A Tiny Form of the World Mother
By Swami Amar Jyoti
I felt as if a thunderbolt had hit me

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This event took place in 1950. The Hindu-Muslim riots in East Bengal had taken a very ugly and horrible turn for the second time. Displacement of Hindus from East Bengal had begun on a massive scale. Close to the border of West Bengal are two villages, Baranpur and Bangaon. Passing these two stations, Hindu refugees were arriving to the nearby railway junction of Ranaghat station. All the six platforms of Ranaghat station were jam-packed with Hindu refugees. Here nine organizations were working round the clock taking care of the refugees and helping to resettle them. Among these were the Bharat Seva Ashram Sangh, the Congress, the Red Cross, the Marwari Relief Society, the YMCA and Government Hospital, et cetera. Some were distributing food, some clothes, some milk and some medicines. Some were taking care of the ill and diseased. The main work of the Congress relief at that time was to make a list of refugees and to shift them to temporary camps. In addition, they were coordinating the work of all organizations. I was working as a volunteer for the Congress.

Innumerable refugees were coming and being moved to temporary camps. There was an epidemic of cholera and other diseases. Daily there were a few deaths. We had to arrange ambulances for the ill and hearses for the dead. Also we had to cremate or bury the dead. Together with this, we had to arrange and distribute food, milk, et cetera, and do general cleanliness and other such works. In short, there was endless work. There was no sign of a stationmaster, ticket collector or any other railway officer or worker. We had no fixed times and arrangement for food, sleep, et cetera. Sometimes for two to three days we did not get time even to bathe. Everywhere there were swarms of flies and foul smell. There was nobody from the station to keep it clean. Day and night forty volunteers were working, but it seemed as if nothing was being done. Usually every night around midnight we used to get a little relaxation. At that time I used to go to my tent and wonder how and when this terror would end? How long we could carry on working like this?

During one such night my eyes opened suddenly. It was around 3:00 a.m. All around there was death-like silence. That night it had rained a little. Slowly I came out of the tent and went to the platform without any particular purpose. I looked around and it seemed as if after the end of the Mahabharata War when Kurukshetra was covered with corpses. Here and there, everywhere human bodies were lying as if lifeless. However hard we tried it was impossible to provide sleeping space to the endless refugees, what to say about baggage. Dim lamps were burning here and there. Sometimes suddenly a child’s cry would be heard. Otherwise, there was silence of the grave. Gloomy, listless and pale faces seemed lifeless. In spite of being calm and steadfast by nature, my heart brimmed over and my eyes became wet. What could be done? As a coordinating superintendent, I had a number of responsibilities.

In the Congress tent I had only one companion, Ranjit Kumar. All other volunteers had left. The cooperation between various organizations was diminishing day by day. Ranjit was a lion in work but when he spoke, people felt he was being authoritative. His heart was clean. He was renunciation personified. A thought came to awaken him and show him this piteous scene. But somehow my legs did not retrace the steps. Without any purpose I started moving amidst sleeping refugees. I had hardly reached the middle of the platform when there was a sudden voice from somewhere, “Superintendent Sir! Have you not gone to sleep yet?” I turned round and saw a little girl of around twelve years giving water to an old woman. First I thought she might be her daughter, but when I inquired, I came to know they were not mother and daughter. In the child’s small hand there was a small water-pot from which she was giving the water. She was wearing a white sari with red border and her hair was loosely open. On her innocent face there was a calm, blissful, sweet smile. She looked like Devi Kanyakumari1 personified.

Slowly filling a glass with water she said, “There is nobody to give water during the night and nobody to look after the ill. Therefore I thought to take up this work.”

