Foreword to My LIfe and Quest by Arthur Osborne #2

[Guest guest]

Foreword to My LIfe and Quest

Arthur Osborne

...........

As the oldest of the three of us and the only one who

could write or who, in fact remembered my father, I was allowed

to send my own letters although there was a rule that each one

should be no longer than twenty-five words. I spent a lot of

time trying very hard to fit all that I had to say into that allocation

and I would save up the things I wanted to tell him and practise

distilling them into very few words; this did not seem as difficult

then as it does in retrospect, as children seem to be born with

the ability to accept whatever life offers and to take it for granted.

We lose this talent as we grow up and then have to work hard to

reclaim it. Now I feel how very distressing it must have been

for both my parents to keep going in the face of such a long

silence. Luckily they had Bhagavan.

 

The years after he came home from the war were, for us

children, a great joy. Our almost mythical daddy was back with

us and we revelled in it. He brought a new perspective into our

lives. My mother had struggled alone throughout the war with

three very small children and an uncertain future. She was, for

us, the sole authority and it was sometimes difficult for her to

cope with our constant ability to get up to mischief. With the

arrival of my father our horizons broadened. We loved his

wisdom and his innate sense of justice. We loved his subtle sense

of humour and the way he would tease our mother with an

absolutely straight face until we all burst out laughing. . . her

too. Looking back I sense that the pleasure my parents felt at

the end of their long separation brought laughter into our lives.

My father was an enthusiastic gardener and I enjoyed

walking round with him in the mornings as he observed all the

growing things and tended to them. He knew by instinct what

each plant needed and he inculcated in me a love of gardens

that I have never lost.

 

We would sometimes sit outside at night and he pointed

out the various stars and constellations. He also told me stories

from mythology that fascinated me as much as they had

enthralled him as a child. When we were little he told us the

most wonderful bedtime tales; there was the ongoing saga of a

pixy that lived in a magnolia flower and travelled on

moonbeams. Astonishing though it might seem, the three of us

began to look forward to bedtime! He was a natural storyteller.

Many years later when I came home for a long visit with

my little daughter Aruna we were concerned about her missing

too much schooling, so my father undertook to teach her English

and history. They sat outside on the veranda, his deep voice

telling her stories and her childish treble interjecting an

occasional question. He made it all so interesting that I sat myself

in the doorway inside, out of sight, in order to listen. My mother

was sitting in the same position in the other room. She caught

my eye and smiled, and then she put her finger to her lips and

we were joined in a conspiracy of silence.

At the time when my parents were seeking for a spiritual

path it was not at all a popular point of view. Nowadays, in

spite of, or perhaps because of, the dangerous and materialistic

world we live in, more and more people are interested in finding

a deeper truth. Inadequate gurus or bogus sects unfortunately

lead many astray. Bhagavan said often that we are not the body.

His teaching is as valid and alive today as it was when he sat in

the hall wearing a body for all to see.

For my father, his coming to Tiruvannamalai was an

affirmation of his Quest and having confirmed that Bhagavan

was his guru, he never looked back.

 

After retiring from his work in Calcutta he founded and

edited The Mountain Path until his health gave out. Knowing

he couldn’t continue he prepared and left in perfect order ten

editorials which were for whoever was to follow him. As it

happens my mother took on this task for a time, which was

especially difficult for her as English was not her mother tongue.

She did it out of love and loyalty until her health too gave out.

Their relationship, a union of opposites, was crucial to both

their lives and my father’s last words were to her. He said “Thank

you”. Then he died as he had lived, without fuss, and he is

buried in the garden he created and loved.

He was only sixty-four.

The war years had taken their toll of him and also the

intensity of his inner quest placed an enormous strain on his

body because he made no compromise.

The precious legacy he left us is in his writing. We can

travel with him along the road and experience how he dealt

with the problems that beset all of us. Reading again of his

inner life and struggle I am heartened that an ordinary human

being could find in himself such steadfastness and such ability

to remain resolute in the face of all obstacles. It is surely an

example to anyone on the mountain path.

 

KATYA DOUGLAS