04 – The Living Kali *
The heart of youthful Mukunda danced in harmony with God’s creation. By day, as he walked around, his mind was fixed firmly at the point between the eyebrows, the seat of the divine or “single” eye.
By night, while others slept, he invoked the Divine Presence. Often, when his father would find him meditating late at night and would put food by his door, Mukunda would give the meal to his dog. Was not God, Mukunda thought, his sufficient sustenance? He realized that he needed to give but little care to his body and its needs.
His elder brother, Ananta, scoffed at him. “Your life will become like dry leaves,” he said one day, “of no use to anyone.”
Mukunda smiled gaily and retorted, “Perhaps. But dry leaves, dear brother, fertilize the earth.”
Whenever he found a sympathetic ear he would speak of his love for the Divine Mother – Her beauty, Her tenderness, Her power to banish the night of maya that veils the soul. His little friends would listen, enthralled. Inflamed by his divine devotion they, too, sought Kali’s love.
Out into the quiet woods the small group often went, or for strolls by the Ganges, or for service to Kali among the poor. Sometimes they played children’s games, and laughed, and sang; but in their romps they had an unseen Playmate, ever included in their fun – Kali. And then the wavelets would dance along the riverbank; the fish would slither and splash about with merriment; the leaves would flutter in frolic on the branches of the trees; the wind would sing sportive measures through the meadow grass: all Nature would play with them, who played with Kali.
One day Mukunda and his friends were walking home just after sunset. Gray-clad shadows, night’s tender emissaries, crowded the western skies. It was time for supper. Homes were fragrant with the odors of evening meals; gay sounds screamed from open windows and patios. Mukunda and the other boys smiled softly; Kali, their mother, was dressing Bengal for the night.
A young friend approached the group. His eyes were shining. He brought what he knew was good news.
“Mukunda,” he cried, “and all of you – listen! I have found a temple – one we haven’t seen before. My brother took me to it today. It’s a temple of Kali.”
“Kali! Kali!” Mukunda’s companions exclaimed. “Let us go tonight.” Kali, in image or in reality, Kali it was that they loved. Mukunda, who had taught them to feel this love, would no doubt be the first among them to want to visit the newly found temple.
But Mukunda’s mood was withdrawn. “You go,” he said. “I’ll stay home tonight.”
“Stay home! But why?” His friends simply couldn’t understand him. Hadn’t he just sung to them of Kali in the fields? Hadn’t he just talked to them of Kali in the town? Would he neglect Kali in the temple, and go home to bed? Impossible, they thought. Yet, their continued pleas failed to move Mukunda. Smiling as though to himself, he left the little group.
His friends went on to the temple without him. There they prostrated themselves in front of the image of Kali. They prayed and sang before Her, and then sat in meditation. The temporary peace that accompanies religious rites humbly performed stole over them.
At home, Mukunda went to his room. He sat to worship the Kali that resides in the temple of the soul. Of what use to him were outer images?
Mother Night, in whose cradle of sleep the day’s trials are banished, now spoke softly to Bengal. Her voice was in the wind, in the twinkling stars. She spoke caressingly, soothing away all human cares. Through the long day men had labored. Now they could lay their burdens on her lap of oblivion.
But sleep was far from Mukunda that night. With ever growing yearning he called to the Divine Mother to come.
“Mother with lotus feet!” he cried. “Mother with dark hair flowing over creation! Mother with the light of laughter in Your eyes! Your child is calling You, a little child that longs for Your love. Mother Divine! Will You come? Tear asunder this veil that hides You from me!”
The room was tranquil with the stillness of his mind, with the fixity of his devotion. As the clouds sometimes drift in bright transparency around the moon, enhancing her loveliness, so a cloudlike peace stole over Mukunda’s soul; he knew that his Divine Mother was not far away.
Chanting Her name, suddenly he saw Her form! Fairer it was than moonbeams on a lotus. In Her hair the stars shone like diamonds. Over the pathway of infinity She danced – lightly, rhythmically – dispelling creation’s mood of darkness from before Mukunda’s enraptured gaze. Her love seemed to shatter his heart into a million ecstatic fragments.
“Kali! he whispered, “Mother Kali, You have come! Destroy forever all Your child’s delusion! Keep him ever near You! How beautiful You are! O Mother, may I never forget You, not even for an instant!”
The Divine Mother smiled. “You never will, my child. You may cross the seas, mix with men of other lands, and hear strange tongues – but in your heart of heats you will be ever in My formless presence. And whenever you call Me, in this form I shall come to you.
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Next: A Double Victory
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(*) Goddess Kali is a symbol of God in the aspect of the Divine Mother. Paramhansaji wrote: “That aspect of the Uncreated Infinite which is active in creation is referred to in Hindu scriptures as Divine Mother. It is this personalized aspect of the Absolute that may be said to have ‘longings’ for the rightful behavior of Her children and to answer their prayers. Men who imagine that the Impersonal cannot manifest in a personal form are in effect denying Its omnipotence and the possibility that man can commune with his Maker. The Lord in the form of the Cosmic Mother appears in living tangibility before true bhaktas (devotees of a Personal God).”
