Mother of all . From Matruvani 8/01

[Guest guest]

Namah Shivaya

 

The following is the heart wrenching story of

Lakshmi- from matruvani archives.

 

the story has a happy footnote: Amma recently

performed Lakshmi's marriage.

 

bala

 

 

the story of a 12 year-old girl named laksmi who was

given refuge at amma's orphanage in parippally

 

Amritapuri. The western sky looks as if it is yearning

to relieve its burden by a burst of rain. There is a

cool breeze blowing; it must have caressed a downpour

somewhere up north. I am trying to put together my

memories of the past 12 years of my life. But the

dates and events do not oblige -- they lie scattered.

 

The scene: a crowded street corner in some city of

Kerala. A young mother is begging alms in the street.

She is clutching her four children who are wailing

stubbornly, unable to contain the pangs of hunger in

their tender tummies. The eldest child is myself,

Lakshmi. Who must have given me that name? Was it my

father who was called Mohanan or my mother who was

known by the name Leena? Who knows? I was a

seven-year-old at that time. I had two younger

brothers, Vijayan and Kumaran. My little sister, who

was always in my mother's arms, was called Girija.

 

 

As the money that was earned by our begging would be

expended on father's drinking sprees, what remained

for us was his kicks and our empty stomachs. One such

evening, my mother and I were moving in a crowded

corner of the city with outstretched arms. Someone

threw boiling water on my mother. I saw her reel in

pain and fall in a heap.

 

My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having

lost all sensibility because of his excessive

drinking, my father had lately been beating my mother

mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life,

taking my two younger brothers with him.

 

 

Another time, goaded by hunger and thirst, I had

peeped too far into a well without sidewalls, and fell

into it. I remember the faces of the strangers who

pulled me out (I wished then that they hadn't) and

gathered around me, sighing in sympathy. Even though I

painfully try to forget all these bygone experiences,

the memories come crowding into my mind's eye, without

any order. I'm trying to pen them down here. I don't

know where or how to begin. I do not even know where

or when I was born. Do street beggars know such

things? I don't think so.

 

My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having

lost all sensibility because of his excessive

drinking, my father had lately been beating my mother

mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life,

taking my two younger brothers with him. Girija and I

were left with our mother. Did they divide their only

assets, us children? That, too, I do not know. But one

thing I know for certain. The last walk that mother

took me and my sister on was to meet with death.

 

It was a deserted beach. I do not know which beach it

was. It was afternoon and the grains of sand were

burning hot. I was close behind mother. When mother

reached knee deep water, she paused for a moment. As

the next wave came roaring in, she lifted Girija, her

child on her hip, and hurled her far into the blue

waters. As I stood there gasping, not knowing what to

do, she grabbed my arm and pulled me forcibly away

with her towards the shore, not even turning once to

look back. She walked so fast I felt my arm was being

torn off.

 

With my heart breaking, I kept looking back until we

were too far away from the beach. I try to imagine

that a snow-white bird might have come flying above

the sea, and might have lifted my little sister from

the deep waters to safety.

 

Next my unfortunate, accursed mother went towards the

railway tracks, pulling little Lakshmi with her. I

couldn't follow her and was left behind at a distance.

Soon the sight of my earthly mother was blocked from

my view by the train that rushed past with a deafening

roar, putting an end to her earthly existence. My ears

were rendered deaf for several minutes.

 

"Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train,"

the police must have recorded in their duty books.

 

"Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train,"

the police must have recorded in their duty books.

 

One of the many people who had gathered to gaze at the

scene on the rails took my arm and walked off, as if

he was taking away some goods that he had purchased at

the market. What he wanted was a seven-year-old

servant girl. When he and his family eventually

realised that I was unfit for physical work, they left

me at Amritaniketan, Amma's orphanage in Parippally in

the Kollam district. They left me there, saying they

would return a few days later. But I never saw them

again. I arrived at the orphanage a few days before

Onam (the harvest festival in Kerala). The love and

attention I got there was completely new to me,

something I had never experienced in my life. Within

the next few days, some of the children were taken

home by their relatives to celebrate the Onam

festival. Nobody came for me. A few of us children

remained at the orphanage.

