes became red with anger. For a moment it appeared as if he could not control his rage.

The whole class shivered except of course Anantha who was still absorbed in the snowy peaks with tears still flowing out of his eyes in an endless stream.

"ANANTHA WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?

Babaji feigned anger in his voice. Deep inside he was full of love and compassion; but externally and that too at the surface level he appeared furious. That was a feat in itself which very few can accomplish. But for a realised soul who is forever young, for a yogi who has initiated thousands of seekers, for someone who is full of love for the Holy Mother and all Her children, it was a mere child’s play. It was play-acting.

The man-in-shorts stood up from his seat.

WHEN I AM TEACHING AN IMPORTANT MANTRA WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SEEING OUTSIDE?

Anantha’s response was soft and yet it did not exhibit even a trace of fear.

Without taking his eyes off the Himalayan peaks Anantha spoke in a reverential voice.

I am seeing that Lady, Master. The Lady you described to me when I first met you six months ago. I am seeing Her in all Her glory in those snow clad peaks. Don’t you see the white snow melting down in the rays of the sun? It is not the snow, Master. Milk is flowing from the ample breasts of my Mother. It is that milk which sustains us. It is that milk which makes our existence on earth meaningful. She is the Universal Mother, the Jaganmatha. She is the Force Supreme, the Parasakthi. I am wondering why my Mother should make Herself so easily available to all of us. I am wondering why She should make herself so easily visible that even sinners like me can have a glimpse of Her divine form. We don’t deserve Her, Master. We don’t love Her, Master. And yet She loves us.

THIS IS THE LIMIT ANANTHA. I AM TALKING ABOUT THE MANTRA WHICH YOU SHOULD BE MEDITATING ON FOR THE NEXT TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. AND YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT SOME LADY. COME ON TELL, ME THE MANTRA I TAUGHT YOU.

"I don’t know, Master. I don’t want to know, Master. You can keep the soul, brahman, the scriptures and Upanishads all to yourself. I don’t need any of them, Master. What’s the use of all these high-sounding scriptures when I have my Holy Mother all for myself? Why should I learn about something which is awake when we are asleep when my Mother’s beautiful form does not allow me to sleep even for a micro-second, Master? I don’t want them, Master. You gave me the most powerful mantra on my Holy Mother six months ago. That is more than enough, Master. I don’t need anything else, Master. Enough if I go on repeating the word Ma again and again. I have never experienced this kind of love, Master. Never in my life I have been loved this much, Master."

I HAVE COME DOWN FROM THE GREAT HEIGHTS TO TEACH SCRIPTURES TO YOU AND YOU ARE LOOKING AT SOME LADY ON THE HILLS. DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MY POWERS?

Anantha rushed to Babaji and fell at his feet.

I know Master. But I am helpless in the presence of Her love, Master. She does not leave me even for a second. How can I pay attention to your class when my heart is already with Her, Master

THE GLORIOUS SPIRITUAL KINGDOM IS WAITING FOR YOU. AND YOU IDIOT, YOU HAVE LOST YOUR MIND IN THE CHARMS OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

I don’t want any Kingdom, Master. I’d prefer being a dust particle attached to the nail of the little toe in my Mother’s feet than being the King of this world, Master.

Babaji softened his voice.

What happened to you Anantha? Why can’t you listen to something that is going to usher you into the kingdom of God?

"Yes, Master, when we first met six months ago you taught me about the spiritual journey and all. You should have stopped with that, Master. You also taught me about the lady who loves me like her own son. You taught me about the Goddess who will never let us down even if we let Her down a million times. That was your mistake, Babaji. I am now torn by conflict. My heart is like that of the Japanese Poetess Kusuoko Otsuka who had sent her husband to war to defend the nation. She was torn between her country and her husband and eventually prefers her husband to her country. I am no better than her, Master.

Listen to her words, Master.

I think of my husband as I offer my first prayer,

And though I think of our nation as I offer the second prayer,

I again think of my husband as I offer my third prayer.

Can you fault the heart of such a woman?

There is only one country in the entire world which basks in the rising morning sun.

And there is only one person in the entire world who calls me wife through the bond of marriage.