I asked, “What is your name”?
“Mukti.”2
“When did you arrive here?”
“Two days back.”
“But you are allowed to stay here for only one day; next day you have to go to the camp.”
“My mother and other relatives have gone to the camp. They were taking me also. But I don’t know why—seeing so much misery—I just could not quietly go away. I felt there was work here for me. My mother brings food once every day.” Seeing twelve-year old Mukti’s heart so thoughtful, merciful and peaceful, my head bowed. Seeing the presence of the World Mother in this tiny form, I was infused with renewed energy, as if all weariness just vanished. I felt the one thing lacking here was now fulfilled.

I asked her, “So, have you taken anti-cholera injection?”

“No! I do not feel it necessary, and if it is not God’s will, is it possible for the injection to save oneself? If God protects, who can kill?”

“But even then one should take precautions and then leave it to God.”

Mukti remained quiet. I then told her, “Tomorrow get yourself vaccinated or go and join your family in the camp. There is work there too.”

She replied, “All right, let the number of refugees coming reduce, then I will go to the camp.” Slowly I returned to my tent. It was about 4:00 a.m. Usually the first train with refugees arrived around 5:00 a.m. Some time later, Ranjit woke up and I told him about Mukti. He was delighted and said, “I am inspired and will have her darshan.” Then he went for a wash.

Our daily routine of work started at 5:00 a.m. It must have been around 10:00 a.m. Work of volunteers was in full swing. Thousands of people, and everywhere long queues. Then one volunteer from the East Bengal Refugee Association came looking for me. His name was Ganguli and by nature he was very talkative. From far he called out, “Superintendent Sir! Just stop a while.”

I was in a hurry and told him, “Quick, say what you want.”

“Come, I will show you something.”

“See! Ganguli don’t waste time. If it is necessary, I will come.”

“It is more than necessary. Your coming will be fruitful.” Taking my hand, Ganguli took me to a hospital tent. Sitting on a patient’s bed and applying wet strips of cloth on the patient’s forehead was Mukti. I hurriedly asked, “Mukti! Do you not even rest during the day?” Mukti smiled a little and remained quiet. Ganguli was dumbfounded. He said, “How did you come to know about Mukti?” I told him about last night’s incident. He said. “You are more fortunate than I am, as you had her darshan first.”

From afar, Mukti put a finger to her lips and indicated to us to be quiet. The patient had a high fever, and without any more talk, we went outside and got busy with our work. Again I felt infused with new energy and, together with this, freshness of life. Day by day such incidents multiplied. All were coming to know Mukti and in four to five days she had become an idol of worship for volunteers. “Blessed are the parents who gave you birth ...” At that time I remembered Florence Nightingale.

Days passed. Nobody ever saw Mukti sitting down, neither did they see her drooping with tiredness. Always she was wearing a white sari with a red border. When it got dirty, her mother would bring a similar one and give it to her and ask, “Won’t you come to the camp today?” Every time her answer was the same: “Okay, today I will come.” In such assurances, many “todays” passed, but Mukti did not leave or go outside the station platforms. Like virtuous Sati,3 she was absorbed in her sadhana. Sometimes you saw her giving water or milk, sometimes advising or directing someone, and so on and so forth. Looking after the sick was her specialty.

The whole day Mukti’s face was lit with a smile of selfless love. Her selflessness was totally natural. One day her mother came to me and told me that if I order her, maybe she would come to the camp. In spite of her mother’s repeated efforts, Mukti just avoided going one way or the other.