 

I asked one of those children, "Will somebody come and

fetch you?" She blinked her eyes to say, "No." I asked

again, "Are you not sad?" She then took my hand and

said, "Why should we be sad? We are all going to the

ashram to see Amma. Amma will feed us the Onam dishes.

She will make us sit in a swing and rock us with Her

own hands. She will sing and dance with us. She will

shower kisses on each of us." As she was describing

all this, her face grew radiant with joy. Her mind was

full of sweet memories of the past Onam that she had

spent with Amma. I didn't know anything about Amma,

whom she had so exuberantly been talking about.

 

I had seen the photos of a smiling Amma in the office

and classrooms of Amritaniketan. Most of the residents

used to pray with joined palms before Amma 's photos.

Would this Mother whom my friend was talking about

really give me that much love? I was fluttering

between disbelief and feverish hope.

 

As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately,

with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: "My

pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't Amma

with you?"

 

We reached Amritapuri in the ashram bus a few days

before Onam. We entered the prayer hall and joined the

long queue for Amma's darshan. As we slowly moved

closer to Amma, my mind was throbbing. Would Amma give

me a new life? Would She console this unwanted one,

who was so hated by everybody? "If Amma forsakes me,

where will I go?"

 

As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately,

with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: "My

pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't Amma

with you?" I burst into tears. I had been condemned by

society's callous judgment even before I could stand

on my own; but now I wanted to shout again and again:

"I am no longer an orphan, no longer a beggar!"

 

I had always been troubled by the fear that being born

the child of a beggar woman, I would have to spend my

life begging in the streets, or in still worse

conditions.

 

The words uttered by Amma in my ears gave a new

existence to 12-year-old Lakshmi.

 

I was used to satisfying my hunger with the leftover

food scraped from garbage heaps, but now Amma fed me

good food on a clean plate. I used to wear dirty,

useless, discarded clothes, but Amma gave me beautiful

coloured garments. Amma, who dedicates Her every

breath looking after orphans, stray souls and the

suffering, who wipes the tears of thousands every day,

taught me the first letters of the alphabet. Those who

came for Amma's darshan that holiday may remember

this. While She was giving darshan, Amma would make me

stand close to Her. In between giving darshan, She

would take my finger and write on the slate the first

letter, "A", in Malayalam, pronouncing it as well.

After giving me back the slate, Amma would continue

giving darshan. When I had written this letter many

times on the slate, She would stop darshan for a

moment. She would take the slate again, and write the

next letter, "Aa." Then She would give me back the

slate and continue giving darshan. This was how Amma

taught me the alphabet. I felt so fortunate to be

taught by the Divine Mother, the Goddess of learning

Herself, who is revered by the entire world. I have

shed more tears thinking of

 

Mother's love and compassion, than tears of sorrow and

suffering.

 

The terror of the stupendous waves that thump the

beach and the roaring train that passes by leaving a

wrenching pain, the forms of my younger brothers who

walked away holding my father's hands -- these

memories sometimes create sickening pain in my mind.

At such times, our love incarnate, Amma, the emodiment

of compassion, has special words of consolation for

me.

 

Would you be pleased if a seven-year-old girl with

hope shining in her eyes, with an unkempt body and

dirty clothes touched your arm in a bus, train or on a

crowded footpath and called you "Mother?" No. You

wouldn't like it. None of those whom I had touched and

called "Mother" were pleased with it. In their eyes

there was only contempt. I had wished that somebody

would smile at me and lovingly put his or her hand on

my head. But what I received were harsh words and

neglectful looks.

 

How many times has compassionate Amma hugged me

against Her breast and whispered into my ear, "Darling

daughter, you are my very own!" How many times has

Amma wiped my tears with Her own sari!

 

I have found my real Mother. She must be your Mother,

too.

 

While I was writing this, at some point, the rain

stopped and the sky brightened.

 

 

 

 

 

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[Guest guest]

Namah Shivaya,

 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, my dear, dear brother.

Jai Ma!

 

premarupa

Aum Amriteshvaryai Namah

[Guest guest]

I am completly humbled right now...