When I asked, therefore, which weighs heavier on my mind,

Our country or my husband,

I remain silent and only shed tears.

In my case, Master, my first, second, third and the millionth prayer is always for my Mother. A prayer that does not seek anything but love; a prayer in which the praying seeks the Goddess Herself as the reward."

As Anantha repeated the last lines he broke down and sobbed.

Babaji roared:

GO OUT AND MEDITATE ON THAT LADY. FOREVER. LET US SEE WHETHER SHE CAN SAVE YOU FROM YOUR MASTER’S WRATH. GO AWAY. DON’T EVER COME TO ME AGAIN.

It was a command. It was a curse. It was also a prediction and in a mysterious way a benediction too.

As Babaji uttered these words the sun hid itself in dark clouds. It started to rain. Sherpas who lived on the Himalayan ranges had gathered in a place close to the Ashram. They knew that a Himalayan blizzard was on the way. A blizzard is to a mountain range what a tsunami is to a coastal area. A Himalayan blizzard was a great disaster besides which an earthquake measuring 8 on a Richter scale will look like a pleasant breeze.

Anantha walked out in the rain. He walked up the slope and chose a place. He sat down and started meditating on Uma, the daughter of Himavan, the Universal Mother and the Power Supreme, the Parasakthi. There was lightning followed by thunder. On the heights a thunder sounded as if it had been amplified a hundred times. There was a cloud burst. The rainfall that should have fallen in the next ninety minutes fell in the next two minutes. Anantha was in the eye of the storm.

Let’s all get into the Ashram and not venture out till tomorrow morning.

Poor soul, Anantha, he can’t survive in this weather, Master.

That’s his problem and that lady’s. Why should I bother?

2

1991-93

Your full name, please.

Balachandran Ganapathisubramanian.

Isn’t that quite a mouthful?

Call me Bala, Sir.

I am not Sir. I am Peter McGrawhill.

That too is quite a mouthful, Sir.

The interviewer smiled.

Call me Pete. Everybody around here calls me so.

Bala smiled. He had already assigned the role of his mentor to the white man in his mid- forties. The man was the research- head of one of the world’s premier education bodies - Stanford Institute of Theoritical Physics. (SITP). Back home in India even the principal of an arts and science college in a small town would have asserted himself with greater authority. Bala was as much impressed by his erudition as by his humility. He decided to spend the rest of his life working for Pete.

Your credentials are quite impressive, Bala. You have come to the US on an O-1 Visa, which you know, is given only to outstanding persons. You could have demanded a teaching position in any of the American Universities. You will easily get a tenured professorship in any of our Ivy League schools. You could have settled down to a comfortable life in America. Yet, you have chosen to work with us – no big money, no security and hard work all the time.

Bala’s emphatic answer endeared him to the middle-aged scientist.

Only dust settles down, Pete. Not people. We have to do the opposite. We have to rise from dust and fly up in the air and reach for the stars. That’s the reason we are born.

Smart answer, Bala.

Thank you, Pete.

A man who has high ideals like you must also have a vision. Where do you see yourself, let us say, twenty years from now, in 2010?

My passion is in theoritical physics. I am into research. My vision, well, by 2000 I would have given something original to the world – something as fundamental as Newton’s Law of Gravity or Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

Great, Bala. I am hiring you right now. I am sure SITP will provide the environment and the nutrition for you to realise your vision. I have to run for a meeting now. I will catch up with you later. Meanwhile I will put you on to Laura Mclean. You will be reporting to her. She will take you around, do the introductions and show you to your desk.

Thanks, Pete.

Pete talked on the phone for a few seconds.

A seductive smell attacked Bala’s nostrils. He stood up and turned around. He almost gasped.

For standing before him was a woman who must be more than six feet tall. She was clearly a foot taller than Bala. Her face had the fresh innocence of a child while her eyes darted as if they belonged to a mischievous adoloscent. Bala could not stop his eyes from running all over the woman’s body. She was a kind of an Amazonian woman, plus size even by the US Standards, well-endowed, tortuously curvy and mind-blowingly seductive.

Her blue eyes