There was no doubt that this tapasvini,4 who was a personification of peace, renunciation and spotless selfless service, used to cut all our bondages without saying anything. With whomsoever she spoke or dealt, it seemed as though she had a close relationship with that person. Her limitless love was matched by her pristine purity. Whenever there was talk about Mukti with Ganguli, his eyes would fill with tears and he would exclaim, “Why can’t we be that selfless and that spotless!” I told him: “She has come to teach us that only. She does not teach us by words, but by her work. What more can words convey? She is an incarnation of Shakti [Divine Mother] and bhakti.”5 It was about a month since Mukti had arrived. Then one Sunday around ten in the morning, Ranjit came running towards me suddenly and said, “Mukti has fallen victim to cholera.” I felt as if a thunderbolt had hit me. There was a queue of refugees in front of my desk collecting coupons to go to the camps. I got up immediately and put Ranjit in charge, telling him, “You take over and I will go and see her.” I rushed to the hospital tent and saw Mukti lying on a bed, eyes closed and trembling all over. Her mother had reached already sometime before. She was sitting by her bedside. Ganguli was helping the doctor with injections and medicines. His unblinking eyes were on Mukti and filled with tears. I went close to the bedside and called in a little loud voice, “Mukti.” There was no answer. I tried two or three times but there was no response; she did not open her eyes. Ganguli called her in a still louder voice. Then she slowly opened her eyes. Somewhat she recognized me and tried to smile, but she could not. I put my hand on her forehead and tried to steady her. The doctor softly told me, “Her case is very serious.” Injections and medicines were being given. Her mother and Ganguli were crying all the time. After an hour I came back to my tent. Hourly this continued—my coming and going to her. I had never experienced such a blow before.

Neither had I ever become so restless. That afternoon around 4:00 p.m. we all had gathered by Mukti’s bedside. Her body had become motionless but the face had the same blissful smile and was radiating love and peace. The doctor went outside wiping his tears. Volunteers were standing like statues. There was only one sound in the whole tent and that was of Mukti’s mother crying. In an hour everything was ready for the cremation. About two miles to the east of the station there was a river. Volunteers lifted the bier on their shoulders and started walking toward the banks of the river. Following them were innumerable people. From the day we had started the relief work, a number of deaths had occurred due to cholera. We had buried or cremated the dead bodies, but normally only four or five persons used to go and quietly complete the work. This was the first time that thousands of people were going for the cremation, and all were quietly walking behind the bier. In one month, by her love and selfless service, twelve-year-old Mukti had won the hearts of volunteers, refugees and villagers.

Ganguli and others were singing bhajans and Namkirtan.6 On the bank of the river there was a small cremation ground. Seeing the huge crowd, the caretaker of the cremation ground was astounded and came out thinking it must be a V.I.P. The volunteers kept the bier down and started preparing the pyre. Devotional bhajans and songs to the motherland were continuously being sung. Many people were gravely quiet. Some were weeping and some eyes were brimming over. The atmosphere was silently sorrowful. Soon the pyre was ready and four volunteers picked up Mukti’s body and put it on the pyre. Ganguli could not touch her and went a little away and cried uncontrollably.

All chanting and bhajans stopped. I was made to light the pyre. People were standing all around as the flames from the pyre were rising sky-high. Behind it the river was quietly flowing. Dusk was drawing to a close and darkness was spreading. Near the pyre there was a feeling of peace. Turning around, for as far as I could see there were fire-red glowing faces and glowing wet eyes.

1. Devi Kanyakumari is the Virgin Goddess Whose temple is located at the southern tip of India (Cape Comorin) in the seaside town of Kanyakumari. It is also the site of the Vivekananda Rock Temple, built on a large offshore rock to which Swami Vivekananda swam in 1892. There he received a vision from Divine Mother to take the liberating message of Vedanta to America. It was from this vision that he attended the First World’s Congress of Religions in Chicago in 1893.

2. Mukti, from the Sanskrit: “Liberation.”

3. Sati is a form of Divine Mother as Parvati, the Consort of Shiva, who did great penances to win Her Lord, Shiva.

4. Tapasvini: female ascetic.

5. Bhakti: spiritual devotion.

6. Namkirtan: chanting of God’s Names.

Excerpted from Immortal Light: The Blissful Life and Wisdom of Swami Amar Jyoti—A Biography in His Own Words, edited and compiled by Sita Stuhlmiller, © 2004 Truth Consciousness at Sacred Mountain Ashram. For further information about the books and audio satsangs of Swami Amar Jyoti, please see www.truthconsciousness.org or call Desert Ashram at 520-743-8821.

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