In Amma's Loving arms... Robin

balakrishnan Shankar <balakrishnan_sh wrote:

 

Namah Shivaya

 

The following is the heart wrenching story of

Lakshmi- from matruvani archives.

 

the story has a happy footnote: Amma recently

performed Lakshmi's marriage.

 

bala

 

 

the story of a 12 year-old girl named laksmi who was

given refuge at amma's orphanage in parippally

 

Amritapuri. The western sky looks as if it is yearning

to relieve its burden by a burst of rain. There is a

cool breeze blowing; it must have caressed a downpour

somewhere up north. I am trying to put together my

memories of the past 12 years of my life. But the

dates and events do not oblige -- they lie scattered.

 

The scene: a crowded street corner in some city of

Kerala. A young mother is begging alms in the street.

She is clutching her four children who are wailing

stubbornly, unable to contain the pangs of hunger in

their tender tummies. The eldest child is myself,

Lakshmi. Who must have given me that name? Was it my

father who was called Mohanan or my mother who was

known by the name Leena? Who knows? I was a

seven-year-old at that time. I had two younger

brothers, Vijayan and Kumaran. My little sister, who

was always in my mother's arms, was called Girija.

 

 

As the money that was earned by our begging would be

expended on father's drinking sprees, what remained

for us was his kicks and our empty stomachs. One such

evening, my mother and I were moving in a crowded

corner of the city with outstretched arms. Someone

threw boiling water on my mother. I saw her reel in

pain and fall in a heap.

 

My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having

lost all sensibility because of his excessive

drinking, my father had lately been beating my mother

mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life,

taking my two younger brothers with him.

 

 

Another time, goaded by hunger and thirst, I had

peeped too far into a well without sidewalls, and fell

into it. I remember the faces of the strangers who

pulled me out (I wished then that they hadn't) and

gathered around me, sighing in sympathy. Even though I

painfully try to forget all these bygone experiences,

the memories come crowding into my mind's eye, without

any order. I'm trying to pen them down here. I don't

know where or how to begin. I do not even know where

or when I was born. Do street beggars know such

things? I don't think so.

 

My memory starts in a hut on some wasteland. Having

lost all sensibility because of his excessive

drinking, my father had lately been beating my mother

mercilessly. My father then walked out of my life,

taking my two younger brothers with him. Girija and I

were left with our mother. Did they divide their only

assets, us children? That, too, I do not know. But one

thing I know for certain. The last walk that mother

took me and my sister on was to meet with death.

 

It was a deserted beach. I do not know which beach it

was. It was afternoon and the grains of sand were

burning hot. I was close behind mother. When mother

reached knee deep water, she paused for a moment. As

the next wave came roaring in, she lifted Girija, her

child on her hip, and hurled her far into the blue

waters. As I stood there gasping, not knowing what to

do, she grabbed my arm and pulled me forcibly away

with her towards the shore, not even turning once to

look back. She walked so fast I felt my arm was being

torn off.

 

With my heart breaking, I kept looking back until we

were too far away from the beach. I try to imagine

that a snow-white bird might have come flying above

the sea, and might have lifted my little sister from

the deep waters to safety.

 

Next my unfortunate, accursed mother went towards the

railway tracks, pulling little Lakshmi with her. I

couldn't follow her and was left behind at a distance.

Soon the sight of my earthly mother was blocked from

my view by the train that rushed past with a deafening

roar, putting an end to her earthly existence. My ears

were rendered deaf for several minutes.

 

"Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train,"

the police must have recorded in their duty books.

 

"Street beggar woman dies after being hit by train,"

the police must have recorded in their duty books.

 

One of the many people who had gathered to gaze at the

scene on the rails took my arm and walked off, as if

he was taking away some goods that he had purchased at

the market. What he wanted was a seven-year-old

servant girl. When he and his family eventually

realised that I was unfit for physical work, they left

me at Amritaniketan, Amma's orphanage in Parippally in

the Kollam district. They left me there, saying they

would return a few days later. But I never saw them

again. I arrived at the orphanage a few days before

Onam (the harvest festival in Kerala). The love and

attention I got there was completely new to me,

something I had never experienced in my life. Within

the next few days, some of the children were taken

home by their relatives to celebrate the Onam

festival. Nobody came for me. A few of us children

remained at the orphanage.

 

I asked one of those children, "Will somebody come and

fetch you?" She blinked her eyes to say, "No." I asked

again, "Are you not sad?" She then took my hand and

said, "Why should we be sad? We are all going to the

ashram to see Amma. Amma will feed us the Onam dishes.

She will make us sit in a swing and rock us with Her

own hands. She will sing and dance with us. She will

shower kisses on each of us." As she was describing

all this, her face grew radiant with joy. Her mind was

full of sweet memories of the past Onam that she had

spent with Amma. I didn't know anything about Amma,

whom she had so exuberantly been talking about.

 

I had seen the photos of a smiling Amma in the office

and classrooms of Amritaniketan. Most of the residents

used to pray with joined palms before Amma 's photos.

Would this Mother whom my friend was talking about

really give me that much love? I was fluttering

between disbelief and feverish hope.

 

As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately,

with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: "My

pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't Amma

with you?"

 

We reached Amritapuri in the ashram bus a few days

before Onam. We entered the prayer hall and joined the

long queue for Amma's darshan. As we slowly moved

closer to Amma, my mind was throbbing. Would Amma give

me a new life? Would She console this unwanted one,

who was so hated by everybody? "If Amma forsakes me,

where will I go?"

 

As I reached Her lap, Amma whispered affectionately,

with a sweetness of love I had never heard before: "My

pearl… my darling daughter… do not worry... isn't Amma

with you?" I burst into tears. I had been condemned by

society's callous judgment even before I could stand

on my own; but now I wanted to shout again and again:

"I am no longer an orphan, no longer a beggar!"

 

I had always been troubled by the fear that being born

the child of a beggar woman, I would have to spend my

life begging in the streets, or in still worse

conditions.

 

The words uttered by Amma in my ears gave a new

existence to 12-year-old Lakshmi.

 

I was used to satisfying my hunger with the leftover

food scraped from garbage heaps, but now Amma fed me

good food on a clean plate. I used to wear dirty,

useless, discarded clothes, but Amma gave me beautiful

coloured garments. Amma, who dedicates Her every

breath looking after orphans, stray souls and the

suffering, who wipes the tears of thousands every day,

taught me the first letters of the alphabet. Those who

came for Amma's darshan that holiday may remember

this. While She was giving darshan, Amma would make me

stand close to Her. In between giving darshan, She

would take my finger and write on the slate the first

letter, "A", in Malayalam, pronouncing it as well.

After giving me back the slate, Amma would continue

giving darshan. When I had written this letter many

times on the slate, She would stop darshan for a

moment. She would take the slate again, and write the

next letter, "Aa." Then She would give me back the

slate and continue giving darshan. This was how Amma

taught me the alphabet. I felt so fortunate to be

taught by the Divine Mother, the Goddess of learning

Herself, who is revered by the entire world. I have

shed more tears thinking of

 

Mother's love and compassion, than tears of sorrow and

suffering.

 

The terror of the stupendous waves that thump the

beach and the roaring train that passes by leaving a

wrenching pain, the forms of my younger brothers who

walked away holding my father's hands -- these

memories sometimes create sickening pain in my mind.

At such times, our love incarnate, Amma, the emodiment

of compassion, has special words of consolation for

me.

 

Would you be pleased if a seven-year-old girl with

hope shining in her eyes, with an unkempt body and

dirty clothes touched your arm in a bus, train or on a

crowded footpath and called you "Mother?" No. You

wouldn't like it. None of those whom I had touched and

called "Mother" were pleased with it. In their eyes

there was only contempt. I had wished that somebody

would smile at me and lovingly put his or her hand on

my head. But what I received were harsh words and

neglectful looks.

 

How many times has compassionate Amma hugged me

against Her breast and whispered into my ear, "Darling

daughter, you are my very own!" How many times has

Amma wiped my tears with Her own sari!

 

I have found my real Mother. She must be your Mother,

too.

 

While I was writing this, at some point, the rain

stopped and the sky brightened.

 

 

 

 

 

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Aum Amriteswarayai Namaha!

 

Ammachi

 

 

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